---
The crown sagged.
The hum was gone.
Only the sharp hiss of cracking glass filled the air, racing along the seams like lightning spreading across a frozen lake.
The sound carried in every direction, high and thin at first, then deep and resonant, a warning that reached the bones. It was no longer just one seam breaking. The entire crown was answering the strain together.
A wave of alarm moved through the people on both decks. I could feel the shift in the air, the way bodies leaned back from the railings without thinking. Someone screamed from the far side. A guard barked an order. Another called out for people to move back, but the voices were swallowed by the noise of the bridge tearing apart.
The first slab of glass gave way.
It leaned forward for a heartbeat, catching the sunlight in a blinding gleam, then slid free from the span entirely. It spun once in the air before it shattered into glittering dust. The dust swirled in the wind, caught the light, and then was gone, dissolving before it reached the streets far below.
Lio was still out there.
Her boots were planted on a wide panel that had not yet cracked, her knees bent slightly to absorb the subtle shifts of the span. She looked over her shoulder at the gap, then forward toward me. Her voice reached me in a clear line through the chaos.
"Row, go."
I stepped forward instead. The glass book against my ribs was almost hot now. Faint light pulsed through the surface, spilling onto my arm. On the page, new words formed and shifted as if they were being written in real time.
Do not run.
Do not look down.
One step at a time.
I obeyed.
My foot found the next panel. The surface was warm from the sun, but under that warmth there was something else, a subtle vibration that pulsed in time with the span's dying rhythm. The glass felt almost alive, not solid like stone but not yielding like water, something between the two. Each step sent a faint tremor up my legs and into my chest.
Behind me, another slab dropped away.
It did not fall in heavy pieces. It simply broke into fine particles that drifted for a breath before fading to nothing. Each one was erased from the world as if it had never existed.
Lio began moving toward me, her boots finding the stable panels with the surety of someone who had done this before. A coil of clear rope was slung over her shoulder. When she reached me, she unwound it in a single motion and looped it around my waist.
"If you slip, I pull," she said. Her tone was calm, but her eyes stayed on the shifting panels ahead.
The bridge groaned again, a sound deep enough to make the air in my lungs vibrate.
We moved together toward the near deck. We stepped only on panels that were unmarked, the glass still smooth and whole beneath our boots. Every movement was deliberate. Every breath was matched to the rhythm of our steps.
Wind funneled between the towers. It carried a faint scent of stone warmed by sunlight, but also something sharper, like the air after a lightning strike. I tried not to imagine that it was the smell of the bridge's lifeblood slipping away.
Halfway across, the panel under my right foot trembled.
A fracture split across the surface, a thin, white thread that stopped just short of the edge. I froze, my muscles locking as if I could hold the bridge steady by holding myself still.
"Shift your weight," Lio said quickly.
I eased my right foot back and leaned onto my left. The crack stopped growing. My pulse was too loud in my ears, and the bridge's faint hum had taken on a strained, uneven tone.
"The deck is close," Lio said. "Keep moving."
We stepped forward together. The crowd on the deck ahead leaned over the railing, their faces pale and tense. A woman pressed her hands to her mouth. A young boy gripped the railing so tightly his knuckles were white.
The crown was gone behind us, reduced to a void between the towers. The dust from the fallen panels still drifted, but it moved in strange patterns, curling and twisting as though drawn by an unseen hand.
We counted the final paces without speaking.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Each number carried the weight of the bridge's groan.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
A sharp crack rang out behind Lio's heel. She did not turn to look.
Four.
Three.
The rope at my waist went slack as I stepped onto solid stone. My boots met the deck, and for the first time since the crown had begun to break, I allowed myself a breath that was not measured to my steps.
Two.
One.
Lio crossed the last distance with the same steady pace, her eyes never leaving the panels ahead of her. She stepped onto the deck and unlooped the rope from my waist.
The crowd pressed in. The sound of their voices rose all at once, questions and relief and fear tangled together.
Iven pushed forward, his expression pale but his voice steady. "The damage," he said to Lio.
She shook her head. "The crown is gone. That span will never hold again."
The book in my hands cooled, as if releasing me from its grip. New words formed slowly, each one appearing with the weight of a stone dropping into still water.
The bridge is broken.
A choice was made.
The story continues.
I looked past Lio toward the gap. The drifting dust began to move differently, drawn inward as if by a silent breath. It coiled into a thin ribbon that twisted twice in the air before collapsing in on itself.
It was gone.
Where the crown had been, there was nothing.
Not open air.
Not jagged edges of glass.
Nothing at all, as though that part of the bridge had never been built.
A hush fell over the deck. Gasps moved through the crowd. Someone whispered a prayer. A child's voice, too loud in the stillness, asked, "Where did it go."
I stepped closer to the railing. The far tower still stood, but beyond it… the skyline was different.
The towers that had once stretched westward from it were gone.
Not broken. Not crumbling. Simply absent.
In their place was a clean, bright emptiness that seemed sharper than sunlight. Looking at it for more than a second made my eyes ache. The streets below were smooth and unmarked, as if no building had ever been raised there, no foundation ever laid.
The book warmed again, its weight in my hands both familiar and foreign.
A world has shifted.
A page has turned.
From somewhere deep in the city, a bell began to ring.
The sound was soft at first, almost lost in the whisper of wind between the towers. It carried in a slow rhythm, each note lingering a little too long before fading. The bell was not an alarm. It was something older. A call. A warning.
I could feel the crowd reacting to it.
Some faces turned toward the sound, eyes narrowed.
Others looked away, as if pretending not to hear might protect them.
The book's page stayed open in my hands, the ink of the last words not yet dry.
The story continues.
---