The keystone thrummed.
It was not music in any normal sense—there were no notes, no rhythm, no melody. And yet, all five of them felt it in their bones. It resonated deep within marrow and memory, unearthing sounds not heard since the First Breath of the world.
Haraza stood alone before the pedestal. The others remained at the perimeter of the Vault, caught between awe and dread. The glyph on his arm shimmered like a live brand, tendrils of radiant lines stretching toward the floating tuning fork.
("Wait,") Lirien said. ("You don't know what it'll do.")
("I know enough,") Haraza replied, his voice low. ("And I can feel it—it's responding to me. It was meant to.")
("No one was meant for this,") Caela breathed. ("It predates memory. This is older than harmony, older than meaning. You touch it wrong, and it could rethread your soul.")
Haraza gave a quiet smile. ("Then I'll touch it right.")
He reached out.
And the world vanished.
Within the Pitch:
It was neither dream nor death. It was resonance.
Haraza floated in a vast, chromatic sea—colors folding into sounds, sounds blooming into shapes. Each breath he took unraveled a thousand threads of time. Every blink layered another verse of existence. He could see himself—no, not just himself. Versions of him. Endless Harazas, each born of a different choice, a different breath. Some wore crowns, others shackles. Some lay in graves beneath alien skies. Others led armies across glass continents.
All of them sang.
Some off-key. Some broken. One—only one—sang in perfect harmony.
That Haraza stepped forward.
("You've touched the First Tone,")the echo-self said.("Few survive it.")
("Why me?") Haraza asked. ("Why was I given the Thirteenth Glyph? Why pulled through the Rift?")
The other Haraza didn't smile, but his tone warmed. ("Because you are a jack of all trades. You are adaptable. Incomplete. Flexible. The world needs not a master—but a bridge.")
("A bridge to what?")
("To the world that was—and the one that must become.")
The glyph on Haraza's arm pulsed.
("The keystone is not an object. It's a choice. You can restore the First Harmony. Bring back what was lost. Close the Rift forever. But…")
("But?")
("You must give up your voice.")
Haraza blinked. ("My what?")
("Your soul's voice. The part of you that dreams. That defines. That wonders who you are. You'll still be, but you'll no longer become. You'll be a fixed point in a flowing world. Eternal. Silent.")
Haraza's breath caught. ("And if I refuse?")
("Then the Choir will try again. And again. Until the world breaks.")
Back in the Vault:
Haraza's eyes snapped open. The others stood back, stunned. The keystone hovered now inches from his chest, orbiting the Thirteenth Glyph.
("What… happened?") Ryve asked.
Haraza's voice was quiet, grave. ("I was offered the choice to become a fixed tone. To restore the original harmony and close the Rift. But it would cost… too much. A cost I'm not ready to pay. Not yet.")
Lirien stepped forward. ("So what now?")
He looked at her, his eyes burning with a new light. ("Now… we use the keystone differently. Not to restore. But to reshape.")
Caela's breath hitched. ("You're going to retune the world?")
("No. I'm going to tune myself.")
He lifted the keystone.
Light burst from the pedestal, pouring into him.
The glyph flared—lines weaving across his body, etching sigils into his arms, chest, back. His eyes turned silver. The world trembled.
Then silence.
And a single note echoed through the Vault.
Perfect.
Resonant.
The keystone dimmed.
And Haraza Genso opened his eyes.
("I can hear the world now,") he said. ("All of it.")
Outside the Vault, the wind screamed.
The sky had turned violet. A rift was forming—not natural, not from the Breath or the Void. This one was being summoned.
The Choir had found another node.
Haraza staggered forward. ("They're trying to accelerate it. We have hours. Maybe less.")
Lirien clenched her fists. ("Then let's move.")
Caela nodded. ("I'll plot a ley-bridge. I can get us there, but only if Haraza focuses the route.")
Brannock readied his blade. ("I've got your back. Whatever's on the other side, it bleeds like the rest.")
Ryve locked eyes with Haraza. ("Tell me this'll work.")
Haraza looked up, the glyph now pulsing in rhythm with the land.
("I don't know,") he said.
Then he smiled.
("But I'm about to find out.")