Die. Respawn. Repeat.

Fyran's Truth was that of Inevitability. He was like the coming of the tides, a force of nature unto itself; when that Truth filtered through his deepened core and into his skills, he became something more than he'd ever dreamed he could be.

Perhaps the greatest gift this state of being offered was the assurance that he would see his daughter again. It didn't tell him how—he had no ability to see the future. He only knew that it would be, in much the same way he knew Ethan and his friends would soon return to their time.

It wouldn't last forever. This was a product of his phase shift combined with his deepened core, and it was a temporary state at best. He would be able to activate it again in the future if it was needed, though, so that was handy.

Fyran was rather glad this wasn't a permanent state of things. As convenient and confidence-boosting as it was to be able to see the lines of events written into the world, he still liked surprises.

The world seemed to freeze when he emerged from the waterfall, steam exploding outward. Ahkelios, Gheraa, and Guard were the only ones that seemed immune to it—they all turned to greet him, as if to ask what took you so long? Fyran almost laughed. No surprise, really, that Ethan's companions would be used to such impossibilities.

Soul of Trade, however, was not. She stared at him and froze, her entire body shuddering in some mixture of realization, revulsion, and regret.

Fyran felt bad for her. The flames of his Firestep surrounded her and took on a sickly yellow-green hue, a reflection of her internal torment; he could see now that she hadn't wanted to do all this. It didn't excuse any of her actions, and he was still very much angry, but...

Well, it was hard to stay angry, seeing her like this. Pity was perhaps a better word. She'd been reduced to feral instinct, even as what little remained of her fought to free itself.

"It's a skill," the Integrator told him. It took Fyran a moment to remember his name. He was still a little nonplussed by the fact that Ethan apparently had an Integrator working with him, apparently against the rest of the Integrators.

It was easier to trust him now, though. He could see the inevitability of Gheraa's turn against his people just as much as he could see the magnetism that had drawn him to Ethan's side.

In fact, it was interesting how many lines of inevitability he could see leading toward Ethan. They were more opaque to him, but there was one in particular that looked like a massive crack in time...

"What kind of skill would do this?" Fyran asked, forcing himself to focus on the problem at hand. Distractions were all too easy when there was so much he could see.

"A broken one," Gheraa responded grimly. "I don't know what she did, but that skill doesn't belong to her. It's stuck inside her core and going haywire. It's almost like she's part..."

The Integrator shook his head and muttered something about an Abstraction. Fyran eyed him curiously.

No matter. Soul of Trade wasn't a threat in this state—not really. He watched as she roared at the fire surrounding her, then flinched back from it; metal peeled from stone as she did, like a separate entity trying to pull itself away. Long tendrils lashed against the nearby wall, sending cracks through the foundations of stone around them.

All without direction or intent. The biggest threat Soul of Trade posed now was to the citizens of Inveria, and he was glad to see that most of them had evacuated the immediate vicinity.

"How do we stop her?" he asked.

"We can't kill her," Gheraa answered immediately. "Or at least, we shouldn't. There's a good chance her core explodes if we do. We need to find a way to extract that skill from her, but that skill is strongly tied to..."

The Integrator grimaced. Fyran tilted his head.

"To me," he said.

"Yes."

"Which means I can remove it," Fyran said. He eyed Soul of Trade. Many of the skills he'd gained revolved around the destructive capacity of his fire; he didn't know if any of them were particularly suited for extraction. Perhaps if he rolled for a skill now having just identified his Truth...

"I think," Gheraa said, and then he hesitated. Fyran glanced at him. "I think the skill is pretty tightly bound to all that metal. If you can just pull all of it off, it might be enough to deactivate the skill. As long as you're the one doing it, I mean."

Fyran thought about this for a moment. He did have a skill he could use.

Flickerstorm.

A dozen embers burst into being above Soul of Trade, who immediately swiped at them, enraged by their presence; tendrils of stone and steel lashed out from her shell, trying to cut them apart. It didn't work, of course. His flickerforms were ethereal things, targets that weren't real.

Until they were.

He danced between them, taking the place of one ember, then the next. Spears of fire formed in his hands, and he took careful aim before throwing each one; every time, they struck true, slamming into a chunk of separated metal and dragging them off Soul of Trade's form.

He was glad to see that Ethan's team knew not to interfere. Not only because this was a delicate skill to use, but because...

Well, he could feel the tides dragging them back already.

He would miss them, he thought. He hoped he'd get the chance to see them again soon.

When he was done, Gheraa and the others were gone. Soul of Trade stood as a single being of scorched stone, staring at her own trembling hands.

Fyran allowed Flickerstorm to fade and took a few steps toward her. Soul of Trade flinched at his approach, but he paid it no mind. "We should talk," he said instead.

Soul of Trade hesitated, and Fyran wondered if he would have to convince her this was necessary.

He didn't. She recognized what he'd done. Instead, she gave him a reluctant nod.

"I have an office nearby," she said. Fyran shook his head.

"We will speak at a place of my choosing," he said. He turned and began to walk. "Let's go."

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

I'm pulled out of my trance by the sensation of falling.

It's disconcerting—for a moment I think I'm waking up from a dream, only for me to realize that I am, in fact, just falling. There's not much I can make out around me; everything is surprisingly dark, which is worrying considering how much light there was only moments ago.

I hit the ground with enough force to bounce, roll a few feet, and then splash into a pool of water and come out sputtering. It doesn't hurt, but it's enough to jolt me fully back into the present. The work I was doing on my core fades into the background. Thankfully, everything essential is more or less complete, and while I could improve on the connection still, it's something I can work on in the moments I have to spare.

"Uh," Ahkelios calls. 'What just happened?"

He's a few feet away from me, also in near-perfect darkness. The only source of light is Guard, who glows with his traditional prismatic light. Without the lighting of the cavern, though, he just looks a little like he's just lines of Firmament surrounding a glowing core. Almost like a glowing skeleton.

I have the brief, absurd thought that he'd be a hit during Halloween. Then I shake it off and focus on the question.

"I think we're back in our own time," I say, frowning. I try to look around, but even the small amount of light Guard is producing seems to get absorbed into the darkness far quicker than it should. "That was kind of sudden."

"No kidding," Gheraa complains. "Things were just getting good!"

"Ethan," Guard says. I pause at his tone—there's no humor in it, just a deep worry that borders on fear. "Where are we?"

"I don't... know," I say carefully. The only reason for that tone would be if he knows exactly where we are, and I'm starting to have an inkling of where that is.

I'd assumed initially that we were back in the Fracture, but this doesn't feel like the Fracture. There isn't the same concentration of Temporal Firmament here, for one thing.

"I cannot be sure," Guard says. "But positional sensors indicate—"

Gheraa chooses this moment to create a giant ball of light with his Firmament. Even with him trying to create light, something about the air around us continues absorbing most of that light; the miniature sun he creates shrinks into something that's closer to a single mote of light that illuminates the small island of rubble we're on.

Even that is more than enough for me to understand where we are and what Guard is about to say.

"—that we are in Inveria," Guard finishes quietly.

I pull the mote of light from Gheraa, who makes a small, cursory noise of protest; I pay him no mind and instead funnel my own power into it. I can feel the air trying to draw away that power, but a basic application of Firmament Control prevents it, and with it, I create enough light to throw the entire cavern into sharp relief.

This is Inveria's central chamber. The massive cavern that once held an ocean above and a beautiful garden below, along with what was basically an entire city worth of streets, buildings, and homes. I can see the shattered remnants of metal sculptures that used to represent trees and undergrowth, though that metal's now wilted and covered in rust.

There are entire buildings covered in the slag of what appears to be molten metal, ruined and half-sunk into the water. There are remnants of street stalls floating around, rotten wood and torn fabric scattered on the surface. All six of the major tunnels leading here are sealed tight, preventing the water from escaping.

Far, far above, small crystals of Firmament glitter, barely noticeable now by the light I'm creating. The jagged remnants of ruined stone in the ceiling lead to a pile of rubble down below, with who knows how many once-beautiful towers now crushed beneath.

"What... happened?" Ahkelios asks, his voice small.

"The ceiling collapsed," I say, still trying to process what happened here.

"I know that," Ahkelios says, sounding indignant. "But—what happened? We saved Fyran! Why—did we cause this?"

"No," Guard says. I glance at him. He looks just as struck as the rest of us, but there's a light of realization in his eyes. "Soul of Trade has been secretive about the status of her Great City, and she does not allow travel to the central cavern. This must be why."

"But... you said Inveria holds annual competitions." Ahkelios looks distraught. "For painting."

"I did." Guard reaches over to pick up a piece of rubble, and I realize after a moment why everything is so dark—the rubble has a remnant of paint on it. Whatever happened here, though, that paint no longer emits light. Instead, it draws on the light and Firmament around it, trying to fuel itself and yet unable to create a spark of its own. "They do not hold those competitions during the Trials. What I do not understand is when this happened. Or how this happened. Inveria was intact during Fyran's Trial."

"I think I do," I say quietly. Gheraa watches me, guilt lingering in his eyes; he knows the realization I'm about to make, I think. It's likely something he's known this whole time.

The Trial has permanent consequences, despite the loops. We've seen it even within my own loops—permanent damage as a result of the raids triggered by the Interface. I've beaten the raids each time they've happened, but...

Failure to complete the raid will wipe the Cliffside Crows from the map.

How many failures have there been through 306 other Trials?

Every Great City I've been to has seen some damage. Isthanok's great citadel-shards are shattered, and some have outright fallen to crush parts of the city beneath them. Carusath's buildings are welded together with Firmament, large scars running through them like they're barely held together.

And now there's this. The heart of Inveria, broken. The ceiling collapsed, crushing the city beneath with the weight of an ocean.

No one speaks when I voice my thoughts. There's a long silence as we stare at the ruined remains of the city, contemplating what was lost.

"We didn't do this?" Ahkelios asks again, like he needs to be sure. Truth be told, I don't know that for a fact. I don't know what impact we had, going into the past like that. I don't even know why that hole in time was there. Fyran was strong, but I don't know if he was strong enough to create that anomaly.

"I don't think so," I say quietly. "But there's only one way to be sure."

There's a presence racing toward us. It's both familiar and foreign, and it cuts through the water with a hiss of steam. I know what to expect, but it doesn't make it hurt any less when I turn and see the Interface's tag for the bright-blue sharklike creature of pure flame launching itself into the air with a spray of steam.

[Icon of Lost Hopes (Rank S)]

Not a threat, but...

Temporal Link.

A vision cuts into my skull even as the monster screeches and collapses back into the water. I see Fyran shouting at Soul of Trade in the first moments of his encounter—the one we'd interfered with.

Except in the vision, there's no version of me to interfere. The intensity of Fyran's phase shift nearly blasts the memory apart. I catch barely a glimpse of the monster that forms afterward, a Trialgoer with a twisted core that wants only to inflict pain.

"No," I say, my voice tight. The water bubbles where the Icon resides, held beneath the surface by a tight winding of my Chromatic Strings. "It wasn't us."

"Then... what did we do?" Ahkelios asks, sounding a little lost. "Did we help at all?"

"I don't know." I pull the Icon back to the surface to look at it—it bears some similarities to Fyran, but only just. More in substance than anything else. There's no recognition in its eyes, only violence. "I hope we did. I hope it meant something."

It may be a mercy to end this Remnant. It's not a reflection of who Fyran truly was. Power coalesces into my hands—

"Stop!"

A voice calls out across the cavern. I pause, frowning, and turn towards the sound. Then I narrow my eyes.

That's... Soul of Trade. But she seems old, somehow. Weaker than I remember her being.

"Stop," she says. She sounds older, too. "Please."

I glance at the others. All of them are tense, but Soul of Trade... something about her just seems broken.

"You're the Trialgoer of this cycle, yes?" she asks. "Let's talk."

Interestingly enough, the Remnant has stopped struggling. I glance at it for a moment, then carefully place it back into the water; it races off instantly, suddenly uninterested in fighting me.

Strange. I turn my gaze back to Soul of Trade.

"Alright," I say. "I'm listening."