By midday, they were halfway to the edge of the Lower Belt, past the old aqueducts and rust fields. Few people lived out here — too close to the faultlines, too far from the city's protected wards. Even the pigeons seemed to avoid it.
"This part of the city wasn't on the maps," Ilia said, shielding her eyes from the glare. "But I recognize the shape of the arches."
"You saw them in the vision?" Rien asked.
"I stood under them," she said. "When I was her."
They passed a row of headless statues, worn smooth by wind. On the wall behind them, faint symbols had been scratched through layers of soot — glyphs that shimmered when Ilia blinked.
Not illusion. Not quite memory. Something in between.
The further they walked, the more the world began to shift. Air thinned. Light darkened. The laws of distance bent just slightly, like walking through oil.
And then they found it.
A ruined plaza, sunken at the center. Half its stones were blackened with old fire. The smell of scorched jasmine still lingered — not faintly, but as if the flames had just gone out.
Ilia stepped down the broken steps, her heart racing.
"This is it," she whispered. "This was the place. The last stand. The seal."
The pedestal was still there — or what remained of it. A shattered marble column, and on it, a deep crack that pulsed with faint heat. Something below was still awake.
Rien crouched to examine the base. "Looks like someone already tried to break through."
Ilia stepped closer — and felt it again. Not memory. Not even vision. Recognition.
But before she could say anything, a voice echoed from the far side of the plaza.
"Well. I never thought I'd see you again."
Both of them spun.
A figure stood between two burned pillars. Cloaked, leaning on a carved staff. Their face was young, but their eyes weren't. They were dressed in dark robes lined with silver thread, their throat encircled by a faded sigil Ilia somehow knew meant "remnant" in a language no longer spoken.
"Who are you?" she called.
The figure walked forward, slow but without hesitation.
"I was called Sevran," they said. "A thousand names ago. In your time… I suppose I was once your brother."
Ilia went still.
"Myel didn't have a brother."
"No," Sevran said, tilting their head. "But you do."
Rien's hand dropped to the knife at his side. "What are you?"
"A consequence," Sevran replied. "Of a choice Myel made. Of a seal that didn't hold."
He looked at Ilia then, truly looked — and his eyes flickered with something ancient and broken.
"She thought she buried me. But you brought the key back."
Ilia took a step backward.
"Don't worry," Sevran added, almost gently. "I'm not your enemy. Not yet."