The rebellion did not look like an army.
It looked like a gathering of memories that refused to die.
They came in small groups, scattered, broken, stitched together by whispers. A boy who had survived a memory flood. A woman whose daughter's name had been deleted from every record. A former Archivist who remembered the exact day the truth was rewritten.
Kael walked among them, silent.
Some looked at him with awe.
Others with fear.
Lira kept close, answering questions he didn't. Corren took point, scanning every shadow, every echo.
They moved through a forgotten transport corridor beneath the Vault's foundation—a path older than the Mnemonic Houses, untouched by memory seals. The stone here was darker, colder, marked by glyphs even Lira didn't recognize.
"It's pre-record," she whispered. "From before the Archive Wars."
Kael touched one of the symbols. It pulsed faintly, not in light—but in recognition.
"They remember me," he said softly.
Corren raised an eyebrow. "Or they remember him."
"No," Kael said. "They remember the part of me I haven't become yet."
The corridor ended in silence.
Beyond the final arch, the Nexus rose into view.
A tower of black crystal and white stone, suspended by threads of memory that spanned the sky like a spider's web. Lights moved across its surface in patterns that changed with every thought drawn near.
This was where history was made.
And unmade.
Kael stepped through the arch.
The others followed.
Somewhere inside that tower, truth waited.
Not as a weapon.
As a decision.