The Subteric Sea stilled into a breathless lake. In the cavern's sky, stalactites fused into a dome, like the jaw of some ancient fish that had finally decided to stop biting. Lunasa—the whalebone ship—furled its membranous sails and slipped into a quiet bay behind a curtain of dripping water. The surface mirrored the dim mushroom-green above, stretching into fine drawn threads—thin, fragile, yet certain of their direction.
"Here," Admiral Tholl said, his voice shrinking of its own accord, as though the space demanded reverence. "Sutura."
At the edge of the bay stood a building that was not a building at all. A cathedral wrought from the skeleton of some colossal beast—arched ribs, a spine rising like a bridge—assembled without brick or nail, bound only by knotted veins of mineral and resin. At each joint, small candles burned, their trembling tongues stubbornly refusing to die, casting a yellowed light that redrew every line in the world. The air was thick with the taste of salt—coating the teeth—and the faint intrusion of formalin, creeping into the nose like advice you hadn't asked for.
Rae Althorne stood at the bow, staring at the bone cathedral without trying to name what she felt. A wound that has learned to walk, Tholl had called it the night before. A place where the old ones mended fractures. Lua stood beside her, gripping the root staff that always seemed an insignificant thing—unless she chose to make it a door. Brug loomed behind, working hard to hide the old, unkillable urge to curse in awe.
At the foot of the bone stairway leading to the cathedral's mouth, four figures waited. They wore muted robes, hems stitched with fine metal thread; their hoods hung low to veil their eyes. In their hands they bore no weapons, only long needles glinting like ice. People called them the Stitchers—flesh-sewers, healers of wounds—those who understood that Noctarion's body was more alive than any landscape.
A woman stepped forward from among them. She pushed her hood back to reveal hair cut only to what was needed, a face that did not force its youth—lines left unhidden, like branches unwilling to be shaken clear of snow. Her eyes were fluid as formalin; clear, holding. She looked at Rae the way one might regard a long-awaited tool delivered by a most unexpected hand.
"Welcome to Sutura," she said. Her voice was low, clean—not gentle, but crystalline. "I am Veyne. Many call me Abbess, though I am merely the keeper of the world's watch when others are asleep."
"Rae Althorne," Rae replied, dipping her head slightly, unsure if that was the custom here. "Lua. Brug. Admiral Tholl."
"Tholl brings ships as some bring prayers," Veyne said, glancing at the admiral with a mix of amusement and respect. "Sometimes they are granted. Sometimes they are asked to wait at the door."
Tholl shrugged. "Even if the door stays shut, I know where it is," he said, and gave a subtle signal for Lunasa's crew to remain alert.
Veyne nodded, then turned to Rae. "You… are loud," she murmured, as if afraid the words might offend the air itself. "Loud like an empty room just learning to echo for the first time."
Rae nearly laughed—the line reminded her of Irix—but what escaped was only a sheepish sigh. "I don't mean to be loud."
"No one means to become a cave," Veyne said, a smile barely forming. "But we do, all the same."
She turned away. "Come. Before the candles remind us that light demands its wages."
⸻
The bone stairs curled upward in a spiral. On either side, portholes like the blind eyes of whales peered toward the bay. Inside the cathedral, the air cooled—not with the bite of cold, but with the hush that closes the ear to unimportant noises. The walls, instead of lying still, pulsed faintly—not moving, yet not wholly still either—as though the air itself followed a rhythm no human had set.
Rae sensed it first: breath. Not human, not fungal, not ship. A breath heavier than the tides, older than the rails. It came from beyond the altar, from beneath the floor, from recesses whose sound reached only those who truly intended to hear.
At the center stood the altar table, made from a shoulder blade polished until it reflected candlelight like water reluctant to freeze. Upon it lay tools that resisted calling themselves tools: clamps for mineral veins, capillary tubes of glass, and—Rae caught her breath—a slim object the length of her forearm, its triangular tip alive. Not a blade. A needle.
"A pulse needle," Veyne said, following Rae's gaze. "A prototype. It does not pierce to harm, it slips to bind. It belongs not to the hunter, but the tailor."
Brug leaned in, half wanting to touch it, half to recoil. "What do you stitch? Stone?"
"Cracks," Veyne replied. "And cracks are never only stone."
Lua stepped closer, studying the needle—its sheen smooth, unthreatening. "It works temporarily," she said, her voice reflecting the quiet. "You can hold a tear together, buy time. Time for what?"
"For a choice," Veyne answered. "For not panicking. For turning a sprint into a step."
"And why us?" Brug asked, raising a brow and drumming his knuckles softly against the altar's edge. "Why Rae?"
Veyne turned to Rae. "Because she carries the breathing pattern this needle needs. Because she hears—not just listens. Because the World's Pulse did not laugh when she spoke its name."
Rae blinked. "I never said that name aloud."
"You didn't need to," Veyne said. "Not every name requires a voice to be called."
A Stitcher approached in silence. Up close, Rae saw the thin sheathing of treated fungus-skin—cured with formalin—around their wrists, erasing fingerprints. Not to hide identity, but to keep their own bodies from writing into the wounds they stitched. The Stitcher carried a small tray of clear glasses, formalin faintly evaporating above them.
"Drink this," Veyne told Rae, handing her the lightest-scented one. "So your nose will forget the smaller smells, and your ears will have more room."
Rae swallowed. Her tongue met a taste that wasn't a taste at all—salt elevated into concept. At once, the candles seemed more steadfast, the bones more noun than threat. And that breath… sharper now. Long, uneven, lingering on the intake, releasing without regret. Rae shut her eyes. "It's… tired," she whispered.
Veyne's expression did not soften. "It has worked since we forgot it worked," she said evenly. "City folk call it the World's Pulse. Harbor folk, the Old Current. Miners, the Heart of the Road. Here, we call it without naming it."
Lua bent over the altar, checking the candle wicks. "Why bring us here, Veyne? You say we're loud. You don't bring noise into a cathedral unless you think it carries a song."
Veyne took her time answering. She moved to the altar's side and drew back a covering cloth. Beneath lay a stone organ—not like those in surface cathedrals, but a structure of mineral pipes, hollows arranged along the lines of a vein. Its ends connected to a wall where fine fractures met, glowing like salt struck by sunlight. The sight stole Rae's breath. "Is this… an instrument?" she asked, foolishly.
"And a door," Veyne said. "And an ear." She tapped the pipes with her palm—very softly. The air trembled. Rae felt a low tone—not aimed at her ears, but at the part of her heart that had forgotten how to be moved without fear.
"I offer you a choice, Rae Althorne," Veyne said at last. "Help us heal, not plunder. Help us close cracks for a while, so those who live in short-term decisions might remember the long term. The pulse needle works—briefly, then stops. But if guided by the right breath, it grants days we cannot afford to lose."
Rae placed her hand on the stone organ's rim. Cold on the surface, but beneath, a warmth not born of candlelight. "If we close the cracks… are we defying the will of—" she hesitated to speak the name—"the World's Pulse?"
Veyne studied her, as though laying the answer between them and measuring Rae's readiness to see it. "If you stitch a child's wound so they don't bleed to death, are you defying the body's will to heal?" She lifted the pulse needle from the altar, offering it to Rae. "A needle is a prayer with a body. A prayer willing to work."
Brug scratched his neck. "I'm no good at prayers."
"You're good at keeping things from falling," Veyne said. "That's a prayer, Brug."
Lua gave a short laugh. "You choose your words to make courage sound like habit."
"So it won't scare itself away," Veyne replied lightly.
A young robed messenger slipped in from a side corridor, breath quick, eyes delivering news before lips could form it. He whispered to a Stitcher, who passed two quiet words to Veyne. Her face did not change; only her fingers tapped the altar—once, a pause, then twice.
"Come," she said. "You should see the needle at work."
⸻
The practice room lay in the cathedral's right wing, behind a damp curtain of fungus-skin. The smell of formalin thickened here, mingling with salt and something bitter—like a memory reheated too fast. At the center, a small stone organ rested on a table, a fine fracture splitting its shape like a smile swallowed by time. Two Stitchers stood guard, sterilizing needles over blue-violet flames.
Veyne placed the pulse needle in Rae's hand. Its weight was reassuring, never burdensome. The triangular tip felt like a small, faithful fish. "You'll slip the tip here," she said, pointing to the fracture's edge. "Not piercing through; only catching the brittle rim. Give it your breath. The organ will borrow it. If it accepts, it will lock—temporarily."
Lua touched Rae's arm. "And if it refuses?"
"Withdraw," Veyne said. "Rejection is not defeat. It's the stone's polite way of reminding us that not all wounds are meant to be closed that day."
Rae nodded. She moved the needle closer, holding her breath without realizing it. Far away, the great cavern organ's breathing murmured—distant, but present. The needle met the fracture's surface. A strange sensation ran from its tip into Rae's palm—not a vibration, not a chill, but presence. As if, in another room, someone had turned to look at her and decided not to be angry. She drew air in slowly, then out—three counts in; five out. Three in, five out. An old rhythm, the key always in her pocket.
The needle slid into the crack's skin. Not piercing—slipping. The fracture's edges embraced the needle, not the other way around. Rae held steady, pressing nothing. "Now?" she whispered.
"Breathe again," Veyne answered, closing her eyes as if asking the room to do the same.
Rae breathed. The candles eased their flames; the formalin no longer sought to dominate her nose. The fracture dimmed, its brightness fading into shadow, shadow softening toward disappearance. A tiny sound—tik—like thread slipping through a needle's eye. The pulse needle gave off a light that wasn't light at all—more like relief.
"That's it," Veyne said—not in wonder, not in relief, only as confirmation. "It's closed. For now."
One Stitcher exhaled deeply, honest envy flashing in their eyes. "With us," they muttered, "it takes three breaths. With her, one."
"Not everyone carries the same rhythm," Veyne said gently. "Don't envy the key—it makes you forget the door."
Rae eased the needle out. The once-gaping crack now lay as a thin line unwilling to become a story. If clocks existed here, perhaps a degree's worth of time had passed. In Rae's chest, something she'd carried since Glassveil—a spiral appearing, vanishing—pulsed once, then stilled.
Brug brushed his knuckles along the organ's edge. "Like reuniting two people who've avoided each other too long," he murmured.
Lua looked up at Veyne. "You could close cracks along the mining lines, hold bridges, still the stone's screams without a song…?"
"No," Veyne said quickly. "Don't fall in love with the tool. The pulse needle is no replacement for the song. It's a brace, not a pillar. Your songs keep the screams from turning to knives. This needle buys the hand holding the song a moment to drink, to eat, to choose with a cooler head. Without the song, this is only politeness, misplaced in time."
Lua absorbed that honesty as one might a finally steady temperature. "All right," she said.
Veyne met Rae's eyes. "You understand? This is not a tool for conquest. It's a tool for delay. We are not victors here. We are caretakers."
Rae gripped the thought as one clutches a railing on a slick stair. "Then why show it to us? The palace wants synchronization operators. They won't use it to delay; they'll use it to bind."
"Because if only the palace holds the tool, the world becomes a single voice," Veyne said, cold and plain as a reason that needs no applause. "I want another possibility to live long enough to call itself a choice."