"If all paths lead forward, but one path erases the memory of why you began, which path preserves the journey?"
Silence fell.
Michael's eyes narrowed instantly.
Rynne frowned.
"A journey isn't measured by distance," she said. "It's measured by continuity. If you forget why you started, you didn't preserve anything."
For a brief moment, the symbols trembled.
Then they realigned.
"Answer accepted."
A soft tone echoed.
"One of four confirmed."
"Question two."
The voice paused.
"What is heavier."
Michael blinked.
Rynne stiffened.
The question continued.
"A mountain.
Or a name you can no longer call."
There was no mention of materials. No rules. No hidden mechanisms.
Just words.
Michael felt something shift in his chest before his mind even finished processing it.
He did not answer immediately.
Neither did Rynne.
Because the answer was obvious.
And because obvious answers were often the most dangerous.
Rynne was the one who spoke this time.
