Tareth Veyl did not wake.
He returned.
Pain arrived first—dull, pervasive, threaded through muscle and bone like a reminder that his body had not been consulted during his decision. Breath followed, ragged and uneven, scraping its way back into his chest.
Stone pressed against his cheek.
Cold.
Real.
The Deep Galleries had settled into a tense stillness, as if the corridors themselves were holding their breath, unsure whether they were allowed to continue existing in their current configuration.
The sword lay where it had fallen.
Ordinary.
That terrified him more than any humming ever had.
He tried to move.
His left arm responded sluggishly. His right did not respond at all.
A shadow shifted at the edge of his vision.
Not one of the Failed.
This one cast a consistent outline.
"You survived," a voice said calmly. Female. Controlled. Unfamiliar.
Tareth forced his eye open.
A Kaelvar Inquisitor stood over him, armor lacquered in matte black, sigils of authority etched shallow enough to be erased if necessary. Her blade remained sheathed—not out of mercy, but because she had already decided she did not need it yet.
"Barely," Tareth rasped.
She crouched, eyes flicking briefly to the sword, then back to him. "You destabilized three lower strata, triggered two legacy failsafes, and caused a resonance spike detectable as far as Myrr airspace."
A pause.
"Explain."
Tareth laughed weakly. It hurt. "You wouldn't like the answer."
The Inquisitor's expression did not change. "I rarely do."
She gestured, and two figures emerged from the corridor behind her—Kaelvar technicians, faces pale, movements precise. They did not look at Tareth. They looked at the walls. At the scars that hadn't been there before.
"At present," the Inquisitor continued, "Ironreach is experiencing localized spatial inconsistency, weapon desynchronization, and what Myrr diplomatically describes as 'ontological irritation.'"
Her gaze sharpened. "Did you finish what you started?"
Tareth swallowed. "No."
That, finally, earned a reaction.
A slight tightening around her eyes.
"That's worse," she said.
Above them, Ironreach bled.
Not metaphorically.
Hairline fractures ran through the black stone towers, leaking pale qi-light that flickered erratically. Swordmasters found their blades sluggish, over-responsive, or—most alarming—hesitant. Forms misaligned by fractions that ruined centuries of refinement.
Correction failed.
Deviation multiplied.
The system was not collapsing.
It was desynchronizing.
In House Myrr, Sereth Nael stood before a council that had run out of language.
"The edge has been interrupted," she said. "Not reclaimed. Not sealed. Interrupted."
One archmage slammed a hand onto the table. "That's not a state!"
"It is now," Sereth replied flatly. "Which means causality is fraying around points of division. Borders. Contracts. Spell boundaries. Bloodlines."
She activated another projection.
Vaalbara shimmered—fault-lines branching outward from Ironreach like stress fractures in glass.
"And demons?" someone asked.
Sereth's mouth tightened. "They thrive in misinterpretation."
As if summoned by the word, the western horizon darkened.
In the Demon Realm, the ancient entity paced.
Not physically.
Conceptually.
"You chose chaos," it snarled, watching the fractures spread. "Not freedom. Chaos favors me."
Around it, warlords mobilized. Not to invade—not yet—but to prepare narratives. To position themselves where reality would be most confused.
Contracts were sharpened. Names were weighed.
The ancient thing smiled again, thinner this time. "Very well, little bearer. If you won't finish the cut… we'll tear instead."
Back in the Deep Galleries, the Inquisitor straightened.
"You will come with us," she said. "You are too dangerous to leave unattended—and too valuable to kill."
Tareth closed his eye.
"And the sword?" he asked.
The Inquisitor looked at it again, longer this time.
"That," she said carefully, "is no longer classified as a weapon."
She nodded to a technician. "Isolate it."
As they moved to comply, the sword ticked.
Once.
Soft.
Metallic.
The sound of something restarting improperly.
The Inquisitor's hand dropped to her hilt.
Tareth felt it too—a faint pull, not alignment, not correction.
Expectation.
Somewhere deep beneath Vaalbara, the interrupted edge shifted again.
Not awakening.
Not sleeping.
Learning.
And systems, as Tareth Veyl now understood, bled slowly—but when they bled, they attracted predators who had been waiting a very long time for the scent.