Frost hadn't spoken for hours.
He and Lyra stood at the edge of the dig site, staring into the opened ruins of the first recursion gate—buried deep beneath the old Pale Court archives.
Ashglass veins lined the stone, but these weren't like the ones they'd studied.
They were dead.
Lyra lowered herself into the shaft. Her scanner beeped, confused.
"This place doesn't broadcast. It absorbs."
Frost followed. "Signal called it a thread. You ever seen a thread this thick?"
"No," Lyra whispered. "Because it's not a thread."
She wiped the wall.
Under ashglass: symbols.
Not written by humans.
Three floors down, they found the chamber.
A vault door sealed with seven mechanisms—four mechanical, three biological.
One lock pulsed faintly, as if recognizing Lyra.
She touched it.
The door hissed open.
Inside: a circular room. No consoles, no furniture.
Just a single monolith in the center, flickering.
A projection appeared.
It wasn't a message.
It was a design.
Frost stepped closer. "Is that a… recursion map?"
Lyra's face went pale. "No. It's a recursion source."
The blueprint showed recursive waves—synchronized, layered, cascading like a collapsing staircase.
Every signal, every loop from the past century—tied to this root.
"This is pre-Vara," Lyra said slowly. "Older than the Ashglass. Older than Cain."
Frost's voice dropped. "Older than choice."
The center glowed brighter.
Then, it activated.
A whisper filled the chamber. Not a voice.
A presence.
"Observer acknowledged. Beginning initialization."
Frost drew his weapon. "We triggered it."
The projection shifted—lines connecting across all known recursion events.
And one new path opened.
Not a memory.
Not a version.
An invitation.
Outside the vault, the ground trembled.
Lyra looked at Frost. "This loop—it hasn't happened yet."
Frost nodded. "But it will. Unless we kill it."
They backed out of the chamber. The projection followed them—burning into their minds, whispering possible futures.
As they climbed, the air grew heavier. Frost stopped.
"There's something waiting above."
They emerged into dusk.
Three figures stood at the edge of the ruins.
Not soldiers.
Versions.
One Frost. One Lyra.
And a third—unknown.
Her eyes were pure ashglass.
The unknown version spoke first.
"You were never meant to find that room."
Back at the city, Signal's comm crackled.
Frost's voice, low: "We found the source. And someone found us."
Signal replied calmly, "Is it hostile?"
The line paused.
Then Frost answered.
"No. It's curious."