The tether split cleanly down its glowing length—silent, seamless, inevitable. Gold filaments sheared apart like silk under a razor, curling at the edges but refusing to fully detach. Instead, they spread. Multiplied. Wove new patterns.
Cain jerked as if pulled in two different directions at once.
Because he was.
The shape forming inside the rift sharpened. The distorted echo of Cain's silhouette—the one half-formed and flickering—solidified just enough to resemble a warped reflection: taller, thinner, limbs slightly too long, face blurred like melted wax attempting symmetry.
Outside the rift, the real Cain convulsed. The threads wound across his torso pulsed, embedding deeper. His skin cracked around them in glowing fissures.
Eira forced herself up, teeth grit, ribs screaming. She dragged in a breath thick with dust and magic, wiping the blood from her temple with the back of her hand.
"Cain," she rasped. "Focus on me. Not it."
