"Even the oldest gods crave closeness. Some shape planets. Others just hold them. Forever."

  The Eon Veil drifted into orbit like a breath held too long.

  Below, the planets unfurled.

  Two planets danced in locked embrace, separated by mere gravitational thread, their shapes so close they seemed to whisper across the void. From the bridge, Adam watched the twin world shimmer against the black canvas of space. One world, lush and vibrant, the other darker, harsher, but bound to it like shadow to flame.

  "We call them the Twin Giants," NYX said softly. "Their orbits are bound in harmonic resonance. No collisions. No tidal destruction. A symbiosis. A kiss held across aeons."

  Adam stood in awe, clad in black traveller's armour, Zephindrel humming gently on his back. DeadMouth hovered beside him, still proud in his sleek new orange-and-black casing, armed to the metaphorical teeth.

  PAW crouched at the entrance of the pod, silent and patient, like a predator waiting to be told the hunt was off.

  "Planetary surface reads stable," NYX continued. "They are breathable. Seismic activity is low. Bioluminescent flora dominates over sixty per cent of the terrain. Fungal canopy confirmed. High water retention. One major urban structure in view."

  * * *

  The descent was silent. Not the mechanical kind, not the roar of retrothrusters or the hiss of plasma displacement. The Eon Veil simply… let go. Like a feather accepting gravity. Like it knew the planet beneath it was not a place to conquer, but a sanctuary to enter on bended knee.

  Outside the viewports, the twin giants filled the sky like gods leaning in to share a secret. The planet below them, lush, veiled in mist and glow, rolled into view, and even the ship seemed to hold its breath.

  No thunder. No grand entrance. Just stillness.

  In the pod, Adam watched through the crystalline dome as one of the planets revealed herself, though the name would not come to him yet, not until it was given. The sky was silver-blue, rippling like silk in slow wind. Great arching clouds danced between violet rays of light, and beneath them: mountains etched in glimmering stone, rivers that ran in spirals like brushstrokes from a cosmic artist, and forests: dense, luminous, breathing in patterns.

  Where their shadow touched the land, the grass responded. Blue blades turned upward. Faint bioluminescent veins flickered awake, lighting their descent path.

  "NYX," Adam murmured, hands on the controls, though the ship moved of its own accord, "What is this place?"

  "Unknown biosphere. No galactic registry. Topographic scans indicate dual gravitational harmonics. Planetary twin nearby, orbiting in unnatural synchrony. This world should not exist. And yet…"

  "And yet it does," Adam finished, eyes distant.

  DeadMouth hovered silently for a moment. Then: “Well. I feel underdressed for this fairytale.”

  The pod touched down with barely a whisper.

  Through the viewport, the planet unveiled her breathing self. Water flowed upward in slow arcs, bending mid-stream to chase sunbeams. Trees like cathedral spires, their trunks transparent, filled with moving light. Above, creatures with wings like stained glass butterflies soared: massive, silent, painting the air in refracted rainbows with every beat.

  The world sang without sound.

  The hatch hissed open.

  Adam, DeadMouth, and PAW stepped out.

  And the moment their feet touched the grass, they were no longer alone.

  A procession approached. Six figures glided forward from the edge of the valley. Tall. Veiled. Their robes shimmered like starlight caught in fabric, long and flowing, silver-lined, faces hidden save for glowing eyes peeking from beneath. Their steps didn’t disturb the ground—they slid, like thought turned to motion.

  At their centre walked a woman who did not glide—she drifted, as if gravity had forgotten her name. She was tall, ethereal, her silver-blue skin etched with fine, glowing glyphs that pulsed faintly beneath the surface. Her eyes were large and impossibly blue, luminous and ancient. Her fingers were long and elegant, her arms sleeved in crystal-threaded robes that glowed faintly at the hems. Her presence quieted the space around her.

  She raised a single hand. A spiralled gesture. A ritual.

  NYX spoke in Adam’s ear: “Gesture interpreted. Defensive posture. Escort pulse readings, elevated. They feel threatened.”

  As she signalled, her guards shifted.

  All six warriors stepped forward in unison. The silver slits of their eyes ignited with violet light. Their bodies tensed into a unified stance—neither attack nor retreat, but readiness. Their presence became a wall of silent warning.

  DeadMouth whirred anxiously. “Okay, okay, so… maybe wearing our ‘invade planet’ outfits wasn’t the best play.”

  Adam didn’t move, didn’t blink. But his voice was calm. “NYX. Is there a way we can appear… less threatening?”

  Stolen story; please report.

  NYX responded, almost sheepishly: “Oh. Apologies, Captain. Did I forget to mention the morph function?”

  DeadMouth jolted mid-air. “YOU WHAT?! We’ve had a non-menacing setting this whole time, and you’re just now bringing this up?!”

  A soft hum filled the clearing. The Veil responded remotely, even from the pod.

  Adam’s armour shimmered. Plates receded, dissolved like mist, revealing woven layers of indigo and silver. His new attire rippled softly, layered robes over mirrored thread, trimmed in glowing cyan veins. A high collar folded gently around his neck, a cloak flowing behind him like a second shadow.

  DeadMouth hovered backwards in a spin as his frame adjusted. Gone were the tactical ports and weapons bays—in their place, a polished silver-and-navy casing, sleek, almost ceremonial, with faint cyan pulses running through gentle seams. He wobbled briefly, examining himself. “Well, now I just look huggable. This is worse.”

  PAW, silent until now, stepped forward.

  Its obsidian frame shuddered once, then peeled back in layers like glass melting into light. A silver feline emerged—sleek, low, graceful. Eight feet long, with luminous, intelligent eyes, it padded beside Adam with the silence of falling snow, every step deliberate. Its body shimmered subtly as if mirroring the planet’s light.

  The guards froze. Then eased.

  The violet glow in their eyes dimmed. Their posture softened, ever so slightly.

  The central figure stepped forward. Her gaze swept over them, taking in every detail of the transformation. Her lips parted—and when she spoke, it was not speech, but song. Notes rose in the air like shimmering dust motes, melodic and crystalline.

  The sky seemed to hush to listen.

  NYX’s voice returned: “Adapting receivers. Calibrating translation now.”

  A pause. Then:

  “Greetings, Sky Travellers. My name is Sael’Ri. The Veil conveyed your arrival. Welcome to Ithariel.”

  The moment passed in silence, but it moved.

  As Sael’Ri spoke her welcome, her eyes met Adam’s again. And something... quivered. Not in the air, not in the ship or the grass or the retinas adjusting to alien sunlight,

  It was in them. Both.

  A shiver, soft and dreadful, like a memory they never lived.

  Adam felt his pulse slow, not in peace, but in awe. Like standing before a forgotten shrine.

  Sael’Ri blinked once, slow and heavy, and her mouth parted, perhaps to speak, perhaps to breathe.

  But she said nothing.

  And neither did he.

  Instead, she turned. With a gentle nod to her guards, she gestured toward a path none of them had seen before, because it hadn’t been there.

  The mist parted.

  * * *

  They walked not across land, but across memory made solid.

  The trail was soft, made of woven grass and tiny bioluminescent petals that pulsed gently beneath their feet. As they stepped, the colours shifted, from soft lavender to ghost white to deep, yearning indigo, as if responding to their emotions, or perhaps tasting them.

  To their left, a stream ran backwards.

  Fish leapt in slow arcs, flickering with mirror scales, dissolving mid-air and re-forming in the water below as smaller, younger versions of themselves.

  To their right, enormous mushroom-like trees bowed gently as they passed. Their caps glowed with glyphic rings, ever-shifting, like ancient languages too proud to be read.

  Overhead, a great winged creature passed, an Ephios, larger than the Eon Veil itself. It flapped once, and the wind beneath it folded the forest like paper. Not a leaf stirred. Not a sound broke. And still, every eye lifted to follow it.

  DeadMouth muttered, almost reverently:

  “I’d say this place is impossible, but that feels rude.”

  PAW growled low, not in threat, but in a sound like awe laced with warning. Even its silver fur shimmered with new hues, mirroring the world.

  They walked for hours. Or minutes. Or lifetimes.

  And then, they saw it.

  * * *

  The city did not stand.

  It hovered. Whirled. Breathed.

  Massive crystal structures curved like frozen music, suspended not by foundations, but by living water and intelligent wind.

  Towers floated on vortex-columns, water spiralling upward in elegant slow-dances, holding whole homes, temples, and halls in mid-air like sacred offerings. No overflow. No collapse. These weren’t fountains. They were sentient roots, lifting civilisation toward the sun.

  The wind was not a mere breeze, it was will.

  Directed currents flowed through arched chimes and suspended flutes, making the city sing. Every building joined the chorus. Even silence had a harmony here.

  The streets were alive. Some paths curled like streamers of light, held aloft by plumes of air that shaped themselves to each traveler’s weight. Others curved along the backs of translucent serpentine creatures that slithered through gravity like it was water. Streetlights were grown, not built: crystalline petals that opened as they passed, casting soft pulses of blue-green light.

  Above, the Ephios flew in long, meditative spirals.

  Their wings shed microscopic particles of memory. Sael’Ri called them aeyri. Each one carried a dream, a name, a sorrow. They fell upon the city like golden snow.

  And when they reached the edge of Caelyth’Varn…

  They wept.

  Not from sadness. But from scale. From the unbearable intimacy of something so utterly alive.

  Adam wiped his face slowly, blinking up at the great floating bridges that curled around the city’s centre, a towering spire wrapped in light and mist, its peak opening like a flower to the stars.

  “This is the Whisper Grand Chamber,” Sael’Ri said softly beside him, as if reading his thought.

  “My father waits within. And the Council.”

  She looked at him, eyes not just glowing but feeling.

  “Athrion... has waited a long time for the Veil to return.”