Kael's eyes were no longer Kael's.
They were mirrors—reflecting nothing and everything, rimmed with faint quill marks that glowed with each heartbeat. His smile was serene, too clean, like an actor who forgot how to cry.
Lyra stared at him, a coldness flooding her chest.
"Kael," she whispered. "Come back."
He tilted his head.
"I never left," he said. "You did."
Behind her, Aelira grunted, trying to stand. Her body was solid again, but her soul still flickered—like her presence was constantly being reviewed by an invisible editor.
Lyra stepped in front of her protectively. "Don't touch her."
The Revision's ink-laced form hovered beside Kael now, its head twitching, fingers already rewriting the air in red slashes.
"Correction in progress," it muttered. "Stability required. Plot integrity: 36% and falling."
Then Kael lifted his hand.
Reality split.
At first it felt like wind.Then like nausea.Then like memories being yanked out by their roots.
