Wren sits near the mouth of the vault, arms wrapped around her knees. Lira sharpens a blade she doesn't need to sharpen, her eyes never leaving me.
And I sit with the ring.
It hasn't stopped humming since I bound the second heart.
I used to think it was just power—a tool. A key. Maybe even a curse. But now, it feels like it's breathing. Watching.
I hold it to the light. The silver-black thread inside writhes, slow and deliberate.
"It's changing," I say aloud.
Lira glances up. "Or you are."
Wren leans forward, voice soft. "What do you see when you touch it?"
I don't answer at first. Because it's not something I *see.* It's something I *remember.* And not all of it is mine.
"Pain. Sacrifice. A woman with storm in her blood. Vellidra."
Lira frowns. "You've seen her?"
"More than seen," I whisper. "I've *been* her. Or close enough. The ring... it doesn't show visions. It *shares.*"
Wren looks uneasy. "Like memories?"
"Like burdens."
I close my eyes, letting the ring pull me deeper.
She stood in this vault once. Alone. Fingers bleeding from battle. Her mask cracked. Her voice low. She didn't want a throne. She wanted a choice. To protect the city with silence or power. She chose silence. She poured the worst of what she was into the ring, so that the city could grow without fearing her shadow. And in doing so, she vanished from their songs. From their books.
"Vellidra gave up being remembered so the city could forget the war that built it," I say.
Wren shivers. "That's awful."
"No," I say quietly. "It's mercy."
Lira studies me. "And now the ring remembers for her."
I nod. "And it asks if I'll do the same."
She looks away, uneasy. "Would you?"
I don't answer. Because I already know the truth.
I won't vanish. I won't go quiet.
I'll *rewrite* the silence.
The ring pulses again. Not angry. Not eager. Just... listening.
Then I think of the spy. Of the ring made of bone.
"There's someone else," I say. "Someone who walks the old paths. A rival."
Lira raises an eyebrow. "You knew him?"
"No. But the ring did. When it pulsed in his name's presence... it wasn't fear. It was warning."
Wren's voice is small. "Could he be like Vellidra?"
"No," I say. "He's what Vellidra feared. A binder without mercy. A weaver without soul. He doesn't want to protect the city."
"Then what?"
"He wants to *rewrite it.*"
Lira steps closer. "If he holds a ring like yours—"
"He doesn't," I interrupt. "Not like this. His is bone. Mine is blood and silence and memory. Hers."
"So what do we do?" Wren asks.
"We learn more. About him. About her. About what the Vault was *really* built to contain—or *defend against.* Because if this rival seeks the city's soul, he won't come for me directly."
Lira narrows her eyes. "He'll come for the threads."
"Yes. And if he pulls the right one..."
Wren finishes the thought for me. "The whole tapestry unravels."
The Vault is quiet. But the ring is not.
Let it listen.
Because soon, it will have to speak.
And when it does...
The city will never be the same again.