The corridor of threads stretched endlessly, yet it pulsed with a rhythm that made distance meaningless. Each step Rhys, Caria, and Puddle took sent ripples outward, and the basin responded, molding the path itself to their presence. Shadows flickered ahead, then behind, stretching and folding into shapes that seemed both familiar and alien, each one an echo of memory, each one a possibility untested.
A faint whisper of movement drew their attention. Figures—neither fully formed nor entirely ephemeral—emerged from the threads. They were echoes of doubt, fear, regret, hesitation. Some resembled people Rhys and Caria had known, or might have known; others were distorted, twisted reflections of their own insecurities. The air around them thickened, vibrating with the weight of unacknowledged choices.
Caria exhaled softly, her voice steady. "They are not enemies. They are part of the path. Part of the basin's truth."
