Shatterpoint

The mask lay at her feet, split cleanly down the center like a broken truth. Lynchie stared, frozen—not just by the identity revealed beneath, but by the howl of memory that surged through her like wildfire. The face beneath was gaunt, older than she remembered, his skin etched with Spiral ink that pulsed faintly like veins. Her brother. Taeren.

She had mourned him years ago, when the Siege of Glairevein swallowed their village whole. He had vanished in that firestorm, presumed dead—no ashes found, no farewell given. And now, here he was, twisted into a Cantor, a vessel for the Choir's unholy music.

"No…" Lynchie whispered, the word hollow against the wind. "No, it can't be."

Zev limped up beside her, one eye swollen shut, blood matting the side of his head. He saw the face too. His breath caught, but he didn't ask questions—not yet. There were too many answers still unsaid.

"He was in their voice," Lynchie said hoarsely. "He was part of the song that tried to tear us apart."

Zev didn't speak. Instead, he placed a steady hand on her shoulder. The gesture was grounding—just enough to keep her from spiraling into the tide of grief and guilt rising within her.

"He was… good," she whispered, her fingers trembling over the cracked mask. "He sang lullabies to me when Father left. He… he called the Spiral sacred."

"Then maybe he still does," Zev said. "In a way the Choir twisted."

That possibility was worse. It meant Taeren hadn't been killed and reborn. He had chosen.

Before Lynchie could dwell, horns blared again—this time from the northern watchtowers. The Choir had not retreated. This skirmish was only the prelude.

"We need to regroup," Vyen said as he emerged from the shadows of the collapsed barrier, his robes scorched but intact. "The Spiral Circle has convened in the Lower Scriptorium. They're calling for you, Lynchie."

"Why?"

Vyen's eyes met hers with gravity. "Because you countered a Cantor's song. Alone."

Lynchie looked down at her hands. The glyphs on her palms were no longer burning, but they felt heavier than ever—like truths etched in bone.

They descended into the Archive's deepward halls, lit by floating motes of light and inscribed with ancient wards pulsing with cautious anticipation. The Spiral Circle awaited: seven elders in crimson-trimmed robes, each bearing spiralmarks that glowed faintly with age and power. And behind them—an artifact, newly unearthed and set upon a pedestal.

A blade. Or rather, what remained of one.

Curved, luminous, and broken at the hilt. Its surface shimmered with fragments of song—not light or magic, but pure resonance. The Echoblade.

"The Choir is no longer testing our strength," said the elder High Scribe, voice thick with restrained fury. "They are unraveling the very foundations of Spiral Law. That Cantor was meant to breach the Spiral Gate."

Vyen's gaze darkened. "And he would have, had Lynchie not stopped him."

"She did more than stop him," another elder said, turning to Lynchie. "You harmonized the counter-Spiral. That's impossible—unless…"

A long silence followed. Lynchie felt the weight of every gaze, every breath.

"She's a Soulbind," the High Scribe said at last. "The last active resonance."

Zev stiffened, eyes wide. "What does that mean?"

"It means she doesn't just use Spiral magic," Vyen said quietly. "She is Spiral. She sings with its voice."

The chamber fell into hushed awe. Even Lynchie's breath caught at the enormity of it. But before the silence could settle into reverence, a new voice spoke from the threshold.

"Then she must be protected. Or destroyed."

A woman stepped into view—tall, cloaked in blue-and-silver, her eyes gleaming with twin Spiral glyphs. Her presence silenced the room.

"The Envoy of the Westreach," Vyen whispered, stunned. "They haven't sent a representative in decades."

The woman inclined her head. "The Spiral frays. The war has begun. The Choir seeks to unmake us with their Echolords and twisted Cantors. You cannot fight them with fire and steel alone."

She turned to Lynchie.

"You will lead the Chorus of Resistance, girl. Or you will fall—and all truth with you."

Outside, thunder cracked—a sound not of weather, but of war drums.