Liberi Reader

Tall as the empress's tower is, it is not endless. Or so she believes.

The spiral staircase extends before her, but direction itself seems to be torn apart by some unknown, irreversible power. She keeps moving forward, but she can't make any progress.

Viviana is tired, and when one is tired, it is easy to notice what one has lost.

Not unlike the twenty-two years of her life.

Viviana looks up.

She sees a young Caprinae woman, whose face is filled with curiosity and concern.

Viviana's fingers brush the handrail next to her. Ochre paint covers the emblem of Urtica under a thick layer of dust, so bright it could have been painted yesterday.

She recalls the historical novel Die Glut.

When the Witch King first ascended to the throne, he gave his builders a blueprint of the Genesis Spire, a monument so great, the likes of which Leithanien had never seen.

Simply gazing upon the plans was enough to make one short of breath, as though standing before its foundation.

The Witch King was scrupulous about every last detail of the Genesis Spire, down to the materials and paints used for every fence and railing, which must never fade in color.

It would become the sole symbol of Leithanien.

Viviana comes to a startling realization.

The Caprinae who just passed by was like one of the young people living on the outskirts of Zwillingstürme. In the prime of her life, busy and tireless, her voice emanating the warmth of a fresh cup of tea.

She should not be here. Neither at the empress' spire, nor in the Genesis Horn.

Viviana turns around. No one is there.

The staircase stretches on and on... until Viviana sees a door in an inconspicuous corner.

A tiny, familiar door.

Federico has spent a long time on the staircase of the empress's spire. He stops in his tracks after yet another failed attempt.

After a brief pause, Federico pulls out his shotgun and fires in front of him.

The sound of the gunshot fills the space, but the projectiles vanish right before his eyes, as though wiped away by some formless something.

As he hears the sound, Federico sees the projectiles again, now moving with a slow and clear trajectory, like a rock skipping across the water. Ripples spread, and everything beneath the surface is revealed.

Federico quickly assesses the sight before him.

If this place is the Genesis Horn, where the Witch King's legacy is kept, Arturia's final destination...

Then it is difficult to believe that his bullets could have broken through some sort of barrier and brought him here from that strange staircase.

Federico examines the woman before him. The anger on her face is no more and no less than that of a citizen performing her civic duty to stop a rude tourist.

Arturia looks around. It is a space without boundaries, defined by only indescribable flows of light like the respiration of the void.

She steadies her cello, puts her hand on the strings, and sets her bow.

Silence.

Bow touches string, but the vibration produces no sound. The motion familiar to her, so natural, has lost all meaning here.

As though muttering to himself, Fremont speaks an unfamiliar word in Sarkaz.

Arturia does not respond to Fremont's anger. She simply touches the strings again. The unbroken hush.

There is no disappointment or fear, only confusion.

An emotion that only flashes across Arturia's face before she looks up and smiles.

Arturia realizes that the shadows are growing.

The Lich's witchcraft had been moving while she was speaking. Thread-like shadows grow into thick vines around Fremont, merging into the ambiguous colors of the ground, and begin to come at her.

Death and extinction. Decay in its full bloom.

...die yet.

She is perfectly willing to meet her end performing. But what she can't accept is to fade into silence, with the truth so near.

The shadows crack, and a gray rain rushes up to engulf all.

She clung to the one string of sound distinct from the environment, and escaped the threads of Exile.

Now, the melody has become tangible, emerging from the void and descending before her.

It has taken human form.