The tower loomed now, no longer distant. Its spiraling form spun slowly in place — an edifice of unraveling ink, built from forgotten drafts and discarded myths. Jia Lin approached with steady breath.
Each step triggered a whisper.
"She was born of silence.""She will end the story she never wrote."
These were not echoes of her. These were voices of the tower — memory-thoughts that had gained shape.
At the base, an arch waited. As she passed through, her name slipped from her mind — only for a moment — then returned, heavier.
The interior was worse. The spiral ascended through living parchment. Each stair was a thread of her past, bound to a version of herself she had never been.
She walked.
For one flight, she was Jia Lin the betrayer. For another, Jia Lin the Sovereign's heir. Then Jia Lin the coward. Jia Lin the killer.
Each version stared through the walls. Each offered her a way to quit the spiral.
But she climbed.
When she reached the seventh coil, the spiral folded outward.
And at the center — a mirror.
Not glass. Not water. But echo, made solid. It showed her future.
A throne of threads. A crown made of severed steps. A world silent beneath her rule.
"Claim it," the Pale Scribe whispered. "Or shatter it."
Jia Lin drew her blade.
And cut her future in half.