Veyr did not move closer.
That alone made Lyra uneasy.
People who wanted something usually closed distance. They pressured, crowded, reached. Veyr remained exactly where he were, balanced at the edge of the fractured stone like a thought that hadn't yet decided to become real.
Recruiters were always more dangerous than hunters.
"Explain," Lyra said, keeping her voice steady. "Now."
Veyr inclined his head, amused. "Straight to business. I like you already."
Kael stepped half a pace forward, blade still sheathed but ready. "You'll explain to me first."
Veyr laughed softly. "Still pretending you're in charge, Unbound Blade?"
Kael's hand tightened on the hilt. "Still pretending you're alive?"
The air between them crackled.
Lyra raised a hand sharply. "Enough. If you came for me, you talk to me."
Veyr's attention shifted fully to her. Even behind the mask, she felt the weight of his gaze—measuring, dissecting, enjoying every second.
"As you wish, Bearer-Who-Refused," Veyr said. "The short version? You broke the certainty engine that keeps reality tidy."
Lyra crossed her arms. "That sounds like propaganda."
"Oh, it absolutely is," Veyr agreed cheerfully. "But it's also true."
He gestured, and the air beside them split open—not violently, but cleanly, like a page being turned. Inside the tear, Lyra glimpsed flashes of other places.
A city floating upside down.
A forest growing through a battlefield.
A crown melting into gold dust in someone's hands.
"The Heart isn't a god," Veyr continued. "It's a regulator. A very old, very arrogant one. When worlds drift too far from their original design, it intervenes. Resets. Rewrites."
Lyra's stomach twisted. "And the people?"
Veyr shrugged. "Acceptable losses. Statistics don't scream."
Kael's voice was ice. "You profit from this."
Veyr spread his hands. "Someone has to operate in the gaps. Smugglers. Salvagers. Archivists of the discarded."
Lyra's gaze dropped to the fracture symbol pulsing on the map. "The cracks."
"Yes," Veyr said softly. "And you made the biggest one in centuries."
The map flared again, lines jittering, unable to settle.
Kael turned to Lyra. "You don't listen to them. Their kind thrives on collapse."
Veyr chuckled. "Says the man who survived one."
Lyra looked between them. "You said recruit. For what?"
Veyr stepped forward at last. The fractured air rippled under his boots.
"For balance," he said. "Or chaos. Depends on perspective."
Veyr reached into his cloak and withdrew a small crystalline object—jagged, dark, and wrong in a way Lyra felt immediately.
"This is a shard from a failed rewrite," Veyr explained. "A world the Heart tried to fix and… overcorrected."
Lyra flinched as it pulsed. "Why show me that?"
"Because it responds to you," Veyr said simply.
The shard vibrated in his palm, light crawling across its surface like nervous veins.
Kael swore. "Put that away."
Veyr ignored him. "You don't just carry the map, Lyra. You destabilize systems that rely on obedience. That makes you rare."
Lyra clenched her fists. "I don't want to destabilize anything. I just want people to stop getting erased."
Veyr's voice softened. "Exactly."
Silence fell.
The wind tugged at Lyra's hair, cold and insistent. She thought of the statues in the Prism Spire. The frozen terror. The cost of certainty.
"What's the job?" she asked.
Kael spun toward her. "Lyra."
"I'm not agreeing," she said quickly. "I'm listening."
Veyr smiled beneath the mask. "There's a fracture forming in the east. A convergence point. Three timelines grinding against each other."
Lyra's heart skipped. "What happens if they collide?"
"Best case?" Veyr said. "Localized collapse. Worst case? The Heart notices and performs a correction large enough to erase a continent."
Kael's jaw tightened. "And you want her to walk into that?"
"Yes," Veyr said calmly. "Because the Heart can't predict her. And the cracks listen to her."
Lyra swallowed. "Why not you?"
Veyr tilted his head. "Because if I get involved directly, the Heart will track me in seconds. I exist because I stay… adjacent."
Kael scoffed. "Coward."
"Survivor," Veyr corrected pleasantly.
The shard in Veyr's hand pulsed brighter, then fractured cleanly in two.
The air shuddered.
Far away, something screamed.
Lyra staggered as a surge of sensation washed through her—heat, cold, gravity twisting sideways. She grabbed Kael's arm, breath coming fast.
"What was that?" she gasped.
Veyr looked almost impressed. "The fracture just widened. You felt it because you're already attuned."
Lyra forced herself to stand straight. "You're not giving me much choice."
Veyr shrugged. "Choice is messy. The Heart hates it. That's why you matter."
Kael turned fully toward Lyra now, his expression fierce and protective. "If you do this, you don't do it alone."
Veyr laughed. "I wouldn't dream of separating you two. You're… narratively inconvenient."
Lyra blinked. "Is that a joke?"
"Yes," Veyr said. "And a warning."
The fracture symbol on the map rearranged itself, forming a new path—jagged, unstable, glowing faintly eastward.
Lyra stared at it, heart pounding.
She looked up at Veyr. "If we say no?"
Veyr spread his hands. "Then the Heart eventually notices the fracture and erases it. Along with everyone nearby."
Kael exhaled sharply. "Blackmail."
"Reality," Veyr replied.
Lyra closed her eyes for a moment.
When she opened them, fear was still there—but so was something harder.
Resolve.
"Show us the way," she said.
Veyr bowed deeply. "Welcome to the wrong side of history."
The fractured air split open again, forming a narrow passage glowing with unstable light.
As Lyra stepped toward it, the map pulsed once—uncertain, excited, afraid.
Behind them, the Glass Expanse sighed.
Ahead of them, the world began to crack.
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