The golden thread held.
It was a fragile, unwavering constant in the oppressive dark, a filament of sanctity that carved a narrow path through the ancient, hungry shadows. My hand, extended before me, trembled with the effort of sustaining it. The spark in my core was a single, glowing ember buried deep in ash, and each second the beam flowed from my palm was a delicate negotiation with exhaustion. I was feeding the light not with power—there was no power left—but with sheer, desperate will. The ember dimmed, flickered, and refused to die. It was enough.
