The place was not part of the Tower.
It was beneath it. Beside it. Outside it.
A space the Choir had carved from the structure's seams long ago, where the rhythm of the world couldn't reach.
Here, no pulse echoed.
Only intention.
Four figures stood in a circle, their faces hidden by masks of varying shape and design.
The Fifth Voice—a hunched figure draped in null-thread robes—knelt in the center, staring into a spiraling mirror of broken tempo fragments.
"She beat Lira," the Fifth Voice whispered. "She destroyed the Echoform."
The Third Voice, whose mask had no eyes, turned slightly.
"As expected. The Vanguard has matured."
The Second Voice folded their arms. Their tone was dry. "Renic's failure was loud. Lira's loss, deafening. We must now act."
The First Voice had not spoken yet.
They hovered above the others, taller, stiller—neither male nor female, neither light nor dark.
They spoke with no sound, but the others heard it clearly.
