They left just before dawn.
Echo, Vaya, and Orah—three carriers of memory, each marked differently, but drawn to the same place.
The Spiral Core.
Not just a destination.
A threshold.
A test.
Even the ground seemed to resist them.
The route Orah led them through was ancient—carved into the cliffs where no light reached, marked only by spirals burned into stone and sealed in languages no one in the valley spoke anymore.
Vaya moved silently, eyes always scanning, the tear-stone pulsing faintly from her satchel like a heart remembering something it wasn't ready to face.
Echo followed close behind, the rhythm of the spiral vibrating through his bones. He didn't speak. He listened.
Because something ahead of them was alive.
And it wasn't just the spiral.
At midday, they reached a narrow split in the earth—two cliffs leaning into each other like old enemies forced to meet again.
A thin path wound down into the crevice, barely wide enough for one foot at a time.
Orah paused.
