The sun had just begun its slow crawl above the ashen horizon, casting long, jagged shadows across the broken land. The wind carried the faint scent of burnt salt and rust, the only remnants of the sea that once kissed these ruins.
Koshiro stood by the edge of the ridge, brushing a layer of dust from his coat. The glass rod shimmered faintly at his hip, humming a tune only he could hear. Zen was crouched beside a shattered column, adjusting the bindings of his sword hilt.
"You slept well," Zen said without looking up.
Koshiro blinked against the rising sun. "Better than I deserved."
A familiar voice rang out behind them.
"Well, isn't this a cozy sunrise. Makes me wish I had eggs and betrayal on toast."
Solas appeared from the shadows of a jagged boulder, arms folded, a crooked grin painted across his face.
Koshiro raised an eyebrow. "You watch us sleep now?"
Solas shrugged. "It's either that or get bored enough to talk to the rocks and they're not nearly as sarcastic."
Zen sheathed his blade. "We're going for the Fold."
"Right," Solas said, dragging the word out. "And how, exactly, do you plan to storm one of the most heavily guarded Syndicate strongholds? With optimism and sharp cheekbones?"
"We'll improvise."
Solas groaned. "Oh, the classic suicide-with-style approach, amazing!"
Koshiro crossed his arms. "Got a better plan?"
Solas smirked, "As a matter of fact… yes. Three of us can't break the Fold. But five?"
Zen frowned. "You know others?"
Solas nodded, "Escaped prisoners. Like me, except with better temperaments and worse dental hygiene. They used to work for the Fold before things went... sideways."
He raised a finger. "One of them can melt Thread harmonics just by humming, the other? Well, let's just say her Eidolon is illegal in six Realms and banned in poetry."
Koshiro chuckled despite himself. "You trust them?"
"I trust they hate the Fold more than they hate me, which is enough."
Zen narrowed his eyes. "And what's their price?"
Solas's grin sharpened, "Revenge, same as yours."
The journey took the trio deeper into the fracture belt—where stone spires grew like warped trees and the air shimmered with dormant Threads, tangled and frayed.
By noon, they found the pair.
A woman leaned lazily against a broken statue of a weeping angel, her silver hair braided with copper wire. Her eyes were golden, lit from within like forge-fire. She tossed a dagger up and down like it was weightless.
"About time," she said.
"Everyone," Solas announced with a dramatic bow, "meet Nyra."
She waved her dagger toward Koshiro and Zen. "You're smaller than I expected, especially the brooding one."
Zen ignored her.
From the shadows behind her, a hulking figure emerged. Tall, cloaked in layers of stitched-together armor, his left arm was entirely mechanical—woven with glass-thread and stonework. A single glowing eye peered out from beneath his hood.
"This is Brann."
Brann nodded once. His voice was gravel. "I owe the Fold pain."
Solas clapped his hands. "See? That's the spirit."
Koshiro exchanged glances with Zen and then turned to the newcomers. "You both know what we're doing?"
Nyra snorted. "Yeah. We're walking into the mouth of hell and cutting its tongue out."
Brann said nothing.
That evening, around the fire, Solas began drawing lines in the dirt.
"The Fold operates in three layers. The Prophet commands the top—he doesn't show himself often, but when he does, it's like the world holds its breath. Below him are three Commanders."
He stabbed the ground with a stick. "Commander Virell: she controls the Obsidian Choir. They use sound-based Threads. If she sings, walls collapse."
"Commander Jasko: mind-thread manipulator can turn your memories against you. He's half-machine now, rumor says his own Thread rewrote his face."
"Commander Tyen: brute force. He trains the Fleshweavers. Human weapons built from stolen harmonics."
Koshiro leaned forward. "And the Prophet?"
Solas looked up at him.
"No one's seen his face. But they say his Eidolon isn't like the others. It doesn't sing—it devours."
The fire dimmed as if recoiling from the words.
Zen stood. "Then we start with the Choir. Virell dies first."
Brann grunted approval.
Nyra smirked. "I've always hated opera."
Koshiro was silent. He stood and walked to the edge of the cliff, looking out toward the jagged silhouette of the Fold's spire on the horizon.
Solas joined him.
"You sure about this?"
Koshiro didn't answer.
Solas nudged him. "You could turn back, you know. Let someone else play hero."
Koshiro stared ahead. "I'm not trying to be a hero. I'm just trying to be the one thing I needed, back then."
Solas exhaled through his nose. "You're a stubborn little Thread."
Zen's voice broke the moment, dry as ever.
"If we're done with the poetry, maybe we can start planning how to not die tomorrow."
Solas turned, throwing up his hands. "And here I thought this was a picnic."
Zen grunted. "You brought the stew. No one asked you to stay."
Solas grinned. "You wound me, Stoneface. Truly."
Nyra whistled low. "If this is how you guys flirt, I want a front-row seat."
Brann stood without a word and began sharpening his arm.
As the fire crackled down to embers, the five figures sat in uneasy alliance, bound together by blood, purpose, and a war that was only just beginning.
Far away, in the heart of the Fold, a song began to stir.