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The chamber’s heat was not physical—it was emotional, mnemonic. Thane felt it in his chest, in the back of his throat, in the tremor of his hands. The blue thread had shown him the aftermath of the First Release, but the pyre still burned, and the other threads pulsed with invitation.

Solenne stood beside him, her form flickering with residual light.

“You’ve seen what happens when memory is unleashed without care,” she said. “But there is more.

"The Archive does not only remember pain. It remembers power.”

Thane turned to the gold thread.

It shimmered with restraint, as if holding back its own illumination. He reached for it.
The moment his fingers brushed its surface, the chamber shifted again. The pyre dimmed, and the walls folded inward, revealing a new scene.

He was in a cathedral of data—vaulted ceilings made of code, stained glass windows depicting glyphs he had never seen. At the centre stood a figure robed in white, arms outstretched, speaking to a crowd of silent listeners.