The rain began without warning, hammering the ship on the coast of Blacktide Harbor until sea and sky became one sheet of silver.

From the ghostly attic of the ship, Mira Vale watched the storm roll in. She liked storms, because they made people careless.

She knelt beside her bed and pried open one of the many loose floorboards. Underneath it was a tin cylinder - one she herself had placed there, and it contained a map made out of old parchment signed by the vanished cartographer named Arlen Thorne.

Most of the map marked familiar waters. She had memorized it all, except for one mark, a broken circle at the edge of the known sea.

Lightning in her window flashed once, twice. For an instant, the circle on the map shimmered in the light. Mira froze and tilted the parchment closer to the window.

Flash. Hidden lines emerged within the symbol—ink that only revealed itself in the flicker of the lightning. It was like a hidden second map layered over the first.

A map within a map.

Then came a shout from above her.

“Fire!”

Smoke coiled across her window. Loud bells clanged. Her stairwell was filled with flame. It seemed too fast, too deliberate. This wasn’t an accident. After she started trying to escape through her window, a sharp knock rattled her door. “Mira Vale,” a calm but firm voice called. “Open the door. We need to discuss the map.”

Her blood ran cold.

The map in her hands pulsed faintly with warmth. New lines flared across the map - this time not across the sea, but through Blacktide Harbor itself. A new glowing path led from the boat to a point across the harbor. Pointing to a ship she had never seen before.

Wayfarer.

It had to be. This is what her father had told her about all those years ago, before he died and she was left all alone. This was what she had been waiting for. The door that protected her from the calm voice collapsed inward from a group of men breaking in. Tall black figures stood, surrounded in smoke, quickly walking toward her. Mira didn’t hesitate. She shoved the map inside her jacket, climbed out through the window onto the rain-slick roof, and crawled her way up to the top deck where the chaos was. She ran back and forth on the dock, escaping the grasp of each person, and was only guided by the frequent burst of lightning. Far in the distance, half-veiled in storm, waited a ship with a full black hull and unfurled sails. A single lantern burned at its prow.

Wayfarer.

She realized that she had to escape, but how?

After another flash of lightning, she found two lifeboats placed down in the waters, ready for launch. Behind her, boots thundered across the dock, chasing after her. Crew members yelled out, telling each other to stop her from getting on the life boat. After she untied the boat from the ship, she began slowly paddling away, to the dark figure that she had sworn she had seen. Eventually she got to the ship and boarded, but there was just one problem:

They were catching up to her in a life boat of their own.

She had seconds to get to the strange ship moving. Seconds to start moving and to discover what was on the map, or seconds to instead waste and to lose everything.

The lantern on the ship flickered in the wind.

Once, twice.

And then it went dark.

The lantern’s glow vanished so completely that for a heartbeat Mira wondered if she had imagined the ship at all.

The deck beneath her boots creaked once, low and hollow, as though the vessel had drawn a breath and was holding it.

Behind her, oars slapped hard against the water. The pursuing lifeboat was close now—too close. Men shouted through the storm, their voices sharp and purposeful.

“There! She’s aboard!”

“Board her before she cuts loose!”

Mira spun, searching the deck in frantic sweeps of her eyes. The Wayfarer was larger up close than it had seemed from the harbor, its black hull drinking in the stormlight. The sails were furled tight, bound by ropes that looked older than the harbor itself. No crew. No wheelman. No sign of life.

Just the dark.

“Come on,” she whispered, clutching the map through her jacket. “Move. Please.”

The parchment burned hotter against her chest.

Lightning split the sky.

For an instant, the deck blazed silver—and she saw them.

Faint lines etched into the wood. Curving sigils that snaked along the planks, up the mast, and across the coiled ropes. They matched the hidden lines she had seen inside the broken circle on the map.

Another flash. The symbols pulsed.

The map inside her jacket answered with a warm, steady glow.

Understanding struck her like the lightning itself.

“It’s not a ship,” she breathed. “It’s a key.”

Boots slammed onto the Wayfarer’s side rail. One of the men from the lifeboat hauled himself up, water pouring from his coat. His eyes fixed on her immediately.

“Hand over the map,” he said, voice calm even as rain streamed down his face. “You don’t know what you’re meddling with.”

Mira backed away, shaking her head. “Neither do you.”

Two more men climbed aboard behind him. They spread out, confident, certain the storm and the empty deck had trapped her.

The first man stepped forward. “There’s nowhere to run.”

The map flared hotter, almost painful now.

Mira tore it from her jacket and unfolded it with trembling hands. Rain struck the parchment—but instead of soaking through, the droplets slid off as if the surface repelled them. The glowing path across Blacktide Harbor shone brighter than ever, converging on the very spot where she stood.

And then the broken circle at the edge of the sea blazed like a tiny sun.

A new line erupted from it, racing across the parchment and up her wrist like a thread of fire. She gasped as the light leapt from her skin to the deck, racing along the etched sigils she had glimpsed before.

The ship shuddered.

The men froze.

“What did you do?” one of them barked.

“I think,” Mira said, heart hammering, “I woke it up.”

The sigils ignited one by one, glowing faintly gold beneath the rain. Ropes snapped loose of their own accord, whipping upward as if caught by invisible hands. The sails unfurled with a heavy rush, catching wind that hadn’t existed a moment ago.

The mast groaned. The hull lurched.

The Wayfarer moved.

“No!” the calm-voiced man shouted, lunging toward her.

Mira stumbled back as the deck pitched. The harbor water around them churned. The pursuing lifeboat rocked violently, its oarsmen shouting in alarm as the sea dragged them sideways.

“You’ll doom us all!” the man yelled. “That ship doesn’t belong in this world!”

“Maybe,” Mira shot back, gripping the glowing map tighter, “neither do you.”

The lantern at the prow flickered back to life.

This time, its flame burned a deep, steady blue.

Wind roared from nowhere, slamming into the sails. The Wayfarer surged forward, slicing through the rain-silvered water like a blade. The harbor receded behind them in seconds, the dock lights blurring into distant smears.

The men aboard staggered, grabbing for railings as the ship accelerated unnaturally fast. One slipped, barely catching himself before sliding across the deck.

“Stop it!” another cried, fear finally cracking his composure. “Turn it back!”

“I don’t know how!” Mira admitted, half laughing, half terrified.

The map pulsed again.

The glowing path shifted, no longer pointing through the harbor but straight ahead—toward open sea. Toward the storm’s darkest heart.

Thunder rolled. Lightning revealed towering waves, yet the Wayfarer cut through them as though they were no more than mist. Water split and reformed around the hull without ever touching it.

The calm-voiced man straightened slowly despite the chaos. His eyes fixed on the map, not with anger now, but with something colder.

Recognition.

“So,” he said quietly, “Arlen Thorne’s daughter lives after all.”

Mira’s breath caught.

“How do you know that name?” she demanded.

He gave a thin smile. “Because your father stole that map from us.”

Before she could answer, the ship jolted violently. The sea ahead twisted, folding inward like a curtain being drawn. A vast ring of darkness formed on the horizon—a broken circle, its edges shimmering exactly like the mark on the map.

The storm didn’t follow them into it. Instead, the rain peeled away at the boundary, leaving a silent void beyond.

The map’s light intensified until it was almost blinding.

The Wayfarer sailed straight for the circle.

“No…” one of the men whispered, backing away. “We can’t go there.”

“We were never meant to,” said the leader softly. “Only the chosen navigator can cross.”

He looked at Mira.

The ship entered the circle.

For a moment there was nothing—no wind, no rain, no sound at all. Just darkness so complete it felt solid. Mira’s ears rang in the silence. Even the men stopped struggling, as though the void had stolen their will to move.

Then the lantern flared brighter than ever.

Stars ignited overhead.

Strange constellations, swirling slowly across a vast, endless ocean that glowed faintly beneath them. The sea here was calm as glass, reflecting lights that shifted like living things beneath the surface.

The Wayfarer slowed to a gentle glide.

The map in Mira’s hands cooled at last.

Footsteps echoed behind her.

She turned, expecting one of the men.

Instead, a figure stood at the helm that had not been there before.

Tall. Still. Cloaked in shadows that moved like mist.

Mira’s throat tightened. “Who… are you?”

The figure did not turn. Its voice, when it spoke, sounded like wind passing through old sails.

“Navigator confirmed,” it said. “Bloodline of Thorne recognized.”

Mira stepped forward, pulse roaring in her ears. “This is the Wayfarer, isn’t it? The ship my father told me about. The one that can go… anywhere.”

A pause.

Then the figure inclined its head slightly.

“Yes,” it said. “And you, Mira Vale, must now choose its destination.”

The map shifted again in her hands.

The broken circle widened, revealing countless branching paths—seas no cartographer had ever drawn.

Behind her, the stranded men watched in stunned silence.

Ahead of her lay worlds uncharted.

Mira swallowed, staring at the glowing routes.

“Anywhere?” she whispered.

The figure at the helm finally turned just enough for starlight to touch the edge of its face.

“Anywhere,” it repeated.

Mira did not answer immediately.

The map trembled lightly in her hands, its glowing paths shifting like living things. Some curled away into darkness. Others shone brighter, as if sensing her attention. One path in particular pulsed faintly gold, steady and patient, leading deeper into the strange starlit ocean.

Behind her, the men who had chased her stood in uneasy silence. Their confidence had drained away the moment the Wayfarer crossed the broken circle. The calm-voiced leader was the only one who seemed unchanged. He watched the glowing routes with careful focus, as though memorizing them.

“Choose wisely,” he said quietly. “Every sea you see there exists. Every path leads somewhere real.”

Mira tightened her grip on the map. “And if I don’t choose?”

The cloaked figure at the helm answered instead. “Then the Wayfarer will drift,” it said, “until a choice is made… or until another navigator claims it.”

The words settled heavily in her chest.

Another navigator.

She glanced back at the men. The leader met her gaze without flinching.

“You can’t use it,” she said.

He gave a small, humorless smile. “We don’t need to. We only need you.”

Before she could reply, the sea ahead rippled.

At first it looked like a reflection disturbed by wind, but there was no wind here. The glass-smooth surface bulged upward, forming a slow, rising swell of light beneath the water. Shapes moved inside it—huge, indistinct silhouettes gliding beneath the glowing surface.

Mira’s breath caught. “What is that?”

The figure at the helm tilted its head slightly. “The Watchers,” it said. “They dwell in the Sea Between All Seas. They observe those who pass… and remember those who should not.”

The water swelled higher.

One of the men cursed and stumbled back. “We shouldn’t be here,” he muttered. “We were never meant to cross.”

The leader’s voice sharpened. “Quiet.”

But his eyes had darkened.

The swell broke the surface at last—not as a wave, but as a vast, luminous shape rising halfway out of the water. It had no clear form, only a shifting outline like starlight trapped in fog. A single enormous eye opened within it, deep and pale, fixed directly on the deck of the Wayfarer.

On Mira.

Her heart hammered. The map in her hands pulsed once, twice, as if reacting to the creature’s gaze.

The eye narrowed.

A low vibration spread through the ship—not sound, not quite, but something felt in the bones. The sigils in the deck flickered uncertainly, their golden glow dimming at the edges.

“They know,” whispered one of the men, fear cracking his voice. “They know we don’t belong.”

Mira swallowed. “What do they want?”

The cloaked figure answered, voice softer now. “They measure intent. Purpose.”

The great eye shifted slightly, studying the men one by one. Wherever its gaze fell, the air seemed to grow heavier. One of the intruders dropped to his knees, clutching his head as though crushed by invisible pressure.

“Make it stop!” he gasped.

The leader grabbed his shoulder, forcing him upright. “Stand! Don’t show weakness here!”

But when the eye turned back to Mira, the pressure lifted entirely.

The glow around the map steadied, brightening in response. The creature’s outline rippled, and for an instant Mira felt something impossible—recognition. Not of her face, but of something deeper, older.

Her father’s voice echoed faintly in her memory: The Wayfarer doesn’t answer to kings or captains. It answers to the one who knows where to go… and why.

She looked down at the countless branching routes again.

Run and hide? Explore the unknown? Chase the truth her father died protecting?

The golden path pulsed brighter, as if urging her on.

She took a breath. “I choose this one.”

The moment her finger touched the glowing line, the map flared with brilliant light. The sigils across the deck reignited, stronger than before, casting long gold reflections across the still water.

The great eye blinked once.

Then the luminous shape slowly sank back beneath the surface, dissolving into ripples of starlight that faded into calm once more.

The pressure vanished. The men staggered, gasping for breath.

“They’ve accepted it,” Mira said softly, half in disbelief.

“They’ve acknowledged you,” corrected the cloaked figure. “Navigator of the Wayfarer.”

The leader stared at her, something like awe flickering beneath his frustration. “You don’t even know where that path leads.”

“No,” Mira admitted. “But my father did.”

She turned toward the helm. “Take us there.”

The figure placed one shadowed hand upon the wheel.

“As you command,” it said.

The lantern at the prow burned brighter, its blue flame stretching into a long, steady beam that pointed across the glowing sea. The sails filled with a wind that smelled faintly of salt and distant storms. The ship began to glide forward, faster and faster, though the water remained perfectly smooth.

Behind them, the broken circle through which they had entered shrank slowly, fading into nothingness.

The leader stepped closer, his voice low. “Wherever you’re going… you won’t be able to outrun us forever.”

Mira met his gaze calmly. “I don’t need to outrun you.”

She glanced ahead, where the chosen path cut a radiant trail across the endless ocean.

“I just need to reach it first.”

Far ahead, at the edge of sight, something began to rise from the glowing horizon—a dark shape, vast and angular, like the silhouette of a city built upon the sea itself.

The map pulsed warmly in her hands.

And for the first time since the fire in Blacktide Harbor, Mira Vale felt certain of one thing:

Her journey had only just begun.

The dark shape on the horizon did not grow the way land should.

It unfolded.

At first it seemed like a jagged coastline rising from the Sea Between All Seas—spires, towers, steep angles like the ribs of some colossal beast. But as the Wayfarer cut along the golden path, the silhouette shifted, rearranging itself with slow, deliberate motion. Structures leaned, straightened, multiplied.

A city breathing itself into existence, creating something out of nothing.

Mira stood at the bow beneath the lantern, the map steady and warm in her hands. The golden route extended from the parchment into the water like a causeway of light, guiding them unerringly forward.

Behind her, the men who had chased her gathered close together, their earlier boldness replaced with tight silence. Even their leader had stopped issuing threats. His eyes were fixed on the horizon now, wary and calculating. “What is it?” one of them whispered. The cloaked figure at the helm answered without turning. “A crossing point.”.

“For what?” the leader demanded.

“For what lies beyond maps.”

The city’s lower half became visible first—vast stone foundations rising straight out of the luminous sea, unweathered by tide or time. No docks. No harbor. No visible entrances. The towers above were narrow and impossibly tall, their surfaces dark as obsidian yet veined faintly with light that pulsed in slow rhythm.

The Wayfarer did not slow.

Mira’s pulse quickened. “We’re not going to crash, are we?” “No,” said the figure calmly. “The path does not end at walls.” The golden trail led straight toward the city’s center, where the tallest spire split the sky like a needle. Closer now, Mira could see there were no windows in the structures—only smooth surfaces reflecting the starlit sea. The place felt unfinished, like a thought half-formed.

The map shifted in her grip.

The broken circle symbol reappeared faintly in one corner of the parchment. This time it was whole.

A completed ring.

As the Wayfarer crossed an invisible threshold, the water beneath them changed. The glassy surface fractured into geometric patterns of light, like a vast mosaic. The ship passed between two towering structures that leaned inward—but instead of stone scraping hull, the towers dissolved into mist as the ship touched them.

Illusion.

The men staggered as the air grew heavier. “What trickery is this?” one of them hissed. “Not trickery,” Mira said quietly, though she felt small beneath the looming shapes. “A test.” The golden path ended at the base of the central spire.

The ship stopped.

Not with the jolt of anchor or rope—but as though the sea itself had decided that was far enough.

Silence settled over them.

Then the spire began to open.

A vertical seam of light appeared along its surface, widening slowly. Inside was not darkness, but a deep, radiant glow like the heart of a star.

The cloaked figure removed its hand from the wheel.

“Navigator,” it said, turning fully toward her now. Its face was still obscured, but its voice carried something almost like reverence. “You have reached the Archive.”

“The Archive?” Mira echoed.

“The place where unfinished journeys wait.”

Behind her, the leader stepped forward despite himself. “This is what Thorne was searching for,” he murmured. “He believed the Wayfarer wasn’t meant to conquer new lands… but to retrieve something lost.”

Mira’s chest tightened. “Retrieve what?” she asked.

The map answered before anyone else could.

Its surface cleared of all branching paths, all glowing seas. The parchment went blank—then new lines began to etch themselves slowly across it. Not routes this time.

Words.

Coordinates.

And a single name written in careful script:

Arlen Thorne.

Her breath left her in a rush.

“No,” she whispered. “He’s dead.”

But the ink continued to darken, sharpening into clarity.

Status: Unreturned.

The sea beneath the ship trembled faintly.

The spire’s opening widened further, light spilling outward to bathe the deck in pale gold.

The cloaked figure inclined its head. “Your father’s voyage did not end,” it said. “It was interrupted.”

The leader stared at the glowing entrance, hunger flickering in his eyes. “He found it,” he breathed. “He actually found it.”

Mira’s mind raced. If her father had reached this place—if he had crossed into whatever lay beyond that light—

Then the story of his death had been a lie.

Or worse.

The map pulsed once, gently now, no longer urgent but waiting.

Waiting for her.

Behind her stood men who wanted the Wayfarer for themselves.

Before her stood a city that wasn’t there and a doorway into something that defied the sea itself.

Mira Vale folded the map carefully and tucked it inside her jacket.

Then she stepped toward the open spire.

“If my father’s journey was interrupted,” she said steadily, “I think it’s time someone finished it.”

The air changed the moment Mira crossed the threshold.

It wasn’t colder or warmer. It simply felt… denser. Like walking into a memory that hadn’t quite decided whether it was real. The glow inside the spire softened around her, not blinding, but bright enough that shadows had nowhere to hide.

Behind her, the deck of the Wayfarer faded from view as if swallowed by fog.

She stopped and glanced back. The opening through which she’d stepped now looked impossibly far away, a distant slice of starlit sea framed in gold. The men had not followed—yet. She could feel their hesitation even without seeing their faces.

Good, she thought. Let them be unsure for once.

The interior of the spire stretched upward farther than her eyes could follow. It wasn’t hollow, not exactly. Layers of light and structure overlapped in shifting patterns, forming corridors that existed only when she looked directly at them. When she blinked, they rearranged themselves.

The Archive, the cloaked figure had called it.

Unfinished journeys wait here.

Her boots made no sound as she moved forward. The floor wasn’t stone or wood but a smooth, luminous surface that rippled faintly beneath each step, like a reflection solidified just long enough to hold her weight.

She followed the heat.

After a few paces, shapes began to appear along the walls. At first they looked like shadows trapped inside glass. Then the shadows sharpened into scenes—ships caught mid-voyage, explorers frozen at the moment of discovery, storm-tossed vessels paused forever between wave and sky.

Journeys, Mira realized.

Not memories exactly. Records.

One figure in particular caught her eye: a woman standing at the prow of a narrow vessel, staring into a curtain of mist. The scene shifted as Mira passed, revealing the woman stepping forward… and then vanishing as though the world itself had erased her next step.

Interrupted.

Mira swallowed and kept moving.

“Father,” she murmured under her breath. “Where did you go?”

The warmth from the map intensified as she approached the center of the chamber. There, suspended in midair, floated a thin column of light. Inside it, countless faint lines drifted and crossed one another like routes drawn across an invisible ocean.

Some glowed bright and steady.

Others flickered weakly, as if on the verge of fading out.

One line pulsed faint gold.

Her heart stuttered. She knew that glow. It matched the golden path she had chosen on the map.

“That’s his,” she whispered.

As she stepped closer, the column responded. The drifting lines slowed, then separated, making space for the golden thread. It brightened, extending downward until it hovered just above her outstretched hand.

She hesitated.

If this truly was her father’s path… then touching it meant stepping into whatever had taken him.

You wanted answers, she reminded herself. This is the only place you’ll get them.

Mira reached up.

The moment her fingers brushed the golden line, the chamber shattered into motion.

Light surged outward, engulfing her vision. The floor vanished. The walls dissolved. For a terrifying instant she felt as though she were falling—not downward, but sideways through space itself.

Then the light reformed into a new scene.

She stood on the deck of a ship she recognized immediately.

Not the Wayfarer.

Her breath caught. “This is—”

Her childhood memories rushed back: the smell of tar and rope, the creak of familiar planks, the faded carving near the mast she had traced a hundred times as a child.

Her father’s ship.

The sea around it was not the starlit expanse of the Archive but a dark, churning ocean beneath a storm-torn sky. Lightning flashed, revealing a younger Arlen Thorne at the helm, coat whipping in the wind, eyes fixed ahead with fierce determination.

He looked exactly as she remembered him.

Alive.

Mira’s chest tightened painfully. “Dad…”

He didn’t react. Didn’t turn. Didn’t see her.

Of course not. This wasn’t him. It was the moment his journey had been recorded.

A memory, perfectly preserved.

The scene shifted as the ship surged forward. Ahead of it, the sea twisted inward, forming the familiar broken circle of darkness she had crossed aboard the Wayfarer. The storm peeled away at its edges just as it had for her.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Arlen said to someone out of view, voice firm but tired. “If this works, there may not be a way back.”

Another voice answered—low, controlled, and chillingly familiar.

“On the contrary,” said the calm-voiced man. “If this works, we’ll finally have the way through.”

Mira’s blood ran cold.

She spun toward the source of the voice.

There he stood on the deck behind her father—unchanged by time, coat dry despite the storm, eyes sharp and calculating. The same man who now stood aboard the Wayfarer, chasing her across impossible seas.

He had been there that night.

“You…” Mira whispered, though she knew he couldn’t hear her.

The memory-Arlen turned slightly, suspicion in his eyes. “I told you, this path answers to intent. You don’t understand what you’re dealing with.”

“I understand enough,” the man replied smoothly. “You found the Archive. You found the ship. All that remains is for you to open the way.”

Lightning split the sky.

The broken circle widened, pulling at the sea. The ship creaked as though resisting an unseen current.

Arlen’s jaw tightened. “No. I won’t let you turn it into a weapon.”

The man smiled thinly. “You misunderstand. We don’t need the ship. We just need the navigator.”

Mira felt the echo of those same words he had spoken to her only moments ago.

Her stomach twisted.

In the memory, Arlen suddenly moved. He seized something glowing in his hands—the very map Mira now carried—and slammed it against the deck. Golden sigils flared, racing along the planks just like they had on the Wayfarer.

“You’re not taking this path,” Arlen said fiercely. “Not now. Not ever.”

The circle of darkness ahead surged violently. The sea buckled. The ship shuddered as though reality itself had rejected what was happening.

The man’s composure cracked for the first time. “What are you doing?”

“Interrupting the journey,” Arlen answered.

He looked straight ahead—toward the circle, toward the unknown—and for a fleeting, impossible second, Mira felt as though his gaze passed through the memory and met hers.

“Stay away from the Archive,” he said softly, as if speaking across years and worlds. “It’s not finished yet.”

The golden sigils exploded with light.

The scene fractured.

Storm, ship, and sea shattered into drifting fragments that dissolved back into the glowing chamber of the spire. Mira stumbled, catching herself as the floor solidified beneath her feet once more.

Her hands trembled.

He hadn’t died at sea.

He had deliberately broken his own voyage to keep that man from claiming the path.

“Interrupted,” she whispered hoarsely.

The golden line in the column flickered weakly now, as if drained by the memory she had just witnessed.

Not gone.

Waiting.

A slow clap echoed behind her.

Mira spun.

The calm-voiced leader stood at the entrance of the chamber, his men lingering uneasily in the glow behind him. His expression was thoughtful, almost impressed.

“So,” he said, stepping forward, “that’s how he kept it from us.”

Her pulse spiked. “You were there. You caused this.”

“We gave him a choice,” the man corrected calmly. “He chose to sabotage the only true passage beyond the mapped seas.” His gaze shifted to the fading golden thread. “And now, his daughter stands where he refused to go.”

Mira moved instinctively to place herself between him and the column of light.

“You’re not touching it,” she said.

His smile returned, thin and patient. “Oh, I won’t need to. You will.”

Behind him, the chamber’s floating lines began to flicker, reacting to his presence. Several dimmed noticeably, their glow wavering as though disturbed by an unwelcome current.

“The Archive records unfinished journeys,” he continued. “But it also allows them to be resumed. Completed.” His eyes locked onto hers. “All you have to do… is finish the path he broke.”

Mira’s mind raced. If she did, she might find him. Learn where he’d gone. Learn why he had risked everything to stop this man.

But she would also be opening the way he had tried so desperately to seal.

Her father had interrupted the journey for a reason.

The golden thread flickered again, faint but stubborn.

Waiting for her decision.

Mira drew a slow breath, steadying the storm inside her chest.

“I’m not finishing it for you,” she said quietly.

The man’s expression hardened just a fraction. “You misunderstand. This isn’t about me anymore.” He gestured to the fading line. “If you don’t complete it, that path will collapse entirely. Your father’s journey will be lost forever.”

The words struck like a blade.

Lost forever.

Mira looked at the trembling thread of gold, then at the memory of her father’s determined face still burning in her mind.

Finish the path… and risk unleashing whatever he feared.

Refuse… and abandon him to an unfinished voyage that might never be recovered.

Her fingers curled into fists.

“This is what he was protecting,” she said slowly. “Not just the path. The choice.”

The chamber hummed softly, as though acknowledging the truth in her words.

The man watched her closely. “Then choose, Navigator,” he said. “End his journey… or continue it.”

The golden line pulsed weakly once more, hovering just within reach.