Back at the Academy, the Codex had started rewriting itself.
I found Valmira buried in the Archives, hair unbound, candles burned to stubs around her.
"The book isn’t a record anymore," she said without looking up. "It’s a prophecy."
"A prophecy?" I asked.
She nodded. "Of you."
She opened the Codex to a page I hadn’t written—yet there it was, in my handwriting.
It described the sky splitting, the golden figure, the words I hadn’t spoken but somehow would.
"The Architect will stand at the Gate of Origin," Valmira read aloud, "and he will either burn the world to reset it—or tear the threads and let it unravel."
My throat dried. "Neither option sounds... great."
Valmira’s voice softened. "Then write your own ending."
I looked at the page again. At the blank space beneath those terrible choices.
And I pulled out my pen.