Kaelith stood atop the inverted sky of Sol'Rhen's Bastion, her breath torn between a thousand fragmented versions of herself.
She had walked through reflections that bled.She had spoken to memories that never belonged to her.
She had seen Tirameon, not as the betrayer, but as the herald—a warning carved in blood and contradiction.
Each timeline had offered a different truth.
In one, she was the rebel who started the fall.
In another, she was the executioner who stopped it.
In the third, she chose nothing—and the world still burned.
And now, all those versions screamed inside her veins, begging for form. Sol'Rhen's influence twisted perception, forcing her to relive outcomes not yet realized. But somewhere in the chaos… she heard a voice.
"Kaelith."
It wasn't from any illusion.
It wasn't memory.
It was real.
But it came from a place she hadn't reached yet.
A place beyond timelines. Beyond fate.
A voice she had not heard since the beginning:
Ashardio.
Meanwhile…
Beneath the surface of broken space, Ashardio stood within the ruins of the First Loom, where the Codex had once woven the destiny of all Ascendants.
He felt her pulse before he saw her reflection.
Not Kaelith in flesh — but her echo, carved into the living Codex's rupture. Her timeline flickered within his mind like starlight in reverse.
She was unraveling.
And through that unraveling, he saw something else—something older than the rebellion.
A memory encoded not in thought, but in will.
Ashardio staggered as the shard gifted by the Silent Architect began to melt in his hand, transforming into ink and fusing with his blood.
A phrase burned itself across his vision:
"The first betrayal was not against the Codex. It was the Codex."
The truth struck him like a silent scream.
Tirameon had not betrayed the Architects.
He had tried to rewrite them.
And Kaelith… she had been chosen to carry the fail-safe. A final anchor that, when awakened, would restore the original Codex or destroy it completely.
She didn't know.
But she was walking toward it.
Far above, Kaelith knelt before a fractured altar in the Mirrored Hollow, where all truths refract. She touched the surface and saw visions of Ashardio.
Not his past.
Not his present.
But possible versions of him—each one pulling a different thread of fate: • The destroyer. • The liberator.
• The replacement for the Architects.
And in one… he stood beside her.
Not as an enemy.
Not even as an ally.
But as the only one left who understood what she had become.
"We're being pulled to the same truth," she whispered, touching her reflection. "But who wrote it?"
Back in the Loom's core, Ashardio clenched his fist.
"She's changing," he said aloud. "No… she's awakening."
And for the first time since his descent into rebellion, he felt it:
Hope.
Twisted. Fragile.
But real.
Because whatever they had become—monster, rebel, memory—they were no longer alone.
The threads of fate had once been strings to pull.
Now, they were wires of convergence, pulling Kaelith and Ashardio toward the center of the first lie.
Where the truth awaited.
Buried in silence.
Breathing.
And watching.