CHAPTER 1430: STORY 1430: THE WEIGHT OF THE SKY

The tower groaned like an ancient beast under the tendril’s grip, each bolt and beam shrieking as the steel warped. Sparks cascaded down in glittering arcs, hissing out on the frost-laced surfaces below. The air smelled of burnt metal and something older—like the scent of a grave cracked open after centuries.

Mira staggered back from the console, her chest heaving. The hum that had once called to her was no longer steady; it was frantic, pulsing in broken, uneven bursts, as though the tower itself feared what it had summoned.

Elena was still entangled in the cables, thrashing against them. The cords cut into her skin, releasing rivulets of blood that steamed in the unnatural cold. “Mira—cut the conduit! Now!”

Mira’s eyes flicked to the thick, black cable snaking up into the console. It pulsed faintly with that same sick rhythm. Her fingers twitched toward the hatchet strapped to her side—but the tendril above shifted, and the thought dissolved.

The fissures overhead now looked like wounds in reality itself. Through them, more tendrils descended—some thin and whip-like, others thick enough to eclipse entire buildings. They moved with terrifying grace, coiling around rooftops and dragging chunks of the city upward into the void. Structures crumpled like paper. The screams of the Choir below had become a frenzy, their molten forms scattering into the alleys like insects under sudden light.

Then, a sound—a voice, but not one Mira could place. It came from above, from beyond the fissures. Deep, resonant, like the ocean speaking:

Child of the wound, you are the hinge. The city will pivot on your will.

Her stomach twisted, but she couldn’t look away from the nearest tendril. Its surface shimmered subtly, as though something beneath the skin pressed against it, straining to emerge.

“Mira!” Elena’s voice cracked. “Don’t let it in!”

The cables tightened around Elena’s throat. Her face flushed red, eyes wide with panic. That broke something in Mira’s trance.

She lunged for the hatchet.

One swing—steel meeting the conduit with a dull, wet thunk. A spray of black ichor burst from the severed line, coating her hands in a freezing slickness. The tower shrieked—not mechanically, but alive, the sound vibrating through her skull.

The tendril above recoiled slightly, its coils loosening on the tower. The fissures flickered, as though the sky itself was uncertain.

Elena collapsed to her knees, coughing violently as the cables slithered away from her.

But the reprieve lasted only seconds.

The other tendrils reacted like predators sensing prey in pain. They descended faster, striking the plaza, skewering the ground, and dragging screaming figures—human and Choir alike—into the void. The city’s core trembled, the streets splitting open to reveal black, shifting depths.

Elena grabbed Mira’s arm, her voice hoarse. “We need to get off this tower. Now.”

Mira looked up one last time. The largest tendril was no longer pulling at the city. It was curling toward them—toward her—like a serpent ready to strike.

And when it moved, the entire sky seemed to come with it.