The Nexus core was silent.
Kael stood before the terminal—an obelisk of glass-veined stone, humming faintly with dormant energy. Behind him, the rebels waited. Lira stood to his right, arms folded tight, eyes locked on the memory thread in Kael's hand.
He took a breath and inserted the thread into the receiver.
The console awakened.
Glyphs pulsed in a perfect sequence of blue and white. Ancient and new. Neutral.
Awaiting input.
Kael placed his palm flat against the surface. The lattice resonance moved through him—not just thought, but feeling. He could feel the weight of the truth inside the thread. It was heavy. Beautiful. Unyielding.
The system asked for a designation.
Kael didn't hesitate.
"Unaltered. Untitled. Unowned."
The glyphs accepted it.
The transmission began.
Across the Vault network, memory threads twisted. Not from damage—but incompatibility. The restored memory didn't just add a new piece—it refused to coexist with the lies. Entire corridors of sanctioned truth shivered as context unraveled.
In a hundred archives across the city, curators stared at blank glyph-trees.
In private chambers, nobles watched memorials glitch—names vanishing, histories overlapping.
And across every connected archive, Kael's voice played once.
Calm. Unflinching.
"You don't have to believe me.
You just have to remember what they made you forget."
Silence followed.
But not for long.