Morning arrived late in the undercity. No sunlight penetrated this deep; only the hesitant glow of flares they had left burning on the altar. The flame had softened overnight, shifting from blue to amber, breathing quietly in the draft.
Jake awoke to the smell of smoke and salt. The cold stone floor chilled him, and his jacket lay half-draped over him like a blanket. He had dreamt of hanging mirrors and endless water, of voices without faces. Waking did not make them disappear; it only quieted them.
Across the room, Liora sat on one of the fallen pews, her hands wrapped around a metal cup. The steam rising from it carried a faint scent of herbs and something bitter. Oran Vale was busy repairing his mechanical eye with a screwdriver, muttering old prayers under his breath.
Silence enveloped them for a while. It was not a hostile silence; rather, it was the silence of people who had run too far to trust the sound of their own voices.
Jake pushed himself upright. His body ached, not from wounds but from everything that had happened. The circle of salt still marked the floor—scuffed but unbroken. He touched its edge, half-expecting it to burn.
Liora noticed. "Don't cross it yet. The air is still unstable."
He nodded, though he didn't fully understand.
Vale looked up from his work. "You held the inversion longer than anyone I've seen. That's something."
Jake let out a tired laugh. "That's one way to say I almost killed everyone."
"Close enough." Vale's mouth twitched. "But you stopped when it mattered. That's the part the Order never learned."
The compliment lingered in the air. Liora took a slow sip from her cup.
"They'll think we're dead," she said. "For now, that's to our advantage."
Jake rubbed his face. "What happens when they find out we're not?"
"Then we stop hiding," she replied.
He looked at her, noting the dark circles under her eyes and the way her hair had come loose from its braid. "You sound like you've been running for years."
Liora's smile was small, almost invisible. "I have."
---
Later, while Vale slept and the flares sputtered low, Liora sat with Jake near the ruined altar. She showed him how to ground himself, as the Ordo trained initiates before they touched real power: breathing through the soles of the feet, naming what was real—the taste of metal, the weight of air, the warmth of another presence nearby.
"It's not about control," she said. "It's about remembering you're still here when the world bends."
Jake listened, his eyes half-closed. "And if I forget?"
"Then I remind you."
Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder. The contact was brief and careful, but it anchored him more than the ritual.
---
Hours passed. The city above creaked and groaned. Water dripped from the ceiling, keeping time.
Vale woke and brewed another pot of that bitter tea. They drank in silence, each lost in their own thoughts about what came next.
Jake finally broke the silence. "What if I don't want this? The power, the symbols, any of it?"
Vale's mechanical eye clicked softly as he looked at him. "Wants have nothing to do with it. You're a bridge now. Bridges don't get to choose the river."
Liora frowned. "You could still choose *how* to stand."
He smiled, faint but genuine. "Then maybe I'll just stand still for a while."
---
By nightfall, they had cleared a corner of the cathedral and built a small fire from broken pews. Its light transformed the mosaics into gold, softening even the monstrous faces.
Jake sat close to the flames, knees drawn up, watching the embers shift. Liora leaned against a pillar, her head tipped back, eyes closed but not asleep. Vale hummed a tuneless melody, the sound of an old man reminiscing about the world before secrets.
For the first time in days, none of them were running. For the first time in years, Liora wasn't alone. And for the first time since he had spoken that cursed word, Jake felt the world hold still without asking him to bear its weight.
---
High above them, in a crack of mirror clinging to the ceiling, a faint shimmer stirred. The Fool's laughter tried to rise but thought better of it. Even gods, sometimes, know when to be quiet.