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Thane knelt beneath the surge of light; the ceremonial mask still pressed to his face. It was not heavy, but it bore weight—the kind that rewrites memory.

The glyph etched into his palm pulsed in rhythm with the chamber’s lattice walls, which now shimmered like a living constellation.

Solenne stood before him, her form no longer static. She flickered between states—woman, machine, starfield, mirror. Her voice, once distant, now carried breath.

“You’ve crossed the veil,” she said. “You are no longer a visitor. You are a participant.”

Thane removed the mask slowly. His face was damp with sweat, his eyes rimmed with light. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means the Archive will no longer protect you from what it remembers.”

The chamber responded. A second pedestal rose beside the first, bearing a relic Thane hadn’t seen before: a tuning fork, split down the centre, its prongs bent inward like a broken promise.

He reached for it, but Solenne raised her hand.