The vision had left Syra hollowed out.

  She stood frozen in the center of the chamber, the last tendrils of whatever ancient force had touched her still clinging to the edges of her mind.

  The room felt too large.

  The air too thin.

  Her knees locked to keep herself upright.

  Across the stone floor, the priest - or the Keeper - or whatever the hell he was, still sat—silent, composed—as if the last hour hadn't torn the seams of reality wide open.

  For a moment, Syra didn't know what she was supposed to do. Stay? Speak? Collapse?

  Then the door whispered open with a sigh of displaced air and Lethwynia entered, her robes whispering across the floor, her movements precise and measured.

  She paused just inside the threshold, giving a small respectful bow toward the old man.

  "I have prepared the rooms, Keeper Oreth," she said, her voice low and melodic, as if even words needed to tread carefully in this place.

  Oreth inclined his head slightly, the faintest smile brushing his lined face as he half turned his white foggy gaze in her direction. "Thank you, Lethwynia." he said warmly. "Make sure our guests are comfortable. I suspect it shall be some time before Rix returns." There was something in his tone—an ancient kindness—that made Syra’s throat tighten unexpectedly.

  Lethwynia turned toward her, gesturing to the door.

  Syra hesitated, then crossed the few steps between them, her boots scuffing faintly on the worn stone. She didn't like that Rix wasn't here to at least explain himself, but after the way the vision left her feeling she didn't blame him for taking some space. She just wondered with a burning curiosity if he had seen the same vision. The same closeness. The same...futures.

  She simply turned and began to walk, trusting Syra to follow, and she did.

  The hallways of the temple were cool and dim, lit by narrow slits of light carved high into the stone. On every inch of stone Syra could see there were murals, pictures and shapes etched into the stone but they moved too quick for her to focus clearly on them.

  Neither spoke.

  There was no need.

  This place wasn't made for noise.

  It was made for surviving what came after.

  After the visions.

  After the truths that broke you open.

  Finally, they reached a small arched doorway, the door was plain but heavy wrought-iron carved with spirals so faint they seemed half-erased by time.

  Lethwynia pushed it open, the metal groaning as it revealed a small and modest room.

  "This is yours," she said gently. "For as long as you need it."

  Syra stepped into the room and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, she exhaled. "Thank you." Syra said.

  Lethwynia smiled softly. "As it pleases. Sister Yselyn left some clean laundry for you to change into. Leave your gear at the door and she will take care of them before you leave. I shall let you know if Calyix returns." And closed the heavy wooden door behind her.

  Her eyes travelled to the bed where this Sister Yeslyn left clothes folded neatly at the end of a low, woven bed—lightweight fabric in soft greys and earthy tones. Syra hadn't seen another soul besides Lethwynia and the Keeper. She wondered how many people were actually in this temple.

  Her fingers brushed over the fabric of the clothes. They smelled faintly of cedar. Not Dominion. Not military. Just...clean.

  Syra stripped her gear off — her jacket, half torn uniform pants and her layers of shirts. The pendant—diamond shaped and attached to dark cord slipped out of her pocket and clattered against the stone tile. She picked it up, brushing her fingers over it. She almost forgot she had it. Somewhere in her vision she was wearing this and so was Rix, a small flicker of memory, barely there and barely remembered.

  She left her clothes neatly by the wall, washed herself with a soapy cloth in the basin and then changed.

  The clothes were form-fitting, strangely layered with dashes of color, shirts that were cuffed at the wrists, a pair of breezy cotton pants that also cuffed at the ankle and a pair of socks. Syra took one look at the soft soled tied flats and put her boots back on instead. She felt clean. That was the main thing. No matter how odd she felt in this type of clothing.

  Looking at herself in the small mirror, she realised this was typical of the population here. Almost everyone wore the same thing. The ones who stood out were usually people with the credits to afford to.

  Syra sat against the wall at the head of the bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying hard to recall the smallest details of her vision. With the pendant tight in her hands, her fingers traced its edges absently. A deep worry settled within her, but also a strange sense of respect for Rix. In her vision they'd been bonded, friends, lovers, companions. They'd also been on the opposite sides of each other. They'd fought each other. Against each other. Her heart clenched at the thought.

  The images blurred now, the edges softened by time—but the feeling remained. That undercurrent of closeness between them. A closeness that hadn’t come from attraction or circumstance.

  It had come from time.

  From lives.

  From the ache of knowing someone completely. From the intimacy of watching him lead armies. Break worlds. Whisper her name in ruin. She had seen what it was to lose him. To forgive him. To follow him.

  To love him.

  It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even logical. It was profound.

  And terrifying.

  Because she had also seen what he could become.

  What the Ember could make of him—if left unchecked. If the wrong grief took root. If the right hand didn’t reach for him in time.

  She pressed her face into her knees and exhaled hard. How the hell had her life turned into this?

  The Paragon hadn’t shown her destiny.

  It had shown her risk.

  And now, in the silence of this room, dressed in someone else’s clothes, Syra couldn’t stop wondering:

  Was she the balance meant to keep him from becoming that?

  Or the thread that would unravel him completely?

  Syra poked her head out the door when everything went quiet, and saw no one in the hall. She slowly emerged from her room, wandered the quiet corridor, fingers trailing along the stone as if the texture might explain something she didn’t have words for.

  The temple was cooler here, the scent of incense fading to something earthier—dust, oil, and ancient stone. The murals whispered stories across the walls: starbursts, spiraling galaxies, faceless figures bearing light, and shadow, and war.

  And one figure, standing tall in every panel.

  It wasn’t always obvious.

  But she started noticing it.

  The same silhouette, again and again—sometimes wreathed in gold, sometimes shadowed, sometimes with fire blooming at the base of his skull like a crown lit from within. The murals lined the curved corridors like pages of a forgotten book, each more elaborate than the last. Scenes of stars being born, of people rising from light, of structures too immense to be real—floating cities, great trees stretching into space, rings of energy coiling like serpents around a crowned figure with fire blooming from the back of his neck.

  The Ember.

  She slowed before that image.

  Not because it looked exactly like him—it didn’t. These weren’t portraits. They were stories told through reverence and scale, not detail. But the figure in this one—tall, broad-shouldered, chin tilted as if listening to something no one else could hear—she felt it. The hum beneath her ribs. The recognition.

  She didn’t hear the woman until she spoke.

  “He still carries it the same way,” came a voice behind her—soft, but layered. It was almost melodic, with a faint echo underneath, like a harmony that didn’t belong to a human voice.

  Syra turned.

  Lethwynia stood there, her robe gathered loosely at the waist, silver-streaked hair woven into a knot at the nape of her neck. Her eyes shimmered—real eyes, but behind them: the faint flicker of embedded tech. Her skin was warm bronze, but the faint grid under her jaw gave away her partial design.

  Part woman. Part construct. And yet, nothing about her felt artificial.

  Syra instinctively straightened. She didn't notice that before. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “I move lightly,” Lethwynia replied, with a small smile. “The temple prefers quiet. They call this one The Awakening Flame."

  "This is Rix?"

  “It is." Lethwynia said gently, tilting her head, "You may be wondering who I am to him. I helped raise him. I was—what would your kind call it?”

  “A...nanny?” Syra said.

  “Ah.” The corner of Lethwynia’s mouth lifted. “Yes. A nanny. A caregiver of sorts.” Her voice softened.

  Syra didn't want to be rude but she had to ask. "What...what are you, if you don't mind my asking?"

  Lethwynia’s lips lifted faintly, a small smile that didn’t quite reach her ancient eyes. "I am of the Saerwyn," she said quietly. "We were created a long time ago. Not by birth, and not by machine alone. We were woven. Flesh, mind, and memory — threaded with the gifts of the Aelorian Architects."

  Syra blinked. She hadn't heard that one before. "Architects?"

  Lethwynia inclined her head slightly, the gesture smooth, ingrained. "They don't exist in this galaxy anymore. But another, far away. Almost no-one knows who they are now. They were not gods. Not quite. They were scientists. Builders of species. They created the Saerwyn to serve not through force—but through connection. Through presence." She clasped her hands in front of her. "In the early centuries, we were companions to great Houses. Valeri Prime was not the only world that held us close. We served on Vasilla Prime. In the drifting fleets of the early Dominion life on Sennia. Even among the ancient courts of the Accord."

  Her gaze grew distant, as if she were seeing not the temple but the echo of a thousand lost halls.

  "We were caretakers. Confidants. Quiet players behind the thrones. Where others ruled by sword or law, we ruled by influence. Advice. Presence. A well-placed word in the right ear could change the future of a world."

  Syra’s mouth parted slightly.

  "You played political games."

  "We shaped them," Lethwynia said, without pride or shame. "Subtly. Gently. We held the threads others didn’t know they were weaving."

  Syra swallowed, mind racing.

  "But what happened?" she asked. "To your people. To your makers? Why haven't we heard of you?"

  For the first time, a flicker of sorrow moved across Lethwynia’s face. "Our world died long before Valeri Prime, but it was Valeri Prime that took our memory with them," she said softly. "It was not war that took my planet. It was neglect. Time. A failure to adapt. That is all I shall say on the matter. We were long-lived. But not immortal. Without the Architects...we began to fade. And when the wars did inevitably come—when the galaxy shifted—we were simply forgotten. What you see on my face is remnants from the Fall of Valeri Prime."

  "Battle wounds..." Syra said, in realization, seeing the grid under her cheek flicker with energy.

  Lethwynia's lips were pursed as she stared at the mural, as if to stop herself from crying.

  Syra stood very still, letting the weight of that settle.

  The Saerwyn had been forgotten.

  Outlived by the very civilizations they had helped shape.

  "You stayed with Valeri Prime," Syra said quietly, almost to herself.

  "Of course," Lethwynia said, a soft certainty in her voice. "Because their bloodlines still remembered us. Still honored what we were. And because..." She paused, looking at Syra fully now. "I loved them. Not just as duties. As my own."

  Syra’s throat tightened.

  She didn’t know what to say to that.

  Maybe there wasn’t anything she could say.

  Lethwynia smiled again—this time smaller, almost sad. “Calyix was a solemn child. Quick to read pain in others, slow to speak of his own. But a brilliant child with an extraordinary mind. It's not a surprise to me it was his mind to assimilate with the Ember. Always too clever for his own good."

  That tracked.

  Syra looked back at the mural. That sounded like him.

  “This mural depicts the Ember Trials. The Trials that took many lives before it chose Rix.”

  Syra’s lips parted. “So this figure is Rix."

  Lethwynia gave a faint nod. “Calyix Solvaris. Firstborn of the Ascended bloodline. Eldest son of the Emperor. He was the only one to pass the Trials in two hundred years, since our Lady Light bore it for us.”

  Syra’s spine straightened. She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The words rattled around her mind like loose bolts in a hull. "Holy shit. I didn't know that." An Emperor's son? Rix didn't just come from royalty he came from thousands of years of lineage. It suddenly all made sense. His attitude first and foremost.

  Lethwynia continued, gentler now. “The Ember chooses its bearer…but most minds break before the end. Some die in the first hour. Others walk in whole and emerge shattered. But not him.”

  Syra finally found her voice. “What are the Trials?”

  Lethwynia turned toward the mural. “A gauntlet. Mental, physical, spiritual. The bearer is immersed in the full memory of the Ember—its past lives, its choices, its pain. If they are unworthy, the Ember rejects them. Violently.”

  Syra swallowed. Was this what Rix was talking about? He hadn't mentioned this part.

  “And if they are worthy?”

  “They become something else entirely,” Lethwynia said, her voice distant. "Something altered.”

  Syra stared at the mural again. The figure’s limbs were outstretched, fire spiraling from his back. Light poured from the crown of his head. And around him: golden light.

  “How old was he?”

  “Seventeen-years-old in this one,” Lethwynia said.

  Syra blinked, dumbfounded. “He was just a kid.”

  “Most of them were,” Lethwynia said softly. “You have to be young enough to bend…but strong enough not to break.”

  “And he didn’t?”

  Lethwynia was quiet for a moment. “He was never the same afterwards. But no…he didn’t break.”

  Syra felt the floor shift beneath her feet. She’d seen Rix bleed. She’d seen him cold, dismissive, terrifying. But this—this was something else. A piece of him she hadn’t realized existed. Something sacred. Something earned.

  She shook her head. “He never said anything about this.”

  “Just as you said nothing of your accomplishments on Thenia."

  Syra flinched. "That's different."

  "Is it?" Lethwynia lingered beside her for a moment longer, watching the mural with something almost like sorrow in her eyes. "You should know," she continued, her voice threading into the stillness like a memory being unwound, "Valeri Prime was already unraveling long before the war ever truly began. Two centuries of tension. Quiet betrayals. Silent fear. It wasn’t sudden. It was a slow death. So slow no one noticed it until it was too late."— Lethwynia continued, almost as if reading the question off Syra’s face— "Sennian records would tell you Valeri Prime threatened the stability of their empire. They would paint us as aggressors. But the truth is..." Her mouth twitched—somewhere between a grimace and a smile too tired to fight. "Valor made demands no sane ruler could ever accept. The Emperor rejected him. Passionately. And in return, Valor destroyed Valeri Prime."

  Syra felt the name land sharp against her ribs.

  Rix’s father.

  The man Syra barely knew about, but could already feel shaping every ghost that haunted him.

  "What did they want?"

  "They wanted the Ember. They wanted Valeri Prime to give up their titles and conform under a new doctrine. The Sennian Doctrine." Lethwynia said. "They were fools. Unfathomably arrogant. The irony is that Sennia would not even exist without Valeri Prime. Centuries ago, during what we call the Convergence, the people of Cerbis fled their dying star. Their sun was collapsing—imploding in on itself—and with it, their world. They crossed the void, battered and desperate, and Valeri Prime took them in."

  Her voice lowered, like she was speaking of something sacred.

  "They gave them land on Sennia, the tools to rebuild. We created the Embers they now carry, to give their leaders strength, guidance, unity. To be a part of our Accord, not separate from it. But the Sovereigns didn't want to share."

  This was not the version of events she had been taught growing up.

  The Sovereigns.

  Syra exhaled slowly. "So the Sovereigns are...what? Descendants of those Cerbis people?"

  Lethwynia’s lips quirked, that small, patient smile a teacher wore when waiting for a student to catch up.

  "They are not descendants," she said gently. "They are those people."

  Syra tried to make the math work in her head—and failed. "But—that was centuries ago."

  "Yes," Lethwynia said. "Cerbis’ people—Cerbiuns, as they were known—are long-lived by nature. Their lifespans stretch longer than most species can even imagine."

  Syra pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. She shook her head, almost without meaning to, the words tearing from her in a rasp.

  "But they told us—they taught us—" She cut herself off, her throat tight.

  The Sovereigns were supposed to be sacred.

  Symbols of justice, strength, providence.

  Stories carved into every textbook, every monument, every oath she recited under the banners of the Dominion.

  They were supposed to be ideals.

  Not relics.

  Not liars.

  Not murderers.

  Not...this.

  Lethwynia watched her with that same unreadable patience, hands folded neatly in front of her robes.

  "They taught you what they needed you to believe," she said quietly. "As every ruler does, when the truth is too ugly to sustain faith."

  Syra stared at the mural in front of her, the one depicting the crowned figure wreathed in flame, and suddenly it didn’t look like a promise anymore.

  It looked like a warning.

  A slow, sick feeling coiled in her gut.

  "You were never meant to know," Lethwynia said, softer now. "Very few outside the original bloodlines were. History is a tapestry, Syra Jharis. But the ones in power...they get to choose which threads are visible."

  All the portraits, all the statues, all the ancient images carved into temples and archives across Sennia—they hadn’t been ancestors.

  They had been photographs. Living rulers walking through centuries while everyone else withered and died at their feet. The kind of power no one could ever understand unless they carried it in their blood.

  No wonder the Dominion worshipped them.

  No wonder Rix hated them.

  Syra's head spun, "That...that can't be public knowledge."

  "No," she said. "It's not. But if you are going to continue on your current path, it's important you know this. For Calyix's sake."

  Syra shook her head sharply, as if trying to physically shake loose the mess of thoughts crashing through her mind.

  "Okay so Rix was an Emperor's son. Valor destroyed Valeri Prime because they wouldn't give him the Ember. The Sovereign's who ruled centuries ago are the Sovereign's who still rule to this day? So what's the deal with the old man?" she blurted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

  Lethwynia’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.

  "Keeper Oreth is a relic," she said simply. "But not one to be dismissed. Keeper Oreth was once part of the Aelorian Orders—one of the last of the Witnesses. He survived the Fall. He survived what came after. He carries memory and knowledge the way others carry blood in their veins. He remembers the world as it was, is, and could be...not just the propaganda painted over it."

  Syra absorbed the words slowly, like they might shatter if she thought about them too hard.

  The world as it was.

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  The world as it is.

  The world as it could be.

  Keeper Oreth wasn’t just some blind relic waiting to be buried with the past.

  He was the past.

  Still breathing.

  Still remembering.

  "How is he even still alive?"

  Lethwynia gave a slight tilt of her head, a graceful movement wrapped in something ancient.

  "The Witnesses of the Aelorian Orders were not like other beings," she said. "They were chosen—or perhaps shaped—by the Architects themselves. Their lives are stretched thin across centuries. Not truly immortal.

  But enduring. They were meant to remember. Even if the worlds they loved forgot them."

  Syra stared at her for a long moment, her mind reeling under the scale of it all.

  The Sovereigns were survivors of a dead sun.

  The Saerwyn were the quiet stewards of fallen Houses.

  And Keeper Oreth was...something even older.

  Something built not to lead or to rule — but to witness.

  And Rix...he was the heir to Valeri Prime, bearer of the Ember, and a terrifying mess. Syra thought of the great war looming inside her vision and she swallowed it down like stones.

  "How did Keeper Oreth know who I was?" she asked. "Before I even said anything?"

  Lethwynia looked at her for a long moment, as if weighing how much to say.

  Finally, she spoke.

  "Keeper Oreth was made to remember," she said quietly. "But he also...sees."

  Syra frowned.

  "Not just with the eyes," Lethwynia added, as if reading the protest rising in her throat. "The Witnesses of the Aelorian Orders were given more than memory. They were stitched into the Tapestry itself. They feel threads as they move. When you entered this place, Syra Jharis, your thread sang to him. Loud enough that even the blind could hear it."

  Syra’s mouth went dry. It sounded beautiful and horrifying all at once.

  "He didn’t read your mind," Lethwynia said, almost gently. "He read your weight. Your imprint. What you've carried. What you will carry."

  Syra swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribs. "And what...what did he see?"

  Lethwynia’s lips lifted in that faint, enigmatic smile again.

  "Only what you brought with you," she said. "And what you are brave enough to become."

  It would have been easier to turn away.

  Easier to pretend none of this mattered.

  But something in her gut—something deeper than curiosity—tightened and pulled.

  A thread tugging at her.

  "Can I see him?" she asked, her voice low, uncertain.

  Lethwynia's smile deepened, soft and knowing.

  "You are not a prisoner here," she said. "If the Keeper called you, it is because you are meant to answer."

  Syra hesitated only a moment longer before pushing off the wall. "Thank you, Lethwynia."

  Lethwynia bowed her head, a quick incline of her neck, "As it pleases, Syra Jharis. Thank you for reminding me of my home again."

  Her boots whispered against the worn stone floor as she moved down the corridor, her pulse beating an uneven rhythm in her ears.

  The temple felt different now.

  Not just ancient.

  Alive.

  Like it was watching her move.

  The door to the inner sanctum loomed ahead, its frame carved with spirals and burning crowns and coiled vines that seemed to twist if she stared too long.

  She paused at the threshold, heart hammering, throat dry.

  The old man sat exactly where she had left him — in the heart of the chamber, still as stone.

  But when Syra stepped into the room, his head lifted slightly.

  As if he had been waiting.

  His eyes—pale, clouded—stared ahead sightlessly. "Syra Jharis," the man said, his voice low and easy, "Please. Sit with me."

  Syra hesitated—then crossed the room, sitting stiffly on the opposite bench. The stone was cold against her thighs.

  "Where’s Rix?" she asked, because it felt safer than asking anything else.

  "He’ll return soon," Keeper Oreth said simply, as if time bent differently around him.

  Syra leaned back a little, studying him from beneath her lashes. There was something unsettling about the way he faced her—blind, and yet so unerringly precise. It made her feel seen in ways she hadn’t realized she could still be.

  "I see Lethwynia has broadened your...perspective," he said mildly.

  Syra exhaled through her nose, rubbing a hand along her wrist. "She did," she admitted, her voice a little rough. "It’s...a lot to take in. After everything. Who he is. What he’s carrying."

  Keeper Oreth smiled faintly, the lines of his face deepening, not unkind. "Just remember," he said, "he is still a man, Syra Jharis. Not a weapon. Not a god. A man. With mortal desires, mortal goals, mortal grief—separate from the Ember he bears." He tilted his head slightly, almost contemplative. "And you," he added, "are no less important to this story than he."

  Syra blinked at him, caught off guard by the certainty in his voice.

  The idea of being important in something so vast was almost laughable.

  "Why me?" she asked.

  Oreth tilted his head slightly, clouded eyes seeming to see something she couldn’t.

  "Because memory must pass to those who will protect it," he said simply. "And because your path has already woven itself alongside Calyix’s. You think you were forced together by artifact, by circumstance." A small smile ghosted across his lips. "But threads do not entangle by accident."

  Syra exhaled slowly, her hands curling slightly.

  She thought of the vision—the unbearable closeness, the ruin, the aching, the love she couldn’t name.

  "I didn’t ask for this," she whispered.

  "No one worthy ever does," Oreth said, so softly it barely touched the air.

  A long silence stretched between them.

  Not uncomfortable.

  Just full.

  Maybe for the first time in her life, she didn’t feel like a soldier following orders she hated. Didn’t feel like someone just running from one mistake to another.

  She felt... tethered.

  In a way that was terrifying.

  And beautiful.

  She rubbed a hand down her face.

  "This is a lot to carry."

  "You will grow into it," Oreth said gently. "And you will not carry it alone."

  "I don't know if I can reach him," she said, the words slipping out before she could second-guess them. She stared at her hands, jaw tight. "Rix," she added, voice quieter now. "I don't know how to get through. Half the time I don't think I even want to. And I'm sure he feels the same way." The admission sat between them, raw and unpolished.

  Oreth smiled faintly, the kind of smile that belonged to someone who had seen generations wrestle with things far heavier than pride. "Ah," he said, as if that explained everything. "You are not wrong."

  Syra looked up, surprised.

  "His path has been long," Oreth said. "Longer than you know. Trust does not come easily to the ones who survive by carrying everything themselves." He tilted his head, considering her for a long moment. "You have something he did not expect," he added, almost musing. "You surprise him."

  Syra let out a dry huff. "I don’t think that’s a compliment."

  "It is," Oreth said warmly, his pale eyes glinted as he turned toward her, that unreadable half-smile already tugging at his lips.

  “There is a kind of mischief,” he said, “in knowing a man’s language before he knows you’ve learned it.”

  Syra arched a brow. “You want me to teach me Rix's language?”

  Oreth lifted a shoulder, serene. “I want you to learn Valthari because language is how we reach each other. And because it will amuse me greatly when you inevitably use it.”

  Syra gave him a look. “So this is for your entertainment.”

  “At my age,” he said, “I take my joy where I can."

  He extended a hand again—not commanding, just offering, the same way he had when offering her the language before.

  Syra stared at it for a heartbeat longer this time. Then she shook her head, laughing under her breath.

  "You’re not going to do that—" she gestured vaguely, "—vision thing again, are you?" Keeper Oreth chuckled, soft and dry.

  "No," he said. "No visions. No storms in your mind. This will be...gentler."

  Syra narrowed her eyes, still wary. For half a second, she hesitated. Then, bracing herself, she placed her hand lightly against his.

  The moment their skin touched, a low warmth bloomed at the point of contact, spreading up her wrist like a slow pulse.

  Nothing violent.

  Nothing tearing.

  Just...weight.

  Soft and certain.

  The knowledge came not in a flood, but in fragments.

  Flashes.

  The curve of a word on someone’s tongue.

  The rasp of a sentence whispered during an argument.

  The way a vowel stretched differently depending on anger, or humor, or quiet affection.

  Images floated behind her closed eyes: an old Valthari woman weaving cloth and cursing at the tangled threads; two boys laughing as they traded sharp, elegant insults like knives thrown in a market square.

  It didn’t all come at once.

  It unfurled inside her slowly, weaving itself through the new pathways Keeper Oreth unlocked.

  The meanings were there—rooted deep.

  But the words themselves she would have to chase, to piece together.

  It wasn’t perfect.

  It wasn’t easy.

  But it was hers now.

  The moment Syra pulled her hand back, she knew something had changed.

  It wasn’t overwhelming like before—no visions, no drowning tide of knowledge.

  But inside her head, something felt... different.

  Strange.

  There were words there now.

  Sharp and curved, familiar and foreign all at once.

  They floated just beneath the surface of her thoughts like scraps of music she couldn’t quite sing.

  Some words she almost understood, almost felt on the tip of her tongue—but the cadence was wrong.

  The rhythm fractured.

  She could feel their meanings—sense the sting behind them, the bite, the elegance—but when she tried to summon them fully, they slipped sideways through her grasp.

  Syra pressed her fingers briefly against her temple, frowning.

  "It feels weird," she muttered. "Like..." She shook her head. "Like someone gave me half a song but didn’t tell me the tune."

  Keeper Oreth smiled kindly.

  "That is how it begins," he said. "Language is not just words. It is breath, and pause, and intention. It will take practice, like any other craft.

  But it will be worth it."

  Syra exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding a little from her shoulders.

  She already knew he was right.

  Even this rough grasp—this half-born understanding—felt dangerous.

  Felt powerful.

  She could already imagine Rix’s face the first time she threw one of these words at him.

  But before she could smile too hard at the thought, Oreth’s voice shifted—lower, heavier.

  "Consider this a gift," he said, "for what you have done to bring Calyix here."

  Syra straightened slightly, caught off guard by the solemnity in his tone.

  "I have a feeling you both will come to appreciate it one day," Oreth continued, his blind gaze seeming to look straight through her, into something deeper. "I know it has not been easy. But without you..." He paused, the weight of it hanging thick in the air. "Without you, he would have died. And one of the greatest Empires this Galaxy has known would have died with him."

  Syra swallowed hard, the enormity of it crashing down over her.

  "You must know," he said, "your actions have already changed the course of your life forever."

  The words struck her harder than any weapon could have. She sat frozen for a moment, the truth of it too big to fully fit inside her chest.

  Not just survival.

  Not just another mission.

  Something larger.

  Something real.

  Her fingers curled into fists against her thighs, grounding herself against the surge of emotion that threatened to break loose.

  Keeper Oreth smiled gently.

  "Remember this, Syra Jharis, you are not just walking someone else’s path," he said. "You are making your own. What is woven for you will find its thread to you. What unravels was never part of your tapestry."

  ∞

  Syra remained in the hall even as Lethwynia took Keeper Oreth to his chambers to rest. She was a half hour deep into trying to decipher the knowledge he'd given her when the door creaked open behind her.

  She felt him before she saw him. The low hum of presence. The subtle disturbance of the stillness.

  Syra turned—and there he was.

  Rix stood framed in the doorway, broad and steady, his dark clothes dusted faintly with grit from the wind outside.

  The collar of his jacket was turned up, his violet eyes sharp and restless as they scanned the room.

  He looked the same.

  But he wasn’t.

  Not to her.

  Not anymore.

  Syra’s chest tightened painfully, the new understanding wrapping around her like invisible wire.

  She knew him now in a way she hadn’t before.

  Not from guesses.

  Not from assumptions.

  From the thread that had wound through their vision together.

  From the truth of what he carried—and what he feared becoming.

  He was still a fortress.

  Still bristling with walls and old scars.

  She rose to her feet, steadying herself against the tide of everything she wasn’t ready to say.

  "You're back," she breathed, the words slipping out before she could catch it.

  Rix’s eyes locked onto hers, a flicker of something crossing his face—maybe relief.

  He huffed out a low breath, raking a hand through his hair.

  "I spoke with Kaelor - he told me he'd be in touch within the next few hours."

  Typical.

  No apology.

  No explanation.

  Just forward.

  Syra felt the old tension coil between them again—familiar, stubborn—but it didn’t hit the same way anymore.

  It wasn’t a wall she wanted to climb over. It was a wall she understood. Syra tilted her head. “And we?”

  “We wait. Back at the ship.”

  She studied him for a moment. Something about him felt less…combative. Like a wire inside him had been cut loose, and now all that was left was the hum.

  She nodded once. “Alright.”

  Rix shifted his weight, glancing once over his shoulder toward the deeper chambers.

  Before they could move, soft footsteps echoed against the stone.

  Syra turned—and there was Lethwynia, emerging from the shadows like a spirit woven of silk and iron. She was carrying Syra's laundered clothing and sheepishly Syra thanked her and took them. "Thank you."

  "Of course." she said. Her robes moved soundlessly around her ankles, her silver-streaked hair gleaming faintly in the low light. Her expression was calm, but Syra could read the heaviness there—the wear of long years, of too many losses endured in silence.

  Rix stiffened, almost imperceptibly, as Lethwynia approached.

  Tension hummed in the narrow space between them.

  Not anger.

  Not blame.

  Something heavier.

  Something older.

  Lethwynia bowed her head slightly, the gesture full of quiet dignity.

  "May the Aylin guide you safely, Ascended," she said, her voice low, almost formal. "And to you Syra Jharis."

  Rix's jaw worked once, like he was chewing on something hard. For a moment Syra thought he wouldn’t answer at all.

  But then he stepped forward, the stiffness in his frame loosening just enough to reveal the man underneath the soldier.

  He spoke close, not in Common, but in Valthari. His voice was softer than usual, stripped bare.

  "Venai esh'tarin, Lethwynia. Vekrin dosh'elun."

  Syra’s breath caught.

  The meaning bloomed inside her instantly—like a thread pulled taut in her mind. Like two voices speaking over each other. "Forgive my silence, Lethwynia. Thank you for everything."

  Lethwynia's eyes softened, the faintest shimmer touching their edges.

  She reached out, lightly pressing her hand to Rix’s forearm in a gesture that needed no translation. Then she turned to Syra, offering a smaller, gentler nod. "Take care of each other." she said simply.

  Syra swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded back, stronger than she felt.

  Without another word, Lethwynia stepped back into the shadows, vanishing the way she'd come.

  Rix exhaled quietly through his nose and turned toward the exit without looking back.

  Syra fell into step beside him, her mind still reeling—not from their departure, but from the words she’d understood.

  Rix had no idea she knew.

  She smiled faintly to herself as they walked, keeping the secret tucked close to her heart like a small ember.

  A gift.

  A thread.

  A promise she didn’t dare name yet.

  The walk back to the ship was quiet.

  But it wasn’t awkward. In a strange way she was just glad to see him.

  The streets of Gorn Row were less chaotic now, the afternoon heat starting to fade. The market had thinned slightly, the scent of spice and smoke still heavy in the air but no longer suffocating. They walked side by side, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, but neither said a word.

  He didn’t rush.

  She didn’t prod.

  By the time they reached the docking bay, the ramp of the ship was already lowered.

  Their purchases—everything from the market—had been delivered and stacked in tidy crates near the loading bay. Labels scrawled in at least three languages. Fresh food. Preserved roots. Spices. Even her box of small treasures.

  Rix paused, scanning the crates. He reached down and opened one of the boxes, checking its contents. His fingers brushed a wrapped jar of dark sauce, some blend she couldn’t name. He set it back gently, and hummed almost approvingly.

  Syra watched him for a second. Watched the care in his movement.

  Different.

  Not softer, exactly.

  Just more present.

  The silence stretched, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was waiting.

  He glanced over at her, like he was about to say something—but didn’t.

  Instead, he turned and moved up the ramp into the ship.

  Syra followed.

  Something in the air between them had shifted. Not resolved. Not defined.

  But it was there.

  Less tension.

  More gravity.

  Rix crouched, slid his hands under one of the lighter crates, and hoisted it effortlessly and without a word, he carried it into the galley.

  Syra watched him disappear into the ship’s interior, the dull clang of his boots echoing once, then fading.

  She stared at the other boxes for a moment. Then picked up her satchel, the smaller crate with her things inside and made her way down the corridor.

  The ship was quiet. Big enough that they could avoid each other, but not comfortably. Everything echoed. Every breath felt shared.

  She passed the common room, passed the helm, and turned into the narrow corridor where the crew quarters split off. Two rooms. He’d claimed one the first night when he passed out in it. She didn’t ask. She just took the other.

  The door hissed open to reveal her small sleeping area. Her cot in the corner, her small bag of belongings. Her body relaxed for the first time since they'd landed on this planet. It was as close to home as home got for her.

  Syra set the crate down beside the bed and sat. Let her eyes drift to the closed door across the hall. His door.

  She wasn’t sure what she expected now.

  He hadn’t said much since the temple. But there was a difference in the way he looked at her now. Like he was thinking before he spoke. Like he finally saw her clearly—and wasn’t sure what to do with it.

  She shook the thought off, locked her door and stood.

  She unpacked slowly. She peeled off the market-stiffened tunic, tossed it aside, and laid out her freshly laundered clothes. She pulled out the body wash, lotion, perfume capsule, and hair oil. They smelled warm and complex—fig, rosewater, a hint of spice.

  Syra let her fingers linger on the perfume vial before stepping into the tiny shower cubicle.

  The water steamed quickly. Hot. Miraculously clean. She stood under it longer than she needed to, palms braced against the metal wall as steam wrapped around her like fog.

  The grime and sweat and temple dust ran off her skin in dark rivulets.

  She scrubbed her scalp gently, fingers working in the soaps and oils—god, it smelled divine. Her hair untangled easily beneath her hands, the strands slipping like silk. She let the water pour over her one more time before stepping out.

  Towel. Lotion. The good kind—the kind that sinks into the skin, not just sits on top of it. She rubbed it into her legs, her arms, her collarbone. A small, deliberate act of care.

  The mirror above the sink was warped, slightly oxidized at the edges. But she still caught her reflection.

  Hair loose, still damp. Skin clean. Eyes softer than she remembered.

  For the first time in days, she didn’t look like a fugitive. Or a soldier. Or a pilot.

  She just looked like herself.

  Or maybe—someone she used to be.

  Syra dabbed the perfume behind her ears, under her collarbone. Just a touch. Just because she brought it. Just enough to feel human again.

  When she stepped out into the corridor again, she paused outside the galley.

  She could hear him moving inside. A drawer opened. A lid sealed. Something clinked—metal against ceramic.

  And underneath it all, the faint smell of food.

  Not ration packs.

  Real food.

  Syra leaned against the wall outside the door, closed her eyes for a breath, then opened them again. Gods, what that was, it was starting to smell good.

  Then, casually, she stepped inside.

  The galley lights were low, humming faintly above the narrow counters and aged metal cabinetry. The kind of space built for function, not comfort—but it smelled like warmth now. Like herbs and spice and something tangy simmering low.

  Rix stood at the far end, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his back to her as he unpacked ingredients from the crate.

  He didn’t turn when she entered.

  Didn’t ask why she was there.

  Didn’t need to.

  Syra stepped inside and leaned her hip against the edge of the doorway, arms crossed. Her hair was still damp, curls loose against her shoulders, skin warm from the shower, the perfume barely there but comforting.

  She said nothing.

  And watched.

  Rix moved with quiet efficiency—pulling out vegetables, dried herbs sealed in soft paper, a vial of white liquid he uncorked and sniffed before setting it aside. His movements were precise but unhurried, like he’d done this a thousand times before. Like it mattered to him that it was done right.

  He found a small, battered pan, filled it with water, set it on the burner. Reached for the knife, began slicing the vegetables—thin, even, rhythmic.

  "You cook."

  "On occasion."

  He glanced at her once—just a flick of his eyes—and then went back to his work.

  That was it.

  No snark. No question. No lecture.

  She leaned against the wall, arms still crossed, and simply watched him cook. Syra let the silence stretch a moment longer, then shifted her weight against the doorframe. "So,” she said, her voice casual, almost too light, “are we just...not going to talk about what happened?”

  His hand paused on the edge of the counter.

  She watched his shoulders rise, just slightly, before he turned to face her.

  Not defensive.

  Not hostile.

  Just…guarded.

  “I’m not sure there’s anything left to say.”

  “There’s a lot to say,” she countered. “You just don’t want to say any of it. I've got to know what you saw.”

  Rix’s jaw tightened. He leaned back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest, mirroring her without meaning to. “I saw what you saw. I saw what I could become.”

  Syra narrowed her eyes slightly. “I saw futures,” she said. “Possibilities. Not truths. Not fate. Just...versions. And you—” her voice softened, just a fraction, “—you weren’t the only one I saw.”

  He didn’t look at her. “I saw myself, others,” she added. “What I might become. What I might lose. What I might do.”

  Still nothing.

  She stepped closer, until only the galley table was between them. “Are you scared I saw too much of you?” she asked quietly.

  His eyes flicked up at that.

  Met hers.

  “I’m scared you’ll believe it,” he said.

  Syra exhaled slowly. The kind of breath that comes after bracing for impact.

  “I don’t know what to believe yet,” she admitted. “But I know it wasn’t all bad.”

  His gaze held hers. Unmoving.

  The air between them felt heavier than it had in the temple.

  “But I also saw what happens if no one stops you,” she added. “If no one reaches you.”

  Rix looked down at the counter, jaw tight.

  “I’ve stopped myself before,” he said.

  “And how long do you think you can keep doing that alone?”

  That landed.

  She saw it.

  He blinked slowly, like the question had echoed in a place he didn’t want her to touch.

  Then, instead of answering, he turned and checked the pot.

  Rix stood at the stove, his back to her, stirring something in the pan with slow, distracted movements.

  She watched him for a minute, wondering what wheels were turning behind that sharp, unreadable expression.

  He broke the silence first.

  "You didn’t mention Thenia," he said, voice low but direct.

  Syra tensed slightly, lowering her boots back to the floor with a soft thud.

  "Not exactly dinner conversation," she muttered.

  Rix turned the burner down, scraping the pan once before glancing at her over his shoulder.

  "It’s not nothing."

  She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. "It’s not something I like talking about."

  He didn’t push immediately. Just turned back to his work, plating food with steady hands.

  But after a long pause, quieter:

  "I've been gone a long time. The last I checked Thenia was a thriving metropolis."

  Syra hesitated. "Was. Long before I was born. It's a mining colony now and has been for years. The Weave sends workers out there all the time." His brows creased slightly, "The Weave?"

  "The Scattered Weave in the Aralia system. Close to the Fringe planets."

  No recognition in his eyes, "You'll have to show me it one day." He said. Then added, "What happened on Thenia?"

  The images rose up too easily—smoke and blood and the roar of collapsing metal.

  The desperate scramble to get the last of the civilians aboard the broken shuttles.

  The sick, hollow feeling of knowing not everyone would make it.

  She shook her head.

  "Bad orders. Bad odds. The Dominion wanted orbital strikes to clear the way. Would’ve leveled half the planet." She pushed her fork through the food absently, appetite gone. "I disobeyed. Pulled the units back. Held the line until we could get the pods off the surface."

  Rix was silent.

  She risked a glance at him—and found him watching her, his expression unreadable but heavy. "You know truth is," she didn't know why she was admitting this but fuck it, "I don't know if I did it for them or because I knew I couldn't live with the guilt."

  "Do not let them harden you into accepting that," Rix said. "That guilt is there because you are a good person. Be worried when you stop feeling that. Be guilty when that happens."

  -

  Steam hissed quietly from under the lid.

  When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. Calmer.

  “We eat first,” he said.

  Syra almost smiled.

  It wasn’t a dismissal.

  It was a delay.

  And for now… she’d take it.

  She walked over to the opposite counter, leaned beside him, and didn’t say another word.

  But the silence between them had changed again.

  Not a wall.

  A truce.

  And something warmer underneath.

  Rix slid the plate in front of her, then took his seat across the table.

  Syra blinked down at the food. It wasn’t ration paste. It wasn’t some crumbling protein bar wrapped in foil. It was actual food—warm, fragrant, real. Root vegetables roasted to golden perfection. Toasted grains softened by a dark, syrupy glaze. Thin slices of cured meat curled slightly at the edges, dusted in something sharp and green.

  She didn’t realize how long she’d been staring until the smell hit her properly. Rich. Smoky. Slightly sweet. Her stomach knotted, then growled in open betrayal.

  She picked up the fork, stabbed a piece of the meat, and took a cautious bite.

  Her mouth stopped working.

  The first bite was sharp with salt and citrus, cutting clean through the richness beneath. The grain was crisp at the edges, tender inside, soaking up a bright, herb-laced broth. Cool, tangy cream clung to roasted roots, the kind of finish that left her reaching for another bite without thinking.

  Her next breath came slower.

  It was so good it almost pissed her off.

  She chewed, swallowed, then gave him a sideways glance. “Okay. Fine.”

  Rix raised an eyebrow. “Fine?”

  She gestured at the plate with her fork. “It’s edible.”

  He stared at her, deadpan. “Edible.”

  She stabbed another bite. “Suspiciously edible.”

  Rix let out a quiet, amused breath. Then—just for a moment—he smiled.

  Not a smirk. Not one of his wry, biting looks.

  A real smile.

  Subtle. Small. But the kind that softened him.

  Syra froze for half a second, her fork halfway to her mouth.

  Well damn.

  Something really had changed.

  She looked away before he could see whatever was on her face.

  Rix leaned back in his seat, chewing slowly, saying nothing else. Except for a low, contented sound—barely more than a hum—as he took another bite of his own.

  Syra kept eating.

  Slower now.

  The food grounded her. Warmed something that had been cold too long. She didn’t know what this was between them. Or where it was going. But she knew this:

  She didn’t hate sitting across from him anymore.

  And that scared her more than anything.

  They ate the rest of the meal without speaking.

  Not because there was nothing to say—but because, for once, there didn’t need to be.

  The silence between them wasn’t brittle anymore. It held. Comfortable. Grounded.

  Rix finished first. He pushed his plate away with a soft clink and leaned back, arms folded, gaze resting somewhere on the far wall. Not tense. Just... thoughtful.

  She could feel her body easing. Like something inside her had finally taken a breath.

  Eventually, she sat back, wiping her fingers on the napkin. “Okay,” she said, glancing at the plate. “I might owe you a full compliment.”

  Rix didn’t look at her. “Careful. You’re building a reputation.”

  She smirked. “What, civil?”

  “Soft.”

  She threw the napkin at him. It missed, barely.

  That smile ghosted his lips again—but he didn’t throw it back.

  The ship was quieter than it had ever been.

  Outside the small portholes, Vextar's twin moons hung low and pale, casting a faint silver wash through the corridors.

  The supplies from the market sat stacked neatly in the corner, unopened crates promising something like normalcy they hadn't earned yet.

  Syra sat at the small galley table, idly scraping the last of her food around her plate.

  The silence between them wasn’t heavy.

  It wasn’t awkward.

  It just... was.

  A new kind of silence.

  Like breathing room.

  Rix set his fork down quietly, pushing his plate aside, and leaned back in his chair. His violet eyes flicked up to meet hers, sharp and unreadable in the dim light.

  For a moment, he just watched her.

  Then, almost casually—but Syra caught the tension underneath—he asked: "You still thinking about leaving?"

  The words landed soft but hard, low enough that he could pretend it didn’t matter if she said yes.

  But it did.

  Syra felt the shift in the air between them.

  Felt the weight he wasn’t saying out loud.

  She set her fork down too, sitting back in her seat.

  "No," she said simply. "I'm here. I'm in it... to see how it ends."

  Something unspoken loosened in Rix’s posture.

  Only a little.

  But enough.

  He nodded once, as if approving of a decision that had nothing to do with him—but Syra knew better. "Good," he said gruffly. "I need a pilot."

  Syra smirked faintly, hiding the warmth crawling up the back of her neck.

  "Of course you do," she said dryly.

  Rix’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost something more—but he shoved back his chair and rose without another word, gathering their plates with an easy efficiency.

  He didn’t look at her again as he moved around the small kitchen.

  But the shift between them had already happened.

  No promises.

  No grand declarations.

  Just something real, unspoken, tethered tight and quiet between their ribs.

  Something that would hold.

  Instead, he stood, collecting both plates. He moved easily now, like whatever weight had been crushing him earlier had shifted to his shoulders, manageable again.

  Syra leaned on her elbows, watching him rinse the plates with precise, practiced hands.

  And just when she thought the quiet might stretch again—

  A low, metallic chime echoed through the ship.

  Her stomach clenched instinctively. Not fear. Just reflex.

  She glanced at Rix.

  He was already straightening.

  “Comms,” he said.

  Syra stood, already moving. “Kaelor?”

  “Has to be.”

  They made their way to the comm panel tucked into the narrow corridor just off the cockpit. Rix tapped the console, voice low and firm.

  “Receiving.”

  The screen crackled once, then cleared.

  Kaelor’s face appeared, hood half-shadowing his angular features, breath misting in the cold air around him.

  “I hope you’ve both rested,” he said without preamble. “You’ll need it.”

  Syra crossed her arms. “That’s a great opening. Very calming.”

  Kaelor didn’t smile. “There’s chatter. A scout ship docked in the sector yesterday—Dominion registry, masked transponder. Quiet entry.”

  Rix’s jaw tightened. “Who?”

  “Don’t know yet. But they’re looking for something. Someone.” Kaelor’s gaze flicked offscreen, then back. “I’d wager you.”

  Rix’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “How long before they triangulate the signal?”

  “Not long,” Kaelor said. “You need to move. Meet me in the Upper Sector. I shall be waiting in the ship bay.”

  Syra didn’t wait. She was already peeling off toward the cockpit.

  The transmission ended.

  Rix stood still for a second longer, staring at the dark screen.

  Then turned.

  And followed Syra into the cockpit.

  Whatever peace they’d found in the quiet—whatever strange, delicate shift had begun between them—it was over.

  The real world had found them again.

  And it never came gently.