The bridge had stopped twisting.
For the first time since they entered the Fork, the path in front of them was straight and steady. It reached out into the gap like a single ribbon of silver light, stretching far ahead without a single break.
There was no glass crunching under their boots, no drifting ash clinging to their steps, no shattered fragments waiting to collapse beneath them.
Instead, the surface was smooth and perfect, shining as though untouched by the storm. It felt almost deliberate, as if the storm itself had paused for a moment and laid down this one clear road for them to follow.
Kaito's footsteps were leaden. Each one drew fire out of his blood.
The shards that he had consumed—the refusal, the silence, the flames—lashed wildly in his chest, beating against one another like swords on bone. His body was not strong enough to contain them, and yet he contained them anyway.
