The air cracked.
Not with lightning, nor with thunder, but with meaning. Haraza felt it behind his eyes, like someone was rewriting the definitions of reality. The ley-bridge collapsed behind them, unspooled into raw tone. They were adrift in the Rift's heart now—no up, no down, only the pull of the Maw and the ever-present thrum of the Riftborn's presence.
The Accord stood back-to-back on a floating platform of forgotten prayers. All around them, broken fragments of worlds spun—mountain peaks, statues of deities no longer worshipped, half-finished cities orbiting in silence.
Brannock grunted.("Any plan beyond die loud?")
Haraza didn't answer immediately. He stepped forward, facing the Riftborn as it pulsed with impossible color.
("I'm not here to destroy you,") Haraza said. ("I understand you now. You're not evil. You're a… correction.")
("We are the Endnote.") The Riftborn's tones were layered with ancient truth. ("We were born when the First World chose silence over chaos. Our song is the closing parenthesis. The hush after the final breath.")
("But that's not life,") Haraza replied. ("That's surrender.")
The Riftborn tilted its head—a thousand heads, overlapping.
("Your world is flawed. Incomplete. Out of tune. Would you rather let it scream forever?")
("No,") Haraza said, raising the keystone. ("I'd rather help it sing better.")
Then he attacked.
The keystone flared—a symphony condensed into a single chord. Lines of sound solidified into blades of glowing tone. Haraza moved like a song made flesh, every motion echoing across planes. The Riftborn met him midair, not with weapons but with counterpoint—a dissonant roar that split the platform beneath them.
They clashed above the Choir's Maw.
Each strike rippled across time. Mountains aged. Oceans boiled. Songs once lost returned to memory and then vanished again.
The Riftborn sang a verse of decay—Haraza's flesh began to unravel, every cell questioning its own purpose. But he countered with the Will-Tone, a note forged in mortal defiance. His glyphs pulsed white-hot. The world screamed in harmony.
Below, the Accord acted.
Lirien dove from fragment to fragment, blades flickering with stolen light. She cut through echoes—shadows of what the Riftborn could have been. Each kill sealed a verse shut.
Ryve pulled from his bag a seed of phoenixfire—a relic gifted by the Sky-Sovereign before she died. ("Caela! Target?")
Caela's eyes glowed with ley-sight. ("Heartline—six degrees to the Maw's center! You hit it, it'll destabilize the internal cadence!")
("Big words,") Ryve said. ("Bigger boom.")
He threw it.
It screamed as it flew—flames folding into wings. It struck.
The Maw shuddered, opening like a mouth.
Inside, Haraza fell.
The Riftborn spiraled after him, shifting shapes—mother, mentor, monster, mirror. Its voice boomed inside him.
("You are not whole.")
("I know,") he whispered.
("You have no purpose.")
("I make one.")
("You do not belong.")
("I choose to.")
The keystone exploded in his chest—its shards spinning into a chorus of protective glyphs.
Below them lay the Choir's Throne.
The Riftborn reached for it.
And Haraza made his choice.
He sang.
It was not a word. It was not a language. It was a truth. One learned through fire, loss, loyalty, and love. It was the song of the jack-of-all-trades. The man without a single calling, but with the strength to carry many.
His voice reached the Throne.
And the Throne responded.
It did not shatter.
It did not resist.
It tuned.
The Riftborn shrieked. Its notes bent backward. Its harmony faltered.
Haraza stood atop the Throne, wrapped in tones old as the stars.
("I'm not your enemy,") he said, one final time.
("But I am the final chord.")
He struck the keystone into the Maw's core.
Light drowned everything.
And the Rift…
…sang shut.