Rewinding Cadence

Volume 1 · Chapter 10Roar Before Dawn

Day 10, Pre‑Dawn

The world held its breath in the moments before dawn. Cadence Station lay unnaturally still—no Hollow shrieks in the distance, no drip‑drip of leaking pipes, only the thrum of magic rippling through the ley nexus deep beneath the city. Ren and Chu stood atop the shattered platform of what once had been the central atrium, beneath the blackened arches that framed the vast, domed ceiling.

Chu's lantern dappled shifting pools of light across the ancient blue‑stone pillars they'd prepared for the ritual. Each pillar was inscribed with spirals and star‑glyphs she had painstakingly drawn in chalk, then infused with their blood‑ink anchor. The runes glowed faintly, reborn each time energy coursed through the stones. Tonight, the pillars thrummed in resonance, as if alive.

Ren surveyed the circle of pillars. His side still ached, but the ache had grown familiar—like a promise branded into his flesh. He glanced at Chu. She knelt beside the final pillar, tracing a spiral with her fingertip. Her silver hair caught the lantern light like starlight woven into silk. In her eyes, he saw both determination and despair.

"How soon?" he asked softly.

Chu rose, drawing in a trembling breath. "Midnight," she whispered. "When the nexus peaks." She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself. "But… last cycle, when I tried alone, Leviathan's pulse overwhelmed the ley lines. The surge nearly killed me."

Ren stepped closer. "Then we face her together."

Her gaze fixed on the far wall—where a massive fissure ran, pulsing with an otherworldly glow. "She's close," Chu said. "I can feel her grief stirring beneath the stone, like a great beast rousing in its sleep."

Ren placed a hand on her shoulder. "We have to wake her."

Chu's lips trembled. "No—not wake. We have to soothe her. Last time, I tried to sever the anchor without mercy. I hurt her. She… she roared."

A tremor rippled through the pillars. Lanterns flickered.

Chu's breath caught. "She's waking now."

Moments Later

A distant roar rolled through the station—a sound that shook mortar from walls and rattled rusted beams overhead. It began as a low, mournful rumble, deeper than any thunder Ren had ever felt, then swelled into a piercing cry that echoed through corridors and chambers alike.

He staggered, clutching a pillar for support. The chalk‑blood runes pulsed like a heartbeat. The air grew thick and heavy, each inhalation tasting of salt and sorrow. Lanterns guttered, their flames bending away from the roar as if recoiling from its power.

Chu sank to one knee, face drawn. "It's her," she whispered. "Leviathan." Her voice cracked. "She's hurt… oh, Ren, she's been hurt for centuries."

Ren knelt beside her. "Tell me."

Chu closed her eyes, as though trying to hold back tidal waves of memory. Her voice, when it came, was a fragile thread: "My mother… Lena. Before the loop, she was kind and full of light. But Ark's experiment… it tore her soul. He bound her grief into the time rift, anchoring her to the cycle. She's lived every death, every cycle's collapse, the moment her daughter... refused to let go."

Tears welled in Chu's eyes. "In each loop, every time I drew the anchor, a piece of her pain seeped into me. And when I tried to contain it—" Her voice broke. "I hurt her. I made her rage."

Another tremor. The pillars' runes flared bright, then dimmed. Lanterns plunged into darkness for a heartbeat before relighting with a hiss.

Ren took her hands. "We can fix this. Tonight—our ritual will bind your soul to mine and release her grief."

Chu shook her head, tears spilling free. "You don't understand… each time she roars, the city bleeds. Buildings crack; rivers flood; the loop tears at the seams. Last cycle, the crash nearly destroyed Cadence Station itself."

Ren's heart thundered. "Then we have even more reason to succeed."

She opened her eyes—moist, determined. "Promise me one thing."

"Anything."

"Promise me you won't–" Her voice faltered under another deep, quaking roar. The ground tilted beneath them. Dust fell from the domed ceiling. The pillars groaned, their runes flickering erratically.

Ren tightened his grip on her hands. "I promise."

She pressed her forehead to his chest. "Promise me you'll protect her… not just the anchor, but her heart."

He felt her tears soaking into his shirt. The roar swelled louder, as if Leviathan were rising to stand at the fissure above them. "I promise," he repeated, voice firm.

Chu drew a ragged breath and stepped back, drawing the final chalk spiral at the base of the central pillar. The runes across all six pillars began to glow in unison, pulsing outward like ripples on a pond. The air hummed, charged with raw ley energy.

Ren raised his lantern above his head. "Now," he called. "Begin."

Chu began to chant—her voice clear and resonant, weaving the spiral glyphs into the ley current:

"Spiral of sorrow, spiral of light,Bind the grief that shatters the night.Anchor our souls in love's gentle might,Heal the rift, end the endless fight."

Her words echoed off the broken arches. The pillars thrummed in response, beams of pale blue energy arcing between them, converging on the central fissure. The roar became a keening wail, as though Leviathan herself was listening, torn between rage and relief.

Ren felt a warmth bloom at his core, radiating through the chalk‑blood talisman on his wrist. The runes on his skin glowed, matching the pulse of the pillars. Every memory—of laughter in sunlight, of dying at the gate, of promises carved in chalk—surged through him in a wave of light and warmth.

Above, the fissure crackled with energy. A shape began to form: vast, luminous, half‑shadow and half‑silver light. Leviathan's eyes—like molten amber—opened, filled with ages of grief. She towered above them as the pillars' beams coalesced into a column of pure, spiraling energy.

Chu's voice faltered but did not stop. She reached out with both hands, pressing her palms against the runes at the pillar's base. Ren joined her, pressing his blood‑ink scarred hand over hers. Their combined will flowed into the nexus, into the column, into the heart of Leviathan's grief.

Leviathan's roar tore free—earth‑splitting, bone‑shattering—yet it was not a cry of rage, but of release. The pillars shook violently; dust and debris rained down. Ren squeezed Chu's hand, anchoring her to him even as the tempest threatened to tear them apart.

Then, in a single, thunderous heartbeat, the pillars' energy converged in a blinding flash of silver light. The fissure along the ceiling snapped shut like the jaws of a cosmic mouth. The roar collapsed into silence.

When Ren dared to open his eyes, the pillars stood dim and empty—but unbroken. The air was still, heavy with the scent of ozone and healing. The lan­tern's flame burned steadily once more.

Chu sank to her knees, trembling. Ren knelt beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him, tears of relief and awe streaming down her cheeks.

"I… I did it," she whispered. "She is free."

Ren pressed a kiss to her hair. "You did it together."

Above them, the domed ceiling shrugged off its bruised hues. A single shaft of pale dawn light broke through a small fissure in the stone, illuminating the ritual chamber. In that beam, dust motes danced like stars reborn—whispered promises that even in a world built on loops, love and memory could shatter the cycle at last.