Understood.
The Trial was over. The stained glass dome of the Celestial Concourse cracked above them, once vibrant with constellations, now splintered into jagged, empty outlines. Verena stood in the debris, hair tousled, eyes steady. She wasn't bleeding—but something inside her was.
Vivienne approached first. Her voice was low, but carried a thousand miles of weariness. "You felt it too, didn't you? The timeline didn't correct."
Verena gave a tight nod. "The Trial was supposed to recalibrate the weave. Instead, the corruption spread."
Beneath their feet, the marble floor shimmered like a heat mirage. Eidos—the metaphysical energy that shaped reality—was flickering, thinning. The world was unraveling. Not quickly. But like a tapestry being picked apart thread by thread by some unseen, patient hand.
