The market was chaos—loud, blinding, hot with the press of bodies and the scent of a hundred things Syra couldn’t name. It hit her like a wave the moment they stepped off the ship: shouting vendors, flickering signage in languages she couldn’t read, meats hanging beside glinting tech parts, and thick clouds of spice and smoke curling through the crowd. Syra moved through the crowd with her head down and her shoulders squared, one hand brushing the edge of her coat where it draped over her wrist. She hadn’t worn her bracelet in weeks—not since the escape. Not since everything with Colt. Now it was snug again on her left wrist. Matte black, worn from use, but still sharp around the edges. Dominion-issued once. What it held now... wasn’t their concern. Syra still had her credit chip from Colt - fourteen thousand credits sitting in a private account.

  Rix didn’t even flinch as he moved through the crowd like he’d done this a hundred times before—shoulders squared, gaze steady, cutting through the noise like it didn’t touch him.

  Syra followed, slower, arms crossed. Her jaw still ached from clenching it too hard during their last conversation. He’d stabbed a man in front of her, refused to explain it, then acted like it was just another day in the life. And now they were here—in the fucking grocery isle.

  She kept half a step behind him as he veered toward a stall piled high with produce wrapped in paper and boxes, exchanging a few words with a vendor wrapped in desert cloth. She almost recognized the language—fluid and fast, a little hard on the voice box—catching the tone. Confident. Familiar.

  She glanced around the crowd, still tense, still waiting for the next strange thing to blindside her. “Where are we exactly?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “And why the hell are we here?”

  "They call it Gorn Row. Most are Gornish settlers here." He was inspecting a bundle of crimson-skinned roots. "If I have to eat one more dehydrated oat bar I think my heart might stop. I need real food, something doesn't taste like dried up ve'hari," he looked sideways at her, then up and down, with apprehension. He added, "So do you."

  She made a face at him, "Don't come crying to me when you're starving and have nothing else."

  There was a small, barely there smirk, gone as quick as she saw it. She rolled her eyes.

  Gornish. Of course. The off-worlders Colt had hired were Gornish. An uncomfortable feeling itched at her thinking about Colt.

  “I thought we were making one more stop,” she added. “This doesn’t look like intel.”

  He looked over at her then, impassive. “It’s not."

  “So this is what, a grocery run?”

  He haggled with the vendor in a low voice, waved his band over a scanner, and nodded once.

  The vendor bowed low, then brought one hand to his forehead and extended it outward in a smooth arc—a gesture Syra didn’t recognize, but it felt practiced. Ritualistic. Almost reverent.

  Not just gratitude.

  Recognition.

  She glanced at Rix, but his expression didn’t shift. No reaction, no acknowledgment. Just a nod before he turned away.

  Syra didn’t ask.

  But the way the vendor watched him go—eyes wide, hand still hovering in the air—told her that man hadn’t just thanked a customer.

  He’d seen someone.

  Someone important.

  Maybe dangerous.

  Maybe both.

  Rix turned, gesturing with a flick of his head for her to follow.

  “What about the food?” she asked, brow furrowed.

  “It’ll be delivered to the ship,” he said simply, already moving. “Outsystem vendors prefer it that way. Fewer hands.”

  She hesitated, then followed, still watching him like he might turn into someone else at any moment. This version of Rix—quiet, practiced, trading credits for vegetables like he wasn’t carrying centuries of grief and rage in his chest—didn’t make sense. Not after what she’d seen.

  He stopped at another stall, this one full of tightly packed spice jars sealed with wax. Again, the language shifted—new dialect, same ease.

  “You do this often?” she asked, voice tight.

  He didn’t look at her. “Used to. People used to know me here.”

  "Like that vendor back there?"

  And just like that, he was bartering again.

  Syra folded her arms tighter across her chest. Gods, he was frustrating. She didn’t trust this planet, didn’t trust the smell in the air, didn’t trust the way he moved through it all like it belonged to him.

  And he hadn’t answered her question.

  He hadn’t answered a lot of questions.

  At the next stall, he haggled for a bundle of dried roots, his voice low and fluent in the vendor’s dialect. The exchange was efficient, polite, and just casual enough to imply history. Not once did he raise his voice. Not once did he lose control. Syra watched from behind, arms crossed, still simmering from earlier—but unable to ignore how easily he moved through this world.

  She didn’t know where Rix had come from, the life he lived, the planet he was born on. Not really. But it was becoming clear he’d lived more lives than she could count.

  A soft tap pulled her out of her thoughts. His fingers brushed her wrist.

  “Hm?”

  He nodded toward the vendor. “Thoughts?”

  She blinked. “On what?”

  “I told him five hundred credits for a kilogram of Korrin root was steep. He disagrees. I figured we could let the third-party settle it."

  The vendor looked at her, unamused and waiting. Syra hesitated—then caught the tell. Slitted eyes. Pale green scales just under the vendor’s hood. Yennish.

  She glanced at the row of stalls behind them. No Anaxians nearby. But she remembered the tension in the Weave docks. The rumors. The grudges.

  She looked the vendor dead in the eye.

  “I mean,” she said, casual, “the Anaxian a few rows back was offering the same root for a hundred.”

  The vendor hissed. “Anaxians dilute.”

  “Still cheaper,” Syra said, shrugging.

  “Two hundred,” the vendor growled.

  “One fifty,” Rix said.

  "One seventy."

  "One sixty." Syra countered, jumping in, "People may not want to deal with someone they think is ripping them off," she added suggestively.

  The vendor snarled and slapped the transaction panel onto the table.

  Rix passed his band over it with a satisfied hum and turned to walk away. They moved through the next aisle in silence before he finally glanced at her.

  “I didn’t see an Anaxian selling Korrin root.”

  “You didn’t,” she said.

  His brow lifted. “You lied.”

  “I negotiated.”

  He was quiet for a beat. “You knew Yennish vendors won’t budge for other Yennish. But bring an Anaxian into it...”

  “Yenne and Anaxia have been in some kind of passive-aggressive trade war since before I was born,” she said. “Every dock rat in the Weave knows how to pit one against the other.”

  He let out a soft sound—almost a laugh. “Remind me not to let you near the fuel vendors.”

  Syra smiled, just faintly as they stepped into the square. Less crowded but still more people than she appreciated.

  Then his tone shifted. Subtle, but unmistakable.“I need to take care of something.”

  Syra’s smile faded. “That where the ‘one more stop’ comes in?”

  He didn’t answer. Just looked at her. The weight in his expression was enough. "I’ll go alone,” he said, "I will come and find you when I need you. Don't try-."

  "And go where?" Syra interrupted, "I'm still waiting to figure out what the hell this mark is. I'll browse. I won't go far."

  Rix studied her for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing her words. Then he gave a curt nod before turning and continuing through the market, his focus shifting back to the path ahead.

  Syra watched him as he moved through the bustling market, people moving out of the way for him as if he carried an unspoken authority. His broad shoulders cut a path through the throngs of people, the dark leather of his jacket hugging his frame, worn yet sturdy. His movements were effortless, a natural confidence in the way he navigated the chaos of merchants and traders. The soft, golden light from the stalls flickered over him, catching the hard edges of his face—the sharp jawline, the hint of stubble, and the focused gaze that never wavered. His pale, almost white hair, a little unkempt but still somehow perfect, brushed against the collar of his jacket with each purposeful step.

  She paused at a vendor stall, pretending to eye some overpriced rehydrated fruit. It made her wonder where was he getting the credits for the produce? Syra wandered through the market, letting herself get lost in the sights and sounds. The scent of roasted meats and exotic spices mingled with the earthy aroma of the nearby stalls, each one filled with trinkets and treasures from all across the galaxy.

  She passed a tall mirror on her way and caught a full-body reflection of herself.

  Gods.

  She needed a second to even register it was her. Her hair was half-falling out of one braid, skin blotched from heat and stress, boots scuffed, and her shirt—was that blood or engine grease? Hard to tell. Probably both.

  She slowed, staring at the stranger in the glass.

  Her shoulders looked tense, hunched slightly like she was bracing for something. Eyes tired. Jaw tight.

  I need to do something about that.

  Not for anyone else. Not for Rix. Just…for herself. She looked like someone who’d been on the run and hadn’t remembered how to stop.

  Syra reached up and pulled the rest of her braid free, letting her hair fall loose around her shoulders before tying it back into a bun. It helped. A little.

  She ran a finger under each eye, trying to wipe off the exhaustion.

  It didn’t work.

  But it was a start.

  Maybe after this—after whatever this next stop is—she’d find a shower. A change of clothes. A damn minute to remember she wasn’t just a body moving through someone else’s story.

  She squared her shoulders.

  And kept walking.

  She slowed near a stall strung with delicate jewelry—thin copper chains and slivers of gold catching the light in soft flashes. Rows of bracelets shimmered with tiny stones, each one humming faintly with low-grade energy charges for aesthetic effect.

  Her fingers brushed over a simple piece—silver, understated, with a single blue gem in its center. It reminded her of the seas back home. Real water. Not filtered or rationed. Just open, endless blue.

  It was pretty. Feminine, even.

  She rarely let herself have anything like that anymore. Not since the Dominion slashed her pay and she’d been stuck scrounging every credit between ration runs and backroom tech repairs. Anything not practical felt like guilt waiting to happen.

  The vendor was watching her now—an older woman with warm, yellow-gold eyes and skin that shimmered slightly, like it wasn’t entirely real. Syra recognized the faint flicker of a projection field around her. A disguise. Expensive tech, usually worn by species who didn’t want their true form interfering with sales. She’d seen it plenty in the Weave—just enough illusion to make you comfortable.

  Syra met the vendor’s gaze. The woman smiled gently, like she saw something Syra wasn’t ready to admit.

  It had been so long since she’d bought something that didn’t have a job to do.

  “How much?” she asked, holding up the bracelet.

  The price was lower than she expected, but not unreasonable.

  She paid without haggling and slid it onto her wrist. The metal was cool against her skin. The stone caught the light.

  It didn’t fix anything.

  But it reminded her she was still a person.

  

  She didn’t have anything left. All her supplies—what little she’d stashed in corners of the Arc—were gone and everything else she owned was in a tin under her bed in her fathers shop. The Elysium had nothing personal aboard. No comforts. No scent. No softness.

  She picked up a pouch of liquid body wash in a recycled foil packet, scented with rose and fig. A matching lotion in a matte squeeze tube—hydrating, lightweight, laced with something cooling for long hours in a flight suit. She added a few vials of hair oil that promised softness and smoothing, a fine-toothed comb carved from polished bone-resin, and a small tin of skin balm meant for a wide range of small ailments.

  There were perfume pods too—small capsules designed for behind the ears or collarbone. She chose one. Just one. Something floral, a little spicy. Not because she needed to smell good, but because she wanted to feel like she existed.

  She hesitated at a shelf of cosmetics and travel accessories. Lip balm. A black kohl pencil, reminiscent of that of Kessaryon kohl, the type women like her mother used to wear. A tiny mirror compact. She added the mirror to her pile.

  When she handed over the credits, the vendor didn’t say anything—just wrapped the items in soft biodegradable paper and tucked them into a mesh carry satchel.

  Syra continued to browse the wares, her hands still absentmindedly trailing over the fabrics and trinkets when something caught her eye. Amid the clutter of metal and stone pendants hanging from the vendor's stall, one in particular stood out: a small, intricately crafted pendant with an insignia she recognized immediately.

  The insignia of Valeri Prime she'd seen on her ship readouts. The sigil on Rix's armor.

  "No way..." Her heart skipped a beat. Her voice came out barely a whisper before she cleared her throat. "How much?"

  The vendor shifted. Its translucent skin shimmered faintly under the awning’s filtered light. Long, narrow fingers coiled over the edge of the counter as it leaned in close, studying her face before looking at the pendant.

  A low, guttural noise emerged from its throat, almost like a growl, before the small translation device strapped around its neck clicked to life. "Rare," the vendor said in a mechanical tone. "One of a kind. Valeri Prime. Seven thousand credits."

  “Seven?” Syra blinked. “You’re joking.”

  She wasn’t sure what shocked her more, the price or the fact that something from Valeri Prime had found her after everything that happened.

  “That’s ridiculous. No one’s paying seven for a trinket.”

  The vendor’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Valeri Prime...lost world. Rarity,” the voice box croaked.

  Syra crossed her arms, keeping her tone even. “I know what it is. Doesn’t mean it’s worth that much. You've had it sitting here this long? Doesn’t seem like it's flying off the shelves.”

  The vendor bared small, grey teeth—an expression somewhere between a grin and a warning. But Syra held her ground.

  “Four thousand,” she said flatly. “That’s generous, considering half this sector doesn’t even believe Valeri Prime existed.”

  The vendor let out a dissatisfied gargle. "You do," The translator crackled. “Too low. Six.”

  “Still high.” She stepped back, letting her voice cool. “Forty-five hundred. Take it or leave it.”

  There was a pause. The vendor’s fingers tapped, slow and rhythmic, before its shoulders slumped in reluctant defeat.

  “Agreed,” the translator rasped.

  Syra exhaled only after she slid her credit chip across the panel, grip tight, like she might change her mind if she loosened it.

  It was a lot to spend—for something she couldn’t explain. She wasn’t buying it for Rix. It wasn’t a gift. Not really.

  But holding it, knowing what it was…it felt like something. A connection. A thread. Maybe even a warning.

  She didn’t know what it meant.

  Only that she couldn’t leave it behind.

  She took the pendant carefully, almost reverently, turning it over in her hand. It was cold, heavier than it looked. Not just metal—history. Memory. Proof of something no one else seemed to carry but Rix.

  She didn’t know why it mattered. But it did.

  Just as she slipped the pendant into her pocket, Rix reappeared, weaving his way through the crowd with that calm, steady gait of his. Even in the chaos of the market, he moved like he owned the space, as though nothing could faze him. He spotted her instantly, his dark eyes locking onto her, and gestured for her to follow.

  "Come with me," he said, his voice low, almost urgent.

  "What's going on?"

  "No questions," He didn't explain further, already turning to cut through the bustling crowd. His hand hovered near her back, not quite touching but close enough to guide her through the throng of people. Syra fell in step beside him, her curiosity piqued.

  They weaved through the market, dodging vendors and customers alike until the noise began to fade behind them. Rix didn't speak, but Syra could sense the tension radiating off him. Whatever was going on, it was serious.

  As they moved further from the heart of the market, the narrow streets opened up into a quieter section of the city. The air was cooler here, the sun casting long shadows on the cobbled ground. Rix finally stopped, pulling them into an empty side alley, away from prying eyes.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Syra looked up, noticing the old, worn structure that stood before them. It was small, almost unassuming, but the design of the building had a certain reverence to it. The arched doorway and faded symbols carved into the stone, with one spiral at its head, similar to that of her artifact brand, told her everything she needed to know.

  A temple.

  "Well, it's not another nightclub." she asked, her voice lowering instinctively as she glanced around, noting the lack of any other pedestrians.

  Rix's eyes scanning the temple entrance as though it held some deeper meaning. He took a breath, his shoulders tense. "This place was much different when I was last here," he said quietly, finally turning to look at her. His expression was unreadable, but Syra could tell this wasn't easy for him.

  The temple wasn't grand like some of the others she'd seen on her travels. It was plain, made of weathered stone, its entrance framed by faded carvings that hinted at a long-forgotten era. A few symbols stood out, but Syra didn't recognize them. She paused, about to ask Rix what this place was, but stopped when she saw the look on his face—his jaw tight, eyes narrowed in thought.

  Inside, the air was cool, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the stone floor. Rows of chairs were set up to face the front, almost like the Eternal Light churches on Sennia, except this place worshipped no deities Syra knew.

  The faint scent of incense lingered, mixing with the faint hum of voices from within. As they stepped further inside, a figure emerged from the shadows—a woman with silver streaks in her dark hair, her robes flowing as she moved towards them. The moment she saw Rix, she stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes widening in shock.

  "Sovereign be good," she breathed, as though she were seeing a ghost, "Calyix." Her voice trembled slightly, as if she couldn't quite believe it was him standing there. A moment later, a slow, joyful smile spread across her face, and without hesitation, she stepped forward and embraced him.

  Syra blinked in surprise, watching as this woman hugged Rix with the kind of familiarity she didn't expect. But Rix didn't return the gesture. His arms remained at his sides, his body stiff, almost as though he were an unwilling participant in the reunion. The woman pulled back slightly, her expression faltering as she realized how cold his response was. The warmth in her eyes dimmed.

  "You're really here," she said softly, searching his face for something that wasn't there. "We thought...it's been so long..."

  Rix's jaw tightened, and for a moment, his expression was unreadable, though Syra could sense the tension rolling off him in waves. Whatever history they had, it wasn't one Rix was willing to revisit.

  "I need to see him," Rix said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth or emotion.

  The woman's eyes widened in alarm, and she glanced quickly at Syra before stepping closer to Rix, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Rix, please don't. He's an old man now. He's no threat to you."

  Rix turned sharply toward her, his eyes cold and piercing, and the woman flinched under his gaze. Her shoulders sagged, and she lowered her head, almost as if she were bowing to him. The deference in her posture wasn't lost on Syra, nor was it on the vendor earlier on. Whoever this woman was, she clearly held Rix in some kind of reverence—or fear. It was as though she was afraid of what he might do.

  Syra felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She didn't like this place, didn't like the way this woman seemed to know Rix on some level she couldn't understand.

  The woman finally stepped back, her eyes downcast. "I'll take you to him."

  The halls grew darker as they wound deeper into the temple. The stone underfoot had long been worn smooth. As the woman walked, her robe shifted, just enough to reveal the skin of her forearm—and a mark inked into it.

  Syra’s breath caught.

  A jagged, swirling symbol, black as obsidian and ancient in design.

  The same one burned into their forearms.

  She looked at him, but he didn’t react. Didn’t even glance at it. If he noticed, he gave no sign. Either he already knew, or he didn’t need the reminder.

  Whatever this place was, it was tied to him. To the artifacts. To all of it.

  They reached a chamber tucked at the end of the hall. It was dim, lit only by a few flickering candles in wall sconces. The air felt heavier here, thick with age. Time didn’t move in this room—it settled.

  In the center sat a man—old, frail, motionless. His head bowed, hands resting on his knees. He didn’t look up.

  But the moment they entered, Syra felt something shift. The silence wasn’t empty—it watched.

  The woman stepped just inside the threshold, her head still bowed.

  Rix moved past her, standing before the man.

  Then the old man spoke, voice dry and thin, but clear. “Calyix Solvaris,” he said. “I bid you good return.”

  Syra blinked. The name struck the air like a bell.

  Rix didn’t speak. He just stared, his expression carved from stone.

  Then—unexpectedly, subtly—he dipped his head. Not low. Not humble. Just enough.

  A gesture of respect.

  Syra’s eyes widened.

  That wasn’t the Rix she knew.

  The tension in the room coiled tighter. No one moved. No one spoke.

  Something was happening—and Syra wasn’t sure she was ready to understand it.

  Syra watched from the doorway, her hands clenched at her sides. She didn't know what was happening, didn't understand the connection between Rix and this old man, but the knot of anxiety in her chest tightened. She could sense that whatever happened here, it wasn't going to end well.

  The old man finally looked up, his eyes clouded with age but still sharp. His gaze flicked to the woman for a moment, "Thank you, Lethwynia. You may return to your meditations."

  The woman cast a wary glance between Syra and Rix, placed all of her fingertips together and bowed. "As it pleases." And she left.

  The man eyed Rix but if he were seeing him accurately Syra couldn't tell. "Gods, you haven't changed a bit," the old man said quietly, studying Rix's face. "But you're not the same man who left this place."

  "No," Rix said coldly. "I'm not."

  The old man nodded slowly, as though he had expected that answer. His gaze shifted to Syra for a moment, and she felt a strange chill run down her spine. "Who is this human woman you bring with you?"

  "She was marked by the cursed artifact you bid me retrieve."

  "Did I?" he said, "I may be old but my memory is young. I told you the dangers of retrieving that artifact. I simply gave you the choice."

  Syra shifted uneasily, her heart pounding in her chest. She wasn't sure what Rix was looking for, but she had the sinking feeling that whatever it was, it wouldn't bring him peace.

  "You knew what would happen?"

  The old man sighed, the weight of many years settling over his frail shoulders. "You're seeking something that will only lead you further down the path you've already started, Calyx. You know that."

  "I don't care," Rix said coldly. "Tell me what I need to know."

  The old man stared at him for a long moment, and for a brief second, Syra thought she saw something like regret in his eyes. But then he nodded, as though accepting whatever fate had been set in motion long ago.

  "I'll tell you," the old man said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "But you won't like what you hear."

  Rix's expression didn't change, his eyes locked on the old man's as though daring him to continue.

  Syra stood frozen in place, the weight of the moment pressing down on her, making it hard to breathe. Whatever this was—whatever Rix was looking for—she had the distinct feeling it was about to change everything.

  The priest's gaze was unwavering as he assessed Syra, the intense glow of his white eyes shifting to a deeper, more calculating hue, as though he were processing details only he could see.

  "What's your name, vekhri?" he asked, his voice calm yet somehow weighty, as if each word was measured and weighed before being spoken.

  "Syra," she replied cautiously.

  "Syra who? Names matter."

  "Syra Jharis."

  The priest's eyes flickered, pupils turning to pure white as his gaze went blank, his mind visibly calculating, sifting through data in a manner that was more machine than human. It was unsettling, watching his features grow distant, almost impersonal, as the glow intensified.

  After a brief silence, he spoke, his voice cold and analytical. "Syra Jharis. Decorated Dominion War pilot, recipient of four honorary medals, including, but not limited to, an Exceptional Service Star, a Blue Star for your contributions to the Scattered Weave and a Command Wings of Merit..." He paused, blinking as his eyes returned to their original dark, probing stare, a ghost of curiosity flickering in his expression. "You've had a very impressive career."

  Syra cringed. "I'd rather not be reminded thanks,"

  The priest's lips twitched in the slightest hint of a smile. "If you're wondering if you did the right thing, Syra Jharis, know this:," His eyes turned white again, and he continued, his voice now softer, almost reverent. "In your actions, of rescuing the six life pods from the surface of Thenia, you saved 1,467 civilians—human, Anaxian, and Fharan alike. Your decision allowed Fharan troops to advance on Thenia, leading to the recapture of outposts Yana and Kehor. That advance, in turn, rescued an additional 2,050 souls from the wreckage of the Kehor fleet and thus ended the conflict without the use of orbital airstrikes..." he paused and then added, "saving the planet I daresay."

  Syra's eyes widened slightly, her breath catching as the priest's words hit her, the weight of those numbers settling over her. No one had ever told her what her sacrifice had really meant, only what it cost her, and she had been so ashamed she didn't ask.

  "In total, Syra Jharis," he continued, his voice calm yet powerful, "you directly and indirectly saved 3,517 lives. And while your actions may have impacted 1,256 others negatively, 70% of them continue to live. Every action has a consequence," he added, his voice softening. "But know that your choice saved far more than it cost."

  She looked away, unsure how to respond, feeling an unfamiliar weight of validation she hadn't asked for. For a brief moment, she glimpsed the true depth of the priest's mind, the precision with which he measured every decision, every life, every probability.

  "Thank you," she finally muttered, though it sounded weak, even to her own ears.

  The priest merely inclined his head, a gentle yet knowing smile on his face. "Sometimes, vekhri, we carry our choices without realizing their full weight. And sometimes," he added, his gaze flicking to Rix, "we find ourselves marked by them more deeply than we'd care to admit."

  Rix looked away. He hadn't expected the revelation—hadn't anticipated that the reluctant, sharp-tongued pilot by his side had once been a war hero. As the priest spoke, detailing Syra's actions with clinical precision, Rix felt a flicker of surprise, something deep and unspoken shifting in him. He kept his expression neutral, forced his stance to remain indifferent, but inside, he was...moved.

  Not only was his mother of Fharan descent, for an Ascended, a leader sworn to protect his people, to lead and make sacrifices as his birthright, the magnitude of what she had done struck a chord. She had saved thousands, disregarding protocol and consequence to protect lives, and she carried the weight of those choices without complaint or ceremony. In many ways, it mirrored the duty he had once shouldered—only, she'd done it without a title, without the recognition that had been handed to him since birth.

  It changed something in him. This wasn't the image of her he'd built in his mind—the scathing remarks, the defiant posture, the way she dismissed him with barely concealed irritation. He had assumed she was just another cynical pilot, a woman who had been burned too many times to care about anything outside herself. He'd been wrong.

  Now, he could see the strength beneath her reluctance, a quiet resilience that went far beyond survival. She wasn't some helpless tag-along, and she certainly wasn't just the bitter ex-soldier he'd first dismissed her as. There was a steel in her, a sense of duty that had led her to make choices even he, as a prince, could respect.

  He looked away, not wanting her to catch the faint flicker of admiration in his eyes. She didn't need to know he'd been affected, that he understood her better now, and that perhaps he'd judged her unfairly.

  But it was noted—etched somewhere in the back of his mind, shaping the way he viewed her. She wasn't just his reluctant companion anymore; she was someone worthy of respect, someone with her own scars, her own battles, her own integrity. And though he'd never say it, he knew he'd be watching her with a different gaze from now on.

  The priest looked between them, the silence settled thick around them, the candlelight flickering as if reacting to something unseen. The priest studied them both—not with suspicion, not with judgment, but with the kind of stillness that only comes from carrying too much knowledge for too long.

  “You both came here seeking answers,” he said finally. His voice no longer sounded like mere words. It was ritual. A rhythm older than this place. “But truth doesn’t speak in tongues you’ve been taught. Not when it concerns the Paragon.”

  Syra frowned, her fingers twitching near her thigh. “You said you’d tell us what we needed to know.”

  “I will,” the priest replied. “But not with words.”

  He stepped forward slowly, robes brushing the stone with a whisper. His eyes—once dark, now faintly gleaming with silver—watched them not like a man, but like a gatekeeper.

  He raised his hands, palms facing upward.

  “Give me your hands,” he said.

  Syra blinked. “Why?”

  “Because the Paragon does not offer answers. It shows possibility. And possibility must be touched.”

  Rix’s posture tensed beside her, though only slightly. “We’ve both had visions already,” he said coolly.

  The priest gave a faint, knowing smile. “Those were sparks. This—” he looked between them, “—this is the fire.”

  Syra’s pulse kicked in her neck. Her eyes dropped to the priest’s outstretched hands. They were lined with age, but steady. There was no threat in his stance, and yet she felt the same instinct she’d felt just before takeoff—like the next few moments might alter everything.

  Rix moved first.

  Of course he did.

  Without a word, he stepped forward and placed his hand in the priest’s right palm.

  The priest didn’t close his fingers around it. He simply held it—like one would carry fire.

  Syra’s breath hitched. She looked at Rix—his face was unreadable, but she caught the flicker of tension in his jaw, the faint flare of his nostrils.

  He was ready for pain.

  Maybe he even expected it.

  And still, he offered his hand like it meant nothing.

  Syra stepped closer.

  She paused for half a breath, her gaze locking with the priest’s.

  “And if I say no?” she asked.

  “You won't." The priest said.

  Her lips parted, but no words came. She didn’t know what she was afraid of—seeing something or feeling it. But some part of her already knew:

  She had to do this.

  Not for Rix.

  Not for the priest.

  For herself.

  Syra extended her hand and laid it in the priest’s left.

  A stillness swept through the chamber—absolute.

  The priest inhaled once.

  Then

  softly—

  “Let the thread be touched.”

  The world fell away.

  Not like falling, not like waking.

  More like being unstitched.

  Syra’s breath was stolen first—not from fear, but from pressure. A gravity that pressed in around her thoughts, peeling them open. Every sense dulled into silence. No weight. No light. No time.

  Only presence.

  She didn’t know if she was standing or suspended, or if her body even followed rules anymore. Something was touching her, through her—ancient, infinite, and watching.

  And Rix—he was there

  Not beside her.

  Within her.

  Threaded.

  There were no lines between them anymore. Just two minds unravelling and being rewoven into something that hummed with impossible knowing.

  Syra stood at the center, only half-formed, as though she were painted in brushstrokes instead of flesh.

  The Paragon hovered before her, suspended in the folds of the scene like a jewel sewn into fabric, its glow casting long ribbons of golden light that trailed across the space like threads of fate.

  Around her, silhouettes moved—possible lives flickering in and out like paper dolls caught in wind, graceful and unreal, beautiful and terrifying.

  And in the quiet of it all, with no sound but color, Syra felt it settle: this was hers. The mark on her arm shimmered in tune, and the tapestry breathed with her.

  Then it came.

  Not vision. Not memory.

  A rush.

  A flood of what could be—too much to see, too fast to comprehend, but felt.

  Like a thousand lifetimes flashing just behind the eyes.

  Like remembering futures they hadn’t lived yet.

  A planet—lush, luminous, reborn from fire. Valeri Prime, restored to glory, its spires reaching like prayers toward the stars. The four artifacts thrumming in harmony, not conquered but unified. A chorus of balance. Syra was holding the Paragon. Rix bore the Ember. There were two other unrecognizable blurred figures holding the Pendulum and the Formgiver.

  Syra and Rix stood together at the edge of a new era, changed, reverent, tired—but alive. She felt what it was to believe in something bigger than survival. To rebuild. To be more than a soldier or an heir.

  But—

  It slipped.

  Fire exploded in her vision. Screams echoed all around her. A war so vast it eclipsed the stars.

  Sovereigns twisted by power. Bodies falling like dust over burning cities. Fringe planets—Kessyra, Thenia, Vextar—turned to glass. Whole systems collapsing in on themselves. The Paragon pulsed in Syra’s chest like a living wound. He no longer looked at her the same. The vision unfolded like a living tapestry—paper-thin figures moving within layers of shifting silk and starlight, colors bleeding into one another like spilled ink on wet parchment.

  Rix’s face… distant. Cold.

  He was everything he feared.

  She was everything she had tried not to be, tried to stop Rix from becoming.

  And they were still connected.

  Even as the galaxy broke.

  The images twisted again.

  They were closer than closeness. Not lovers. Not enemies. Something older. Bound by time. Pulled apart by duty, lost in the endless dark of space.

  One future showed them aged and quiet, hands entwined as they stood at the edge of something ending.

  Another showed them alone, watching each other through crosshairs.

  Syra’s throat tightened.

  She tried to breathe.

  There was no air in this place.

  Only truth.

  Only potential.

  The vision moved again, sound and light expanding in every direction. She was standing in the middle of a battlefield, rooted to the scorched ground, her body intact but unresponsive, like she was watching through her own skin from the inside out. The wind howled past her ears, but it wasn’t wind—it was the scream of atmosphere collapsing, of oxygen being torn from the lungs of entire worlds.

  The sky above was burning.

  Not in color, not in metaphor—burning. Flame and black ash stretching across the stars like torn silk. Explosions blinked like dying constellations. Ships cracked apart mid-flight. Cities fell as shadows swept across their spires and swallowed everything.

  In the vision, the Paragon floated just above her palm—small, golden and round humming with a pulse that wasn’t mechanical but alive.

  The Paragon.

  She didn’t reach for it.

  She didn’t have to.

  Its light touched her skin, and something ancient slid into place—like a door unlocking that had always been there, waiting.

  And she knew.

  It was bound to her.

  Not for what she’d done.

  Not because she was good or chosen or ready.

  But because something in her matched something in it.

  And for the first time in her life—not as a soldier, not as a pilot, not as someone used by orders and war—she belonged to something that didn’t ask her to prove herself.

  It didn’t demand.

  It knew her.

  And it would not leave her.

  In this moment, she was witness only.

  And before her: the war.

  Bodies, both human and not, scattered across shattered ground. Wails that didn’t end. Fires that didn’t die. The metallic scent of blood carried on synthetic winds.

  Kessyra. Gone.

  Thenia. Gone.

  Fringe worlds smoldered like dried leaves, forgotten by the powerful until they were useful—and then used.

  And Syra stood in the midst of it all.

  Eyes wide.

  Unable to scream.

  Unable to look away.

  The fire reflected in her eyes—not just from the burning cities, but from the sky itself.

  A line of red flame tore down through the clouds like a god’s verdict. Sovereign ships. Dominion remains. Or worse.

  Then she saw Rix.

  High above the battlefield. Hovering. Shrouded in energy. His face cloaked in shadow, but she felt it—his presence like a seismic pulse.

  This version of Rix was hollow.

  The Ember inside him raged unbound, lighting his silhouette from within like a furnace. He didn’t look down at her. He didn’t see her.

  He was leading it.

  The war.

  The annihilation.

  And still, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t reach him.

  She tried to scream his name.

  Tried again.

  Nothing.

  Just flame. Just silence. Just—

  “Enough.”

  The voice shattered the scene like a pane of glass dropped from space.

  And the warzone, the heat, the screams—they evaporated.

  ∞

  Syra dropped to the stone floor of the temple, her hands splayed out, gasping like she’d been underwater for days. Her body ached. Her heart thudded against her ribs like it wanted to run.

  She coughed once, staring down at her hands planted firmly against the cold concrete floor. Her vision swam, screams echoing in her ears.

  Then looked up—

  The war was gone.

  The fire, the screaming skies, the unrecognizable version of Rix—gone.

  But the feeling clung to her ribs like smoke.

  She blinked, eyes adjusting slowly to the candlelit temple chamber. The stone was cool beneath her, grounding—but it felt like waking from drowning.

  Her limbs were heavy. Her heart pounded.

  Sweat soaked the back of her shirt.

  And her mind—fractured, fogged—clung only to fragments.

  A battlefield.

  A hand she hadn’t held—but should have.

  Rix.

  She turned.

  He stood across the room, still, like he hadn’t moved since the vision ended. His chest rose and fell in quiet, measured intervals. His expression was blank, but too blank—like something inside him was screaming.

  They locked eyes.

  No words passed between them.

  But Syra knew, in the deepest, most unsettling part of her gut—he remembered more than she did.

  And whatever he’d seen…jt shook him.

  Without speaking or explanation, Rix turned and walked out of the chamber.

  His steps were too even.

  Too deliberate.

  Like he was barely keeping himself from running.

  The door whispered shut behind him.

  And Syra was left alone in the quiet ruin of whatever that had been.

  She turned to the priest.

  He hadn’t moved.

  Hadn’t blinked.

  Still seated, hands folded in his lap, like this was just another meditation.

  Syra swallowed, then spoke, hoarse and ragged.

  “What the fuck was that?”

  The priest tilted his head slightly.

  “The Paragon marked you." He said softly. “And it let you see what might be.”

  She stared at him.

  “That wasn’t a vision,” she whispered.

  “No,” he agreed. “It was proximity. To choice. To ruin. To what you both could become. Together…or apart.”

  Syra’s lip trembled, though she clenched her jaw against it. Her muscles still felt wrong, like they belonged to someone else.

  “I don't remember everything...it was like a dream..."

  “You weren’t meant to.”

  “And him?”

  The priest looked toward the door Rix had exited through. His voice dropped to something quieter.

  “He saw enough to hurt.”

  Syra didn’t ask again.

  She just sat there, the echo of fire still flickering in her blood, and knew—somewhere in those fractured futures, they burned together.