There was silence.
Not the hollow quiet of death, but the kind that comes after a storm—the breath between thunder and the return of birdsong. The Choir's Maw no longer pulsed in the sky. The Rift was gone. Sealed. Dispersed into threads of broken harmony that drifted like smoke into the fabric of the world.
Haraza Genso awoke floating.
Not in water. Not in air.
But in sound.
It cradled him gently, like a memory he hadn't yet remembered. Each note that held him was a piece of someone—Lirien's silent strength, Brannock's growl of laughter, Caela's cool certainty, Ryve's reckless warmth. And more—faces and names and moments from every world he'd touched since his arrival.
He opened his eyes.
He was alone.
He stood on a vast field of black stone veined with shimmering light, like a heartbeat trapped in crystal. Above him was a dome of stars, but they weren't his stars. They were arranged in unfamiliar constellations—wheels of flame and rivers of silver fire.
This was not the Rift.
This was between.
A figure appeared.
Not walked, not stepped—but unfolded. She wore robes of shifting parchment, her skin etched with verses that flickered in and out of existence. Her eyes were ink wells of unknowable depth.
("You finished the song,") she said.
Haraza stared. ("Are you the Composer?")
("No,") she said. ("The Composer died long ago. Like most of us. I am the Archivist. I keep what was sung. You have added something… unexpected.")
("Did I win?") he asked.
The Archivist tilted her head. ("You changed the chorus. You took a song of endings and bent it. Made space for something unfinished.")
Haraza looked down at his hands. They still glowed faintly, the keystone's echo embedded in his skin.
("Is the Rift truly gone?")
The Archivist gave no answer—only gestured.
The stars above reformed.
They showed a tapestry of worlds, all frayed at the edges. The damage had been done. Realms had been stitched together and torn apart. People displaced. Realities rewritten.
("But the Maw is sealed,") the Archivist said. ("The Choir silenced. The Riftborn... dispersed.")
("Dispersed,") Haraza echoed. ("Not destroyed.")
She nodded.
("Nothing that old can truly be destroyed. You sang them into possibility again. Fragments of them will linger. But no longer as predators. Perhaps... as potential.")
Haraza rubbed his face. ("So, what now? I go back?")
("If you wish.")
("And if I stay?")
("You become part of the Song,") she said. ("You won't die. But you won't be Haraza anymore.")
He closed his eyes.
The silence within him hummed with the memories of everything he'd done—every deal, every promise, every sacrifice. The weight of ten thousand choices.
Then he spoke.
("I'm not done being Haraza Genso.")
When he stepped back into the waking world, it was raining.
Real, clean rain.
He was lying in a field near what remained of the high cliffs of Kaer Dorne, where the Rift had once bloomed in the sky. The storm above was natural now—gray and soft, not made of voices or paradox.
Someone crouched beside him.
Lirien.
("You look like hell,") she said.
He smiled. ("Missed you too.")
Caela was nearby, leaning heavily on a cane made from crystallized ley-stone. Brannock sat cross-legged, hammer laid across his knees, eyes closed as if praying. Ryve was tossing pebbles at a floating shard of reality that hadn't yet decided to vanish.
("We held the line,") Lirien said. ("Didn't think you were coming back.")
("Me neither.")
Caela stepped forward. ("We've got work to do.")
("What kind?")
She waved at the horizon, where stars flickered oddly and pieces of foreign architecture hovered in defiance of gravity. ("Worlds are still bleeding. Not like before. But they need patching. We're going to need new songs.")
Haraza stood slowly, joints aching.
("Well then,")he said. ("Let's write a few.")