When the Chord Shattered
The moment the Ninth Chord shattered, it was as if the world forgot how to breathe.
Amira fell through the floor of reality, the Woundtree vanishing behind her. There was no light, no sound—only the sensation of falling into a pause.
It was not death.
It was the Silence Between Songs—a liminal plane where forgotten verses and abandoned timelines drifted like ash. She landed softly in a place where gravity did not bind, and echoes came before sound.
Ahead, a river flowed backward, stitched together by syllables long extinct.
And standing on its bank was a girl.
She wore a tangerine veil. Her hands shimmered with stardust. Her voice was both distant and close:
"Welcome, Amira. I am the Verse You Never Sang."
The Unwritten Thread
This version of Amira—this Unwoven Echo—was born from all the choices the real Amira never made. All the words left unsaid, all the sacrifices not taken.
And in her arms, she held a single, shimmering string.
The Tenth String.
Not the god. Not the wound. But the possibility of it.
"Before you fight it," the echo said, "you must understand it."
And she offered the string.
Amira hesitated. "What happens if I touch it?"
"You'll see not just who you are," the echo said, "but what you could've been."
A Mirror of Might-Have-Been
Amira touched the string.
Immediately, the realm split into mirrors—each one showing a version of her life:
In one, she never left the coastal village, and Elias never died. They grew old under the lighthouse, forgotten but happy.
In another, she joined the Architects—and became the Weaver General who burned the City of Bells herself.
In a third, she never sang. Her voice was stolen at birth. But she found peace as a healer, tending wounds instead of weaving songs.
Then came the final mirror.
A world where she was the Unstrung One.
Where grief turned her into a god of silence.
She looked away.
Threading the Impossible
Amira's echo placed the Tenth String into her palm.
"You can bind it to your harp," she whispered, "but know this: once played, it cannot be unplayed. It will unmake one truth to birth another."
"What truth?" Amira asked.
"The one you cherish most."
As the Silence Between Songs began to collapse, Amira turned toward the exit gate—a tear stitched into the air with silver music.
Before stepping through, she looked back at her echo.
"Will I become you?" she asked.
"No," said the echo. "But one day, you may wish you had."
Amira emerged from the Silence just as the Unstrung One raised its hand to strike.
But something had changed.
The harp in her hands now bore ten strings.
And when she plucked the new one—it didn't sing.
It remembered.
And the Unstrung One froze.
Not because it was defeated—
But because, for the first time,
It felt fear.