The Sanctum was never silent.
Even in its quietest hours—if such things existed in a place unbound by sun or moon—there was always movement. The subtle chime of turning rings, the distant sigh of pressurized light, the low murmur of voices half-born and half-forgotten.
Haraza had grown attuned to it.
That was why, when the silence stopped, he felt it like a knife to the spine.
He was standing in the lower coils of the Forge, where Tarsis had told him the -"Ancient Axles" -turned—the unseen bones of the Sanctum's body. Alone. Watching the slow procession of star-wheels revolve through sheets of glass and light.
Then the sound changed.
A pause. A breath held by the Sanctum.
Then:
Skrrrch.
Like metal torn across stone.
Skrrrch. Again. Louder. Closer.
Haraza drew the glaive from his back.
The glyphs in his skin ignited—on their own.
("Sanctum,") he called, turning slowly, ("what's happening?")
The platform he stood on shuddered—just a whisper of instability.
But that was impossible. The Forge did not move. It was built into the core of the Rift's memory itself. Immutable. Untouchable.
Then the air fractured.
Literally fractured.
Like cracked glass, space itself split, and a jagged tear opened in the corridor beyond. Not a door. Not a rift like he had passed through before.
A wound.
And through it, something stepped.
It was not shaped like any beast or man he'd seen. No real outline—just limbs made of wrapped cloth and bone, strung with rings that spun and chattered in the air. Its face was an empty circle. A halo of nails. A mouth that did not move, but still spoke.
Not aloud.
In his mind.
("Chainbreaker… Rift-touched… Vessel yet unborn…")
Haraza held the glaive forward. ("Stay back.")
("We saw you in the Memory Sea… saw the gear that shouldn't turn…")
("What are you?")
("A Watcher. A Whisper. A voice cast out when the Rift closed the Old Path.")
Haraza took a slow step back.
This thing didn't come from the Vault.
It didn't belong.
It was wrong.
The air around it warped—flaking away in burning dust, like reality was peeling in its presence.
("Sanctum!") Haraza shouted. ("Tarsis!")
The platform flared—and Tarsis appeared, descending from above in a flash of brass and silver. His robes flared as he landed between Haraza and the breach.
He froze.
Even he—machine-born, time-forged—feared what stood before them.
("You should not be here,") Tarsis said coldly.
("Nor should he,") whispered the intruder. ("The Rift chose. But not all parts of it agreed…")
Tarsis raised a hand.
Lines of gold light burst from the walls.
The wound screamed.
A soundless sound.
And in a blink—it was gone.
The tear sealed.
The pressure lifted.
The Sanctum resumed its hum.
But nothing felt the same.
Later, in the Vault of Iron Tomes, Haraza and Tarsis stood over a table filled with shifting runes. The Archivist's fingers tapped equations that even the gears flinched from.
("What was that?") Haraza demanded.
Tarsis didn't look up. "A breach. A ripple through locked time. The Rift is not perfect. Nor is it one will. There are… fragments. Pieces of its mind that broke away during the Shattering Age."
("Fragments with eyes?")
Tarsis nodded grimly.
("The Rift was once a god, in its own way. A thing of boundless creation. But it feared what it could not control. So it cast parts of itself out. It forgot them on purpose.")
Haraza's voice was low. ("And now they're trying to get back in.")
("Yes.")
Tarsis finally looked up.
("They must have sensed you. The Seed burns brightly in you now. Too brightly. You have awakened something, Haraza Genso. Not just the Vault. Not just the Rift.")
Haraza said nothing for a moment.
Then:
("Can you stop them?")
Tarsis paused.
("I can delay them.")
("And me?")
("You must prepare. What comes next is no longer training. It is war.")
Elsewhere—beyond the Rift's ordered domains—deep within the forgotten edges of dead worlds and broken stars, the Watchers gathered.
Rings chattered.
Faces without mouths smiled.
And from the farthest corner of unreality, a name was spoken.
("Genso…")
The Rift shivered.