The deeper she walked into the bones of the forgotten world, the louder the silence became.
Kaelith had left the Archive behind, but its ghosts lingered. They followed her not as specters, but as questions. And at the heart of all of them burned one name — Tirameon — like a cipher etched into her spine.
No map bore his trace. No records named him. No Celestial dared speak of him — as if the name itself had become a contagion, purged not only from the Codex but from memory.
Yet memory is not so easily slain. Not when it takes root in the soul.
Kaelith traveled to the edges of the Weeping Ring — a region abandoned since the Sundering, where time ran sideways and the sky wept not rain, but ash. The very air tasted like forgotten prayers.
If Tirameon had survived, if any version of him still existed, it would be here — in the margins of history, beyond the reach of the Architects' sight.
The relic pulsed in her satchel, its heat guiding her like a compass made from regret.
⸻
She arrived at the Rift of Thorns by duskfall, or what passed for dusk in a realm that had no proper sun — only a fractured halo of dying light stitched into clouds like a wound left open too long.
The Rift was once a sanctuary for Celestials who questioned the Codex — a library built not from stone, but from tethered realities. Rumor said it had been burned during the rebellion, and all its knowledge turned to smoke.
But ruins lie. Or rather, they whisper truths too dangerous to speak aloud.
Kaelith stepped through the broken archway of reality, her presence causing the atmosphere to ripple — not out of power, but recognition. The stones remembered her. Or remembered a version of her that once argued for peace in this very hall.
And that was when she saw it.
A mark — faint, scorched into the wall behind a collapsed obelisk. Not divine language. Not the runes of the High Script.
But his sigil.
Three lines intersecting at impossible angles, bound by a broken circle.
Tirameon's seal.
It pulsed as she approached — and then shimmered, revealing a doorway that hadn't existed a moment before.
It was a living lock. One bound to the soul of the seeker. Only someone who had once trusted Tirameon could pass through.
Kaelith didn't hesitate.
⸻
The chamber inside was small. Dustless. Preserved like it had been sealed seconds ago rather than centuries.
A stone dais sat in the center. Upon it, a single object:
A mask.
Smooth. White. Featureless.
She reached for it — and the moment her fingers touched its edge, the air trembled.
The mask whispered.
"He is not dead."
Her breath hitched.
"But he is not alive either. Not in ways that matter."
The relic in her satchel responded with a low hum, harmonizing with the mask like they shared a common origin.
Suddenly, visions flared — jagged, incoherent, but unmistakably real.
A figure cloaked in celestial silk, eyes veiled, speaking before a court of gods who no longer listened.
"If we do not evolve the Codex, it will become a noose."
The voice was his. Tirameon.
Then: betrayal.
Then: fire.
Then… escape.
Kaelith staggered, and the mask clattered from her hand — yet did not fall. It hovered mid-air, rotating slowly, as if watching her.
"He walks the space between realms now," came a voice — not from the mask, but from the shadows behind her.
She spun.
No one stood there.
But the voice continued, gentle as a funeral hymn.
"He was unmade… partially. Not by death. But by judgment. The Architects could not destroy him. So they fragmented him. Scattered him across timelines."
Kaelith's pulse thundered.
"Where is he?" she whispered.
The voice fell silent.
And then — the mask cracked. Just a single fracture, but within it, she saw a place:
A forest with black leaves. A tower that bled light. A river that ran with echoes, not water.
"Find the Tower of Sorrow," the voice said. "Where truths are mourned, and lies rot slowly."
Kaelith closed her eyes.
When she opened them, the chamber was gone.
Only the mask remained — now fused to her belt like it had always been part of her.
⸻
Outside the Rift, a storm brewed.
And somewhere, beyond realms and rules, a fragment of Tirameon stirred — sensing the old bond.
Not as hope.
But as warning.