Virell struck first.
His blade, twisted and jagged like a tuning fork frozen mid-shriek, carved a slice through the air toward Koshiro. It hummed with stolen harmonics, warping the space it passed through. Koshiro ducked low, glass rod already in his hand, eyes locked on the former Ascendant.
"You don't belong here," Virell hissed, her voice layered like broken strings. "You shouldn't have seen what you did."
Koshiro spun aside and struck the rod against the ground. It resonated like a scream swallowed by stone. The Thread around him responded, rippling through the dust.
Virell advanced again, faster this time. His Eidolon shimmered behind him—a shape barely human, wrapped in memory-wounds. It lashed out with shadows made of regret, distorting the battlefield.
Koshiro felt the edges of the illusion tug at his mind.
Suddenly, he was back in the Oratorium.
Screams. Laughter. A child crying.
No. He gritted his teeth, focused.
His rod pulsed, and the illusion shattered.
Virell stumbled. "How did you—?"
Koshiro didn't answer. He charged.
Every strike of his rod met Virell's blade in a clash of Thread and steel, of memory and madness. The harmonics screamed through the ruins. Koshiro twisted, rolled, slid beneath a swipe, and stabbed upward. His rod struck Virell's chest.
A burst of light.
The Eidolon behind Virell flickered. Koshiro pressed the rod deeper, focusing everything—Lina, Zen, the girl who screamed, the fire that never left him.
The Thread inside the rod sang.
Virell's mask cracked.
Koshiro whispered, "You're just an echo. I'm the song."
He drove the rod forward.
Virell screamed as the harmonics turned inward. The Eidolon shrieked and dissolved into nothing. Virell fell, lifeless, her blade still humming faintly as it clattered to the stone.
Koshiro stood still for a breath. Then another.
He didn't look back.
Far beneath the surface, Solas and Nyra stood inside the Fold's fractured archive chamber. The walls glowed with suspended Threads—some flickering like dying stars, others vibrating faintly to the tune of unseen truths.
Solas was leaning against a column, arms crossed, smile nowhere to be seen.
"These names," Nyra said slowly. "They're all marked for execution, by resonance?"
"Right, It's the Fold's version of risk management," Solas replied. "They believe certain people can stop them from achieving their goal and they need to get rid of them."
Nyra scrolled farther.
"My name was there," she said.
Solas tilted his head. "I warned you not to get interesting."
"Why isn't your name on it?" she asked, suddenly looking at him.
He grinned. "They probably think I'm already dead."
She didn't smile.
"And Koshiro? Zen? They think they're not a threat?"
"Not yet." Solas pushed off the wall and walked slowly toward her. "Maybe after this all our names will be at the top, which seems very flattering."
They regrouped at the Fold's harmonic core.
The chamber was vast, a circular ruin filled with pulsing glyphs and shattered Choir machinery. The air was thick with the scent of scorched stone and ozone, a dull hum resonating from broken instruments embedded in the walls.
Zen arrived first with Brann, both bruised, blades still slick with battle. Nyra and Solas followed a moment later—Nyra quiet, focused, Solas whistling a low tune as if they'd just finished a leisurely walk. Koshiro entered last, dragging Virell's broken blade behind him. He let it fall with a clatter that echoed through the chamber like punctuation.
No one spoke for a long beat.
Then Solas clapped his hands, the sound startling in the silence. "Well! That went better than expected. No one's dead—except the bad guys. That's a win in my book."
Zen turned, voice sharp. "What's the plan now?"
Solas laughing nervously but confidently "Plans? Nah, We're winging it from here just letting the wind decide."
Zen took a step forward, fists clenched. "We dismantled a Fold stronghold and your next move is what, exactly?"
"Improvise!" Solas said, grinning. "Very on brand for me."
Koshiro leaned against a shattered console, his voice dry. "You really didn't think past this point, did you?"
"Oh, I thought," Solas said. "I just figured someone else might come up with something more interesting."
Brann, leaning on his axe, muttered, "Remind me why we trust this guy again?"
Zen's glare could have cracked stone. "We don't."
"Ouch," Solas said, mock-wounded. "You wound me, Zen. Not physically—that would be expected—but emotionally. Deeply."
Nyra stepped between them. "Enough. We're alive. We hit them where it hurts. That matters."
Koshiro straightened. "And now they know we're not just wandering anomalies. They'll come harder. Faster."
Zen glanced around the ruined chamber. "We should move. We can't stay in this tomb."
Solas, stretching his arms behind his head, nodded toward a darkened corridor. "Fine by me. But next time, I vote for breaking into a place with a hot spring. Less doom, more steam."
Nyra didn't laugh. "We're not done. Not by a long shot."
Koshiro's eyes met Zen's. "We struck first. Now we need to decide what kind of war this is going to be."In the distance, the ruined Choir chamber flickered with failing light. The Fold was wounded—but not dead.
And none of them had answers to what came next.
Koshiro looked toward the center of the chamber, where a large mirror-like surface had begun to shimmer.
"Something's wrong," he said.
The Veil split.
A figure stepped through—not flesh, but Thread. A projection. A presence.
The Prophet.
They wore a robe that flickered between colors, a face half-covered by shifting bands of glass. Their voice was both music and void.
"You silenced the Choir," they said. "But songs have echoes."
Everyone froze.
The Prophet looked directly at Koshiro.
"Your name is not on the list, Threadwalker. But perhaps... it should be."
Then they spoke another name—one none of them had heard before.
It echoed through the chamber. Koshiro stiffened.
The Prophet turned.
"You tore down the Fold's voice. Let's see if you survive the silence."
The projection vanished.
Darkness rushed back in.
The chamber fell still.
And no one spoke for a very long time.