Falling started to feel like walking between breaths.
There was the moment of light—white, blinding, whole—and then the crack, and then the stretch where there was no up or down, just direction and memory. I saw shards of the Crownless Glass spinning away into dark, each carrying a tiny reflection of the god we'd eaten.
Then that was behind us.
Then there was only the next world.
Lysa clung to my arm the entire time, knuckles white, eyes shut so tightly I could see the strain in the muscles around them. She'd stopped screaming on the eighth fall. There's only so much terror a throat can carry before it decides to save itself.
"Still with us?" I asked.
My voice came out in that between-space echo, thinner than usual.
She swallowed. "I don't know what that means anymore."
"It means you haven't broken yet," Cirel said somewhere to my right. "Congratulations."
Veyra drifted upside down, braids floating around her head like a dark halo. "Do you think this one will have decent food?" she asked. "Or at least better scenery? I'm tired of sand and screaming."
"You're never tired of screaming," Kaen said.
"True," she said. "But I like variety."
The void around us thickened, thinning into… color.
Blue.
Then gray.
Then streaks of gold.
The feeling of falling shifted to the feeling of being watched.
We were getting close.
—
Third-person eyes:
The world of Vathriel had many names for itself.
To its rulers, it was The High Canticle, city of bells and bridges, floating above an ocean of clouds. To its priests, it was The Upper Choir, last roof before the unknown below. To the people who swept its streets and hauled its stones and tolled its bells, it was just the City, because there was nothing else they had ever seen.
It was beautiful in the way pride makes things beautiful.
Sprawling white towers linked by impossibly long chains and bridges. Hanging gardens spilling over the edges of platforms. Great bronze bells the size of houses, suspended from arched frames, their tones ringing out on a schedule so precise you could tell the hour by the sound alone. Below: clouds, thick and endless, hiding whatever lay beneath.
Up here, they said, the world was closest to purity.
Up here, they said, nothing from below could ever reach them.
They said many things.
They said fewer after the seven stars fell.
—
The first sign was the bells.
Morning bells in Vathriel always rang with practiced perfection—deep, rich tones that rolled across the platforms and through the towers like waves. Today, the sound stuttered.
In the central plaza where the High Procession marched, people paused. The priests at the front of the line, draped in white and gold, glanced at each other uneasily.
"That's wrong," one whispered.
"The rope must have slipped," another muttered.
Above them, the largest bell on the highest tower boomed again—too high this time, a note half a tone sharper than it should have been, carrying a faint metallic screech.
Cloud shadows flickered.
A girl near the back of the crowd looked up.
She'd always watched the sky more than the procession.
The saint's bier went past, carried by eight sweating men. The saint herself lay on it, young and pale and perfectly still, hands folded over her chest, lips painted red, eyes closed. Miracle-born, they said. Sky-touched. Chosen.
The girl, whose name was Mira, didn't look at the saint.
She squinted at the patch of sky just above the tallest bell, where the blue had gone thin and strange.
"Do you see that?" she whispered to the boy beside her.
He was more interested in the procession's food carts.
"See what?" he asked.
"The—"
The sky cracked.
Not like glass.
More like paper, torn by unseen hands.
A jagged line split the blue. Light poured through, brighter and wrong, as if someone had put another sky behind the first and it didn't quite match. For a heartbeat, the city fell silent. Even the bells froze, ropes still in the pullers' hands.
Then the crack widened.
Something fell through.
Seven somethings.
They streaked downward like comets, each wrapped in not-fire: one burn-orange, one deep red, one pale silver, one black shot with violet, one white threaded with shadow, one blue-gray, one soft, sickly green.
Mira's breath caught.
"One," she whispered.
The boy beside her followed her gaze at last. "Stars," he said, awed. "Day-stars. That's good luck. Or bad. Or—"
The first impact hit.
Not the platforms.
The air.
A shockwave rolled through the city, rattling chains and bridges. The great bells all tolled at once, not on any schedule, their notes colliding into a wild, discordant clamor. People clapped hands to their ears. The saint's bier lurched. One of the carriers stumbled.
The seven falling lights slowed.
Reoriented.
Chose.
They weren't falling randomly.
They were aiming.
—
We hit stone.
Again.
But this time, it was clean stone.
Not cracked. Not burning. Not already dying. The central plaza of Vathriel was a broad circle of white marble inlaid with gold lines that formed a huge eight-pointed star. A fountain stood at its center, water spilling from the mouths of carved winged figures into a round basin.
We landed in the fountain.
All of us.
There are worse places.
Water exploded outward in a perfect ring. People on the edges of the plaza shrieked as the wave hit them, soaking fine robes and festival garb. The saint's bier skidded dangerously; the saint herself nearly slid off before two of the carriers caught the frame just in time.
For a heartbeat, all anyone saw was spray and light and floating debris.
Then the water cleared.
I stood up first.
My boots slipped briefly on the submerged marble, then found purchase on the fountain's bottom. My long coat was plastered to my body, dark fabric clinging to muscle. Golden-orange hair, now slightly shorter and cut in layered waves, hung wet around my face, sticking to my jaw and neck. A thin band of glass—Lyra's gift, from the last world—gleamed at my wrist.
I shook my head once.
Water droplets sprayed in an arc, catching the morning light. The red crosses in my eyes burned faintly, brighter than they should in this realm's tame sun.
Around me, the others rose from the fountain too.
We'd already changed.
We always did between worlds.
Veyra surfaced with a laugh, hair piled in a messy bun high on her head, dark strands twisted with tiny bone beads that clicked softly. She wore a pale dress that clung at the waist and flared at the knees, fabric thin enough to show the tattoos swirling along her thighs when it stuck.
Kaen emerged, pushing wet hair back from his face, bare shoulders gleaming. His new clothes were simpler—dark trousers, boots, a sleeveless tunic that left his arms free. Thin bands of dull metal circled his biceps, each etched with faint, burned sigils.
Lyra rose gracefully, coat shorter now, cut at an angle that exposed one knee and one shoulder. The fabric was a strange local blue, but the seams shimmered oddly, like something else lurked under the dye. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, tucked behind one ear with a small glass pin.
Cirel popped up laughing, hair cut shorter into a jagged bob, one side longer than the other. She wore a fitted jacket with too many buttons and no apparent closure, and trousers tucked into soft boots—a thief's silhouette stolen and polished.
Sareth stood slowly, still wrapped in his dark cloak, but the edges were cleaner, sharper, the fabric looking more like the formal garb of some foreign noble. His hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, a few stray strands falling around his face.
Alinor rose last, her clothes now a layered robe in shades of gray and muted white, sleeves wide and flowing, belt knotted loosely at her hip. Her hair was braided into a crown around her head, the braid occasionally slipping, as if it didn't entirely want to stay.
Lysa came up spluttering.
She had not changed.
Hallowmere's white robe clung to her like a second skin, soaked and heavy. Her dark hair stuck to her cheeks. She blinked water from her eyes and took in the crowd surrounding the fountain.
Hundreds of faces.
Some stunned.
Some horrified.
Some awed.
A ring of priests in white and gold stood frozen at the edge of the plaza, procession halted. Behind them, the saint lay on her bier, water droplets shining on her painted lips.
We'd dropped into the middle of a holy day.
That was thoughtful of the world.
I stepped up onto the fountain's marble rim.
Water streamed from the hem of my coat. My boots left wet prints on the stone. I took in the towers, the massive bells hanging from their frames, the great chains anchoring the platforms to each other and to the cloud-filled void below.
High.
Layered.
Arrogant.
I liked it already.
Someone screamed, "Sky devils!"
Someone else yelled, "Angels!"
A child pointed. "Look," he gasped, tugging his mother's sleeve. "Pretty."
Lysa hauled herself up beside me, clutching her staff-stump. "Do not say anything," she hissed under her breath. "Please."
"That seems unlikely," Cirel said.
A man in elaborate robes broke from the ring of priests and stepped forward, splashing into the shallow water at the fountain's edge without apparent concern. His vestments were soaked in seconds, gold thread sagging. He didn't seem to notice.
He stared up at me.
He was older, with a sharp, narrow face and eyes like polished stone. A chain of office hung around his neck—heavy, ornate, bearing a sigil of a stylized bell with wings.
"Who… are you?" he demanded.
His voice carried in the sudden hush.
I considered him.
"Auren," I said.
The name didn't mean anything here. Not yet. It sounded like it belonged anyway.
The man's gaze flicked to the others in the fountain, then to Lysa. His eyes lingered on her soaked priest robe, on the unfamiliar cut, the unfamiliar sigils.
"And the rest of you?" he asked.
"Bored," Kaen said.
"Lost," Veyra suggested.
"Hungry," Sareth said.
"Passing through," Lyra added.
"Wrong," Cirel finished, smiling.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
The saint on the bier had not moved.
Yet.
The priest's jaw tightened. "You have broken the sanctity of the Saint's Rising," he said. "This day is holy. This plaza is holy. This water is—"
"It's water," I said.
He flinched as if slapped.
"This city," he said sharply, "is the last refuge above the Shroud. Nothing from below may enter. Nothing tainted. Nothing impure. If you fell from the sky, then you are—"
"Exceptions," Veyra said sweetly.
One of the younger priests stepped forward, face flushed. "You will kneel," he snapped. "You will bow before the Saint of the Upper Choir and beg forgiveness."
Lysa made a strangled sound. "Don't," she whispered. "Please don't—"
Kaen rolled his shoulders. "I'm not in the mood to kneel," he said.
"Have you ever been?" Cirel asked.
"No," he said. "But I like saying it out loud sometimes."
Lyra tilted her head, eyes flicking to the saint's still form. "Saint, hm?" she murmured. "Is she alive?"
The priests stiffened.
"That is not your concern," the older man said.
"So yes," Veyra said happily.
Lysa dragged herself fully onto the fountain's rim, dripping. She raised one hand, palm out toward the cluster of priests. "Please," she said, voice shaking. "Don't provoke them."
The older priest's gaze snapped to her. "And you are?" he demanded.
"Lysa," she said. "A… priestess."
"Of what order?" His eyes narrowed at her foreign robes. "There is only one Choir here. One Temple. One Order licensed to hold rites on the Heights. If you serve any other, you are a heretic."
Lysa's shoulders hunched. "I came from somewhere else," she said. "I—"
"Then you should not be here at all," he cut in.
Something in her face closed.
Whatever reverence she still carried for holy men did not extend to this one.
"We didn't exactly have a choice," she snapped, surprising herself.
His lip curled. "They brought you," he said, nodding at us. "Then you keep her company, outsider priestess. You've all violated the Heights' law. You will submit, or—"
He didn't get to finish.
The saint moved.
Just a twitch at first.
Barely noticeable, a tiny flex of a finger where it lay folded over her chest. Then another. Then her eyelids fluttered, the painted lashes shaking, smearing faintly. She drew in a small, rattling breath.
The nearest bearer gasped. "She—"
Her eyes opened.
They were pale gray, almost colorless.
They were also looking directly at us, not at the sky, not at the priest, not at the crowd.
At us.
At me.
Lysa sucked in a sharp breath. "Don't," she whispered.
The older priest whirled. "Saint Eliane," he breathed, dropping to his knees in the water. "Blessed of the Heights, Hallowed of the Bells, you wake on your day as prophesied. Please—"
She sat up slowly.
The crowd erupted in shouts, cries, prayers. Some fell to their knees. Others reached out. The bearers nearly dropped the bier before rallying.
Saint Eliane looked past all of them.
Past the priest groveling in the fountain.
Past the people crying her name.
Her gaze fixed on the seven wet strangers and the foreign priestess.
She smiled.
It was a small thing.
Soft.
Wrong.
I knew that smile.
"I dreamed of you," she said.
Her voice was hoarse with disuse, but it carried.
Silence fell like someone had suffocated the plaza.
The older priest's head snapped up. "Saint?" he asked. "Of… of them?"
Her gaze didn't leave us. "Seven," she said. "Falling. Laughing. The sky broke and the bells screamed and the clouds turned black." She tilted her head. "You stood where I stand. You cut… everything."
She looked down at her own hands like they didn't belong to her, flexing long, slender fingers.
"I woke up," she said, a little surprised. "Usually you kill them all before that part."
The priests around her went various shades of white and red.
The older one scrambled to his feet. "Saint Eliane, the visions granted to you by the Heights are not meant to—"
She ignored him completely.
Her eyes moved between our faces.
Too calm.
Too clear.
There was something in her gaze that reminded me of Lysa after the demon world—cracked and then sealed over with something sharp.
Veyra smiled, delighted. "She's one of us," she whispered.
"No," Sareth said. "She's one of them. She just saw too much."
Kaen crossed his arms. "I like her."
Lyra's expression flickered between fascination and annoyance. "She saw us before we arrived," she murmured. "That's… new."
Lysa swallowed. "You're going to keep her," she said quietly.
It wasn't a question.
I stepped down from the fountain, water dripping from my coat sleeves. The crowd parted in front of me without meaning to. People stumbled, pressing back against each other. Even the priest stumbled aside.
I stopped at the edge of the bier.
Saint Eliane sat upright, pale hair falling loose down her back, ceremonial crown slightly askew from the sudden movement. Up close, she looked even stranger: too fresh for someone who had supposedly been in holy sleep for three days; lips parted in a small, demented amusement.
She smelled faintly of flowers and incense and stagnation.
"Hello," I said.
She smiled wider.
"I didn't think your eyes would be so pretty," she said.
Behind me, Veyra snorted.
The older priest stepped forward, fury finally overriding awe. "Step away from the Saint!" he shouted. "You are not worthy to—"
I lifted a hand without looking at him.
The nearest bell in the tower above the plaza tolled.
Not on any rope.
Not on any schedule.
The note rolled through the air like the growl of something large clearing its throat. Every bell in earshot went silent in response, even though hands still pulled their ropes.
I kept my gaze on Eliane.
"Did you see everything?" I asked. "Or just enough?"
She tilted her head, thinking. "Enough," she said. "Pieces. Falling worlds. Broken crowns. A boy who smiles while things die. A girl with flowers for blood. A man who keeps fire in his chest." Her gaze flicked past me, ticking off the others. "Mirrors. Threads. Bones. Feathers." She looked at Lysa last. "And you," she said softly. "You keep watching."
Lysa went very still.
"You're still dreaming," Lysa said.
Eliane shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe," she said. "But it's more interesting than being dead."
The older priest sputtered. "You were never dead, Saint," he said painfully. "You were in holy repose. Your visions of the Heights—"
"Weren't of the Heights," she said flatly. "They were of them."
Her gaze came back to me.
"Take me with you," she said.
The plaza stopped breathing.
Lysa closed her eyes briefly. "Of course," she muttered.
The older priest made a strangled noise. "Saint—Eliane—you are the living heart of the Upper Choir," he said. "You cannot—you mustn't—these strangers, these blasphemies—"
She smiled sweetly. It didn't reach her eyes.
"Blasphemy is more honest than prayer," she said.
"That sounds like philosophy," Cirel murmured.
"She means she's bored," Kaen said.
Veyra clasped her hands in front of her chest, eyes shining. "I love her," she said. "Can we keep her? Please?"
Lyra's expression was thoughtful now. Assessing. "She's already… cracked," she said. "Less work for us."
Alinor looked up at the sky, where the tear we'd fallen through was already knitting itself closed. "The world already gave her to us," she said softly. "In her dreams. This is just paperwork."
Sareth shrugged. "She will either entertain us or die quickly. Either way, it's symmetry."
Lysa stared between us and Eliane, horror and reluctant understanding battling on her face. "She doesn't know what she's asking," she said.
Eliane's smile sharpened. "I saw enough," she said. "I saw my city crumble above the clouds while they rang the bells and pretended the sound would hold the platforms together. I saw you walk away while we fell. If I can't stop it, I want to see it." She looked at me. "If you break everything, I'd rather not go with it by accident."
"Reasonable," I said.
I wasn't sure if I meant it.
The older priest lunged toward the bier, reaching for Eliane's arm. "You are the Saint of Vathriel," he cried. "You belong to this city—"
Veyra moved.
She stepped between them with lazy grace, one hand flicking out. Her fingers brushed his chest.
He froze.
Not literally.
He just stopped, mid-step, eyes staring, mouth half open. Red veins bloomed under his skin, petal-shaped, then faded, leaving faint, dark traceries along his throat.
His next words came out weaker.
"Saint," he whispered. "Please."
Eliane looked at him.
Then at the plaza.
At the towers.
At the bells.
At the cloud sea beyond.
Her gaze came back to me.
"I won't die here," she said.
My fingers curled around Eclipsera's invisible shaft at my back, feeling the familiar weight.
"Pet?" Veyra asked, voice bright.
"Pet," Lyra agreed.
Lysa's shoulders slumped. "Of course."
I glanced back at the others.
We didn't vote aloud this time.
We didn't need to.
The Eclipsed Bond hummed.
Seven silent agreements.
I met Eliane's eyes.
"In this world," I said, "our pet is Saint Eliane of Vathriel."
The words snapped into the air like a net.
Eliane shivered.
The faintest spark of something bright lit in her chest. Lyra's fingers twitched; thin, almost invisible threads slid from her hands to loop loosely around Eliane's wrists and throat—not choking, not tight, just present.
The older priest recoiled, horror overtaking anger. "You—no one claims a Saint," he said. "She belongs to the Heights, to the people, to—"
Veyra turned her head slowly and looked at him.
"No," she said. "She belongs to us now."
Murmurs exploded around the plaza.
Fear.
Outrage.
Awe.
The words blasphemy and devils and trial flew through the crowd.
The bells overhead began ringing again on their own.
No ropes.
No patterns.
Just noise.
Lysa stepped down from the fountain, teeth clenched. "We're not breaking this one yet," she said under her breath. "Right?"
"Not today," I said.
She exhaled shakily.
The older priest's eyes burned. "You will answer to the High Cantor for this," he spat. "Our laws—"
"Your laws don't know we exist," Cirel said.
Lyra eyed the ornate chains linking the platforms. "And your chains don't know what happens when the wind changes."
Alinor turned her face toward the distant ringing bells, expression unreadable.
Kaen shook out his hands, drops of water steaming off his skin. "I vote we see what passes for taverns in this place before we decide whether to smash it," he said.
"You don't drink," Veyra reminded him.
"No," he said. "But other people do. It's funny."
Eliane swung her legs off the bier.
Her bare feet touched the wet stone.
She wobbled once, muscles protesting the first use in days, then steadied. She stood with an ease that should not have belonged to someone supposedly holy and fragile.
She took a step toward us.
The older priest grabbed her arm.
"Saint," he said desperately, voice cracking. "Please. We prepared the bells. The hymn. The offerings. All your life has led to this day. If you leave, if you go with them, they will—"
She leaned down and kissed his forehead.
It was a small, gentle motion.
It made him flinch like he'd been burned.
"Keep ringing your bells," she whispered. "Maybe they'll drown out the sound of the world cracking."
Then she pulled free and walked to me.
Lysa stared at her. "You're insane," she said.
Eliane smiled. "I had very intense dreams," she replied.
I liked her more with every sentence.
Behind us, the crowd began to move.
Not toward us.
Away.
The fear was stronger now than the fascination.
Good.
Fear made space.
We walked out of the fountain together—seven soaked monsters in new clothes, one priestess from a dead lower world, one saint who'd chosen madness over stagnation.
The plaza parted before us.
Chains clinked overhead.
Bells rang in wild patterns.
The city in the sky shivered and pretended it was just the wind.
—
I found us a balcony.
Vathriel had plenty.
This one hung from the side of a lesser tower, looking out over the cloud sea. The railing was carved stone, worn smooth by hands and wind. A bell smaller than the plaza giants hung from an iron bracket nearby, its tongue still.
We sat.
Veyra perched on the railing, swinging her legs. Eliane stood beside her, hands resting on the stone, staring out at the endless white below. Lysa sat on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up, staff laid across them.
Kaen took the bell down and turned it in his hands, inspecting its runes. "Their magic is tame," he said. "Clean lines. Neat circles."
"They like control," Lyra said. She'd already acquired a scrap of parchment from somewhere and was tracing the local sigils with a fingertip, eyes half-lidded. The newly claimed Crown of Glass whispered under her skin, letting her see the characters' earlier shapes, the discarded drafts.
Cirel lay on her back, head near the balcony's edge, looking up at the sky. "Do you think they ever look past their own bells?" she asked.
"No," Sareth said.
Alinor leaned her arms on the railing and watched the clouds move, if they were moving at all. "They built their city on not wanting to know what's under them," she said. "That will make breaking it… delicate."
"We don't have to break it," Lysa said quickly.
Six faces turned toward her.
Seven, if I counted myself.
She flinched, then forced herself to keep going. "You don't," she insisted. "You could just… leave. Take her—" she jerked her chin at Eliane—"and go. There are other worlds. You've already destroyed two. You don't need this one."
Kaen snorted. "Need has nothing to do with it."
Veyra propped her chin on her hand, studying Lysa. "Do you still believe anything can be spared?" she asked.
"Yes," Lysa snapped. "If you decide to. That makes all the difference."
"That's not philosophy," Cirel said. "That's begging with extra words."
Lysa's jaw clenched. Her eyes burned. "Fine," she said. "I'm begging. Don't kill this world."
Silence.
The word kill sat there between us, blunt and familiar.
I watched Eliane watching the clouds.
"Do you love it?" I asked Lysa.
She blinked. "What?"
"This world," I said. "You begged for Hallowmere because it was yours. You didn't beg for the demon realm because it wasn't. Does this one matter to you?"
She hesitated.
"Not yet," she admitted. "But it could matter. To them." She gestured helplessly toward the city. "They're arrogant and blind and their priest is an ass, but they're… alive. They built something. It's pretty. Isn't that enough?"
"No," Kaen said.
"Yes," Eliane said softly.
We all looked at her.
She still stared out at the clouds.
"I dreamed of it falling," she said. "I watched the chains snap and the platforms tilt. I heard the bells ring as they broke and fell with the stones. I woke up to incense and hymns and priests telling me I was blessed. I thought: I don't want to die to their song."
Her fingers tightened on the railing.
"It's beautiful," she said. "And it will die. I knew that before you came. Knowing doesn't change it. It just makes the time between louder."
She turned her head and smiled at Lysa.
"You can't save it," she said gently. "Any more than I could sleep it safe."
Lysa's shoulders slumped.
"You're all broken," she whispered.
"Yes," Sareth said.
"And now you're one of us," Cirel added.
"Absolutely not," Lysa snapped.
Veyra reached over and patted her knee. "You've seen three worlds," she said. "Yours, theirs, and this one. That's more than most saints ever do. Give it time."
Eliane laughed softly. "She'll start naming them soon," she said.
"Speaking of," Kaen said. "We've named the demon realm. We've named the glass desert. What do we call this one when it breaks?"
Lysa flinched.
"You're not naming it," she said. "You're not—"
"Eliane?" Lyra asked, ignoring her.
The saint thought for a moment, gaze drifting back over the city.
"The city of bells that never rang for anyone but itself," she said. "The Choir that never listened. The sky that forgot what was under it."
"Still too long," Kaen muttered.
"Vathriel sounds like glass when it breaks," Alinor said. "That's enough."
I let the name settle in my mind, tasting it.
"Later," I said. "We'll see what it calls itself when it falls."
Lysa closed her eyes.
Her hands shook.
I watched the tremor creep up her arms, into her shoulders. Each new world added another weight. She hadn't buckled yet.
Admiring that wasn't mercy.
It was curiosity.
I pushed off the railing and stood.
"Souvenir rule can wait," I said. "We haven't seen enough to choose properly. No Feast yet. No mercy. No Crown. Just… walks."
Veyra hopped down from the railing, dress swirling. "Tavern?" she asked Kaen.
"Tavern," he agreed.
Cirel rolled to her feet. "Alleyway first," she said. "Taverns come with crowds. Crowds come with questions."
Lyra folded her parchment and tucked it into her coat. "I want to see how their bells are tuned," she said.
Sareth's chains clinked as he straightened. "And I want to see how far they think their laws reach."
Alinor smiled faintly, eyes still on the clouds. "I want to see what's beneath," she said.
Lysa stared up at me, eyes hollow and bright. "And I want to see if you ever stop," she said.
"You should have picked a different wish," I said.
Eliane turned from the railing.
She smoothed her damp ceremonial gown, knocked the crooked crown off her head with one quick motion, and let it roll across the balcony floor until it bumped against the wall.
"I want to hear a different song," she said.
Veyra looped her arm through Eliane's. "You picked the right monsters," she said.
We left the balcony.
The bells above the city rang and rang, trying to drown us out.
We walked the chains and the bridges of Vathriel, seven Children of a broken crown, one priestess who still pretended asking might matter, one saint who had chosen to follow the nightmare out of her bed.
The city did not yet know its sky had cracked.
We knew.
We had time.
For games.
For pets.
For souvenirs.
For one carefully chosen mercy.
And when Vathriel finally looked up and saw itself reflected in the wrong eyes, it would be too late to close the crack.
We stepped onto the next bridge.
The world shivered.
It didn't break.
Not yet.