The clock in the Hall of Echoes didn't tick.
It breathed.
Deep, slow inhales every twelve hours—stone lungs pulling time through veins of obsidian. Lysander stood before it, barefoot on marble so cold it burned. His robe, woven from centuries-old silence, dragged behind him like a ghost unwilling to leave.
Outside, the world teetered.
He knew. They all did.
Victoria's virus had stalled. Aria's shield held. The Reset Engine—his life's work—had failed its first ignition. But it could be reignited. Would be. By dawn tomorrow, if he gave the word.
And yet… he hadn't.
His fingers traced the edge of the Chrono-Tablet, smooth as river stone, warm with dormant power. One press. That's all it took. One press, and reality would rewind to the morning before the First Echo stirred. Before hybrids. Before fractures. Before Luna.
Before her.
A memory surfaced—not summoned, just rising, like mist off old water.
Her name was Elira.
