The sky above was silent now. No Spiral thunder. No crackling echoes of judgment. Only a vast, brooding canvas of lightless violet and broken stars—sky that hadn't shifted in hours, maybe days, maybe not at all.
Time had no consistency here.
It pulsed like a wounded heart.
And beneath it, Torian walked.
The mountain's descent had begun gently—spiraling paths of stone eroded by centuries of Spiral exposure. Each footfall stirred loose dust that shimmered oddly in the air, resisting gravity, drifting sideways. Some fragments floated upward, then reversed mid-air, drifting down again.
Skarn padded ahead silently, claws pressing deep into the sloped rock. His wings occasionally flared to keep balance, folding tight again like a living cloak of muscle and leather. Lyra walked just behind Torian, her steps light, her eyes scanning every ledge, every crack in the world around them.
They had descended from the storm's peak hours ago, but the energy lingered in their bones. The Spiral judgment had not broken them—but it had changed something fundamental.
There was a heaviness now. Not from failure.
From clarity.
Torian felt it behind his ribs like a coiled flame waiting to be used, but no longer demanding to be unleashed. A new restraint—like the Spiral itself finally breathed with him instead of against him.
They reached the edge of a cliff where the path split in two.
Before them: a narrow stone corridor, part of the mountain's interior. The entrance was an archway of fused black rock, warped like glass that had once melted and re-solidified mid-collapse. Strange symbols curled along the rim—not Spiral glyphs, but something older, possibly natural, or maybe born of Spiral bleed-through.
Skarn stopped without prompting.
Torian stepped forward and placed a hand against the stone.
The surface was cold… and humming.
"This wasn't carved," he said softly.
"Then what is it?" Lyra asked.
"A wound."
He didn't elaborate.
They entered.
⸻
The path twisted like a root system—narrow, uneven, descending through the mountain's bones. The deeper they went, the more the walls began to shift. At first, it was subtle—faint warping, shadows that didn't quite align with their source. But after a hundred steps, the inconsistencies became harder to ignore. Stones swapped positions between glances. Hairline seams sealed, then reopened as if the mountain were practicing how to be itself.
Some sections flickered.
Others echoed sounds from the future—Torian could hear Skarn's low growl before his companion even made it.
At one turn, Lyra gasped and pointed back the way they came. Torian looked. The tunnel was gone—completely sealed behind smooth rock as if it had never existed.
Time had closed it like a door.
They pressed forward, Skarn's nose twitching. His hackles rose.
"It's pulling," he growled.
Torian nodded. He could feel it too—the world tilting, not physically, but temporally. As if every step forward was pulling them deeper into the Spiral's unresolved threads. The air switched moods without warning: damp, then dry; warm, then cold—each twist of the path another layer of broken chronology draped over their shoulders.
Until finally—
They emerged.
⸻
The exit opened into the light.
But not the light they expected.
Instead of the Spiral structure looming ahead of them, they found themselves on a distant plain, surrounded by low canyons and shimmering, twisted trees. The sky here was wrong—split, not once but in thin horizontal slivers that blinked between morning, dusk, and deep night like a glitched mosaic.
Lyra blinked.
"Where are we?"
Torian stepped forward, eyes narrowing. He turned back.
The tunnel behind them no longer existed.
The mountain had changed shape behind them entirely—its entrance replaced with a sheer wall of glassy rock.
"We've been displaced."
"By what?" Lyra asked.
"Time," he answered.
Even Skarn looked back, ears pinned. The Spiral map within Torian flickered once in his chest—uncertain, recalibrating. When it finally pulsed again, the fracture they'd been heading toward now registered far behind them—miles away.
"It pushed us in the wrong direction," Torian said. "We're farther now."
"Can we go back?" Lyra asked.
Torian approached the slope where the tunnel once stood and tried to reawaken the passage. He reached out with his Spiral, extended a thread of energy into the surface.
The stone didn't resist.
It ignored him.
The passage was closed—not blocked.
Erased.
"No," he said. "We're locked out."
Lyra frowned.
"Then we walk."
Torian shook his head.
"Too far. And time's still shifting beneath us."
He turned to Skarn, who was already crouching low, wings flaring wide.
"We fly."
⸻
The wind at this height was unstable. The plains weren't flat—they moved subtly beneath them, rising and falling in strange, rhythmic pulses, as if the land itself breathed through time-displaced lungs. The horizon flickered. And in the far, far distance…
They saw it.
The Spiral.
Not a structure.
Not a storm.
A fracture, hundreds of feet high, writhing in the air like a wounded serpent made of glass and light. Pieces of time spun within it—cities being built and destroyed at once, rivers flowing in reverse, flares of fire that never burned out. The air around it glittered with sand-sized moments, bright and dying by the thousand.
It looked like the center of collapse.
It was the heart of the Spiral Wound.
And they needed to reach it.
Torian launched upward first, Spiral Flame bursting violet from his boots and hands, propelling him like a streak of starlight. Skarn followed in a single leap, wings booming once to lift Lyra on his back. They surged into the broken sky, wind screaming around them.
For the first time in days, they moved with speed.
But the Spiral had other plans.
⸻
It hit without warning.
A pulse—not of light, but of force. No color. No shape.
Just an invisible wave that struck them midair like the backhand of a god.
Skarn was thrown sideways, wings folding in hard as he twisted to protect Lyra. Torian spun out in a wide arc, his flame cutting a long line through the air before he righted himself and dove.
"Lyra!"
She was falling.
Torian dove faster, Spiral flame igniting around his arms.
He caught her just before she hit the ground, wrapping her in violet fire, slowing their descent until they landed in a hard roll across the fractured soil. He shielded her with his body, then pulled her upright.
Skarn crashed not far behind them—hard, but unharmed.
Dust rose like thunderclouds.
Torian looked to the horizon.
The Spiral was still pulsing—distant, dangerous.
"That wasn't natural," Lyra said.
"No," Torian agreed. "Something hit us."
"What was it?"
"A warning."
They turned toward Skarn, who already had his wings open again.
Torian clenched his fists.
"We're too slow."
And as he looked down at his leg, a memory stirred—one he hadn't thought of in years.
With a sharp breath, he reached down and began unfastening the leather straps that had been bound to his thigh for ages. Lyra tilted her head, confused.
From beneath the wrap, he pulled free a small wooden stick, barely the length of his finger.
To Lyra, it looked like a shard of twig.
To Torian—it was something far more.
He looked at it, eyes distant.
Then broke it in half.
And the world shifted.
⸻
The air shimmered as Torian stood still, broken twig in one hand, the weight of years held in silence. The mountain's breath seemed to pause, the fractured sky waiting.
Skarn stepped closer, head tilted, wings half-extended as if sensing something sacred. His deep-set eyes fixed on the tiny shard in Torian's hand.
Lyra leaned closer, whispering, "What is that?"
Torian said nothing.
Instead, he snapped the twig in half.
With a mechanical whirr—barely audible but deep with Spiral undertone—a seam of ancient metallic lines flickered across the stick. It expanded instantly, unfolding like a memory being unsealed. Hinges no wider than a hair extended outward in perfect precision, shimmering with faint runes.
The staff locked into shape, then shifted again, panels spreading outward into curved wings. Each extension clicked into place with reverence, forming a sleek glider forged from Spiral alloy and bound wood. The entire tool was impossibly light, impossibly strong—meant to ride air itself like an extension of the soul.
It looked like a weapon crafted by wind.
Skarn's eyes went wide with sudden recognition.
The beast stepped back—not out of fear, but shock.
"You kept it," he rumbled.
Torian nodded.
"Since before the Ember. Before the Spiral. Back when I was just… surviving."
He held the glider like it was a part of him, turning it once in the fractured light.
"I built it out of scraps. Upgraded it when I found the first forge. Fused it with windsteel from the Whispering Valley… back when the sky still had seasons."
He paused.
"It was the only thing that made me feel free."
Lyra stared.
"What is it?"
Torian smiled faintly and twisted the bottom half. The wings folded back into the shaft. With a soft hiss, the glider retracted fully into its staff form—compact, sharp, elegant.
"A glider. And more than that—it controls wind currents, even in still air. Generates lift. Used it to escape raids. To cross ravines. Once… to jump from a burning tower."
He stepped toward her and held it out.
She looked at him, stunned.
"Me?"
"You'll start training tomorrow."
"But… I've never flown."
"Neither had I."
Skarn grunted—an amused sound, rumbling and rough.
"She'll break both legs."
"She'll learn," Torian replied.
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then she'll break both legs."
They stood in silence for a moment before Lyra took the staff in both hands. It was lighter than she expected. Almost warm to the touch.
"Can it really move boulders?"
Torian nodded.
"In staff form, it channels compressed wind-force. Hit it against the ground with intent, and the gust can level trees."
"So why didn't you use it before?"
"Because I had fire."
"And now?"
Torian's eyes narrowed toward the distant Spiral on the horizon, still thrumming with chaotic energy.
"Now I'm remembering what it's like to fight smart."
He turned and knelt by a narrow rise in the land, clearing space beside a broken stone that jutted from the soil like a cracked tooth. With a small pulse from his Spiral, he lit a fire—controlled, soft, flickering violet.
Lyra sat beside him, cradling the glider.
Skarn laid down near the flames, curling his massive body around them. His wings stretched once, then folded tight.
"We rest here for the night," Torian said.
"And then we fly."
⸻
Hours passed.
No enemies came.
No pulses struck from the Spiral horizon.
The world around them remained unnaturally still, as if exhausted from what it had just done to them. The sky shimmered with broken stars—some drifting sideways, others looping like comet tails trapped in loops of time.
Torian stared into the fire, silent.
Skarn slept lightly, occasionally twitching.
And Lyra?
She laughed.
Not loud. Not long.
Just a small, unguarded laugh.
She gripped the folded staff glider in her hands and leaned back against Skarn's side, resting her head on his fur as she whispered to herself:
"I'm going to fly…"
Skarn cracked open one eye, glancing at her. His brow furrowed, beast-like confusion settling into something almost… protective.
Torian glanced over.
For the first time since this journey began, there was no tension in Lyra's shoulders.
No suspicion in her voice.
Just… childhood.
He looked back to the fire, his expression unreadable. In the glimmer of flamelight, the Spiral etched across his forearm shifted faintly, like it was watching too.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.
"We move forward."
⸻
Morning in the fractured world was not marked by sunlight.
Instead, the sky changed color in layers—bands of light bleeding from grey-blue to deep crimson in horizontal slices, as though time itself was waking in pieces. It was silent, and then it wasn't. The sound of wind returned in sudden bursts, followed by an eerie stillness.
Torian rose first.
He stood at the edge of the rocky rise, arms folded, cloak moving gently in the morning pulse of air. His eyes were fixed on the Spiral horizon—still distant, still spinning with impossible light.
Behind him, Skarn yawned and stretched, wings cracking open wide before folding back against his body. He looked bruised from yesterday's impact, but not broken. Nothing could break him. He padded closer and sat beside Torian without a word.
"It's farther than it looks," Torian muttered.
Skarn gave a low rumble. "It always is."
"We'll have to push hard today."
"She's not ready."
Torian didn't respond right away. He glanced back toward the camp, where Lyra was just now sitting up, blanket tangled around her legs, hair wild, staff-glider still clutched in her arms.
"She has to start."
⸻
Lyra stood at the edge of the slope, eyes wide. The glider was extended in full, held tight in her small hands. The wings shimmered faintly with spiral-forged alloy—beautiful, deadly, balanced. She looked unsure whether to hold it like a weapon or a lifeline.
Torian walked up behind her, silent.
"It's not about strength," he said.
She jumped slightly but nodded.
"You glide, not fly. You let the wind lift you, not fight it."
She took a breath and looked down the slope. It was steep—about fifty feet into a flat plateau, with a rough landing and some jagged stones at the edge.
"And if I don't catch the wind?"
"Then Skarn will catch you," Torian said, smiling faintly.
Skarn snorted.
"Maybe."
Lyra steadied herself, gripping the glider tighter. She closed her eyes and took one step forward.
Then another.
Then she ran.
The wind caught her midway down.
For a moment—just a moment—she lifted.
The glider extended fully, catching a draft of Spiral-charged air that rippled from the broken terrain. She hung there, legs dangling, body forward.
Then—
The wind died.
She dropped with a thud.
It wasn't a hard fall, but enough to knock the air out of her.
Torian and Skarn walked down slowly as she groaned and pushed herself upright, brushing dirt from her arms.
"I flew!" she gasped, almost laughing again. "I actually—flew!"
Torian helped her up.
"You dropped."
"Yeah, but I was in the air."
Skarn looked unimpressed.
"Next time aim for not dying."
"I'll aim for your face next time," she muttered.
They walked back together, the early morning casting long shadows over the plain. Torian glanced once more toward the Spiral horizon. It loomed still—spinning with memories, with possibility, with danger.
They had a long way to go.
But now they were moving with intent.
He turned to Lyra.
"You'll keep practicing."
"Every day?"
"Until we get there."
"What happens when we do?"
Torian didn't answer.
Skarn let out a low growl and looked up. "Storm's coming."
The sky was beginning to shimmer again—fractal clouds curling inward from the west.
They would fly soon.
But not yet.
Torian pulled the Spiral map from his chest—etched now into his very skin—and saw the path forward shift, twist, then align. For the first time, the Spiral wasn't just reacting to chaos.
It was pointing.
A direction.
A purpose.
"Let's move," Torian said.
"We have a world to fix."
And with that, they turned toward the east—toward the Spiral's wounded heart.
Toward the end.
And the beginning.