The sanctum held its breath.
Not from reverence—from tension.
In the chamber where Linya now lay in sealed sleep, guarded by a triad of chanting adepts and blessed stone chains, the air felt heavier than it should. Every breath came with weight. Every sound felt like it could snap something delicate.
Talia stood at the edge of the circle, her hand resting lightly on the protective sigil that pulsed beneath Linya's feet. Her expression was unreadable. Serene on the surface. Fissured beneath.
Lucien paced nearby.
His steps echoed like drumbeats. With each lap around the chamber, his face grew darker. Anger, fear, conviction—all braided into a single burning rope around his soul.
"She's changing again," Kaelira reported, watching from the far alcove. "Not violently, but… structurally. Her blood writes glyphs under her skin when she sleeps. Glyphs that hurt to look at."
Lucien stopped pacing. "Then it's only a matter of time."
Talia didn't turn. "Until what?"
"Until she becomes something we can't stop."
"She already became that. And we stopped her."
"No." Lucien walked forward, voice steady but low. "We delayed her. What you call Linya is now a seedling of a god who remembers how to unmake stars. And we've planted her in the heart of our sanctum."
Talia glanced at him. "And your solution?"
Lucien's hand drifted toward his hip—no blade remained, not since it melted in the dreamfight—but the gesture was familiar.
"I end it. Clean. Swift. Final."
Kaelira froze. "You'd kill her?"
"I'd save us."
Talia turned fully now. Her wings flared slightly—an involuntary pulse of divine instinct.
"She's still human."
"She's not."
"She bled."
"So did the Old Gods."
"She chose not to kill us when she could."
"Or she's waiting. Biding. Learning how to twist us further."
Talia stepped forward, face inches from his.
"You don't know that."
Lucien's eyes burned. "And you don't want to know. Because it makes you complicit."
The slap wasn't physical.
But Talia stepped back as if it were.
Kaelira moved between them. "Enough."
Neither flinched.
Talia looked away first, back to Linya.
"She dreams of something ancient. But her dreams are reaching. They're not fully awake."
Lucien growled, "Yet."
Talia closed her eyes. "The child has not spoken against her."
Lucien pointed sharply. "The child is still learning language. Don't use his silence as justification."
Kaelira interjected again. "What if we moved her? Far from the sanctum?"
"No," Talia said. "Distance won't sever what's inside her. And she'll be vulnerable without containment."
"Good," Lucien said. "Let her be vulnerable. Let her feel fear. That's what keeps monsters from waking too fast."
Talia's voice was ice. "Is that how you see her now?"
Lucien didn't answer.
Because he didn't need to.
That night, he went to the chamber alone.
Kaelira saw him from the watch post. She said nothing.
Talia did not sleep. Her aura kept the sanctum warm and still.
Inside, Lucien stood over Linya's resting form. Her face was peaceful. Her breath shallow. Her skin flickered with runes that no one living could decipher.
Lucien raised his hand.
Held it over her heart.
He whispered, "I've killed gods for less."
But the hand did not fall.
He stayed there until dawn.
In the morning, Talia entered to find Lucien seated beside the girl.
His expression was unreadable.
"She said something," he muttered. "In her sleep."
Talia knelt.
"What?"
Lucien looked at her.
"She said: 'I remember being loved. And it hurt.'"
Talia touched Linya's forehead. "Then maybe that's the thread we pull."
Lucien stood. "One thread too tight, and the tapestry burns."
"But if we never pull," she said, "we'll never know if it could've been rewoven."
They stood in silence.
Linya dreamed.
And somewhere deep within her, the Echo listened.