The bridge stretched on, each glowing link trembling with the Tower's growing voice. The aurora no longer drifted like light painted across glass—it pulsed in great, resonant waves, a tide of color bending toward the climbers as if acknowledging them.
Then came the first chord.
It was not a sound so much as a pressure, a weight of resonance that shook the woven path beneath their feet. The song of freed voices fractured, not silenced, but re-shaped—drawn upward into a single vast harmony.
Roselia staggered, stars flaring wildly around her. "It's not just answering," she gasped. "It's… weaving us into its song."
Naval grimaced, planting a fist into the bridge to steady himself. The light around his knuckles flared, chains of sound ringing out like drums against the Tower's tide. "Feels like it's trying to drag my bones out through my skin."
