The Pact hit the Unwritten like a tidal truth crashing down on a sea of lies.
Nareth moved with impossible rhythm, her every footfall a stanza, every breath a meter. As she sang, the world responded—soil hardened beneath her companions, time bent around her notes, shielding them from being unraveled. Her voice tore one Unwritten apart, then looped its fragments into a refrain, using its own echo as a weapon.
Thail, astride his extinct beast, hurled his runes with methodical wrath. Each was a memory of a promise broken and then kept—remade stronger than before. When they struck, the Unwritten around them shuddered, unable to hold their unstable forms. They fell into the pasts they never had, screaming in confusion as paradoxes devoured them.
