…his voice like gravel soaked in ash. "You said the sixth was nameless. That they left. That they died."
Casper smiles. But it is not a smile of warmth or regret—it is a fracture. A crack in the mask he has worn for lifetimes. "They did. And then I wore them like a coat."
The ritual room pulses, not with light but with judgment. The runes carved into the floor throb like infected wounds. Time doesn't pass here—it loops. Bleeds. Watches.
Zixuan's threads recoil from Casper, trembling like birds sensing a storm. "You used us."
"I needed you," he corrects, softly. "To believe. To anchor me in the Fold. Without you, the spell wouldn't hold. But with you… I became constant. The one fixed point around which all deviation could orbit."
Cecilion's fists tremble. "So the Fold was never about protection. It was a monument. A mausoleum for a version of you that couldn't die."
