The crimson void pulsed like a dying heart, its rhythm erratic, as if reality were choking on its own existence. Zane Veyr stumbled across a jagged shard of black basalt, veined with molten gold—a remnant of the Ashen Crucible—only to feel the ground lurch beneath him. Gravity twisted, yanking him sideways, then upward, until he was walking on a vertical slab of reality, the horizon a shattered mosaic of colliding worlds. To his left, a biomechanical vine from the Iron Lotus Dominion writhed, its metallic thorns blooming with emerald fire. To his right, a floating temple from the Veil of Whispers hung suspended, half-crumbled, its spires weeping liquid starlight. Above, threads—white-gold, shadow-black, crimson-red—wove and unraveled in the air, stitching and tearing the fabric of existence with chaotic intent.
Zane's chest burned, a molten pulse throbbing in sync with the void's faltering rhythm. His Ember Core, now fused with Thread Energy and Soul Glyphs, felt like a star teetering on collapse. He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening, and forced himself to breathe. Focus. You're still you. Zane Veyr. Fighter. Survivor. But the whisper in his mind, the one that had haunted him since the Nexus Point, grew louder: Find the others. Worse, a new sensation clawed at him—a feedback loop, like static shredding his soul. The Echo Pulse. It wasn't just echoing now. It was editing. He blinked, and for a split second, the world jumped. Zhara, standing ahead, was gone—replaced by a woman with unfamiliar eyes, a name he didn't know. He blinked again, and Zhara was back, oblivious. His heart raced. What the hell was that?
"Zane, move!" Zhara Emberkin's voice sliced through the haze, sharp and commanding. She stood on a nearby shard, her Flameheart armor glowing with molten runes, her twin blades drawn. Her dark eyes flicked toward a swarm of rogue threads—black and viscous, like oil given life—coiling toward them from the void. "We're not alone here."
Zane snapped into motion, instincts honed from years in the MMA cage and months in the Crucible taking over. He leaped to her side, landing on the shard just as the threads lashed out, whip-like, slicing through the air. Zhara spun, her blades trailing arcs of fire, severing the threads in a burst of ash and sparks. Zane didn't hesitate. He summoned his Thread Energy, white-gold strands erupting from his palms, wrapping around the remaining threads and crushing them into nothingness. The effort sent a jolt of pain through his chest, the Echo Pulse flaring, and for a moment, he saw himself—another Zane, eyes hollow, standing in a city of glass and shadow, a Void blade in his hand.
"Zane!" Lira's voice, bright and urgent, pulled him back. She hovered above, her True Light Glyph pulsing like a miniature sun, casting a radiant glow across the fractured landscape. Her once-frail frame now moved with purpose, her hands weaving glyphs that stabilized the tilting shard beneath them. "You okay? You zoned out again."
"I'm fine," Zane lied, his voice rough. He wasn't fine. The visions were coming faster, fragments of lives he hadn't lived. A cybernetic arm swinging a blade. A starlit abyss where he floated, weightless. A battlefield where he screamed a name he didn't recognize. The Pulse was tearing him apart, and now it was rewriting reality itself.
Sylvara Lin appeared beside him, her silver hair catching the crimson light like a halo. Her Soul Glyphs shimmered around her, delicate patterns of thought and emotion—but they flickered, blinking in and out like dying neurons. For a moment, her voice layered, two tones overlapping, as if someone else spoke through her. "You're not fine, Fracture," she said, her violet eyes piercing. Her lips curled into a half-smile that didn't reach her face. "Your soul's screaming. I can hear it."
"Enough chatter," Zhara snapped, sheathing one blade but keeping the other ready. "This place is falling apart. We need to find the Loom's edge—or whatever's left of it—before it finds us."
Sylvara raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "Oh, it's already found us, Flameheart. Look." She pointed to the horizon, where the threads were converging, weaving into a massive, pulsating knot. It wasn't a structure, not exactly—more like a wound in reality, bleeding light and shadow in equal measure. "That's where we're going. Unless you'd rather stay here and let the Overthread rewrite your entire personality."
"Overthread?" Lira asked, descending to the shard, her glyph fading but her eyes sharp. "You've mentioned it before, Sylvara, but what is it?"
Sylvara's smile faded, her expression turning distant, her glyphs flickering again. "It's the Loom's editor. Its cleaner. The force that prunes threads when they get too… messy. And right now, it's very interested in us."
Zane's chest tightened, the Echo Pulse surging. "Why us?" he asked, though he suspected the answer.
Sylvara met his gaze, her voice soft but heavy, a faint echo in her tone. "Because you're the key, Zane. And we're tied to you. The Loom's breaking, and the Overthread's trying to fix it—by cutting out anything that doesn't fit. Including us."
The group moved deeper into the fractured realm, navigating a labyrinth of shifting realities. One moment, they walked through a jungle of clockwork vines, the air humming with the Iron Lotus's technomagic. The next, they waded through a shallow sea of liquid starlight, the Veil of Whispers' temples looming overhead. Gravity flipped without warning, forcing them to climb walls that became floors or leap across voids that snapped shut like jaws. The threads were everywhere—some guiding, some attacking. Zane's Thread Energy flared instinctively, deflecting a rogue strand that nearly impaled Lira, but each use of his power intensified the Echo Pulse. His hand flickered mid-motion, phasing out of existence for a heartbeat before snapping back, leaving his arm numb.
His head throbbed, visions bleeding into reality. A Zane with a mechanical eye, wiring sparking as he fought a swarm of drones. A Zane kneeling in ash, cradling a broken body. He stumbled, catching himself on a jagged outcrop of basalt. Zhara was at his side in an instant, her hand on his arm, steadying him.
"Talk to me," she said, her voice low, meant only for him. "What's happening?"
Zane shook his head, trying to clear the fog. "It's… like I'm everywhere. All at once. Other Zanes. Other lives. It's too much." He blinked, and there it was again—Zhara's face flickered, replaced by that other woman, her name a whisper he couldn't grasp. The Pulse was rewriting her now.
Zhara's grip tightened, her eyes fierce. "You're this Zane. The one who saved Lira. The one who fought Korran. The one I—" She stopped, her jaw clenching, but the unspoken words hung The group moved deeper into the fractured realm, navigating a labyrinth of shifting realities. One moment, they walked through a jungle of clockwork vines, the air humming with the Iron Lotus's technomagic. The next, they waded through a shallow sea of liquid starlight, the Veil of Whispers' temples looming overhead. Gravity flipped without warning, forcing them to climb walls that became floors or leap across voids that snapped shut like jaws. The threads were everywhere—some guiding, some attacking. Zane's Thread Energy flared instinctively, deflecting a rogue strand that nearly impaled Lira, but each use of his power intensified the Echo Pulse. His hand flickered mid-motion, phasing out of existence for a heartbeat before snapping back, leaving his arm numb.
His head throbbed, visions bleeding into reality. A Zane with a mechanical eye, wiring sparking as he fought a swarm of drones. A Zane kneeling in ash, cradling a broken body. He stumbled, catching himself on a jagged outcrop of basalt. Zhara was at his side in an instant, her hand on his arm, steadying him.
"Talk to me," she said, her voice low, meant only for him. "What's happening?"
Zane shook his head, trying to clear the fog. "It's… like I'm everywhere. All at once. Other Zanes. Other lives. It's too much." He blinked, and there it was again—Zhara's face flickered, replaced by that other woman, her name a whisper he couldn't grasp. The Pulse was rewriting her now.
Zhara's grip tightened, her eyes fierce. "You're this Zane. The one who saved Lira. The one who fought Korran. The one I—" She stopped, her jaw clenching, but the unspoken words hung between them.
Before Zane could respond, a scream tore through the air—not theirs, but close. Lira, ahead with Sylvara, pointed to a collapsing shard where a figure knelt, shrouded in tattered black robes, clutching a wound that bled shadow. The figure's face was hidden, but Zane's Core pulsed in recognition. Another me.
"Stay back," Sylvara warned, her glyphs flaring, but Zane was already moving, drawn by a pull he couldn't explain. The figure looked up as he approached, and Zane froze. It was him—same sharp jaw, same storm-gray eyes—but wrong. His skin was ashen, his eyes hollow, and his chest glowed with a sickly violet light, the mark of the Void.
"You…" the Void Zane rasped, his voice a fractured echo. "You're still fighting it. Fool." He coughed, shadow spilling from his lips like blood. "I'm not the only one they rewrote. You're the glitch now, Zane." His eyes flickered—white, violet, then nothing. "And glitches get patched."
The Void Zane's body unraveled, threads of shadow and light peeling away until nothing remained but a faint violet glow. Zane staggered back, his mind reeling. Not all of you are real. The words burned, sharper than any blade.
Sylvara knelt where the Void Zane had been, her glyphs scanning the air, flickering erratically. "He wasn't lying," she said, her voice tight, a faint echo lingering in her tone. "Something's interfering with our threads. Our memories. I felt it when he spoke—like pieces of me were… slipping."
Zhara's blades were out again, her stance defensive. "What does that mean? Are we… fake? Copies?"
"No," Lira said firmly, her glyph flaring with light. "We're here. We're real. I know who I am." But even her voice trembled, a crack in her newfound strength.
Zane wanted to believe her, but the Echo Pulse was relentless now, each beat pulling him further from himself. Who am I? The fighter from Earth? The Ashborn? The key? He looked at his companions—Zhara's fierce loyalty, Sylvara's enigmatic pain, Lira's radiant hope—and felt a surge of protectiveness. They're real. They have to be.
But deep in the crimson void, a cloaked figure watched, its golden-white robe shimmering with threads that pulsed in time with Zane's Core. It didn't move, didn't speak. It simply observed, its presence a silent promise—or a threat.
The crimson void hummed with a discordant rhythm, its threads twisting like veins under strain. Zane led the group across a bridge of shattered realities—a patchwork of basalt, clockwork vines, and starlit marble that groaned under their weight. Each step felt like a gamble, the ground threatening to dissolve or flip into a new axis of gravity. The air was thick with the scent of ash and ozone, undercut by something sweeter, like decaying flowers—a remnant of the Veil of Whispers, perhaps, or the Overthread's subtle corruption. Zane's Core pulsed erratically, the Echo Pulse a relentless hammer against his ribs. He could still hear Void Zane's words: You're the glitch now, Zane. Glitches get patched.
"Eyes up," Zhara called from his right, her voice taut. She scanned the horizon, where the pulsating knot of threads loomed larger, a festering wound in the fabric of existence. "Those threads aren't just moving anymore. They're hunting."
Zane followed her gaze. The threads—black and crimson, laced with veins of violet—were no longer drifting aimlessly. They coiled and slithered, converging into shapes that were almost alive. One thickened, sprouting limbs of shadow and jagged spurs of light, its form vaguely humanoid but wrong, like a puppet strung by a mad weaver. Another split into serpentine tendrils, each tipped with a glowing eye that pulsed in time with Zane's Core. Thread-beasts, he thought, the term rising unbidden from some buried instinct.
"Lira, light!" Sylvara shouted, her glyphs flaring but flickering, their patterns stuttering like a corrupted hologram. Her voice carried that layered echo again, a second tone that made Zane's skin crawl. She raised her hands, weaving a Soul Glyph meant to shield them, but it collapsed halfway, dissolving into sparks. "Damn it," she muttered, her violet eyes narrowing. "The Overthread's interfering. My glyphs are… slipping."
Lira didn't hesitate. She stepped forward, her True Light Glyph igniting with a brilliance that cut through the crimson haze. The light expanded, forming a dome around the group, its edges shimmering with glyphs of healing and stability. The thread-beasts recoiled, their forms hissing as Lira's light burned away their violet veins. "I've got you," Lira said, her voice steady despite the strain. "But I can't hold this forever."
Zane's chest tightened, not just from the Echo Pulse but from pride. Lira, the girl he'd saved in the Ashborn Trials, was now their shield. He summoned his Thread Energy, white-gold strands spiraling from his palms, but they flickered, phasing in and out like a bad signal. Pain lanced through his arm, and for a moment, his hand wasn't there—just a void where flesh should be. He gasped, shaking it off as the threads snapped back into focus. Not now. Hold it together.
"Zane, on your left!" Zhara lunged, her blades carving through a serpentine thread that had slipped past Lira's dome. The creature shrieked, its eye bursting in a spray of violet ichor, but more were coming. The humanoid thread-beast charged, its spurs of light slashing at the dome. Lira grunted, her glyph wavering, and Zane moved without thinking. He hurled his Thread Energy, the strands wrapping around the beast's limbs and yanking it back. But the effort triggered another vision—a Zane in a techno-city, his cybernetic arm sparking as he fought a tide of drones. The memory wasn't his, but it felt real, and when he blinked, the thread-beast was closer, its spur inches from his chest.
Sylvara saved him. Her glyphs, despite their flickering, surged with emotional force—anger, fear, desperation—and formed a spear of light that pierced the beast's core. It collapsed, unraveling into ash, but Sylvara staggered, clutching her head. "It's not just the beasts," she said, her voice trembling, the layered echo stronger now. "The Overthread's in our minds. I… I just remembered something that didn't happen. A life where I never left the Void."
Zhara spun, her blades still raised. "What are you talking about? Focus, Sylvara. We need you."
"I am focused," Sylvara snapped, her eyes flashing. "But it's rewriting us. Our memories. Our threads. I can feel it pruning pieces of me." She turned to Zane, her expression raw. "You're feeling it too, aren't you? The Echo Pulse—it's not just showing you other Zanes. It's changing you."
Zane wanted to deny it, but the Pulse was relentless, each beat a new fragment of a life he hadn't lived. A Zane floating in a starlit abyss, whispering to the stars. A Zane leading an army, his hands stained with blood. His vision blurred, and for a moment, Zhara's face flickered again, replaced by that other woman—her name was Mira, he realized, then shook it off. "I don't know what's real anymore," he admitted, his voice hoarse. "But you're here. All of you. That's what I'm holding onto."
Zhara's eyes softened, but her voice was sharp with fear. "What if we're not real? What if the Overthread's already rewritten us?" She hesitated, then added, quieter, "I remember the day I claimed you in the Emberclad Clan. But now… there's another memory. One where I walked away. Left you to die." Her hand trembled on her blade. "Which one's true?"
Lira's glyph flared brighter, pushing back another wave of thread-beasts. "Stop it, both of you," she said, her voice cutting through the doubt. "We're real because we're fighting. Because we're together. I know my trial in the echo zone was real. I chose to be here, with you. The Overthread can't take that away."
Sylvara laughed, a brittle sound. "Oh, sweet Lira. It can take everything. It's already started." She knelt, her glyphs scanning the ground where the thread-beast had fallen. "These creatures aren't just attacking. They're… collecting. Pieces of us. Our threads. The Overthread's using them to rewrite the story, and we're the loose ends."
Zane's Core pulsed, and he saw it—a thread, white-gold and pulsing in sync with his heartbeat, trailing from his chest into the void. It wasn't his Thread Energy. It was something else, something older. He followed its path with his eyes, and there, on a distant shard of reality, stood the cloaked figure. Its golden-white robe shimmered, threads woven into its fabric that mirrored the one in Zane's chest. It didn't move, but its presence was a weight, a silent command. See me. Know me.
"Zane?" Lira's voice snapped him back. She was struggling now, her glyph flickering as more thread-beasts gathered, their eyes glowing violet. "We need you!"
Zane pushed the vision aside, forcing his Thread Energy to stabilize. "I'm here," he said, though his voice shook. He joined Lira, his strands weaving with her light, creating a barrier that burned the beasts back. Zhara and Sylvara flanked them, blades and glyphs working in tandem, but the attacks were relentless. The realm itself was turning against them—shards of reality collapsing, gravity inverting, and threads lashing like whips.
Sylvara's glyphs flickered again, and she froze, her eyes wide. "No," she whispered. "I remember… I killed you, Zane. In another life. I drove a Void blade through your heart." Her voice broke, the layered echo overwhelming. "Why do I remember that?"
Zane grabbed her arm, pulling her close. "That wasn't you. It's the Overthread. It's lying." But even as he said it, his own memories shifted—a flash of Sylvara, her violet eyes cold, a blade in her hand. He shoved the image down, focusing on the Sylvara in front of him, her face twisted with fear and guilt.
"We need to move," Zhara said, her voice urgent. She pointed to the knot of threads on the horizon. "That's the Loom's edge. If we're going to stop this, it's there."
The group sprinted across the collapsing bridge, dodging threads and beasts. Zane's Echo Pulse screamed, his body glitching—his leg phased out mid-step, nearly sending him into the void. Lira's light caught him, stabilizing his form, but her own glyph was dimming. "I can't keep this up much longer," she admitted.
"Then we end this," Zane said, his voice firm despite the chaos in his mind. He looked at his companions—Zhara's fierce determination, Sylvara's fractured resolve, Lira's radiant strength—and felt a surge of purpose. They're real. I'm real. We're enough.
But in the distance, the cloaked figure watched, its thread pulsing brighter, and Zane couldn't shake the feeling that it was waiting—not for them, but for him.
The fractured realm screamed as the group sprinted across a collapsing bridge of realities, its shards—basalt, clockwork vines, starlit marble—crumbling into the crimson void below. Threads lashed from all directions, black and violet, their tips glowing with malevolent intent. Zane's Core burned, the Echo Pulse a relentless storm in his chest, each beat threatening to tear him apart. His vision flickered, and for a moment, he was elsewhere—a Zane in a burning city, his hands wrapped around a throat, his own voice screaming in rage. He stumbled, his leg phasing out mid-step, and nearly fell into the void.
Lira's True Light Glyph flared, its radiance catching him. "Zane, stay with us!" she called, her voice strained but steady. Her light stabilized his form, knitting his flickering leg back into existence, but her glyph was dimming, its edges fraying under the strain of holding the group together. Zhara and Sylvara flanked her, blades and glyphs carving through rogue threads, but the realm was turning predatory. The air pulsed with a low, discordant hum, like a machine grinding itself to death.
"Keep moving!" Zhara shouted, her Flameheart armor glowing as she severed a thread that lunged for Lira. Her eyes were wild, her movements precise but edged with desperation. "That knot's getting closer. We're almost there."
Sylvara's glyphs flickered erratically, her silver hair whipping in the chaotic winds. "It's not just the knot," she said, her voice layered with that unnerving echo. "The Overthread's waking up. It's—" She froze, her glyphs collapsing into sparks, and clutched her head. "No… I see it. A life where I betrayed you all. I… I chose the Void." Her violet eyes met Zane's, wide with panic. "Why does it feel so real?"
Zane grabbed her shoulder, steadying her. "It's not real, Sylvara. It's the Overthread. Fight it." But his own words felt hollow. The Echo Pulse was shredding him, visions of other Zanes flooding his mind—a Zane floating in a starlit abyss, whispering to unseen gods; a Zane leading an army, his hands dripping blood. His arm glitched again, phasing out, and he gritted his teeth, forcing his Thread Energy to stabilize. The white-gold strands flickered, misfiring, but held just enough to deflect a thread-beast slithering toward them.
Before anyone could respond, the realm shuddered, a deep, bone-rattling groan echoing from the void. The bridge beneath them buckled, shards of reality splintering upward like broken glass. From the chaos emerged a figure—tall, armored, its form cloaked in violet shadow. Its face was Korran's, the sadistic overseer turned Void Knight, his eyes glowing with the same sickly light as the thread-beasts. But this wasn't Korran. It was an echo-phantom, a construct of the Overthread, its armor woven from threads that pulsed with Zane's own Core energy.
"Well, well," the Korran phantom rasped, its voice a twisted parody of the real man's cruelty. "The glitch and his puppets. Still clinging to your little story?" It raised a blade of shadow and light, its edge shimmering with rewritten threads. "The Overthread's done with you. Let me cut you loose."
Zhara's blades were out in an instant, her stance low and lethal. "You're not him," she snarled. "Korran's dead. I saw Zane end him." But her voice wavered, and Zane caught the flicker in her eyes—a memory, false or real, of Korran's blade at her throat, of her abandoning Zane in the Crucible. She shook it off, but the doubt lingered.
The phantom laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Dead? Oh, Flameheart, you're so naive. The Overthread doesn't let anything die. It rewrites. Like it rewrote you, leaving Zane to rot." It turned to Zane, its grin widening. "Or don't you remember? She walked away. Left you bleeding in the ash."
Zane's chest tightened, a false memory surging—a vision of Zhara turning her back, her blades sheathed, as he lay broken in the Crucible. He shoved it down, focusing on the Zhara beside him, her eyes fierce with loyalty. "You're lying," he said, his voice low. "She'd never leave me."
The phantom's blade slashed forward, faster than thought, and Zane barely dodged, his Thread Energy forming a shield that flickered under the impact. Lira's glyph surged, pushing the phantom back, but its light was fading, her breath ragged. "I can't… hold it much longer," she gasped.
Sylvara tried to summon her glyphs, but they collapsed again, her hands trembling. "It's in my head," she whispered, her voice layered with that second tone. "I see you dying, Zane. My blade in your chest. I wanted it." She staggered, her glyphs flickering like dying stars, and for a moment, her eyes glowed violet, Void-touched. Zane's heart sank. Is she slipping?
"Sylvara, focus!" Zhara snapped, parrying another of the phantom's strikes. Her blades trailed fire, but the phantom was relentless, its form shifting—now Korran, now a faceless Void avatar, now a twisted version of Zane himself, its eyes hollow. "We need you!"
Zane dove into the fray, his Thread Energy lashing out, but the Pulse was chaos now. His strands misfired, one wrapping around his own arm, burning his skin. A vision hit mid-swing—a Zane in a techno-world, his cybernetic eye sparking as he screamed a name: Lyria. The name wasn't his, but it carried weight, and when he snapped back, the phantom's blade was inches from his throat.
Lira saved him. Her True Light Glyph exploded with blinding force, the light searing the phantom's form, burning away its violet threads. The creature howled, retreating, but Lira collapsed to one knee, her glyph dimming to a faint glow. "I'm… okay," she panted, but her face was pale, her hands shaking.
Zane knelt beside her, his own body glitching—his hand phased out again, then snapped back. "You're not okay," he said, his voice rough. "None of us are." He turned to the group, the phantom circling like a predator. "We need to end this. Together."
Sylvara's voice cut through, brittle but determined. "It's not just Korran. The Overthread's not pruning anymore. It's reweaving." Her glyphs flickered, but she forced them into a scanning pattern, their light revealing threads converging around the phantom—not attacking, but feeding it. "It's trying to merge all realities into one. One story. One Zane. And we're… collateral."
Zane's Echo Pulse surged, and a vision hit—not a fragment, but a truth. He saw the Loom's edge, a vast tapestry of threads, each a reality, each a Zane. But the Overthread was there, a relentless weaver, stitching them together, erasing divergences. He saw himself—a Zane, alone, standing in a perfect, sterile world, no echoes, no companions. The vision faded, but its weight remained. "It wants to erase everything," he said, his voice hollow. "All of us. To make one reality."
The Korran phantom laughed, its form stabilizing, its blade gleaming. "Clever glitch. But you can't stop it. You're already breaking." It lunged, and the battle erupted anew.
Zhara fought with feral intensity, her blades carving through the phantom's threads, but each strike triggered a false memory—her abandoning Zane, her betraying the Emberclad Clan. She screamed, pushing through, her fire burning brighter. Sylvara's glyphs flickered, barely holding, but she wove them with raw emotion—fear, guilt, love—striking the phantom with spears of light. Lira, despite her exhaustion, poured everything into her glyph, its light stabilizing the bridge beneath them, keeping the realm from collapsing.
Zane fought at the center, his Thread Energy chaotic but fierce. Each move was a gamble, his body glitching, his visions blurring reality. A Zane in a starlit abyss, whispering to the Loom. A Zane in a jungle, his hands stained with blood. The phantom's blade grazed his shoulder, shadow burning his skin, and he roared, his strands wrapping around its arm, crushing it. But the phantom reformed, its laugh echoing. "You're not the one who wins, Zane. You're the one who breaks."
Lira's glyph flared one last time, a radiant burst that burned the phantom's threads to ash. It screamed, unraveling, its form collapsing into a pile of severed threads. The bridge stabilized, the realm's hum quieting, but the victory felt hollow. Lira fell, unconscious, her glyph gone. Zane caught her, his own body flickering, his Core screaming.
Sylvara knelt beside him, her glyphs dim, her face pale. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice her own again, but fragile. "I saw it, Zane. I saw myself kill you. I don't know if I can trust… me." Her hand touched his, trembling, and for a moment, the flirtatious mask was gone, replaced by raw fear.
Zhara stood guard, her blades ready, but her eyes were haunted. "We're still here," she said, her voice shaking. "But for how long?"
Zane looked at Lira, unconscious in his arms, at Sylvara's fractured resolve, at Zhara's fierce loyalty. His Core pulsed, and he saw it—a thread, white-gold, lying where the phantom had fallen. It pulsed in sync with his heartbeat, its end trailing into the void, toward the cloaked figure. The figure stood on a distant shard, its golden-white robe shimmering, its presence a silent weight. It raised a hand, and the thread glowed brighter, a glyph forming in the air—Zane's glyph, his Core's mark.
"Who are you?" Zane whispered, though he knew the answer. The figure didn't respond, but its thread pulsed once, then vanished, leaving only dread.