The storm did not break all at once. It softened.
Where light and shadow had collided in violent opposition, they now began to turn—slowly at first—like twin currents finding a shared rhythm. The echoes that had surged forward lost their sharpness, their urgency dissolving into something quieter, heavier, more honest. They no longer pressed to overwhelm. They hovered, waiting.
The towering figure shuddered, its immense form rippling as threads of memory, fear, and hope braided together within it. For the first time, its presence felt uncertain—not threatening, but vulnerable. As though, in being acknowledged, it had lost the certainty of opposition and gained the uncertainty of becoming.
The basin responded.
Its pulse deepened, slowing into a cadence that echoed not in sound, but in sensation—like a heartbeat felt through the bones. Threads stretched outward from the converging storm, brushing against Rhys, Caria, and Puddle, not to bind, but to listen.
