The air around Nima was thick with a suffocating pressure, pressing in from all sides. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and her breath came in ragged gasps, too shallow, too erratic. Each inhale felt like an attempt to draw in the very fabric of existence, but it slipped away the moment her lungs filled.
She staggered to her feet, the shard still clutched tightly in her hand, though now it felt heavier than it had before, as though it was dragging her deeper into the void. The weight of its presence wasn't just physical—it was spiritual, emotional. It was the weight of a world on her shoulders, of a future she hadn't chosen and couldn't control.
The figure, that strange entity whose face had been both familiar and entirely foreign, stood before her, its form shifting and distorting like smoke in a windless room. Its eyes—dark, infinite, like pools of black ink—bored into her soul, reading every fear, every doubt. It knew her, and that made her feel more vulnerable than she had ever felt in her life.
"You still resist," the figure said, its voice calm, almost gentle. "But it is futile, Nima. The Song is already inside you. You will never be free of it."
Nima grit her teeth, trying to push through the panic that gripped her chest. She had to resist. There had to be a way out—there had to be a way to break free.
"No," she whispered, more to herself than to the figure. "I won't let it control me. I won't let it decide everything for me."
The figure tilted its head, its expression unreadable. "You think you have control, but you never did. The Song has always been there, pulling at the threads of your existence. You were born to it, Nima. Everything you've done, everything you've endured—it was all leading to this moment."
Her heart skipped a beat. The words, though cryptic, carried the weight of truth. How many times had she felt as though she were walking a path that had already been set for her? How many choices had she made that now seemed insignificant, trivial, in the face of this larger, unknown force?
"No," she repeated, more fiercely this time. "I can fight it. I can choose."
The figure's laughter was soft, almost a sigh. "Choice is an illusion, Nima. You believe that you are free, but even now, as you stand here before me, you are already bound. The Song knows no mercy."
The words hit her like a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she staggered, the edges of her vision blurring. Her grip on the shard tightened instinctively, but even as she held on, she felt the pull of the Song—an inexorable current that threatened to sweep her away.
But amidst the chaos in her mind, there was a flicker—a sliver of clarity. Dmitri's face, faint but undeniable, flashed in her thoughts. His words. His promise.
"You don't have to carry this burden."
His voice, distant yet warm, was a lifeline. A reminder. A thread she could follow out of this darkness.
"I can still choose," Nima thought. "I must."
The shard in her hand pulsed again, the warmth radiating through her fingers, but this time, she felt something else. A shift. A vibration beneath her skin, as though the Song itself was responding to her defiance.
She turned her gaze back to the figure, her voice steadier now. "You're wrong," she said, each word sharper than the last. "I'm not a puppet. I will choose."
The figure's expression remained unchanged, but its eyes seemed to soften, almost imperceptibly. It tilted its head, as though studying her with a newfound interest.
"If you truly believe you can escape the Song, Nima," it said, "then show me."
Before she could react, the world around her began to distort. The ground shifted beneath her feet, the air itself warping, twisting into impossible shapes. It was like being caught in the eye of a storm, but the storm wasn't made of wind—it was made of raw, unfathomable power. The very fabric of reality seemed to bend around her, and Nima was thrown into a vision.
She saw the Bell—no, felt the Bell—as if it were inside her, as if it were the very pulse of the universe. She was no longer standing on the shattered earth. Instead, she was in the heart of the Song itself, surrounded by the echoes of a thousand dying worlds, each one falling into ruin as the Bell's toll rang louder and louder.
And in the midst of this endless, grinding sound, there was a figure—a shadow, a silhouette—but it wasn't Dmitri. It wasn't anyone she recognized.
It was her.
She was the one causing the destruction. She was the one at the center of the Song, the one whose choices, whose very being, would unravel the world.
"No," Nima gasped, her hands shaking as she reached out, trying to stop the vision, to pull herself back. "This isn't me. It can't be."
But the vision continued, the figure of herself standing tall amidst the ruins, the shard of the Bell in her hand, her eyes glowing with the same unrelenting power that had taken over the worlds around her.
Her mouth moved, speaking words that were not her own. "The Song demands it. All that is left is to listen. All that is left is to follow."
The words chilled Nima to the core. This was her. This was what she was meant to become.
With a cry, she ripped herself away from the vision, stumbling backward into reality. The world around her spun violently, but she forced herself to stay grounded, to hold on to that thread of defiance that had sparked within her. She would not become that—she couldn't.
The figure watched her closely, its expression unchanged.
"You will see," it whispered. "The Song cannot be escaped. It will break you, Nima. It will claim you, as it has claimed all those before you. The threads of fate are already woven. All you can do is follow them."
Nima stood tall, despite the fear gnawing at her insides. Her heart pounded, but she refused to let it break her. She had seen the future, but she could still change it.
She would change it.
"I am not bound by fate," she said, her voice steady. "I will choose, and I will fight."
The figure's eyes darkened, but it did not respond. Instead, it simply turned, fading into the shifting chaos of the Song.
And in that silence, Nima understood something with terrifying clarity: the path ahead would be harder than she could ever imagine. But it was her path. And she would walk it, no matter the cost.