They descended into the Vale under a sky of stillness.
The forest thinned behind them, replaced by a strange expanse of sloping hills woven together with strands of silver mist. The ground shifted subtly beneath their feet—not unstable, but not *fixed*. Threads of light coiled through the grass like veins, twitching faintly when touched.
Rin bent low beside one and squinted. "These aren't roots."
"They're memory threads," Kael said quietly. "This place was once where Keepers wove the fates of doorwalkers. Before the splintering."
Sira touched one with her blade. It trembled, and a sound—like a whisper from deep underwater—shivered through the air.
Elara paused. The Heart, tucked against her chest beneath her cloak, glowed again—but dimmer than before, as if uncertain.
"Something's *watching* us," she said.
Kael nodded. "The Vale remembers travelers. Especially those carrying what doesn't belong here anymore."
They continued in silence, each step triggering faint hums from the threads below. As they climbed a small ridge, the path suddenly dropped off into a basin of fog. At the center stood the lighthouse Elara had dreamed of.
But it was not what she expected.
It was broken—half-collapsed and vine-choked, its top bent like the neck of a dying beast. Still, from its shattered lens came a steady pulse of silver light.
And around its base: figures.
Rin held out a hand. "Three... no, four people. Cloaked. Not moving."
"They're not people," Kael said after a long pause. "Not anymore."
Elara stepped forward before anyone could stop her, drawn not by the light—but by a sound. A hum. The same one she'd heard in dreams, in the quiet between waking and Elsewhere.
As she approached the basin, one of the figures turned toward her.
Its face was blank—literally. A mask of seamless white glass, like a mirror that reflected *nothing.*
The voice that emerged from it was androgynous, and echoing:
**"Elara of the Unclosed Heart. You carry the key. You are not permitted."**
"I don't ask permission," Elara replied. The Heart flared in her cloak.
Behind her, Kael muttered, "Gatebound Echoes. We sealed them off ages ago."
Another figure stepped forward, its head twitching at an unnatural angle. Its voice overlapped with itself—like two people speaking the same words a beat apart.
**"The Thread remembers. You trespass across the seams of fate. You bring light where only forgetting was allowed."**
Sira slid in beside Elara, blades ready. "Want me to unstring them?"
"No," Elara whispered. "Not yet."
She pulled the Heart into the open. Its light pulsed once—and the Echoes froze.
Then, behind the broken lighthouse, *a voice* rose. This one human. Familiar.
**"Elara."**
Elara's breath caught.
She turned—and standing at the lighthouse steps was her mother.
Not as she remembered her in those final, fading childhood images—but older. Weathered. Eyes ringed with silver scars.
Alive.
"Elara," her mother said again, stepping forward. "You shouldn't have come."
The Echoes melted into mist at her presence.
Kael stepped forward, astonished. "Maris... you crossed the Ninth Door. How are you—?"
"I broke no seal," Maris said. "I *became* one."
Elara stared. "You're a Keeper still?"
Maris gave a faint, tired smile. "I'm what's left of one. The thread that kept this world from unraveling."
Then her face turned grave.
"But now that you've brought the Heart here… the unraveling has already begun."