Cain exhaled slowly.

"So. Another nightmare."

His brother didn't answer right away. He braced a hand against his thigh and pushed himself up, trembling from exhaustion and the lingering burns crawling across his skin.

"This isn't a realm," he managed.

Cain raised an eyebrow. "Looks real enough."

"It's between realms. A hinge. A buffer." The man looked around, eyes narrowing. "We're too close to the Divide. Reality is thin here."

Cain tapped the ground with the heel of his boot. It held—solid but strangely hollow. Every sound echoed. Even their breathing sounded layered, like faint whispers followed milliseconds later by delayed copies.

"Feels wrong," Cain muttered.

His brother nodded. "Because this space was never meant to hold people. Only transitions."

Cain frowned. "Transitions to what?"

The man didn't respond.

Instead, he squinted into the air as if following a scent only he could detect. His steps dragged, uneven. Cain moved closer, ready to catch him if he fell.

"Talk to me," Cain said, straightening. "What's out here?"

"Possibilities," his brother murmured. "Paths. Memories. Threads that tie one existence to another. This place is built from remnants of choices."

Cain stared. "Say that again, but like someone who isn't delirious."

His brother pointed weakly toward the expanse. "Stories that never happened. Stories that happened once and were erased. Alternatives. Lost futures."

Cain fought the urge to curse. "You brought us into a graveyard of realities?"

"I didn't bring us here. The Divide did." His brother managed a tight smile. "And we're still alive, which means something responded to your lantern."

Cain looked down at it.

The lantern's flame burned with steady intensity—no longer frantic, restless, or fluctuating. Almost… calm. As if it recognized the place.

He didn't like that.

"We keep moving," Cain said. "Standing still made the forest try to eat us. I'm not letting this place get ideas."

His brother gave a faint snort—amused despite himself. "Fair enough."

They started walking.

At first, the terrain stayed consistent—flat stone, faint cracks, the swirling sky above. But as they progressed, the ground changed beneath their steps. Shapes etched themselves across the stone. Not natural patterns—symbols. Marks carved by hand or claw or something else entirely.

Cain slowed.

The designs stretched outward in enormous concentric circles, each one filled with runes that pulsed faintly in response to the lantern's light.

His brother inhaled sharply. "Wait."

Cain stopped immediately, scanning the surroundings again.

"What is it?"

"These marks… I recognize the structure." His brother knelt, touching one of the lines. "This is a seal. An old one."

Cain's jaw tightened. "Let me guess. We stepped in the middle of it."

"Yes."

"And something's locked inside?"

"Not locked," his brother said. "Held. Contained. Redirected."

Cain kept his voice steady. "That sounds incredibly vague and incredibly dangerous."

His brother rose without answering.

The runes nearest the lantern flared brighter.

Cain tightened his grip. "What did I do?"

"It's not you," his brother whispered. "It's what you're carrying."

The stone trembled.

Not an earthquake—more like a pulse beneath the surface, a heartbeat echoing through the ground.

Cain stepped back. "Okay. Enough of this. Lantern stays sealed."

His brother shook his head. "The seal is reacting to its presence whether you open it or not."

"Fantastic."

The tremor returned—stronger.

Cain's instincts roared a warning.

"Move," Cain said. "Now."

They backed away from the center of the circle.

But the ground didn't rupture. Instead, the symbols slowly rearranged themselves—lines sliding across the stone as if the entire plain were alive and adjusting its own skin.

Cain's brother stared in disbelief.

"It's rewriting itself."

Cain turned sharply. "For us?"

"For you," his brother corrected. "The lantern holds a form of authority here. Something old recognizes the flame."

The runes rearranged until they formed a singular spiral—tight, dense, glowing with rising heat.

A voice rose from beneath the stone.

Not the Fallen's voice.

Not a whisper or a roar.

Something ancient.

Neutral.

Observant.

"Bearer."

Cain froze.

His brother paled. "He shouldn't be able to speak here."

Cain ignored him. "Who are you?"

Silence stretched—heavy, deliberate.

Then:

"Return the key."

Cain felt the lantern pulse.

It wasn't just reacting to the voice. It was answering.

His brother stepped between him and the spiral. "He can't take it. He can't reach it. This place doesn't allow direct action."

Cain narrowed his eyes. "Define 'direct.'"

"Manifestation," his brother said. "Presence. Force. He can speak, nothing more."

Cain thought for a moment. "So he's stuck as a voice in the basement."

His brother shot him a look. "Do not antagonize entities older than stars."

Too late.

The ground shuddered again—not violently, just enough to make the air thrum.

"Your defiance obstructs the path."

Cain bristled. "I don't answer to you."

His brother grabbed his arm. "Cain—"

Cain pulled away. "I'm done being pushed around by voices in burning rooms and trees with opinions."

The spiral glowed hot enough to distort the air.

"Return what was stolen."

Cain snapped. "Nothing was stolen! I freed my brother!"

Silence.

Then:

"The flame was not meant for you."

Cain clenched his jaw. "Then why does it follow me?"

"That is the question you are not prepared to face."

Cain took a step forward. "Try me."

The entire plain flickered—just once—but enough to make Cain's balance wobble.

His brother yanked him back. "You don't challenge a seal, Cain. Ever."

Cain gritted his teeth. "He keeps speaking like I owe him something."

"You do," his brother said quietly. "You owe him an explanation you don't have."

"And if I don't give it?"

"The Divide will decide."

Cain exhaled sharply. "Can the Divide talk? Because everything else does."

His brother didn't laugh.

Instead, he looked toward the swirling sky.

"It can't talk," he whispered. "But it can respond."

Cain's stomach sank. "Meaning?"

"This realm isn't static. It reacts to conflict." His brother pointed at the shifting horizon. "And you're causing conflict."

Cain followed his gaze.

The swirling sky tightened.

Compressed.

Pulled inward.

The distant blur of the plains wasn't distant anymore.

The entire realm was collapsing toward them—slowly but unmistakably—as if reality itself were folding inward like paper drawn to a flame.

Cain stared. "I'm doing that?"

"No," his brother said grimly. "Your refusal is."

Cain gripped the lantern.

The flame inside flickered—like it was watching the world close around them.

His brother steadied himself.

"We need to move. Now."

Cain nodded.

They ran.

Behind them, the spiral kept glowing, the ancient voice whispering one last time:

"There is no running from what you carry."

Cain didn't look back.

He kept running until the collapsing sky roared over them.

And the Divide broke open again.