The light washed over them like a tide that didn't wet—only burned with memory.
This wasn't peace.
It was release.
Elior stood at the crumbling edge of the platform, one foot forward, barely holding himself upright. His arms were wrapped around Velora's fading body. She was warm, but not alive with power anymore—no more wild surges of Interval energy, no more distorted echoes screaming through her voice. Just a sister, trembling, broken, breathing.
The black fractal scars across her arms shimmered, then peeled off like ash. The last threads of the Interval—those corrupted lines of twisted timelines—drew back from her skin like snakes retreating from light.
Her chest rose once, shuddered.
She was crying.
No magic.
No madness.
Just real, human tears.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Elior didn't answer with words. He pressed his forehead to hers. His aura flickered low around them—no flame, no thunder, just the quiet blue-white hum of the staff, now resting silently at his back.
Behind them, the Interval sky tore open again. But not with violence.
With bloom.
The great spiral overhead—once writhing, screeching with broken futures and dead realities—began to shift. Not dissolve. Transform. Patterns replaced chaos. Rivers of starlight spread through the void, spiraling downward like veins of gold through stone. Ghost cities reformed from the corners of forgotten thought—first one, then a dozen, then too many to count. Places that had never truly existed, now drawing breath.
Seraphis stepped forward through the golden air. His long coat fluttered in the weightless gravity. His antlered helm reflected the new sky, like crystal cracked then reformed into something stronger.
"It's stabilizing," he said quietly. "The Interval… is healing."
Elior looked up, face tired but awake. "But it's not over."
From behind them, slow footsteps. Eliano stepped forward, the golden ward still glowing around his hands like twin suns pressed into flesh. His eyes were wide, distant.
"I felt it," he said. "Everything. Her fear. Yours. Mine. It wasn't a fight. It was remembering."
Elior gave him a weak smile. "You didn't just remember. You answered."
Eliano looked down at his palms. The gold light shimmered, then burned into a faint constellation of stars across his skin. "If she's not the Interval anymore… who is?"
Seraphis answered without turning. "She was never meant to be. This place doesn't need a ruler."
"Then who does it belong to?"
Elior turned to face the boy, eyes sharp now.
"It belongs to us."
They stood in silence. Then Velora coughed—sharp, but not pained. Her body twitched in his arms, and she reached up with one weak hand, brushing her fingers along Elior's jaw.
"I can't stay," she said. "The Interval's rejecting me. It only accepted me when I gave it my corruption. Now that it's gone…"
Her skin began to flicker. Not burning. Not bleeding. Just—unstable. Like heat above desert stone.
"I have moments. Maybe less."
Elior held her tighter. His arms flared with white-gold light, like trying to anchor her to reality with raw memory. "No. You're still family."
"Exactly why you have to let me go." She smiled, tearful, but steady. "Let me go before I become something else again."
His grip tightened… then slowly loosened.
She turned her head, eyes locking with Eliano's. "Take care of him," she said. "He's strong, but not for himself."
Eliano nodded, trying hard not to cry. Failing.
Her gaze shifted to Seraphis. "You knew, didn't you?"
"I suspected," he said. "But I believed."
"Good," she whispered.
And then—
She unraveled.
No scream. No chaos.
She folded inward, a slow spiral of light and breath, curling into herself, like paper being swallowed by wind. Her final shape was a single ember, drifting upward, until it vanished in the new dawn overhead.
Gone.
Elior rose.
The platform they stood on pulsed once underfoot. The Interval shifted again. The air, once thick with pressure and paradox, became something lighter. Calmer. No longer a battlefield.
A new pillar emerged from the center—rising from thought, not matter. Not stone. Not metal.
Memory made solid.
Lines of pure gold etched themselves into its sides. Twelve interlocking rings, spinning slowly, each holding a spark of light.
The Twelve Selves.
And in the center—a thirteenth glow.
Eliano stared. "What is that?"
"The Heart of the Interval," Seraphis replied. "And it recognizes you."
The boy stepped forward, then stopped. "Am I supposed to stay?"
"No," Elior said gently. "You're supposed to choose."
The pillar pulsed. A golden path shot outward from its base—not back toward the world they came from. Forward.
Beyond even the Spire's reach.
The staff on Elior's back hummed softly. It reshaped itself—not into a blade, not into a spear—but a branch. A simple walking staff of woven memory, threads of battle and kindness bound into one.
Eliano looked up. "Where does that road go?"
Seraphis answered. "A realm unformed. A place no one's ruled yet. Where power doesn't dominate—it grows."
Elior nodded. "Built by those who remember. Forgive. Begin again."
Eliano clenched his fists. The golden marks flared. For a moment, light burst around him—his Veyari roots shimmering through his skin, Noctari shadow dancing behind his shoulders like wings. Fractured power. Unified now.
"I want to go," he said. "But I want to come back. To help build."
Elior stepped beside him. "That's all it ever wanted."
A deep hum rumbled through the Interval. High above, the Spiral slowed its motion. No longer a threat—now a beacon. The sky rained tiny flecks of glowing dust.
And then—one last surge.
The platform cracked. Something was coming.
A final test.
A shape tore through the light—a beast of the old Interval, untouched by Velora's cleansing. A mass of echoing timelines, fused into a chimera of broken selves. Twelve heads. Wings made of screaming futures. A tail dragging dead kings behind it.
Eliano stepped forward. "I've got this."
"Together," Elior said.
He raised his staff.
Seraphis raised his hand.
Eliano's aura exploded.
It began.
The beast lunged—mouths screaming distorted truths, time blades whipping through the sky.
Elior shot forward. His staff stretched mid-air, memory uncoiling like a whip. One strike—FLASH!—the beast's first wing shattered, feathers turning into shards of lost moments.
Seraphis blinked once—teleporting. His form split into five copies. They moved in perfect rhythm, slashing at the creature's legs with beams of judgmental light.
Eliano jumped high—his power bloomed, spiraling in golden rings around him. His fists ignited. A punch crashed into the monster's chest—BOOM!—a crater of light formed on impact, timelines shattering like mirrors.
The beast roared and released a pulse—dozens of versions of itself exploded outward.
Elior slammed his staff into the ground—Memory Pulse!
A shockwave of truth radiated out, clearing the illusions, locking the beast in its true form.
Seraphis called down a prism of spears—"Judgment of the Spiral!"
Each spear pinned a limb.
Eliano summoned his power—Resonant Fracture.
He screamed as gold and shadow intertwined around his body. He moved faster than thought—appeared on the creature's back—drove his palm into its spine—
CRACK!
Time split.
The beast roared one final time.
And fell.
Dust.
Silence.
The Spiral glowed above.
The path ahead shimmered.
They stood again at the crossing.
Elior placed his hand on the pillar. "Now it's ready."
Seraphis looked at the horizon. "The world will need more than warriors."
"We'll bring them builders," Elior said. "We'll bring them hope."
And together, they stepped onto the golden path.
The road did not vanish behind them.
It stayed.
A memory.
A chance.
A call.
At the base of the pillar, where Velora had vanished, something grew.
A single stone.
No magic. No curse.
Just a word, etched deep.
HOPE.
The story doesn't end.
It begins.