The Vault-breaker outpost was nothing more than a fractured atrium of stone and half-lit glyph lines, patched with scavenged tech and quiet desperation. Smoke lingered in the corners. No laughter, no warmth—only the steady rhythm of survival.
Kael moved between makeshift beds with Lira at his side. The wounded were everywhere—some with physical injuries, but most broken in stranger ways. Eyes blank. Speech fragmented. Minds shattered like stained glass dropped on stone.
At the far end, a girl no older than sixteen lay curled on a cot, her body tense, her jaw clenched. Her skin bore the imprint of mnemonic burns—where memory siphons had been forced into her skull and ripped out. Her eyes were open, but not seeing.
"She's blanked," one of the rebels said. "Wiped by a Morran interceptor. No recall function left."
Kael knelt beside her.
"What's her name?"
The rebel hesitated. "We called her Lenne. Don't know if it was hers."
Kael reached out.
Lira gripped his shoulder. "Kael. If you go in too far—"
"I know," he said.
He touched her temple.
The Vault shifted.
Not the real one—the inner one.
Kael stood at the edge of Lenne's mind, what little was left of it. A field of empty threads, thin and flickering. Her memory structure had been gutted, but not destroyed. Roots still remained.
He focused—not on force, not on control.
On continuity.
He remembered the shape of her, not just what had happened to her. A laugh in the dark. A name carved into the underside of a stolen desk. The sound of someone humming when she thought no one listened.
He weaved.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Piece by piece.
The field of threads began to glow.
In the real world, Lenne gasped.
Her back arched.
And then—her eyes focused.
She looked at him.
"…Kael?"
Kael exhaled, shaking.
Corren stepped forward, jaw slack.
"That's not just healing," he said. "That's returning. Rin could do that once—but not like this."
Kael stood slowly.
"I'm not Rin," he said.
And for the first time, he sounded sure.