The star split.
One half held Ayla.
The other, Qaritas.
This wasn't flight. It was judgment—written in motion, enforced by memory. And the star would not bear passengers who weren't worthy of its path.
Beyond them, distant stars still streaked across the cosmos—fourteen pairs hurtling through memory and meaning, each chosen by their own path.
But this one didn't race.
It tested.
Hovering now, not in orbit, but in opposition—like twin convictions launched across a battlefield no prophecy had prepared.
Then—
The sky blinked.
Not dimmed.
Decided.
A filament of starlight cut across their course like a thread pulled taut across time.
And from it stepped Xriana.
She did not walk.
She arrived.
One eye black, the other silver, her veil trailing behind her like the aftermath of broken omens. Around her, fragments of extinguished constellations whispered. Her voice was quiet, but absolute.
"I remember this thread," she said. "This star remembers it too. You burn too brightly, Ayla. And you, Qaritas—you flicker in a language not yet written."
Her presence bent the laws, not by force, but by suggestion.
Ayla whispered, "Tysesh... the Ascendant of the Veiled Mind."
From behind her, Tysesh emerged—cloaked in thought that wore the shape of flesh. His robe rippled with unfocused symbols, like a mind trying to remember itself mid-dream. His gaze was obsidian, polished smooth—not cold. Deep. Unfathomable.
"The mind is not a mirror," he said, voice soft. "It is smoke. And I'm very good at making it forget what fire is."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ayla's star flared.
"You want a fight," she said, flame rising around her like history daring to breathe. "You'll get one."
Qaritas stepped to her side. Not behind. Beside.
"If fate sent you," he said, summoning the void to curl around his arms like living ink, "then fate made its first mistake."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The air split.
Xriana raised her hand—not in violence, but in command. Her fingers traced a sigil of dead constellations in the air, and time hesitated.
Qaritas blinked—
And found himself alone.
No Ayla. No star. No sound.
Only a ruined corridor, endless, echoing.
Sounds of Children screaming.
A blade—his blade—stabbed down into the chest of someone he didn't know, but loved anyway.
He dropped it, staggering backward.
"This isn't real," he whispered.
But his hands still trembled.
The corridor groaned as if it had lungs. Shadows stretched across the walls—his shadows. One turned its head. It had his face, but the eyes were hollow, soaked in ink.
"You can't lie to the part of you that's already grieving," a voice said. His voice.
Another child screamed. Another body fell. The blade was in his hand again, sticky with a past that hadn't happened—yet.
Qaritas staggered back. "No… I'd never—"
"But you could," came the answer. Calm. Close.
Tysesh stood at the far end of the corridor, head tilted.
"You haven't yet," Tysesh said gently. "But you could. And that's what you fear."
Qaritas clenched his fists. Shadows screamed around him—his own. He reached down, into the void—
And pulled.
Reality shattered. The corridor bled away. The illusion cracked like bad glass under better light.
Tysesh didn't flinch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Meanwhile—
Ayla struck first.
Her flames didn't erupt. They declared.
She opened both palms and let fly a chain of solar fire—braided like a whip of conviction—crackling with memory.
Xriana didn't dodge.
She rewrote the moment.
With a flick of her wrist, her silver eye flared, and the future Ayla had chosen didn't happen.
The flame veered mid-arc—redirected into orbit, where it burned out in silence.
"You are not wrong, Ayla," Xriana said. "You are merely early."
But Xriana flared her silver eye—again.
And Ayla saw it.
A moment from a future that hadn't happened—yet.
She stood atop a tower of blackened stone, her arms outstretched, flames devouring the sky.
Cities burned. Names she hadn't learned were already gone.
Below her, a silhouette knelt—Qaritas? Someone else? Ash curled from their cloak.
And she was smiling.
Not joy. Righteousness.
And somewhere, in the ashes behind her, she thought she saw a crown—cracked, empty, forgotten. Hrolyn's crown? Or just guilt shaped like memory?
"This is our destiny, Ayla, if we trust another Fragment of Eon" Xriana whispered. "This is what you call freedom."
Ayla's breath caught. Her flame faltered for a fraction of a heartbeat.
But only a fraction.
"You're right," she said softly. "But I'll risk it—because I believe in Qaritas. He isn't Eon. And I'll prove it... when he walks the path of becoming."
Her fists clenched. The flame surged back, no longer wild—but deliberate.
"But if I'm wrong... I'll end him myself. Before the stars have to."
The fire didn't consume her—it focused her.
Not certainty. Velocity.
One step forward. One refusal to fall.
That was always enough.
The star had never waited for permission. Neither would she.
She had never needed certainty—just velocity. One refusal to stop. One step forward. The star had never waited for permission. Neither would she.
She leapt.
Fire didn't trail her—it preceded her, curling forward as if the air begged to burn before she reached it.
Xriana braced—and the constellations behind her screamed. Her veil flared out like a dying star, and for the first time, the Fatekeeper stepped back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Qaritas returned.
His void crackled around him now—not as absence, but as choice.
"Tysesh," he said, voice flat. "I remember you now. You were at the council meeting yesterday . you said This one's not charming anyone. That part's refreshing, at least."
"You are," Tysesh replied, calm. "But that doesn't mean you're not like Eon."
And he moved.
Not through space—but around it.
His attacks were thoughts. Memory-spikes. Shards of unspoken doubt. Qaritas felt a hundred selves try to pull free from his bones.
One laughed.
One begged.
One burned.
He fell to one knee.
Then Ayla's voice.
"You're not them."
It wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be.
Qaritas looked up—and saw her, surrounded in her own flames, smiling at him through her pain.
"You're you. And that's enough."
He stood.
Not because it stopped hurting.
But because he had finally decided who he was becoming.
He breathed in—
And the void listened.
Around him, reality inverted. Not just light, but law. Not just matter, but intention.
He stepped toward Tysesh—and each step undid the illusions around them.
Tysesh tilted his head, finally—mildly impressed.
"Interesting," he murmured. "You've stabilized."
"No," Qaritas said. "I've decided."
He lashed forward, and for the first time—Tysesh staggered. The shadows struck not with chaos, but with clarity.
Tysesh straightened, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve like memory hadn't just betrayed him.
A faint smile ghosted across his face.
"Clarity is only a gift—when it doesn't arrive too late," he said quietly.
His form shimmered, unraveling not into retreat—but into absence. Thought collapsing back into smoke.
The air where he stood still hummed with a question no one asked.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Xriana circled Ayla, the starscape around them shifting into dying galaxies.
"I've seen how you fall," she whispered.
Ayla didn't blink.
"Then you already know how long I stand before I do."
She leapt.
Fire didn't trail her—it preceded her, curling forward as if the air begged to burn before she reached it.
Xriana flared her eyes—
But Ayla changed mid-motion. Her flames split in two—past and future, twin trails of fire that struck from angles even fate couldn't see.
"Then let it remember this."
Xriana screamed—
The sky bent.
And for the first time in her ageless life—
She did not know what came next.
The constellations behind her flickered—some dimmed, some vanished entirely—as if her own map of the future had begun to forget itself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Around them, the cosmos still moved.
Other pairs streaked through starlines in the distance—flares of motion, war, and will.
But their path hadn't paused.
It had paused them.
Not to hold them back—
To see if they were ready to go forward.
And now… the star knew.
Jrin's voice echoed in their minds...
Both pairs landed hard.
The stars pulsed around them, torn but not shattered.
Breathing heavy, wounded—but standing.
Jrin's voice echoed in their minds from the other side of the cosmos:
"Well," he said dryly. "I suppose I should start keeping score."
Cree, elsewhere in the field, whispered softly.
"They're starting to shine."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ayla turned to Qaritas.
Eyes bright. Cloak aflame. Jaw set like a vow unbroken.
"Still with me?"
He wiped blood from his mouth, nodding.
"To the end."
The silence between them wasn't empty.
Qaritas's breath came ragged, half-scorched by the void still curling at his edges. His arms trembled—not from pain, but from effort. From choice.
Ayla reached out—just briefly—and touched his shoulder. Not to steady him. To anchor him.
Their flames and shadows braided for a heartbeat—gold over violet, void against starlight.
The star beneath them pulsed once—like it recognized them, not as passengers, but as its authors.
"They almost broke us," Qaritas murmured.
"They didn't," Ayla replied. "They're preparing us for what we become."
Qaritas gave a thin smile. "Heroes."
"No," she agreed. "Something better."
"Hope."
They looked back.
Xriana and Tysesh were rising.
Not beaten. But… learning.
Somewhere, a star sang. Najen laughed.
As if the universe exhaled in chaos—and agreed.
Another flared as Komus vanished between cuts of gravity.
The race hadn't stopped. It had just branched.
Their trial had taken a different shape—but it still counted.
Komus had said it once: This is the fire between stars.
Now Qaritas understood—he and Ayla had simply burned in place.
This wasn't over.
But for now, the star had accepted its riders.
And it burned—brighter than before.
Tysesh looked to Xriana. "They're not becoming what we feared."
Xriana's veil drifted like ash. "No. Worse. They're becoming what we forgot to dream."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~