It wasn't a sound the ears could hear but something older, a vibration that clawed into bone and memory, a resonance that split marrow from marrow. Lin stood at the center of it, his body nothing more than a fragile conduit against the vast eruption. The hollow—once infinite black veins stretching beyond comprehension—fractured like glass under pressure.
Light poured from every break. Not clean light, not gentle—this was jagged, searing brilliance, raw as if the world's bones had been flayed and laid bare. Each shard of broken darkness bled illumination, piercing through Lin's skin until he could feel himself burning from within.
His knees buckled. For a moment he thought he had already fallen, but the marrow clung to him. Tendrils of pale fire wove around his limbs, dragging him upright, refusing to let him collapse.
"Chosen," the marrow whispered—or perhaps roared. "You cannot discard us. We are your beginning. Your marrow is ours."
