"I'm sorry, Eli." A voice croaked from behind, making them turn around.
Finn was sitting on the stone floor, still covered in the silvery blanket, looking at them.
"How long have you been eavesdropping?" Elias teased as the young one walked towards them.
"Enough to hear your sentimental butt like Nana." Finn sniffed and sat beside him.
"Ha ha." Elias rolled his eyes, unable to hide his smile. "C'mere. I'm sorry, Finn…"
"But here you go—smell my butt, you like that, smell it!" he yanked Finn down, roughhousing ensued playfully.
The chamber erupted in laughter, bursting through the room like a sudden flame, catching on every smile and lighting every face. For a moment, the walls seemed to hum with warmth, the shadows driven back by the simple, radiant joy that bound them all together.
"Stop—look! Wait—" Finn said between his breath, trapped in Elias' tickles. "I'm serious—stop—there's something under the desk!"
Finn crawled toward the hidden item—perhaps had fallen beneath the desk, as Elias let him go.
"See!" Finn exclaimed as he showed it to his siblings, briefly scanning its contents.
It was a folio covered in thick dust—The Skygate Mechanism, written across the cover, barely legible.
Mira shoved a stack of scattered notes aside, her hands trembling as she opened the battered leather sheathing. The spine was cracked and fragile—inside was their grandfather's unmistakable scrawlings.
She looked up at Elias who tousled Finn, her breath quickening. They nodded once, sharp and decisive.
"This is it," Mira whispered.
Before they could study it, a sound like the world itself splitting open ripped through the ceiling above them—it sounded like a muffled explosion of splintering wood, shattering glass, and the heavy crack of the lighthouse's upper beams, buckling under the fury of the storm.
They froze.
The chamber shook—a low, deep groan rippling through the stone walls like the last breath of a dying monster. Dust rained down from the ceiling in thin, trembling streams, ushering them on their feet.
Another crack boomed, closer this time.
Then—silence, the kind that roared louder than the storm itself.
Finn clutched Elias's sleeve, wide-eyed. "That wasn't just the house," he said. "That was here."
Mira barely had time to get the lantern before Elias was pulling them toward the hidden bookshelf entrance, trekking the stone stairs in frantic steps.
Elias hesitated at the edge of the shelf—a brief beat of doubt—then he pushed it open.
The air that rushed in was biting cold, sharp with acrid sting of salt and shattered stone.
The study beyond had become almost unrecognizable, there was only ruin. A massive tree, uprooted by the raging storm, had smashed through the wall, splintering the floorboards and scattering cement like matchsticks, blocking the exit.
A wide section of the wall had been ripped away, leaving a gaping hole for the angry heavens. Rain and wind blasted through the opening, carrying with them shredded wood, broken glass, and the sharp scent of torn earth.
"Go! We can get out through—" Elias started, pointing toward the break in the wall.
But before they could make it halfway across the ruined study, a second tree—heavier, bigger—slammed into the space with a sickening crunch, sealing the breach in a twisted snarl of branches and debris.
Finn skidded to a stop. "That's not good!"
"Back!" Elias barked, grabbing them both and pulling them toward the secret entrance.
They struggled against the screaming wind ravaging through the broken windows, Finn fumbling with the edge of the bookshelf while Mira braced herself against the stone wall, shoving with all her weight. It took all three of them, pushing and straining against the gusts that tried to tear them back into the open, but finally the bookshelf groaned shut, locking them again inside the blue-lit passage.
Breathing hard, Elias leaned his forehead against the cold stone for a moment, thinking, cursing under his breath.
"We can't stay here," he said grimly.
"There's gotta be another way," Finn panted, voice tight with panic. "We can't be trapped, right?!"
"No," Elias said, straightening. His mind was racing, but his voice stayed steady as his hands scraped desperately over the cold, uneven wall. "If there's a secret chamber leading down… then there's probably a way up. Directly into the lighthouse."
Mira blinked at him, then nodded fiercely. "We have to find it."
They scattered, combing the passage with frantic urgency—hands trailing along the rough stone, fingertips darting across cracks and carvings as if hoping the stone itself would give them a sign.
Finn stumbled over something metallic near the far wall: a small, rusted latch almost invisible against the rock. He pulled it, and with a soft clank, a section of the stone floor shifted, revealing a narrow, winding stairwell carved deep into the lighthouse's foundations.
"Here! This way!" he shouted, peeking at the tight space vanishing into the shadows.
No time to hesitate.
One by one, they slipped through its steps, rubbed with rainwater seeping through the cracks in the old walls. The air was thick with damp stone, dirt and salt, lit only by the pendant.
"It's a dead-end!" Finn, who was on the lead, shouted.
"Try to push the wall! No—it should have a similar latch! Find it!" Elias directed, unable to squeeze through the tight passage.
With a grunt and a clank echoing the narrow space, another section of the stone floor shifted, space opening to the spandrel under the staircase, floor soaked in puddles, door banging repeatedly on its hinges.
"It's really connected to the lighthouse!" Finn laughed like a lunatic. "All this time!"
"Let's try it one more time." Elias said as he bolted once more toward the staircase, ushering his siblings up, the howling wind still chasing after them through the door.
The storm raged wildly above—much scarier, more violent, unstoppable. The wind—with renewed force—slammed into the lighthouse, rattling every bolt and the walls as lightning traced the sky in electric webs.
Mira led them, jaw set, one hand clutching the rusted railing, the other wrapped around the compass, its glow a steady pulse beneath the storm's howl.
Behind her, Finn whooped into the chaos. "This is insane! We're really doing it!"
"Stay close!" Elias shouted.
The stairwell trembled with every growl of thunder above. Rain pounded the windows in frantic fists, and the wind roared through the cracks as if the storm had become a living thing.
As they ascended, Mira was the first to glance out through the shattered panes.
Her breath hitched. "Elias… look."
Elias caught a glimpse through the next window. What had once been the proud maritime house was now a broken skeleton—half the roof torn away, walls collapsed inward, furniture and beams scattered like toys across the drowning landscape. Another tree crashed somewhere outside, the noise vibrating through the lighthouse's bones.
Debris whipped through the sky—shattered wood, scraps of cloth, even a half-embedded weathervane. The storm raged without mercy, swallowing everything that had once been familiar, lightning illuminating the ruins below in brief, violent flashes.
The beacon chamber greeted them once again—barely recognizable, wind blasting through the yawning hole above, exposing the swirling, nightmarish sky. Shards of glass, metal, and broken mechanisms littered the room.
Rain continued to flood the floor in torrents, as if the heavens had decided to split open in anger and would not yield, stinging their skin like needles. Lightning forked overhead, casting stark flashes over the wreckage.
The stone block still laid beneath the now smashed lens, though cracks webbed its surface, rain soaking it to the bone.
Elias led the way without hesitation, moving across the puddled floor toward the stone block.
Finn stepped forward cautiously, his boots splashing in the water, surveying the sky above as he slowly reached for an iron bar on the floor.
Behind them, Mira gripped the compass tightly, her boots coming to a halt.
For a moment, she simply stood there, eyes wide, taking it all in.
The devastation.
The wrath of the storm tearing through the broken beacon.
The ruin of everything they had once called safe.
The broken world beyond the shattered windows.
Her chest tightened painfully.
She felt rooted to the iron floor, her courage washing away with the rainwater swirling around her feet.
"What if we're wrong?" Mira whispered, barely audible over the storm. "What if… What if we open it, and it's worse?"
Elias stopped and turned back to her.
He just looked at her for a breath—his sister, the clever dreamer who always carried more belief than he ever could, now wavered.
Mira shook her head, stepping backward toward the stairwell. "Maybe you're right, Elias," she said hoarsely, voice breaking.
Her hand gripped the railing like it was the only thing holding her to the ground. "We've brought danger upon ourselves. The house is gone—Pop's home, ourhome, everything—"
Elias crossed the distance between them in two quick strides and grabbed her shoulders, firm but not rough.
"Hey, hey, listen to me," he said, voice low and steady. His eyes were fierce, unshaken.
"I have to protect you. Always. But sometimes..." He took a breath, grounding himself against the storm and the rising panic in her eyes. "Sometimes protecting you means trusting you to believe. Even when I can't."
Mira blinked up at him, stunned.
"You took us this far," Elias said, softer now. "Don't stop believing just because the sky turned dark."
The words sank deep into her. Mira's trembling eased. She gave a small, almost broken nod—and let him guide her back toward the stone block.
At that moment, Finn—who had been circling the stone, frowning—spoke up.
"Wait," he said sharply, pointing. "It's wrong."
They stopped.
Finn jabbed the iron bar toward it. "This indent—the circle—on the folio we found earlier—it wasn't on top. It was facing forward, like a wall."
Realization struck them like a lightning bolt.
The stone wasn't meant to lie flat like a table. It was part of a vertical pillar—the indent should be facing them, indeed.
Elias and Finn heaved together, managing to tilt the heavy block upright, slamming into the floor with a resounding thud.
Now, the circle faced them like a lock waiting for a key as the storm outside bellowed louder, sensing the shift.
"We can't go back, Mira," he said, soft and quiet, patting her shoulders. "We can only go through. And we will go through, together—all three of us, remember?"
She nodded shakily, eyes shining, hands trembling slightly as she knelt before the upright block.
"The compass doesn't actually sit snug on here." She said, looking back at them.
Elias was beside her instantly, steady. Without a word, he pulled the black bracelet from his wrist and pressed it into her palm. His hand lingered just a second longer, an unspoken trust passing between them.
You can do this.
Mira swallowed, then lifted the bracelet and slid it around the compass.
Wordlessly, she placed them into the groove, now fitting perfectly, locking into place like a missing piece of an ancient puzzle.
But—nothing happened.
The runes etched along the stone remained dark, unlike their earlier attempt. Even the compass stopped glowing.
Silence fell, only the relentless screech of the storm filled the chamber.
Mira's heart sank as she stepped back, doubt rising again like a tide.
"I… I don't understand." She stammered, breaking the quiet. Finn held her hand and Elias on her shoulder, a quiet reminder of their presence.
Then—a pulse.
Followed by the deep, familiar, resonant hum, shivering through the air.
The runes flickered once… twice… as if buffering, trying to catch hold of something far larger than themselves. The compass suddenly flared—not with violent light, but with a slow, gathering brilliance, like a star unfolding as the needle began to stir.
And then, with a violent surge, it unleashed a torrent of light. The runes ignited—all of them—flooding the room with a harsh golden light so intense it seared afterimages across their vision.
The stone vibrated underneath, cracks beginning to deepen across its surface. The lighthouse trembled to its foundation as well, and the air around them twisted, heavy with power.
They all stumbled backwards, shielding their eyes.
"Something's wrong!" Mira shouted, her voice raw with fear. "I think it's too much!"
She ran towards it, prying the compass and bracelet off the stone. "It won't budge!"
The stone looked like it might explode under the strain. The Skygate was now fully visible before them but unstable, the portal flickering and distorting as if it were barely holding itself together.
Before Mira could pull away, Finn darted forward. And without hesitation, he pressed one hand onto Mira's arm and the other onto the compass, its needle shifting violently.
The effect was immediate—the runaway energy faltered slightly, the light dimming just enough for the portal to stop spasming wildly.
"I think we have to say the Invocation Passage! But I can't see it—all the runes are glowing brightly!" Mira shouted to Finn. "I… I don't know what to do, Finn! I'm lost!"
"How do I follow something that doesn't know where to point, Pops?" Finn asked.
"Then don't follow it." His grandfather chuckled, voice erupting in the dimly lit study. "Let it follow you."
"But I'm going to use this in my summer camp!" Finn snubbed, pouting. "Shouldn't I be following the compass instead of the other way around?"
"All right, all right. Settle down, you feisty little adventurer." A hearty laugh echoed in the room.
Finn giggled softly, as if infected with his grandfather's laughter. "We're not lost... We just haven't shown the sky where we're going yet."
The runes answered with a shimmer like dawn breaking, all flickering now in different colors of light.
"How—" Mira was stunned but smiled afterwards. "Resonance."
"Cool, right?" Finn smirked smugly. "Can you see the invocation now?"
"Keep doing what you're doing, Finn." Elias interjected, eyes staring at a rune above the Skygate—fixed in place, glowing steadily.
"Huh?" Finn frowned then followed Elias' gaze. "Uhhh, Mir, is that what you're looking for?"
The Skygate loomed in front of them, its arch traced in light older than memory. Along its surface, a rune glimmered like frost catching the breath of the stars.
Mira looked up. "Yes! At least one of them, yes! Go Finn, continue what you're doing!"
"Uhhh, I—I don't know… It just came over me—"
"Like you felt it—of course!" Mira said, breath caught. Staring upward, her heart hammering in her chest—not with fear, but something stranger, recognition.
One rune in particular pulsed brighter than the rest, like a silent heartbeat. It wasn't calling to be read; it was waiting.
"The stars don't speak in words, Mira," his grandfather whispered, smiling, gazing at the stars above. "They speak in feelings. In the secret language between the silences."
The rune shimmered like the first one, shifting its form—responding to her, like a river shaping itself to the touch of the shore.
Mira smiled through the sudden sting of tears. She wasn't commanding it.
She simply was listening.
And the Skygate—at last—listened back.
The rune blazed, fixed in its place with a deep, sonorous groan that echoed through the clouds as the Skygate stirred.
The stone cracked further beneath the weight of the power they had unleashed, freezing Mira and Finn in place.
It wasn't enough.
The Skygate was resisting them, refusing to open. Everything felt wrong, nothing was making any sense.
Finn's hands trembled. Mira pressed the compass, unsure. The remaining runes on the arch spiraled—changing, flickering, slipping through meaning like water through fingers.
Elias acted without thinking.
He knelt beside them, wrapping one arm firmly around Mira's shoulders. His other hand gripped over Finn's smaller one, grounding both of them to the stone.
He felt the storm trying to tear them apart—the raw, ancient energy straining against the compass, the bracelet, against all logic and reason.
And for one heartbeat, fear clawed at his chest.
But Elias refused. He refused to let the moment break apart.
He took a breath, then another. Long. Deep. Steadying.
"We're not losing this moment," he said.
Elias clenched his jaw and held fast—not with wonder, not with dreamer's faith, but with sheer, stubborn, human will.
The runes didn't care for his voice. But they paused in his presence.
He wasn't chosen.
He was the constant.
He was the one who carried the storm when the sky turned dark.
And he won't let go.
The memory of holding Mira's hand during their parents' funeral. The day he kept Finn from tumbling off the pier when they were little. The way he always remembered the things others forgot—like where the key was last placed, or how long a storm had lasted.
He was the rhythm—the steady beat in chaos.
And the runes felt that.
The Skygate flickered once more. A rune flared bright and anchored. It responded—not to passion, not to belief—but to something older: the will to hold the line.
Under their joined hands, the light trembled—and settled.
And for the first time since the storm had begun, hope burned brighter than the force raging outside.
The block stopped cracking under their palms, the wild runes smoothing into a steady, rhythmic pulse of light—a single string of symbols, the same ones above the arch, glowed brightly on the compass.
Ora'kael Thyn Vareth—Awaken o skygate
They rang in her chest like an echo—deep and resonant.
Mira can't help but spoke them aloud.
"Ora'kael Thyn Vareth."
The wind abruptly stilled.
The rain stopped mid-air, suspended like stars in water.
The stone itself surged with golden light, tracing the runes outward—up the arch, along the skygate pillars. The room filled with a rising hum, as if the air were singing.
The Skygate twinkled, stabilizing into a solid, swirling portal of deep silver and blue. The mist inside began to unravel—not in a burst, but in a slow breath, as if it had finally found someone solid enough to lean on.
It finally… opened.
For real this time.
Together, the siblings looked up at it—wide-eyed, battered, but unbroken.
"We… we did it." Elias said, voice in awe.
Finn grinned. "So... Do we say something epic now?"
"What? Like… eureka!" Mira exclaimed, earning snorts from the brothers.
The moment held its breath.
The Skygate didn't open because they solved it. It opened because they remembered who they were.
Because they felt.
And the stars had listened.