Chapter 21: The Coming Storm
The rock, a myth made real, was unmade. It did not explode. It did not crumble. It simply… vanished.
Silence followed. Students and instructors stood frozen. They had witnessed it—a person transformed, a myth born, a myth erased. Whispers no longer whispered. They screamed.
At the center stood Lian. The quiet scholar. A man of memory, with memories missing. He felt an urgent pull toward the library, though he could not say why. His instincts howled.
Joric's golden eyes met his, and fear like a primal wound gripped Lian. He did not remember Joric, but wrongness radiated from him. The statue loomed above, its black thread pulsing faintly. That thread felt familiar—the same ache as the man with the sad eyes. It was loss. It was truth.
Then—something new.
Not a whisper. A roar.
It was not one sound but many: power, truth, lies, myths, gods. A storm of voices crashing down, brutal and direct.
The sky tore. A silver ship descended. Not a vessel. A weapon. A weapon of truths and lies, of myths sharpened into blades. Terrifying. Inevitable.
Kairo felt it from the shadows. The roar struck him like a wave. In his vent-shaft refuge, he clenched his teeth. He would not intervene. Not be seen. Not be heard. He was no savior. No god. Only a ghost.
But even ghosts bleed.
Isolation crushed him. Pragmatist, monster, survivor, victim. Creator and destroyer. For all his denial, the weight of choice pressed him. If Lian broke, the lie collapsed. If the thread unraveled, the plan died. He had to act.
The command he sent was sharp, telepathic, undeniable:
"Use his power."
Lian turned toward Joric. The golden-eyed man glowed, veins pulsing with divine fire. Lian felt clarity—terrifying, profound clarity. He raised his hand.
Joric shuddered. The golden lines along his body pulsed brighter, becoming a beacon, a rumor given flesh. His body was no longer his own. His purpose bent. He was unmade and remade, a myth refracted through another's will.
Reality buckled. A wave of unmaking rippled outward. The silver ship flickered, its edges breaking, not with fire, but with erasure. It was not destroyed—it was denied.
On the far side, Solas Thorne watched. Her golden eyes widened. The ghost had revealed his hand. He was no stray. No coward. Not just a survivor—he was a puppeteer.
Respect. Fury. Both bloomed in her chest.
She severed her connection to the academy. Not defeat—strategy. She would not contest this battle. She would win the war.
Her final word thundered across the battlefield, etched into every soul that heard it.
"Unleash."
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