VI

The tempest roared around him, a chaotic symphony of wind and debris. He clung desperately to a fragment of a broken tree, his fingers digging into the rough bark as if it were his only lifeline. With each gust, his body strained against the onslaught. Debris flew past him like missiles. The howling wind drowned out all other sounds, leaving only the pounding of his heart echoing in his ears. Through squinted eyes, he glimpsed the swirling vortex overhead, a monstrous funnel of destruction tearing through everything in its path. Fear clawed at his chest. On the ground at a distance he could see Marek, struggling with his bindings. Another distant sight caught his attention. A creature? An angel? He watched in awe as a winged figure swooped down and wrapped its wings around Marek, battered and vulnerable, now cocooned within the wings. A distant sound pierced through the chaos. With a heart pounding in his chest, he turned, his vision blurred by the swirling debris, and there, emerging from the darkness behind him, was another figure, its form shrouded in shadow. Before he could fully comprehend what was happening, he felt himself enveloped in a suffocating darkness, the stranger’s wings wrapping around him with an otherworldly embrace. He was overcome by a sense of profound disorientation, his mind reeling with disbelief as the stranger’s wings anchored them both to the

ground, staking its talons into the dry soil. Trapped within the suffocating embrace of the winged stranger’s cocoon, his senses were assaulted by a cacophony of torment. Beyond the veil of darkness that enshrouded them, screams of agony pierced the air. With every passing moment, the cries grew louder, more desperate, echoing through the storm like a haunting lament. Then they stopped. The storm had passed, the air now heavy with its aftermath, a strange and hollow silence settling over the land. The stranger lay crumpled in the dirt, his body torn asunder, the great black wings sundered from his frame, their edges frayed and broken, their purpose spent. Kael stared through a gap in the cocoon at the ruin of him, the ground around stained dark where the stranger’s life had seeped into it. Marek stood some distance off, the new wings stretched behind him, their span vast and unnatural, catching the faint light in strange, muted hues. He did not speak. His eyes found Kael’s and in them was a thing Kael did not know, would not know, something emptied of all recognition, all humanity. Marek turned, the wings moving as if of their own volition, lifting him from the ground like some unholy bird, and with a single powerful sweep, he rose into the air. Kael watched him go, the figure shrinking against the expanse of sky until it was swallowed by the distant horizon. The wind stirred faintly, brushing against his face with the dry taste of dust and ash. He stood alone in the wreckage, the stranger’s broken body at his back, and the world stretched out before him, vast and indifferent. Suddenly, light. The cocoon was released. Kael stood up. “Weaver’s Whisper.” The words hung in the air like the fading echo of the storm, and Kael turned, his eyes settling on the speaker. A man stepped forward, his wings tucked close to his body, their edges flickering faintly in the waning light. Behind him, more figures emerged, gliding in silently, their movements eerily fluid. The man’s

gaze fell to the mangled corpse, his expression unreadable save for a flicker of something deep and old in his eyes. He knelt beside the remains, his hand resting lightly on what was left of the stranger’s forehead, lips moving in a whisper too soft to catch. Whatever ritual passed between the living and the dead was brief, and when he rose, his eyes turned to Kael, lingering on the binds still fastened around his wrists. “What did they want you for?” the man asked, his voice low and even, as if wary of disturbing the fragile calm. Kael blinked, his thoughts still scattered, but he managed to speak. “The man who... who did this,” he gestured toward the broken body, his voice thick with disbelief, “he made us fight. Then the Navigators came. They took my friend—Lysandra. Put her in a Crawler. They... they threw me out into the storm to die.” The man studied Kael for a moment, his sharp gaze cutting through the haze of Kael’s words. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he gestured to one of the figures behind him. A woman stepped forward, her wings folding tightly against her back as she approached. In her hand, she held a small, intricate tool that gleamed faintly in the dim light. She crouched beside Kael, her expression unreadable, and began to work on the cuffs. The tension around his wrists eased as the mechanism clicked open, and the cold metal fell away. The woman stepped back silently, her dark eyes flicking to the man before retreating into the shadows of the group. “Damned storm got the Crawler before we could,” the man muttered under his breath. His gaze sharpened as Kael stiffened at the words. He sighed, kicking at the dirt as the others gathered closer, a curious mix of silent watchers and wary companions. “You mean you saw the storm take them?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, lad. You don’t walk away from a storm like that. Not one this big.” Kael’s voice broke through the man’s certainty. “I did.”

The man’s lips curved into a crooked smile, not unkind but carrying the weight of a skeptic. “Not without our divine intervention, mate.” He spread his hands as if the very ground owed them gratitude. “You’re alive because Aeryn here has a habit of saving fools from the brink.” Kael’s gaze shifted to Aeryn, who stood a little apart from the group, his dust goggles pushed high on his forehead, dark hair disheveled, his frame lean and wiry. Kael’s voice softened. “Thank you.” Aeryn inclined his head, the faintest of nods, his lips pressed into a thin line. He said nothing, his eyes distant, like he’d already seen too much of what Kael only now began to grasp. Studying the group now, he saw how remarkably unique each individuals’ wings were. Fashioned from the resilient hides of the Voltalynths, boasting wingspans that rivaled the largest birds of prey, each wingsuit was tailored to fit snugly against the body while allowing for freedom of movement. He could not know how carefully they had harvested the supple yet durable hides of the Voltalynths, and how they treated them with a blend of oils and resins to enhance their strength and flexibility. He did not notice the strips of reinforced fabric that ran along the arms and legs, providing structure and support, or the intricate patterns of stitching that crisscrossed the surface, reminiscent of the intricate designs found in the natural world. And while noticed, he could not fully appreciate the thin, yet incredibly strong, membranes stretched between the frame, capable of catching even the slightest breeze and transforming it into lift. “Come on, lads. The storm carried it off this way,” the leader said, his voice low but firm, a steady note against the wind’s wild song. They moved as one, boots dragging in the dust, and the man stopped once more, turning to Kael. “You can follow if you wish, but once we catch a drift, we’re off. And we won’t wait for you.” Kael nodded, his gaze heavy with thought, lingering on the ruined body they left behind. “You don’t want to give him a proper service?”

The man shrugged, glancing back but only briefly, as if the dead were already forgotten. “Nature makes its own service,” he said. Kael hesitated before falling into step with them, his voice cutting through the gap between their strides. “My friend is in that Crawler. With the guildsmen. A tall woman. If we find them, please don’t harm her.” The man stopped again, turning, his face shadowed but his eyes sharp. He studied Kael for a long moment, the wind tugging at his coat and carrying faint laughter from his men. “A dense lander with a light lander,” he said, as if tasting the words. “Now that’s something rare.” The men behind him chuckled, their voices low and rough, like stones rolled in a dry riverbed. “And all the way out here, in no man’s land?” He stepped closer, his presence like the weight of the storm itself, pressing down. Kael stood firm, his voice calm but resolute. “We were tasked to drift the ashes of the Damaskian Sisters into The Nexus. I was sent as her guard.” The man’s smirk faded, something unreadable crossing his face. He extended a hand, and Kael took it. “Then I wish you the best of luck,” the man said, his grip firm. “Others call us vagabonds, scavengers, fools. We call ourselves the Nomad Drifters. I’m Astraeus.” “Kael.” “Just Kael?” “Kael Wright.” Astraeus tilted his head, the name stirring something in the depths of his memory. “Wright? Your family’s ironforgers. You’ve still got people working at that trade?” Kael nodded but hesitated, the weight of the past and present binding his tongue. “I work with my father. We have a forge in Calvaron. Tools, mostly.” “Tools,” Astraeus repeated, a note of curiosity in his voice, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I thought most of that was done by machines these days.”

“It is,” Kael said, his words clipped, carrying a bitterness that settled into the air between them. “It’s not by choice.” Astraeus stared at him for a moment, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Most things in life aren’t.”

The storm's wrath had passed, leaving the land strewn with wreckage and ruin. They came upon the broken shell of the Crawler, its metallic carcass half-buried in the dirt, torn asunder like some ancient beast gutted and left to rot. Kael stood among the wreckage, his breath shallow, his eyes darting across the jagged remains as fear coiled tight in his chest. A man protruded from beneath a warped door, lifeless and still. Astraeus and his men moved with grim efficiency, prying the door free and dragging the body from beneath it.

The navigator lay broken and bloodied, his frame twisted and torn like a rag cast aside by a careless hand. Astraeus knelt and slapped him hard across the face, the sound cracking like a rifle shot in the still air. The man stirred, coughing weakly, his lips split and dry. “You there, navigator?” Astraeus barked. “What is your name?” The navigator’s gaze wandered, unfocused and glassy, his head lolling as if the question itself were too much to bear. Kael, unable to hold his tongue, answered in his stead. “His name is Dorian.” “Dorian? The Valenwood?” Astraeus’s eyes flicked to Kael, then back to the navigator. “Where were you going?” Dorian’s eyes fluttered open, his mouth curling into a dry, humorless grin as he caught sight of Kael. “Stronger than you look, my friend,” he rasped, his voice cracked and thin, before breaking into a hollow, hacking laugh. The laugh ended abruptly as Astraeus struck him again, the blow sharp and unyielding. “Answer me,” Astraeus demanded, his voice low and hard. The grin faded from Dorian’s face. He shifted his gaze to Astraeus, then back to Kael. “We were headed back,” he said slowly, the words dragged from him like stones from a pit. “Three escaped convicts. Him included.” He coughed, a wet, rattling sound that brought blood to his lips. “Only one other survivor I know of.” Kael stepped forward, his pulse thundering in his ears. “Lysandra?” he asked, his voice tight with hope and dread. Dorian’s eyes met Kael’s, and in them was a quiet and brutal sorrow. The answer was written there, in the weight of his silence. Astraeus’s gaze shifted between them, his patience thinning. “And what did she do?” he asked, his tone edged with disdain. Dorian’s attention snapped back to Astraeus. “Violation of the Inter-Zonal Relations Prohibition Act,” he said flatly. He gestured weakly toward Kael. “He helped her escape.”

Astraeus snorted, a sound devoid of humor. “A stupid law.” Dorian blinked, caught off guard. “A necessary one,” he countered, his voice rising with conviction. “Dense and lightlanders—different physiologies. Mixing them—” “Bullshit excuses,” Astraeus cut him off, his voice a growl. He leaned closer, his shadow falling over Dorian like the weight of the world. “You hear me? Bullshit.” He struck Dorian again, harder this time, the sound echoing across the desolation. Blood trickled from the corner of Dorian’s mouth as he stared up at Astraeus with defiance and disbelief. “You’re a navigator,” Astraeus said. “Tell me how to reach The Nexus.” The navigator laughed, a sound that rattled in his chest and spilled out thin and bitter. “The Nexus?” he said, his voice dry as the ground beneath them. Astraeus’s finger stabbed at the map handed to him, tapping the unmarked land to the east. “This,” he said. “Why is this unmapped?” The navigator didn’t answer, his gaze drifting to the horizon as if the answer lay somewhere beyond it. The fist came fast and hard, snapping his head to the side. Blood dripped from his mouth into the dirt. “I don’t have that high of authorization,” the navigator said finally, his voice a whisper laced with exhaustion. Astraeus leaned in, his shadow long in the fading light. “Authorization from who?” he demanded. “Who tells you where you can and cannot go?” The navigator coughed, spitting blood into the dust. “Higher-ups. I don’t know their names. No one does. That’s how they keep it.” Astraeus straightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His eyes swept the map again, circling a northern stretch of land with his finger. “This here,” he said, his voice like the edge of a blade. “The Echokeepers’ territory. You’re telling me all this land south of it belongs to the Lorath’eeni?” “That’s what they say,” the navigator murmured. “It’s what I know.”

“You know more than you’re saying,” Astraeus growled. “Why wouldn’t they want you out there? What’s so goddamn important in this place they’ve wiped off the maps?” The navigator hesitated, his breath shallow, his eyes flickering with something fragile and fleeting. “It’s not what you think it is,” he said at last. “Then what is it?” Astraeus said. The navigator looked up at him, his gaze steady now, the faintest trace of pity in his expression. “It’s a lie,” he said simply. “The Nexus is a lie. A control tactic. To keep us complacent. To keep us afraid.” Astraeus’s face was unreadable, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “You’re saying it doesn’t exist?” “It exists,” the navigator said. “It’s a zero-gravity zone. No oxygen. Nothing but a death trap. They feed us stories of paradise so we’ll stop looking for something better. How many people have you heard who’ve been there, seen it with their own eyes?” Astraeus didn’t answer, the silence pressing in around them like a weight. The navigator’s laughter broke the stillness, dry and humorless. “You don’t even believe in The Weaver, do you? Yet here you are, clinging to the tales like a man drowning. Did you really think—” He broke off, shaking his head. The words died on his lips. Astraeus stepped back, his gaze shifting to Kael. His voice was low, a growl in the twilight. “Iron-forger,” he said. “If there’s something you need from this man, ask it now.” Kael stepped forward, his boots grinding against the grit, and fixed his eyes on Dorian. The Navigator met his gaze, a flicker of something ancient and tired lurking in the bloodshot whites. “Where is Lysandra?” Kael asked, his voice low, strained.

Dorian’s lips twisted into a grimace that might have been a smile if not for the blood staining his teeth. “Where do you think?” he rasped, then lifted a shaking finger, pointing eastward. Astraeus stood silent for a moment, the wind tugging at his tattered cloak. Then, without ceremony, he pulled a revolver from his belt and held it out to Kael. The metal gleamed dully in the dying light, heavy and purposeful. “You won’t keep up with us,” Astraeus said, his tone as flat as the land stretching before them. “And you’re too heavy for a suit. But follow if you will.” Kael hesitated, his hand closing around the weapon. The weight of it settled into his palm, a cold and unyielding truth. “You’re still going?” he asked. Astraeus turned, already walking, his men falling in behind him like shadows. “You believe him?” he called over his shoulder. “It’s your choice, lad.” Kael stood there, the revolver in his grasp, the fading echoes of their steps dragging him back to the present. He looked down at Dorian, whose face was a canvas of cuts and bruises. “She’ll betray you too, Kael.” He leveled the revolver, his gaze unflinching, his finger tightening on the trigger. Dorian froze, his breath caught in his throat. The metallic click of the hammer sounded like thunder in the silence. Dorian closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable. A heartbeat stretched into eternity. Another. Then—nothing. Dorian’s eyes flicked open, his chest heaving. Kael stood still, the revolver now hanging loosely at his side, though his expression remained cold as steel. “You’re not mine to kill,” Kael muttered, his voice low and razor-sharp.

Dorian staggered, struggling to steady his breath as Kael took a deliberate step closer. “But you are going to help me find her, Navigator,” Kael said, his tone as much a threat as a command. And Dorian couldn’t help but laugh.

Coming across a bout of land in which gravity played games with the body, the Nomads couldn’t help but join in. Here, a chasm cut through a forested area, flanked by steep, rugged cliffs that descended sharply into a narrow valley. At the bottom of the valley, a rocky stream flowed, winding its way through the rough terrain. The area in between the forests provided light gravity, which allowed one to jump from one side of the fissure to the other, provided the proper equipment. The Nomads did this with ease, some even attempting flips and tricks.

Dorian sat apart, arms crossed, his face shadowed and still as stone, carved against the light that broke unevenly through the sparse canopy. His eyes followed Kael’s gaze, past the flicker of the Nomads' bodies rising and falling, untethered, ridiculous, against the law that bound all things to the dirt. His lip curled, a scowl deepening like a fissure through worn rock. “This is absurd,” he muttered, low, bitter, like the scrape of a dull blade. “Astraeus beating his drum for urgency and look at them. Like children. Burning daylight while the world twists its knife in us.” Kael turned his head, slow, the movement almost indifferent. “We needed the rest.” Dorian let out a sound like a laugh stripped bare of mirth, a short bark that fell flat between them. “This isn’t rest,” Dorian said, his voice low, the edges frayed with something raw. “This is folly dressed up as joy, and it’ll get us all killed,” he spat, his arms tightening across his chest, and he turned his gaze back to the chasm, where the Nomads danced with gravity's careless whim. Kael said nothing, his silence stretching into something that pulled at the air, the edges of his face unreadable, like the horizon wrapped in mist. He felt every second pass, a sharp, raw thing gnawing its way through his ribs, but he turned his eyes away, away from Dorian, away from the hollow weight of the words that hung between them. He watched the Nomads instead, one of them attempting a bold, reckless flip that spun him high, too high, beyond the balance of Veridian’s strange mercy. The Nomad missed the ledge, and for a breath, the world held still, bound by that terrible moment. But the Nomad caught himself, clawing back to the edge with a wild, scraping effort, and the others cheered, a sharp and frantic sound that echoed, foolish and free, into the hollow of the chasm.

The Nomads gathered close in the clearing, their faces lit by the flickering firelight, the only light available during the night of the Obsidian Veil. Astraeus stood tall at its edge, his voice carrying above the crackling flames. “Brothers and sisters, tonight we defy a world built to cage us. They draw their maps and build their walls, but we were born for the open skies, for the uncharted and untamed. They fear us—not because of what we’ve done, but because of what we dream.” The group murmured in agreement, some nodding, others raising their fists. Astraeus pressed on, his voice rising. “They call us reckless. They call us few. But I tell you this: the few can move mountains. The few can topple empires. And when the many see us soar, they’ll know the truth—freedom cannot be chained!” A roar of approval rose from the crowd. Astraeus’s hand lingered in the air a moment, then fell. His eyes swept over them, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. “Tonight, we drift for something greater. Not just for ourselves, but for every soul still bound by the chains we’ve cast off. Drift on, brothers and sisters. Drift on!” The cheers echoed long after Astraeus stepped away. He moved through the crowd to where Kael and Dorian sat apart. The firelight painted their faces in sharp relief—Kael quiet, contemplative; Dorian leaning back, his smirk barely

visible in the flicker of flames. “Quite the show,” Dorian said. “You’d give a Guild speaker a run for their money.” Astraeus leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “If words can carry a blade, then let them cut deep,” he said quietly, his voice stripped of the bravado it held moments ago. Dorian’s smirk widened faintly, his eyes sharpening. “Selwyn Tarrow,” he said, the name falling from his lips like a challenge. “A Weaver philosopher exiled for sedition. Strange company for a man like you to keep.” Astraeus’s gaze flickered with the faintest glimmer of surprise. “And yet, here we are, speaking his words. Seems his exile didn’t bury his ideas.” “Ideas that were half-formed at best,” Dorian said, leaning forward now, his tone as sharp as the firelight cutting across his face. “Selwyn’s blade of words was just as likely to cut himself. He preached revolt but had no answer for what came after.” “Maybe he understood that it’s not always about the answer,” Astraeus countered. “Sometimes it’s about asking the right questions. Breaking the silence.” “And replacing it with what?” Dorian shot back, his voice rising. “Noise? Chaos? You admire him because his words made ripples, but you ignore the drownings that followed. Do you even understand the currents you’re trying to stir?” Astraeus leaned back slightly, his face shadowed, the flicker of firelight softening his features. “I understand that The Weaver’s perfect design wasn’t so perfect for people like me. Or for those out there,” he said, nodding toward the crowd of Nomads. “You read Selwyn’s words, but you never felt them. You never had to.” Dorian’s jaw tightened. “You speak of tearing down the Guild’s maps, their plans, but you follow Selwyn’s words like a map of your own. You claim

freedom, yet you chain yourself to his ideals just as tightly as I chain myself to The Weaver’s.” “Selwyn never asked for followers, Dorian. His words were a spark, not a leash. You see chains in every direction because you can’t imagine life without them. But what if they weren’t chains at all?” Dorian tilted his head, his smirk fading into something sharper, more measured. The firelight caught his eyes as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “A spark can light a fire, Astraeus. But fires need fuel, and once they burn hot enough, they don’t care what they consume. Your followers—your Nomads—they’re not feeding on the ideals you preach. They’re feeding on rebellion for rebellion’s sake. And when the fire’s out of control, what’s left? Ashes.” Astraeus’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “And what would you have them do, Dorian? Bow their heads? Thank the Guild and the ACD for the scraps they’re given? You talk of ashes, but what’s left if we do nothing? A world where people like you rule over the rest of us, claiming it’s all part of The Weaver’s plan?” Dorian’s voice hardened, the smirk returning but colder now. “You misunderstand me, Astraeus. I don’t rule. I guide. The Weaver’s plan isn’t about control; it’s about balance. You talk of tearing down maps, but even chaos needs borders to define it. Without them, your Nomads drift into nothingness.” “And yet,” Astraeus said, his tone quieter now, cutting through the space between them like a blade, “you call it balance, but it’s chains. You call it guidance, but it’s submission. You accuse me of building my fight on Selwyn’s spark, but at least I admit the fire’s my own. How much of your belief is truly yours, Dorian? Or is it just the safest answer to the questions you’re too afraid to ask?” Dorian tilted his head, his smirk sharpening into something more pointed. “Freedom, Astraeus? You speak of it like it’s something you can hold, something

real. But freedom’s just a mirage—a story we tell ourselves to make the chains easier to bear.” Astraeus’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you think? That all of this—everything we’re doing—is just another chain?” “Of course it is,” Dorian said, leaning forward, his voice low and deliberate. “You call it rebellion. I call it instinct. You and your Nomads aren’t defying anything. You’re just following a different path carved by the same forces—fear, ambition, desperation. You think you’re free, but you’re as bound to your cause as I am to The Weaver’s plan. The only difference is I don’t lie to myself about it.” Astraeus’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And what would you have us do, Dorian? Accept that our lives are just strings pulled by forces we can’t see? Bow to The Weaver and call it fate?” “I’d have you see the truth,” Dorian said, his voice rising, his words cutting like shards of ice. “The Weaver’s plan isn’t about chains or submission. It’s about recognizing the boundaries of what we are. There’s no freedom, Astraeus. Not for you, not for me, not for anyone. We are shaped by forces older than we can imagine—forces you’ll never outrun, no matter how high you soar.” Astraeus leaned back, his jaw tightening. “So that’s it? Give up, stop fighting, let the world grind us into dust because ‘freedom’ isn’t real?” “No,” Dorian said quietly, his gaze steady. “You fight because you have to. Because The Weaver wove struggle into the fabric of existence. But don’t pretend it’s anything more than that. Don’t lie to yourself about why you’re doing it.” Astraeus’s expression softened, but his eyes burned with defiance. “Even if the chains are real, I’d rather die pulling against them than sit still and call it balance.”

Dorian’s smirk returned, faint and cold. “And that’s where we differ. You see the fire as a chance to burn brighter. I see it as proof that the chains are unbreakable. And I’ll outlive you, Astraeus, because I know when to stop pulling.” “You’ll outlive me, huh?” Astraeus said, his voice low and sharp as a blade. His hand moved before the words had fully left Dorian’s lips. In one fluid motion, a knife gleamed in the firelight, its edge catching the flicker of flames as he pressed it to Dorian’s throat. The crowd beyond them was still caught up in the afterglow of Astraeus’s speech, oblivious to the tension now crackling like static between the two men. Dorian didn’t flinch. His eyes locked onto Astraeus’s, cold and steady, his smirk gone but his defiance intact. “And here I thought you fancied yourself a leader of freedom. This doesn’t feel very free.” “You think I’m afraid to cut you down?” Astraeus’s voice was low, trembling not with fear but with fury. “You sit there, spitting your poison, mocking everything these people fight for. You think survival is enough? You think that’s life?” He pressed the blade closer, the tip grazing Dorian’s skin. Kael rose to his feet, the tension in the air pulling him forward almost unwillingly. “Astraeus,” he said, his voice uncertain, wavering. “Please. I… I need him. You know that. If you kill him, I don’t have a way to find her.” Astraeus didn’t respond immediately, his grip on the knife unwavering, his focus locked on Dorian. Kael swallowed hard, stepping closer, his tone turning almost pleading. “I’m asking you. For me. Let him live—for now.” For a long moment, Astraeus didn’t move. The firelight caught the hard lines of his face, the tension in his jaw, the storm in his eyes. Slowly, with a sharp exhale, he pulled the knife away, his hand shaking as he sheathed it.

Dorian exhaled, a quiet, sardonic laugh escaping his lips as he rubbed his neck where the blade had rested. “Charming,” he said, his voice dry as ash. “Remind me not to bring up inconvenient truths at your next sermon.” Astraeus turned away sharply, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Kael watched him for a moment, his gaze steady, before sitting back down beside Dorian. “Thank you,” Kael said softly, the words more to himself than anyone else. Dorian chuckled, low and humorless. “Oh, I’m well aware of my place, Kael. Believe me, I know exactly how far I can push—and when to stop.” Across the firelight, Astraeus stood still for a moment, staring into the flames as though they might burn away the storm raging inside him. Then, without another word, he walked away, his figure dissolving into the shadows beyond the camp.

The blizzard fell hard on the troupe as they traversed the wide canyon, looking for a way down, waiting for their time. This was entirely unexpected weather, thus all were freezing. Kael caught up to Astraeus while dragging Dorian behind him, bound by rope. “Astraeus, I feel like we’re holding you back. Why don’t you take advantage of this wind and the canyon?” “Ah Kael, catching a wind drift is an art. When you see a promising current forming, you must be swift yet patient. Timing is everything, lad.” Kael looked ahead. Nothing was to be seen. Nothing but white snow. “Trust me, denselander, we wouldn’t let you drag us behind. Our mission is far too important for any single individual to hinder.” Dorian’s limp had impeded their process significantly. He stumbled and fell, yanking Kael backwards. “Damned clumsy buffoon!” Kael would have kicked him before picking him back up, but he lacked the energy. “There’s an easier way around this, you know,” Dorian said, “If you’d only let me help--” “Shut up, Navigator,” one of the Nomads spouted, “you’re of no use without your tools.” Dorian remained silent. They stopped on an overhanging rock. One of Astraeus’ men brought him a pair of binoculars. Though the blizzard was heavy, he could catch glimpses of objects moving below. “Dear Weaver.” “What is it?” Astraeus handed the binoculars over for the man to see. “Prepare for flight men. Skimmers down below. A whole group of them.” Kael, catching his breath, noticed the commotion. “What’s going on?”

Astraeus moved in his direction. “I’m afraid this is where we’re going to have to leave you. If we can get ahold of those Skimmers, our traversal will go a lot quicker, and our journey has been long enough.” “And what of the men already driving the Skimmers?” Astraeus shrugged his shoulders. “This world is tough on man.” The blizzard ceased for a moment. Astraeus walked to the edge of the overhang with the rest of the men as they prepared their suits. His conscience gnawed at him. He shook his head and walked back over to Kael while procuring a length of rope and a series of metal hooks from his pack. “I hope you know this isn’t easy for me to part with.” He handed them over to Kael. “Stay safe out there, lad.” He patted Kael on the shoulder before walking back to the edge. The Nomads gazed out across the landscape, searching for the signs of an approaching wind current—a shimmering in the air or the distant call of birds catching an updraft. Astraeus raised a weathered hand to signal the group to attention. The Nomads adjusted. Seconds passed like hours. Then, a shift in the air caught their attention. The Nomads positioned themselves at the edge of the rock, their bodies poised for action. The wind intensified. One by one, as if in silent communion with the air, the Nomads leapt from the rock. They spread their arms wide, their wings catching the updraft, and suddenly they were airborne, one with the elements. Kael watched them disappear in awe. After the moment subsided, he secured Dorian to a heavy rock by his bindings. “Don’t go anywhere,” he growled. “And where exactly would I go?” Dorian mustered. Kael walked to the edge. Below them, the landscape unfurled like a patchwork quilt, revealing the intricate contours of Veridian’s gravity-distorted terrain. He watched the Nomads navigate with skill, riding the currents and eddies, before losing sight of them for good.

The wind swept through the narrow canyon, carrying with it the distant echoes of the Nomads’ departure. Kael stood at the edge, eyeing the anchor rappelling gear left behind by Astraeus, while Dorian, hands bound to the boulder by the length of sturdy rope, studied him. “Do you even know how to use this?” “Shut up, I’m thinking.” Kael began to gather the gear and lay it out. “Here, let me show you how to set it up.” “No chance.” “Kael, you have to let me help. You clearly don’t know what you’re doing.” “I can’t think while you’re talking.” Kael said as he messed with the instruments. “I want to find Lysandra as much as you do, Kael. Survival out here is easier with the two of us. I can promise I won’t try anything stupid.” “How do I know I can trust you?” “You don’t have a choice. We need to get down from here.” Kael thought for a moment, eyeing the rugged terrain and the gear laid out before him. “Alright, Dorian. Tell me what to do.” “First, find two sturdy anchor points along the edge of the canyon.” Kael’s eyes swept the canyon’s edge until he spotted two solid anchor points jutting from the rocky terrain. “Fasten the hook to the rope—tight,” Dorian’s voice cut through the wind, steady and commanding. “No room for mistakes.” Kael worked quickly, securing the hook with as much precision as he thought possible. The metal groaned faintly as he tested its hold. He anchored the first point, then moved to the second. “Taut and clean—no knots,” Dorian reminded. Kael stretched the rope between the two points, pulling it tight until it thrummed under tension. Satisfied, he cast a glance at Dorian, who lifted his bindings. “I’ll need both of my arms to navigate us safely.”

Kael hesitated. He resignedly approached Dorian and began to untie the bindings. As the last of the knots came loose, Dorian flexed his hands. Kael packed the rope away. “Don’t try anything stupid.” “You have my word, on The Nexustratum.” “That means shit to me.” “Fine then. You have my word, on my mother’s grave.” “That’ll have to do.” Dorian positioned himself at the edge, checking the ropes with meticulous scrutiny. “Frankly, I don’t have the energy to do anything stupid.” Watching Dorian’s progress, Kael’s apprehension grew. “Hurry up, we don’t have all day.” Dorian’s jaw tightened. “I’m doing the best I can with what we’ve got.” And he began his careful descent. As he went, Kael reluctantly positioned himself at the ropes, preparing for his own descent. He gripped the ropes tightly, his distrust fueling his determination. With hesitant movements, Kael began his descent, his eyes fixed on the canyon wall ahead. “Don’t let your doubts get the better of you,” Dorian said, his words a mixture of annoyance and concern. “I know what I’m doing!” Then Dorian noticed them, just barely jutting out from the canyon walls. “Kael, whatever you do, do not touch the mushrooms!” “What mushrooms?” Kael replied as one smashed against his palm while he switched his grip. “Oh dear Weaver.” He suddenly found himself unable to remove his hand from the cliff. “Shit.” He pulled and pulled to no avail. “Dorian!” “Kael, what did I just say?” Kael caught a glimpse of something embedded into the cliff wall a short distance away, unable to discern it.

“Just stay where you are, I’m coming.” “And where would I go?” he mocked. The blizzard calmed for a moment, and he could see it now, the carcass of a man, frozen stiff to the cliff wall, hands stuck with the gluey mushroom substance. His eyes widened in terror. “Dorian, get me out of here!” The silence was shattered by a sudden screech echoing through the canyon. They froze, their senses on high alert. “What was that?” He scanned the rocky terrain for any signs of danger. Before Dorian could respond, a small movement came from the shadows. A pack of agile creatures with razor-sharp claws and glowing eyes. Kael’s voice was as quiet as it could be. “Dorian, what are those things?” Dorian, despite his exhaustion and injury, maintained a vigilant watch. He glanced back at Kael, his expression grim. “They’re sensitive to sound and movement. Keep still and quiet.” The creatures edged forward slowly. They clicked their tongues together. Echolocation. One crept up to the frozen carcass and felt it to assure itself that it was what it seemed. The creature screeched before using its beak like a pickaxe against the frozen body, chipping away at the ice until it came in contact with flesh and bone. The others crept forward and joined in, gnawing at the flesh. Dorian stealthily continued his ascent while they were preoccupied. As if on cue, another eerie screech echoed through the blizzard. Dorian’s instincts kicked in, his focus sharpening as he prepared to confront them. “Stay close to the wall, Kael.” He grabbed a branch jutting out from the cliff and snapped it, causing a slight twitch from the creatures. They were still preoccupied. He pulled out a knife from his boot and began to shave the end of the branch into a sharp point. Kael looked down at him. “You had a knife?!”

“Be quiet, you’ll draw them nearer.” Kael calmed himself, then scanned the area for any potential threats. His free hand slipped. One of the creatures noticed the commotion. It let out a screech. “They’re coming!” The first creature lunged towards him, claws gleaming in the dim light. With a swift movement, Dorian intercepted the attack, driving his makeshift spear into the creature’s flank. It let out a chilling cry, momentarily staggered by the unexpected resistance. Seizing the opportunity, Kael hurled a rock at another, aiming to distract and disorient it. The creature faltered briefly, its eyes narrowing with aggression. Another closed in on Dorian, its claws swiping dangerously close. Dorian sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the attack, before retaliating with a well-aimed thrust of his makeshift weapon. Suddenly, a shadowy figure lunged towards Kael, its glowing eyes fixed on its target. Kael barely had time to react as the creature’s claws grazed his side, knocking him off balance. Time seemed to slow as Kael stumbled, the icy ground unforgiving beneath him. He fought to regain his footing, but the slippery terrain betrayed him as he hung from his stuck hand. Dorian intercepted the creature’s next strike, deflecting it with his makeshift spear. The creature recoiled, its attention momentarily diverted by Dorian’s counterattack. This brief respite allowed Kael the opportunity to regain his footing. Gasping for breath, Kael glanced up to see Dorian standing between him and the prowling creatures. Slowly, they backed away. “They’re not done, they’re just biding their time.” Kael gave him a silent nod of appreciation. Dorian nodded back. He took his knife and chiseled Kael’s hand free. He pointed downward. “See all those?” Kael noticed a large patch of mushroom not more than a few yards below them.

“We’ll have to traverse to the left, around the mushrooms. The blizzard won’t hold off for long” “Okay.” Kael’s breaths came in ragged gasps, his exhaustion evident as he leaned against the canyon wall for support. The blizzard continued to whip around them, but the intensity of the storm seemed to lessen as if nature itself had also taken a brief pause. As they began again to descend the cliff, the storm pressed on.

They camped near the base of the cliff, huddled against stone worn ancient by wind and time. A meager fire struggled into being, its frail light trembling in the grip of the dark. The cold pressed in like an old curse, relentless and uncaring, while the flames wavered—fierce but fleeting—against the vast, frozen night. At dawn, they pressed on into the storm’s white maw, faces hardened against the razor-sharp wind. Snow lashed at them in wild flurries, a ceaseless assault from a sky emptied of mercy. The world was a blind, frozen expanse, endless and

indifferent. Their march became a struggle measured in battered steps, the monotony shattered only by savage gusts that clawed at their footing, as if Veridian itself sought to cast them away. Dusk bled across the horizon, unveiling a grim tableau carved from winter’s merciless grasp. A bird, frozen mid-perch, rested in the outstretched hands of an aged man, his body locked in eternal supplication. His hollow eyes stared blindly into the dying light, frost etching its claim upon his weathered face. Rags clung stiffly to his emaciated frame, brittle as the forgotten remnants of his scattered belongings, all entombed in shimmering ice—silent witnesses to a fate long sealed. “This storm must have taken everyone by surprise,” Kael muttered, his breath curling into the frozen air like a ghost of warmth. “So it seems,” Dorian answered, his voice steady but distant. “Maybe he has food?” Kael suggested, hesitant but driven by the gnawing hunger that had accompanied them for days. Their numb fingers clawed through the dead man’s frozen possessions, the ice clinging stubbornly to a life long surrendered. Books, letters—fragile relics of a forgotten existence—offered nothing but hollow memories. Then, half-buried in frost, they found it: a lone bottle of booze, amber liquid still intact. A small mercy. With grim relief, they uncorked it, passing it back and forth, its fiery burn chasing the cold from their throats if only for a fleeting moment. Dorian’s gaze settled on the bird, rigid in the man’s outstretched hand—a final act, frozen in time. Without a word, he pried it free, ice cracking like brittle bone. Kael watched, silent and knowing. Hunger was merciless, and survival left no room for reverence. Hours later, they stumbled upon a sparse grove of twisted, weather-beaten trees—an imperfect refuge but enough. Kael coaxed a feeble fire to life, its trembling flames the last defense against the encroaching freeze. Pale light flickered

across their worn faces, shadows stretching long and restless. Dorian sat near the dwindling fire, his leg stiff and aching, his eyes dark and unreadable as he watched Kael work with trembling hands to thaw the frozen bird. The cold gnawed at them both, patient and relentless, a silent predator biding its time. “Weaver’s Loom,” Dorian muttered, voice rough as broken stone. “Is this the best we could manage?” “It’ll have to do,” Kael said, not looking up. Dorian shook his head, grimacing as he shifted his leg. “Did your father teach you nothing about surviving out here?” “We’re forgers and traders, not hunters.” Dorian studied him for a long moment, something dawning in his eyes. “Your father never told you, did he?” Kael frowned, wary. “Told me what?” Dorian hesitated briefly. “Before your time, he was a Navigator.” Kael froze, the bird forgotten in his hands. “That’s a lie.” “We have the records.” Dorian’s tone was flat, final. “Why would I lie? Moreso, why would he lie?” Kael’s jaw tightened, a sudden realization cutting through the cold. “You talked to him, didn’t you? Did you hurt him?” Dorian met his gaze, steady and cold. “I didn’t touch a hair on his head.” Kael studied him, searching for deceit, then exhaled slowly. “You’re so much like him,” Dorian said. “And you probably don’t even know it.” “You know nothing about us.” Kael’s voice cut like ice. “About what we’ve been through.” Dorian watched the fire, shadows moving like restless memories in his eyes. “And what do you know of me?” he asked quietly. Kael met his gaze, unyielding. “Enough.”

Dorian shook his head. “You think us Meadowlanders don’t have our own problems?” Kael’s eyes flashed. “I think your problems are higher on the food chain than ours.” “What do you know of the world, Kael? Only what you’ve read in books. But who writes those books?” Kael paused, considering the question. “What’s your point?” “Ah, never mind,” Dorian sighed, his tone weary. “What?” Kael pressed, sensing there was more. “You’re not worth the effort. You denselanders are stubborn. You think that makes you invulnerable, but it just makes you easier to manipulate.” Kael bristled at the comment, but deep down, he saw the truth in Dorian’s words, recalling similar thoughts about his father. “Maybe he never told me because he couldn’t stand what The Guild had turned into—what men like you turned it into.” Dorian stared into the fire for a long time, its flickering light reflected in his cold, calculating eyes. His hands twitched involuntarily, as if reaching for something long gone—a familiar weight that was no longer there.

At dawn, they stirred, breath rising in thin, ghostly plumes against the brittle morning air. Hunger coiled tight in their bellies, a silent, ever-present ache. They pressed onward, weary but driven. Overhead, the storm’s fury waned at last, its icy grip loosening. Patches of mud and grass emerged from beneath the retreating veil of snow, dark and stubborn, like memories that refused to be buried. Kael, his skepticism mingling with desperation, watched as Dorian knelt down, his fingers sifting through the heavy soil. “Here. The Echokeepers favor paths lined with Ferothorn. Its spores leave a faint resonance,” Dorian explained, his voice steady despite the cold. Kael furrowed his brow. “Echokeepers?” Dorian nodded. “They’re dispersed all throughout this area. It’s more than likely she was picked up by one of them.” Kael's confusion deepened. “I’ve heard that word before. Echokeeper.”

Dorian looked up, a hint of exasperation in his eyes. “Sometimes I forget that you’re dense. They’re just glorified primates that claim to be navigators. Navigators with no equipment whatsoever. Ridiculous, but harmless.” Kael's skepticism flared. “And you trust them?” Dorian shrugged. “I trust their patterns. They have a knack for finding paths others miss. It’s worth a shot, given our options.” Kael exhaled a long, weary sigh, his eyes lingering on the winding path ahead, uncertainty gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. Dorian traced the heavy prints in the mud. His lips barely moved as he spoke. “They’re not the ones we should fear, after all.” Kael’s eyes lingered on the tracks, a weary sigh escaping him as he spoke, the weight of hunger pressing him down. “I’ll ignore that jab about me being dense—for now. Too hungry to argue.” Dorian rose to his feet. “Don’t worry. The forest ahead should provide.” Kael frowned. “Don’t we need to be going east?” “Straight east is a high-density zone. She would instinctively avoid those,” Dorian explained, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. “Yeah, but we just came from a dense zone,” Kael countered, frustration creeping into his voice. “It was unavoidable. Her path was erratic through there, seeking light gravity. Once on this side of the zone, she would have avoided another like it. It’s the way we Meadowlanders are taught. It’s become instinctive in us.” “She came to my doorstep in Calvaron. A dense land. Maybe one doesn’t always seek light gravity.” Dorian’s expression softened slightly. “Well, sometimes gravity’s pull is inescapable.” He stood up, brushing the dirt from his hands. “You may think me an unromantic shrewd, Kael, but I do not view myself that way. I was trained to read the land and its gravitational nuances, which often tell a more revealing story than

the inhabitants themselves might know. I understand a poetry, an art, a beauty that you will never know. Sometimes it moves me to tears. Ridiculous tears. In many ways, I have more in common with an Echokeeper than I do with a denselander.” Kael stared at him for a moment, absorbing his words. “I can’t do this right now. I. Am. Hungry.” Dorian nodded. “The forest should have what we need.”

The trees stood tall and majestic, their branches adorned with glistening icicles that sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight. As they ventured deeper into the forest, a curious creature emerged from the underbrush—a small, innocent-looking creature with fur as white as snow and eyes that shimmered with an otherworldly innocence. Its delicate features and gentle demeanor seemed to belie its wild surroundings. Dorian’s eyes lit up with intrigue as the creature approached them, unafraid. He knelt down. Kael questioned him. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry, Snowlarks are harmless. The natives of this land consider them sacred beings, symbols of purity and harmony.” The Snowlark approached with a quiet trust, its delicate steps unhurried as it neared Dorian. His fingers brushed gently through its soft fur, a rare moment of tenderness in the cold. But before Kael could reach out to touch it, Dorian’s grip tightened. With a swift motion, he snapped its neck, the creature’s warmth fading instantly in his hands. “Weaver’s Whisper!” Dorian’s gaze hardened slightly. “Survival demands sacrifices, Kael.” As the snow fell soft and steady, a quiet mantle over the world, Dorian set to work with methodical hands, preparing the Snowlark over the crackling fire. The scent of roasting meat rose into the cold air, sharp and primal, mingling with the forest’s breath. Kael stood by, the unease still gnawing at him, his gaze distant and troubled from the sight of the creature’s swift end—its innocence lost in the brittle silence of the woods. As the Snowlark cooked, a faint vapor rose from its flesh, curling into the air with a sweetness that stung Kael’s senses. The scent filled his lungs, a quiet intoxication, and with it came a slow, creeping euphoria—a sensation foreign to him. The world around him sharpened, then softened into something else entirely. The fire’s flames danced and twisted, forming patterns that beckoned, hypnotic in their flicker. The sharp edges of their camp blurred into a soft, dreamlike fog, and Kael drifted, swept away by visions unbidden. Shapes and figures emerged from the haze, their movements flowing like liquid in the air. Familiar faces blended with strange, fragmented ones, shifting in a kaleidoscope of fleeting memories and half-formed dreams. Time stretched and twisted, folding in on itself, leaving Kael suspended in awe and disorientation. For what felt like an eternity, he was lost within the fog, every sense overwhelmed by the Snowlark’s strange spell. Slowly, the vivid illusions

began to dim, yet the high lingered—a detached clarity, as though the world had grown distant and strange, and Kael was caught somewhere between it and the void. From that void came flashes of movement—figures that flickered like dying embers, faces he almost recognized but couldn’t hold on to. His father’s voice echoed faintly, too quiet to understand, lost beneath the hum of the unseen threads. Beside him, Dorian sat motionless, his gaze locked on the fire, his face pale. He didn’t speak or flinch, but his body trembled, like a man standing on the precipice of something vast and terrible. In the flames, a figure had emerged—small, fragile. A boy. His face was familiar in a way that made Dorian’s chest ache, though he hadn’t seen it in years. The child hadn’t spoken or moved, but his wide eyes had met Dorian’s, unblinking, filled with something too close to blame. The boy’s face lingered in Dorian’s mind, vivid and raw. He was too small, too young to carry that kind of sadness, that kind of understanding. Dorian pressed a hand to his temple, willing the memory to fade, but it stayed. When the visions finally subsided, they left behind a hollow stillness. The world sharpened slowly, yet nothing felt quite real. The fire crackled softly, a fragile tether to reality, though its flames still seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly glow. Kael sat up, pulling his knees to his chest. The air felt heavier now, the cold biting sharper. He glanced at Dorian, who sat transfixed by the fire, his eyes distant and wild. “Did you see that too?” Kael asked, his voice rough, still tinged with the remnants of the hallucination. Dorian jumped slightly, startled. “Don’t do that!” he snapped. “Sorry,” Kael muttered. “It’s alright,” Dorian said, though his gaze stayed fixed on the dancing flames. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the fire’s occasional crackle. “None of this makes sense,” Kael said finally, his voice quiet.

Dorian glanced at him, his expression guarded. “What doesn’t?” “All of it.” Kael gestured vaguely to the sky, the fire, the ground beneath them. “The way this planet works—it’s like everything here’s wrong. Like none of it was supposed to fit in the first place.” Dorian shook his head. “Nothing here fits because we don’t belong here. Whatever brought us to Veridian... left us to rot.” Kael frowned. “What are you talking about?” Dorian didn’t answer at first. He stared into the fire, the light carving shadows into the hollows of his face. “Dorian?” His jaw tightened, words coiled in his throat like something venomous. Finally, he leaned forward, his voice low. “They’ve… found things.” Kael waited, the silence hanging between them like a blade. “Who found things? What kind of things?” “Evidence.” Dorian’s eyes flicked to Kael, then back to the flames. “Fragments of spacecraft. Ancient ruins. Alien technology buried so deep most people don’t even know it’s there. But it’s there.” Kael’s brow furrowed. The air felt colder, sharper, though the fire still burned. “What kind of ruins?” Dorian’s lips thinned. “Enough to raise questions no one wants to answer. The kind that don’t fit with the stories we’ve told ourselves.” He hesitated, the firelight shifting in his dark eyes. “Some of us—those who’ve studied what’s been uncovered—we think... no, we know... this planet wasn’t always ours. Whoever brought us here, whoever built those ships or left those ruins—they didn’t stay. They left us behind.” Kael’s breath stilled, his chest tight. “You’re saying we were abandoned?” Dorian nodded slowly, his voice like gravel. “This place—these gravity pockets, the way the land twists and turns on itself—it’s not natural. It wasn’t

meant for us. We’re not supposed to be here. It’s like we were dumped here. Dropped into a world that doesn’t care if we live or die.” Kael’s voice was barely a whisper. “Why would they do that?” Dorian’s gaze flicked back to the fire, his jaw working. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he spoke, his voice low, bitter. “Maybe they didn’t care enough to think about it,” Dorian said darkly. “Maybe we were an experiment, or a mistake, or a problem they couldn’t fix.” He stared into the distance, his voice softening. “Or maybe our ancestors weren’t just abandoned. Maybe they were forgotten—left behind by a civilization that couldn’t, or wouldn’t, deal with the harsh realities of this place. It might’ve been a failed colonization attempt. The gravity pockets, the unpredictable environment... too much for them to handle, too much for anyone. Or maybe it was by design. Exiles, abandoned in a world that could break them. A cruel experiment, their survival irrelevant to those who sent them here.” Dorian’s gaze hardened. “Or worse—what if it was none of that? What if they were just... lost? Displaced in time or space, stranded in a place so hostile their creators couldn’t even find them again? The truth could be anything. All of it, or none of it. And yet here we are—still standing, still searching, still living in the shadow of whatever came before.” Kael felt the words lodge in his chest, a weight he couldn’t move. The fire crackled, loud against the silence. “How do you know all this?” he asked. Dorian’s eyes narrowed, his voice turning cold. “Because I’ve seen it. The ruins. The tech. I’ve read the records—the ones buried so deep you’d think they were ashamed of them. I didn’t believe it at first. But out here…” His words trailed off, his face grim, haunted. Kael stared at him, his mind racing, the pieces twisting into shapes he didn’t want to see. “Why haven’t you said anything? If this is true—”

Dorian cut him off, his voice low and sharp. “Would anyone believe it? Do you even believe it? What’s worse: that there’s someone out there watching us, or that there’s no one at all? Both answers are terrifying.” He paused for a long moment. “People believe what they want to believe. Best leave them wondering.” Kael looked up at the stars. They were faint now, ordinary, but he couldn’t shake the memory of the glowing web he had seen in the visions. “What if they didn’t abandon us? What if they’re still out there, waiting for us to figure it out?” Dorian’s gaze hardened, his eyes reflecting the dying embers of the fire. He shook his head, a faint, joyless smile tugging at his lips. “If they were out there, they’ve stopped waiting, Kael. People don’t wait forever. They forget. They move on.” His voice dropped, quieter now, edged with something raw. “And the ones left behind learn to stop waiting, too.” Kael didn’t respond right away. His gaze stayed on the sky, his thoughts heavy. “I think somehow I knew,” he murmured, his voice rough-edged with uncertainty, “that he was keeping something from me.” Dorian frowned. “Your father?” Kael didn’t answer. He rolled onto his side, turning away from Dorian and the vast unknown stretching beyond the stars. The wind stirred softly through the trees, carrying with it the faintest whisper of something ancient, something lost. Dorian sat in silence, staring into the fire. The weight of what he’d done settled in his chest, heavy and unmoving. He had left Kael’s father out there—alone, without mercy—and now the guilt curled in the pit of his stomach, cold and quiet. He should tell him. He should say something. But the words stayed locked behind his teeth. The silence stretched, a heavy thing between them. The land around them seemed to breathe, slow and steady, its secrets buried deep beneath the snow. The stars above, cold and distant, watched silently, as if waiting for something yet to unfold. In the quiet of the night, time stretched, and the world, for a moment, felt still—lost in a dream of its own making.

The days stretched long and lean, folding into one another without end. The land lay silent and unyielding, a vast and vacant thing that gave nothing and took all. Hunger gnawed at their bellies, weariness bent their bones. They moved as specters through the ruin of the world, sifting through the frost-laden ground for what little it might surrender, though it surrendered nothing. The sky hung gray and sullen. The wind spoke in tongues of desolation. Then a cry. Thin and reedy, swallowed almost at once by the silence. A sound not meant for such a place. They stopped, listening. It came again, a ragged plea borne on the dead air. Kael looked to Dorian, and Dorian looked to Kael. No words passed between them. There was no need. They followed the sound through the brittle hush. Then they saw him. A boy, no more than twelve cycles old, adrift in a pocket of broken gravity. He turned

slowly in the empty air, his limbs flailing, the fear in his face stark and wordless. The sky had him now. And it would not let him go. “Wait!” Dorian shouted at Kael as he sprinted towards the boy. “We don’t know exactly where the pull is.” Kael stopped in his tracks. The boy’s frightened cries echoed through the eerie silence as he drifted higher and higher, beyond their immediate reach. Kael grabbed the anchor rope from his pack and hurled it towards the boy, but it wasn’t heavy enough to reach him. A sinuous creature, part caterpillar, part serpent, writhed within the shifting gravity, its form undulating with a predatory grace. Its head, crowned with a deadly stinger, arced toward the boy, drawn by instinct, its hunger sharp and unrelenting. The creature circled in the air, as if the very pocket of chaos had conspired to deliver the child into its grasp. “Dorian, we need to do something!” Dorian watched the boy, caught in the slow spiral of the gravity pocket, the creature circling like a shadow in the sky. He wrestled with the heavy, gnawing weight in his chest, as something within him twisted—soft, yet insistent. What was it? With grim resolve, he seized the anchor rope and grabbed Kael by the shoulders, staring him directly in the eye. “I’m sorry.” Before Kael could speak, Dorian was already moving, a streak of motion against the stillness. He leapt, weightless in the roiling air, the unseen hand of the gravity pocket pulling him in. Kael’s fingers caught the rope, his breath locked in his chest. Dorian twisted midair, reaching the boy just as the thing in the dark unfurled itself, its body sinuous, its stinger poised, waiting. He pulled the boy close, the rope wrapped tight around him. The boy cried out, but the sound was lost, swallowed by the howling void. The gravity seethed and churned around them. Then the thing struck. A flash of motion, a

sharp arc of inevitability. The stinger buried itself in Dorian’s side. He gasped, a sound cut short, and his body shuddered. A moment of silence, then a great convulsion of pain. His grip faltered. The boy slipped free. Kael braced himself and pulled, the rope burning against his palms, his muscles locked against the weight of the child. Dorian hung in the air, the poison working quick, his skin going pale, his body thinning as if something inside him was being drawn away, unwritten. His face twisted, lips pulling back in some silent agony, before his limbs went slack. The thing withdrew, its hunger sated, and Dorian drifted, his form emptied, his body no longer his own. Kael held the boy against him, his breath heavy, his gaze fixed on the hollow shell that had been Dorian. He watched it spiral higher, caught in the unseen tide, swallowed inch by inch by the place that had taken him. He did not call out. Did not reach for him. Some things were beyond saving. Then—footsteps. Urgent, running. He turned. And there she was. Standing there, breathless. Eyes wide. A shadow of who she once was, yet undeniably her. Lysandra.

“In the dance of hearts, there lies both chaos and clarity. Love’s madness may obscure reason, yet within its tumultuous embrace, there flickers a guiding light of understanding.” - Darius Vennor