The chamber was silent.
Not the silence of stillness, but of reverence. It was vast—larger than any structure could logically hold, the walls so distant they dissolved into shimmering nothing. The floor beneath Kael's feet was smooth as mirror-glass, yet rippled faintly beneath each step like water reacting to presence.
Above, suspended like a suspended cosmos, hung the memory lattice.
It was not one structure, but many—threads of gold, blue, red, and silver interwoven into a sphere that pulsed gently with breathlike rhythm. Every strand shimmered with memory, yet none could be read with the eyes. They moved not with wind, but with awareness, shifting in response to Kael's approach.
Corren stopped at the threshold, jaw clenched. "I've never seen anything like this."
"You haven't," Lira said quietly. "No one has. Not in living memory."
Kael stepped forward.
The lattice responded immediately.
A cascade of light flowed down like a waterfall of thoughts, bathing him in warmth and weight. It wasn't painful. It was heavy. Like being wrapped in all the emotions he'd never had time to feel.
Lira reached to follow—but faltered.
She clutched her temples, staggering.
Corren grabbed her arm. "It's too much. This place—it's not meant for us."
"No," she gasped. "It's... filtering. It only lets you see what you haven't already chosen."
Kael didn't hear them.
He stood at the edge of the lattice now, arms at his sides, heart hammering.
He reached out.
The instant his fingers touched the thread, the chamber vanished.
Not in destruction.
In invitation.
The lattice pulled him inward—into memory not of a person, but of a world before words. A world that remembered itself.
And Kael remembered too.
Not as Rin.
Not as a weapon.
As a witness.