Sara hit the ground on her hands and knees.
Soft ground. Actual grass. She stayed there for a moment, just breathing, fingers curled into the earth like it might disappear if she let go.
It didn't.
Slowly, the world came into focus. A meadow. Wide and still, ringed by trees with silver bark and pale gold leaves that barely moved. The sky above was a deep, unbroken blue — no rift-light, no green lightning, no fractures bleeding through the clouds. Just sky.
She had forgotten what that looked like.
Devin was beside her, one knee down, head bowed. Breathing hard. He straightened after a moment and scanned the treeline — slow, methodical — before his shoulders dropped a fraction.
"Clear," he said.
Sara sat back on her heels. "Where are we?"
"Lys Hollow." He stood, rolling his shoulder where the creature had caught him. "Edge of the middle realm. Nothing hunts here."
"Why not?"
"The magic's too thin." He glanced at her. "Things that feed on it don't bother."
She looked around. It was almost painfully peaceful. Wind moved through the gold leaves in soft waves. Somewhere nearby, water ran over stones. The amulet against her chest was cool and quiet for the first time since she'd arrived in Veridia.
She exhaled.
"Okay," she said. "I need a minute."
"Take it."
She hadn't expected that. She looked up at him, but he'd already moved to the nearest tree and lowered himself against it, legs stretched out, eyes closed. Not sleeping. She knew what sleeping looked like on him. This was just — stillness. Controlled rest. The kind of rest that stayed ready.
Sara pulled her knees to her chest and let herself decompress.
It lasted about four minutes before her mind started moving again.
"The thing in the ruins," she said. "The symbol."
Devin didn't open his eyes. "Not yet."
"I'm not asking you to explain it. I'm asking if it changes anything. About where we're going. What we're doing."
A pause. "Yes."
"How much?"
He opened his eyes then. Looked at the sky. "It means the people who planned your crossing aren't fringe. They're old. Organized. And they've been building toward whatever the convergence is for longer than either of us has been alive."
Sara processed that. "The inscription said to keep me alive until the convergence. Not for it."
"I noticed."
"Which means after it—"
"You're not a concern anymore." His voice was flat. Not cruel. Just honest.
She nodded slowly. "Good. That's the kind of thing I need to know."
He glanced at her then. Something shifted — not quite surprise. He'd expected her to flinch from it.
She didn't.
"There's something else," she said. "Back there — when the creatures came. You changed."
"Sara—"
"I'm not scared of what I saw," she said. "I just need to understand it. Because if it happens again I need to know what to do. What not to do."
The silence stretched long enough that she thought he'd shut it down entirely.
Then — "There are two of me," he said. Quiet. Measured in the way of someone choosing each word deliberately. "Not in the way people mean when they say they're conflicted. Actually two. One that's mine. One that isn't."
"The voice," she said.
He looked at her sharply.
"You mutter," she said. "At the campfire. In the ruins. You argue with something that isn't there."
He looked away. "The other one is stronger in high-threat situations. It takes over when I let my control slip."
"And when it's in control—"
"I'm still in there," he said. "Watching. I just can't stop it."
Sara turned that over. "Does it want to hurt me?"
He was quiet for a beat too long.
"It doesn't want anything," he said finally. "It just operates. And collateral damage isn't something it calculates."
"Okay," she said.
"That doesn't bother you."
"It bothers me," she said. "But it also explains a lot. And knowing is better than not knowing." She paused. "Does it have a name?"
"No."
"Have you ever tried talking to it? Outside of telling it to be quiet?"
He looked at her like she'd suggested something genuinely absurd. "No."
"Maybe you should."
"It's not a person, Sara."
"It lives in your head and has opinions," she said. "That's close enough."
He had no answer for that. She could see it land somewhere behind his eyes — not acceptance, not yet. But it didn't get dismissed either.
The gold leaves shifted overhead. The water sound grew slightly louder, like a stream finding its pace.
Sara got to her feet, brushing grass from her knees.
"The convergence," she said. "Do you know what it is?"
"A forced alignment," he said, standing. "When two or more realms are pulled into overlap. Done right, it opens permanent passage between them." He paused. "Done wrong, it unmakes both."
"And someone is planning to do it."
"Someone has been planning it for a very long time."
Sara looked at the amulet. Dull silver. Patient.
"Using me," she said.
"Using the amulet," he said. "You're just the one it chose."
"Encouraging."
"I didn't say it to comfort you."
"I know." She looked up at him. "So what do we do?"
Devin's gaze moved to the treeline. Something had shifted in his posture — a decision being made behind still eyes.
"There's someone in the middle realm," he said. "She's been tracking rift activity longer than anyone. If the convergence is being staged, she'll know where."
"Can she be trusted?"
A beat. "She knew me before the other voice existed." He said it like that answered the question. Maybe it did.
Sara nodded. "Then we find her."
They moved out of the hollow as the pale gold light shifted overhead, the calm of Lys sitting quietly at their backs. It wouldn't last — nothing did in Veridia.
But for now, they had a direction.
That was enough.