The fear coming from Nyx was a palpable thing, a cold wave that washed over James even in the face of the humming, violet-lit spire. She, a child of chaos, was terrified.
"What is it?" James asked, his voice low. "What did you feel?"
"It doesn't push back," Nyx's whispers were strained, ragged. "It… erases. It tasted my Pattern and tried to make it silent."
Oblivion as a defense. A wall that didn't block you, but simply unmade you. James stared at the glowing web of symbols, watching them pulse. The rhythm was hypnotic, a slow, steady heartbeat of dissonant magic. He looked down at his sister. The faint purple glow from her cursed hand pulsed in the exact same rhythm.
They weren't just similar. They were synchronized.
A terrible, electrifying idea began to form in his mind. An idea born of pure desperation. This ward wasn't a lock designed to keep everyone out. It was a filter, a lock that only opened for a specific key. The symbols weren't a warning; they were a question, and only one thing in the world had the right answer.
"Sophia," he breathed. "She's the key."
Nyx recoiled as if he'd struck her. "No! The song will eat the singer! The closer she gets, the louder it becomes!" Her whispers were frantic, pleading. "It will consume her."
"It's already consuming her out here!" James countered, his own voice tight with a desperate certainty. He felt the cold stone of Sophia's hand; it had definitely spread further up her wrist in the last few minutes. "We can't fight it from the outside, and we can't run from it. Maybe… maybe if we can get inside, to the source, we can cut the strings. This is the only way."
It was the greatest gamble of his life, a move that went against every protective instinct he had. He was walking his sister not away from the fire, but directly into its heart. Nyx stared at him, her glowing eyes wide with horror, but she saw the grim logic in his desperation. She gave a single, sharp nod and backed away.
Taking a deep breath, James lifted Sophia and began to walk toward the humming, violet wall.
The effect was immediate. The closer he got, the more violently the curse reacted. The purple light in Sophia's arm flared, becoming a brilliant, painful glare. The stone crept visibly up her forearm, like frost spreading on a winter pane. For the first time since falling ill, she let out a low, agonized moan, her body convulsing in his arms.
He wanted to stop, to run, but he forced his legs to keep moving. He was inches away now. The hum of the ward was a physical pressure, making his teeth vibrate and his vision swim. He closed his eyes, lifted his sister's cursed hand, and pushed it forward into the wall of light.
For one terrifying moment, there was only a screech of feedback, a deafening clash of two identical notes. The light on Sophia's arm blazed, and he felt a tearing sensation, as if the curse were about to rip itself free of her body.
Then, the tone changed. The hostile, defensive roar of the ward softened into a low, resonant chime of recognition. The glowing symbols on the black stone flowed like water, parting before Sophia's hand to create a smooth, arching doorway. The lock had accepted its key.
Stepping through the threshold was like stepping into another universe. The interior of the spire was not made of stone. It was a non-Euclidean cathedral of shifting, crystalline structures and floating, disconnected stairways. The air itself was the song, a constant, oppressive hum of whispers, echoes, and sorrowful melodies that seemed to seep directly into his mind. Gravity was a memory, and the only path forward was a series of glowing platforms that materialized before them as they focused their intent on the chamber's center.
Nyx followed him in, her movements hesitant, her glowing eyes scanning the impossible architecture with awe and terror. "The song has a body," she whispered.
They were inside the mind of the spell.
Drawn by an invisible current, they followed the intensifying resonance toward the heart of the spire. The whispers grew louder, weaving tales of loss, stillness, and a longing for silence. They navigated the shifting labyrinth until they reached a vast, spherical chamber at the very center.
There was no machine here, no wizard on a throne. There was only stillness.
Floating in the exact center of the chamber, suspended within a sphere of pure, silent energy, was a person.
It was a young woman, robed in archaic, ceremonial silks. Her face, serene and timeless, was so achingly familiar that it stole the breath from James's lungs. She looked like an older version of Sophia.
She was encased in a flawless, massive diamond-like crystal. From this crystalline prison, thousands of solidified threads of purple light—the raw essence of the curse—extended outwards, piercing the walls of the chamber and stretching out into the world. One of those threads, he knew with sickening certainty, ended in his sister's arm.
This was the source. The original singer. The anchor for the Great Forgetting.
They had found her.
As James stepped into the chamber, carrying the key to her prison, the woman's eyes, which had been closed for what could have been centuries, began to flutter.
The song was about to meet its conductor.