We went down at first light.
No speech. No last look back at the seven towers. The pale grass ended in a clean line, and after that there was only the white cut, wide enough for two to walk abreast and steep enough that the body had to commit to every step. The Last seed sat in me as one current now, not six separate gifts. Breath made the thickening air usable. Bone kept my footing hard. Echoes told me where the walls were false. Blood kept the group from draining as fast as the Wound seemed to want. Sight made the white too clear. Names made every person beside me feel exact.
Elizabeth walked on my right. Vale took the left. Orin came just behind with the last incomplete map folded unused in her hand. The rest of the core followed in the same tight order we had used since the outer stair. No one talked for a long time. The cut did not echo like the blue tower. Sound went into the white and did not come back.
The first change was the light.
