Days—or perhaps hours; time itself unraveled in the cathedral—bled away as Silas wrestled with the truth. Lyra guided him through the maze of thrones, each whispering fragment adding to his growing understanding of the Echo Crown.
But the more he pieced together, the more the world outside began to stir.
From the cathedral's shattered windows, Silas saw armies gathering in the rivers of light: creatures stitched from silence and void, chanting hymns of annihilation. The Dissonant Choir—splinter sects of the Hollow Thrones who sought not to preserve erasure, but to accelerate it.
"They've come for you," Lyra warned. "The crown makes you a threat. They'll devour everything just to strip it from you."
The Archivist appeared once more, porcelain mask cracked wider. "Choose, bearer. Take the throne and command memory, or flee and be hunted across eternity."
The thrones behind him flared, demanding an answer.
Silas's grip shook. He didn't want a crown. He didn't want thrones, or legacies, or the burden of gods. He only wanted to remember who he was. But as the Dissonant Choir surged closer, their hymns cracking the cathedral walls, Silas understood: survival required choice.
He raised the violin bow. Strings of light stretched across the air, weaving into a crown of luminous shadow above his head.
The thrones roared. Memory itself bent. The Dissonant Choir screamed as Silas unleashed a symphony—one not of gods, but of defiance. The sound shattered silence, scattering the void-army into fragments of forgotten history.
For the first time, Silas realized the terrifying truth: he could unmake erasure itself.
But power came at a cost.
The cathedral crumbled, its thrones collapsing into rivers of screaming light. The Archivist's mask shattered, revealing not a face, but an abyss filled with eyes.
"You have chosen," it whispered. "Now creation will hunt you. For the Crown remembers… and so too will those who wish to silence it forever."
Silas collapsed, exhausted. The crown flickered above his head, unstable, threatening to tear him apart. Lyra caught him, her expression a mix of awe and terror.
"Silas… do you realize what you've done?"
He looked at her with hollow eyes. "I've started a war."
Above them, the fractured constellations reassembled into a spiral of light—a gateway. Through it, countless realms glimmered, each vibrating with unfamiliar melodies. Civilizations, gods, horrors—all waiting.
The Hollow Thrones knelt, acknowledging him not as a pawn, but as a rival.
Silas stood, trembling but resolute. He looked to Lyra. "Then let's finish their song. And write our own."
Hand in hand, they stepped through the spiral.
The cathedral collapsed behind them, silencing the hymns forever.
And so began the war of remembrance.