The storm did not thin.
If anything, it grew hungrier.
Every step forward into the Fork felt like walking across a throat that wanted to swallow them.
The ground flexed beneath Kaito's boots, shifting between bone, stone, and code as though the Fork could not remember what shape it wanted to hold. Each step was a gamble, and yet the path never quite gave way.
Nyra walked just behind him, her wings pulled close, feathers glistening with stray sparks of stormlight. The wind tugged at her hair and cloak, but she kept her gaze forward, unblinking.
Kaito could feel the shard he had absorbed still burning inside him, a splinter of the other self he had fought—the Kaito who had chosen peace.
The pain was sharp, but the ache was deeper than pain. It was weight, settling into him like another voice that did not belong, whispering of a life denied.
"Does it hurt?" Nyra asked, her voice barely audible over the rumble of the storm.
