The Skybridge screamed.

Not with voices, but with stone and chain. Runes that had thrummed with steady rhythm now crackled, sparking in chaotic bursts. Lightning spilled across the platforms in jagged arcs, twisting into shapes that were neither storm nor shadow but something older, rawer.

Rael shielded his eyes as a blast of green fire seared upward from the abyss. It burst through the storm-barrier, shattering it like glass, and for a heartbeat he saw her—Sira—suspended in the air, her body framed by vines of living light and roots that coiled like lightning given form.

Her eyes glowed, not wholly hers: deep green laced with white fire.

“Sira!” he called, voice straining against the storm.

Her gaze flicked to him. For an instant, she was herself again. Then the storm claimed her, and her voice came back doubled, layered with something older:

“I am the seed. I am the storm. I am the unmaker.”

Lakvenor’s Struggle

“Gods,” Lakvenor hissed, raising his blades against the spiraling energy. The wind howled so violently it dragged him toward the abyss, but he dug his heels in, sparks flying from the iron rings that bound the platform.

“Rael, she’s—she’s not in control!” he shouted, sweat streaking his brow. “If this keeps up, she’ll tear the whole bridge apart!”

But Rael’s eyes never left her. His grip on his sword tightened. “She’s still in there.”

“You don’t know that!” Lakvenor’s voice cracked as he slammed his staff down, anchoring himself in a surge of storm-light. “And if she isn’t—then what are you willing to sacrifice?”

Sira’s Trial Made Flesh

Inside the storm, Sira was drowning. The doppelgänger had grown monstrous—its form towering, limbs like roots of ash that tore through the sky itself. It lashed at her, each blow sending her sprawling across the glowing field of the abyss.

But worse than the strikes were its words, now carried on every bolt of lightning.

“You are not born. You are crafted.”
“You are not heir. You are weapon.”
“You are not loved. You are used.”

Her chest heaved, tears burning against the storm. Each memory—her mother’s hand guiding hers in the soil, Rael’s steady presence through exile, Lakvenor’s fierce loyalty—flashed like fragile sparks against the dark.

“Not true,” she gasped, clutching at the ground. “Not true.”

The doppelgänger lunged. And in that instant, she remembered something else—words her mother had whispered when she thought Sira was asleep:

“One day, she will remember. One day, she will choose.”

Her heart clenched. Choose what?

The Bridge Trembles

The storm broke outward. Vines of lightning erupted across the platforms, snapping chains, ripping stone from its moorings. One entire slab shattered and spun into the abyss, lightning trailing like a comet.

Lakvenor cursed, barely catching the edge of another platform as it tilted. He hung there, gritting his teeth, storm-wind battering him from all sides.

Rael lunged, catching his brother’s wrist, hauling him back onto the stone with sheer strength. Their eyes locked—both terrified, both unyielding.

But Veyrahan stood calm in the center of the maelstrom, beads rattling around his neck, his expression grim.

“It awakens,” he murmured. “The Core has tasted her fear, and now it will test her will. If she fails, Ayara will tremble.”

Rael turned on him, fury in his eyes. “Then help her!”

The giant met his gaze, unflinching. “This is not my trial. It is hers.”

Sira’s Choice

Within the abyss, Sira rose to her knees. Blood—if it was blood—ran down her temple, green and shimmering. Her mirror-self loomed above, vast, unstoppable, its roots wrapping the very sky.

“You cannot fight me,” it whispered. “I am you. The part you hide. The truth your mother feared. The weapon they buried.”

Sira shook, every muscle burning. For a heartbeat, she believed it. But then—Rael’s voice cut through the storm. Not words this time. Just a sound—her name, shouted with such raw certainty that it pierced the storm entirely.

She looked up. Through the chaos, through the abyss, she saw him—Rael, standing against the storm, blade raised, his body a beacon of golden fire.

Her heart surged. Not with fear, not with despair—but with defiance.

“No,” she whispered. “You are not me. I am more than you.”

Light erupted from her chest, blazing like the birth of a star. Roots of radiance burst outward, wrapping the doppelgänger. It screamed, thrashing, shadows tearing away in great chunks.

For the first time, it faltered.

But as the doppelgänger shattered, the light did not fade. It grew. Too bright. Too wild.

Sira screamed, clutching at herself as the Core’s power tore through her body, spilling unchecked into the world. Platforms exploded. Chains snapped. The Skybridge buckled.

Rael and Lakvenor staggered, barely keeping their footing. Veyrahan’s eyes narrowed, his hand lifting as if ready—finally—to intervene.

Above the storm, the skies themselves split open. A vast shadow stirred beyond the clouds, as though something enormous and ancient had been awakened by her cry.

And from the abyss below, a voice deeper than thunder rumbled:

“The seal breaks…”

The bridge lurched violently, throwing them all toward the edge—