The storm did not lessen.
If anything, it grew more focused, falling in on itself until the Fork was less a world than the inside of a wound. Every breath Kaito took burned with the taste of iron, every step fell on ground that moved between glass, stone, and ash.
The bridge stretched on, seemingly infinite, though he knew it was not. The Fork had a terminus. It would not show them infinity—it would show them the edge.
The shard that had lodged in his chest after his battle with his reflection pulsed like a living thing.
Purple light leaked from the wound, each beat of it leaking into his veins, crawling beneath his skin. It was heavy, jagged, merciless.
His arms trembled with the weight of holding it by itself, although the scythe on his back had not lost any weight.
Nyra stepped beside him, her wings still unfurled from their fight, silver bleeding into shadow at the tips. She did not retract them. They trembled a little with each step, but her stride was steady.
