The battlefield lay still, save for the glowing glyphs of the spires and the faint sobs of a child.
Ash drifted through the night air, settling across blood and shadow alike. The fissure still yawned, deep and black, but for now the silence inside had stilled. The first flood had passed.
Marek stood over the broken earth, chest heaving, sword hanging limp in his hand. His beard was matted with blood, his eyes hollow. Every part of him seemed heavier, as though Nalia's absence had pressed lead into his bones.
He turned at last, gaze falling on Jorn. The boy sat curled against Seris, his small hand still pressed to the spire's glyphs. He was quiet now, though tears still traced his cheeks. The stone pulsed gently under his palm, humming a lullaby so soft it was almost not there.
Marek dropped to one knee before him. His voice was rough gravel. "He's just a boy. He shouldn't bear this."
Seris shook her head, clutching the child closer. "And yet he does. Because this world doesn't give us what should be. Only what is."
Tomas rose from the glyphs, his face pale and drawn. "The spires chose him. That's no accident. Nalia gave herself, and the memory clung to Jorn like flame to tinder. He may be the only one who can awaken their full voice."
Elara leaned heavily against the stone, her sun-eye dim but still glowing faintly. "Then we protect him. At all costs."
For a moment, the night was silent again.
But silence now meant fear, not peace. Every survivor kept glancing to the fissure, waiting for the next wave to claw free.
Marek sheathed his blade with trembling hands. "If that was only the beginning… we won't survive the rest."
Tomas stepped closer to the spire, tracing the glyphs with his fingers. His expression was unreadable — awe, terror, reverence all at once. "Unless we go deeper. The spires are not only anchors… they are doors. Roots. They reach down into the same dark where the silence breeds. If we enter, we may find the song's source."
Seris hissed. "You want us to climb into the fissure? Into the place those things came from?"
"Yes," Tomas whispered. His gaze was alight with something feverish. "Because hiding here will not save us. Only facing the silence at its heart might."
Far below, Kael pressed his forehead against the cold stone floor. One arm free, one still chained. His body trembled with exhaustion, but the resonance still vibrated in his bones. He had felt Elara's pain, heard the faint echo of a child's song carried through the spires.
It gave him strength.
He looked at the reflection, now cracked and flickering like a broken lantern. "They're coming for you. For all of this. And when they do, I'll be waiting."
The reflection's eyes burned with cold fury. "If they enter the dark… they will not return."
Kael smiled weakly. "Then I'll meet them there."
Back above, the survivors stood together at the edge of the fissure. The spires loomed around them, their glyphs glowing faintly in rhythm with Jorn's small hand.
Elara swallowed hard, her voice breaking. "If we go down, there's no turning back."
Marek looked at Jorn, then at the glowing glyphs. He clenched his fists, jaw tight. "Nalia gave her life to open a path. I won't waste it."
Seris's bow trembled in her grip, but she nodded, eyes shining. "Then we descend."
The ash-wind shifted, as though the world itself held its breath.
The survivors gathered what little they had left, hearts pounding. Behind them, the spires hummed softly, remembering. Ahead, the fissure yawned wide, promising only darkness.
And together, they stepped toward it.
The decision to descend hung in the air like a blade.
The survivors lingered at the edge of the fissure, staring into the abyss. It was not merely dark — it was a living absence, a pit that devoured starlight and firelight alike. Looking down too long made their stomachs twist, as though gravity itself wanted to drag them in.
Elara pressed her hand to the spire, grounding herself against the hum. The glyphs pulsed faintly with warmth, but she could no longer tell if the spires offered protection… or were urging them forward.
"We can't bring Jorn down there," Seris said suddenly, voice sharp. "He's a child. He'll die before we even reach the bottom."
"No," Elara said. "He won't."
The sun-eye flickered as she looked at the boy. He clutched Seris's cloak with tiny fingers, his eyes red and swollen from crying. And yet, even in his exhaustion, the glyphs still glowed faintly under his touch.
"He's stronger than any of us," Elara whispered. "Because he still remembers what it means to love without fear."
Seris's jaw worked, her eyes burning with unshed tears. She wanted to argue, to protect him, to shield him from this cursed path. But when she looked at Jorn, she saw the faint shimmer of light clinging to him — the echo of Nalia's song — and she knew.
The boy was bound to the spires now.
Tomas crouched at the fissure's lip, running his fingers along the jagged stone. His voice was almost reverent. "These cracks aren't natural. They're veins, carved when the spires first anchored the world. If we descend them, they'll guide us to the roots — to the very heart of the silence."
Marek spat into the chasm. "Or to our graves."
"Perhaps," Tomas admitted. His gaze lifted to the glowing glyphs, eyes fever-bright. "But if we stay here, the Eaters will return. And they will not stop until nothing remains."
The ground trembled faintly, as if agreeing with him.
Elara pushed off from the spire and walked to the fissure. She stared into its endless black, her stomach twisting with dread. The silence down there pulsed like a heartbeat.
She thought of Kael — shackled beneath the Citadel, chains cutting into his flesh. She thought of how his voice had reached her through the spires.
If he was down there, then so was their chance.
She turned to the others. "We don't have the luxury of safety. Not anymore. Every step we take is a gamble. But this—" she gestured to the abyss "—this is the only move left."
Marek's fist clenched, veins bulging in his arm. He wanted to argue. To protect what little remained. To fight here, where the ground was still familiar.
But when he looked at Jorn, clinging to Seris's cloak with hollow eyes, he saw Nalia's face in memory. He heard her last words: Don't let him forget.
He sheathed his sword and stepped forward. "Fine. But I'll go first. If the abyss wants blood, it takes mine before his."
The others fell silent.
The ash-wind shifted, rushing into the fissure with a hollow moan. It sounded almost like a voice. Almost like laughter.
The survivors gathered what little remained of their supplies. Seris tore strips of cloth to bind their wounds. Tomas whispered fragments of old prayers. Elara leaned heavily against the spire one last time, letting its hum steady her heart.
Then, together, they approached the edge.
The abyss waited.
And with nothing left above but ash and grief, they began their descent.