Chapter 38 - Agony in the Garden [Part 1]

In honor of Jaden. Taken too soon, loved beyond measure. May God embrace you in His eternal arms.

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"Hate is a place where a man who can't stand sadness goes."

― Kentaro Miura

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Cocolia floated above the Engine of Creation, her crystalline fingers wrapped around the corrupted Lance of Preservation. The construct beneath her groaned, metal plates grinding against each other where the first rampage had torn seams. Smoke leaked from joints. Sparks cascaded down its chest in irregular bursts.

She should command it to strike again. End this. Finish what she'd started.

Her hand wouldn't move.

Something had changed in the air. A shift in the fabric of reality itself, subtle as a breath but impossible to ignore. The sensation crawled up her spine, foreign yet achingly familiar.

Through her connection to Jarilo-VI's Stellaron, she felt it. Warmth. Not the kind that came from geomarrow or furnaces, but something older. Primordial. The very concept of protection given form, radiating from deep beneath the frozen crust.

Preservation.

The word burned in her mind. Her chest tightened, the crystalline structures across her skin pulsing with agitated light. It couldn't be. She'd turned away from that path. She'd chosen the new world, the one without suffering, the one promised by—

"Do you feel it, vessel? Your old god stirs."

The Stellaron's voices whispered through her skull, neither mocking nor concerned. Simply observing.

"Why?" The word scraped from her throat, distorted by the cosmic energy warping her vocal cords. "Why would Qlipoth—"

Her vision swam. The connection between Stellarons acted as a bridge, and she felt him. The abomination. The creature from beyond who'd murdered her daughter, who'd brought ruin to everything she'd built. His presence blazed like a star in her mind's eye, golden and terrible.

And wrapped around him, suffusing every fiber of his being, was the unmistakable blessing of the Amber Lord.

Cocolia's grip on the Lance faltered. The weapon dipped, its corrupted tip scraping against the Engine's shoulder with a shriek of metal on ice.

"No." Her voice cracked. The word repeated, a litany of disbelief. "No, no, no—"

Memories cascaded through her fractured consciousness. Kneeling in the Great Cathedral at sixteen, newly selected as heir, her forehead pressed against the cool marble floor. Protect us, Amber Lord. Grant us strength to weather the storm. Decades of prayer. Of sacrifice. Of every decision weighed against one question: what would preserve Belobog?

She'd given everything. Her youth. Her dreams. Her friendship with Serval, shattered on the altar of duty when that research threatened to undermine the fragile order holding their world together. Her connection to Bronya, twisted into something sharp and desperate as the weight of leadership crushed the softness between them.

All of it. Every morning she'd woken with ice in her lungs and responsibility like a boulder on her chest. Every night she'd collapsed into bed, too exhausted even for nightmares. Every choice that had carved away pieces of her soul until she couldn't recognize the woman in the mirror.

For Him. For Qlipoth. For Preservation.

And now—

"He chose the outsider." The Stellaron's voices were almost gentle, like a mother explaining a harsh truth to a child. "The one who slaughtered your daughter chose to anoint her killer instead of her mother."

Cocolia's breath came in ragged gasps. The cosmic energy around her flickered, nebulae patterns across her skin swirling faster. Her mind showed her Bronya's face—not as she'd last seen her, furious and defiant, but as a child. Five years old, newly arrived from the Underworld orphanage, looking up at Cocolia with eyes that held both fear and desperate hope.

"Will you be my mother now?"

"Yes. I will keep you safe. Always."

The lie tasted like ash. She hadn't kept her safe. She'd failed. And the thing—the demon—who'd taken her daughter's life now walked with the Amber Lord's fire in his veins.

"I don't understand." The words were a broken whisper. Cocolia stared at her transformed hands, at the crystalline claws that had once held a daughter's fingers. "I was faithful. I was strong. I never wavered, never—"

"You were everything they demanded," the Stellaron crooned. "And still, it wasn't enough."

Her grip on the Lance tightened until fractures spread through the ice wrapping the weapon's shaft. All those years of devotion, and the moment a stranger appeared—one who'd brought nothing but chaos and death—Qlipoth blessed him instead.

What had she lacked? What deficiency had the Aeon seen in her that wasn't present in that murderer?

Her vision blurred. The Engine of Creation wavered beneath her, its systems cycling down as her attention fractured. The tremors that had been shaking the Underworld ceased, the construct's massive feet settling into the frozen earth.

She should care. Should focus. Should end this before—

But she couldn't think past the searing, irrational fury building in her chest. It spread through her like poison, burning away the last vestiges of the woman she'd been. Cocolia Rand, Supreme Guardian, daughter of Belobog, devoted servant of Preservation—she dissolved into the maelstrom.

What remained was something else. Something that understood only one truth: the person who'd killed her child wore her god's blessing like a crown.

"It's not enough," she said. Her voice had changed, multiple tones layered over each other. The orbiting crystals around her spun faster, their edges razor-sharp. "Crushing him beneath the Engine's fist—it's not enough. It's too quick! Too clean!"

"What do you desire, vessel?"

Cocolia's eyes—no longer simply gold-rimmed with red, but burning with colors that shouldn't exist in nature—fixed on the distant silhouette of Belobog. She could feel him down there. Feel the warmth he radiated, the hope he inspired in her people.

They sang for him. She could hear it through the Stellaron's connection, distant but clear. Voices raised in that old folk song about sunshine and birds and oceans that used to be deserts. They sang for the stranger while their Supreme Guardian floated above them, transformed into something they'd call a monster.

Her fingers dug into the Lance. Ice cracked. Blood—no, something that looked like blood but glowed with inner light—wept from where crystalline talons pierced her own palms.

"I want to watch his eyes dim," she said. Each word was precise, carved from hatred so pure it felt like clarity. "I want to feel his blood on my hands. I want him to know—to understand—what he took from me before I take everything from him."

The Engine of Creation could wait. The destruction of the old world could wait. This—this singular, burning need to personally end the man who'd stolen her daughter and her old god's favor—this demanded precedence.

"Then descend, vessel. Face him. Show him what true devotion births when it curdles into something darker."

A low, grating sound scraped from Cocolia's throat—a laugh.

"No."

The Stellaron's whispers went silent, a flicker of confusion in the hive mind.

"He will come to me," she said, her voice a low hum of anticipatory cruelty. "And I will break him here. I will carve the hope from his bones, make him watch as his new god's blessing fails him. And only then, when he can do nothing but despair... then I will descend and show him what it means to lose everything."

Her lips pulled back in something that might have once been a smile. Now it was a rictus of fury and terrible, cold purpose. She sent her will like a spike into the golden presence she felt burning in the depths.

"Come face me, Abomination," she whispered to the void. "Come to your judgment. Let's see if your new patron's blessing is enough when I carve the light from your chest with my own hands."

She felt his attention shift, lock onto her location high above. Good. Let him prepare. Let him climb. Let him bring whatever pathetic defenses the Amber Lord had granted him.

It wouldn't matter.

She was Cocolia Rand, and he would learn what a reckoning truly was.

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Bronya's stylus scratched briskly across the tablet as she cross-checked another name. The dull glow of the screen painted her gloves with pale light as she handed the slate back to Oleg, who was already barking orders to a team of Wildfire scouts.

"I'd suggest a team prioritize the wounded from Rivet Town's western shaft," she said firmly, her tone clipped. "Children and the elderly first. And make sure to check with Nikolay that the stretcher lifts are reinforced before the next load."

The man nodded, already moving, and without pause she turned to the next demand. Seele appeared at her shoulder like a shadow, delivering a rapid report of sector counts, while Luka crowded in to request more volunteers to help clear the debris choke-points still clogging the northern passage. No sooner had she issued decisions there than a Silvermane lieutenant approached, saluting stiffly before passing her notes from Gepard.

Bronya forced her breathing into an even rhythm, trying not to let the overwhelming press of tasks drag her under. There was no end to it. If it wasn't Oleg coordinating priorities, it was Seele with casualty lists, Luka with manpower shortages, Gepard requesting troop placements, or Pela's voice echoing through her comm line from the Overworld demanding manifests so the refugees could be processed and absorbed above. The furnace core's elevator felt less like a sacred artery leading to salvation and more like a bottleneck threatening collapse with every passing moment.

Every decision felt like playing dice against the abyss, and she could not falter, not even once.

Yet in the seconds between giving an order and hearing the next, her mind betrayed her.

There were whispers everywhere now. Whispers of him. Seeping through the crowd like smoke in an airless space. "The Champion stopped the ceiling." "The Amber Lord's hand saved us." "Did you see it, the embers in the dark? That was his sign."

They had swept across the underground like firelight – those strange embers still refusing to gutter out, hours after the collapse. They floated above the cavern roofs like sorrowful lanterns, red-gold stars piercing the gloom, illuminating faces wet with tears, or streaked in ash and blood. They did not burn. They soothed.

It was difficult not to hear the murmurs and feel their pull. Their awe was infectious – even to her.

Bronya clenched her jaw, trying to banish the thought.

She had not seen the worst of it herself, not with her own two eyes – the hours he spent dragging survivors from beneath the rubble until his body finally gave way. But everyone told her. She had her reports. Wildfire and guards alike had carried him away after he collapsed, so thoroughly spent that he could not even stand under his own strength. He was resting two kilometers behind her line, they said. Alive. Breathing. Being tended to by Serval and Clara.

Before the collapse, she had been there, though. She had seen the shield he had summoned with her own eyes – the barrier that caught the falling heavens before they could crush thousands to paste. No Architect scribe, no disciplined pathstrider of Belobog in living memory could have mustered such a feat.

In fact, only one comparison rose in her mind. Alisa Rand. She Who Evokes Miracles. The first Supreme Guardian, who commanded the very forces that gave birth to Belobog itself. It was said her shields had been like moving mountains, impregnable and eternal. But even in texts venerating Alisa, Bronya struggled to recall passages of light strong enough to scatter embers across the entire breadth of the caves and turn the suffocating dark into a thousand tiny hearths.

And then there was something else – something unexplainable. Wherever he walked, even now in distant streets behind her, the air thickened faintly with warmth, as though the forge itself exhaled through unseen vents, and sometimes the sharp tang of lime accompanied it. Some of the oldest manuscripts had spoken of such moments – how those who truly felt the Amber Lord's attention could swear the air itself bent to comfort them.

In the pits of her youth, Bronya had studied those manuscripts tirelessly. Most had been defaced, fragmented, or outright banned by dissenting factions of the Architects over the centuries after the wake of the Eternal Freeze. They spoke, in guarded tones, of individuals favored in extraordinary ways. Mortals who carried burdens not meant for flesh, touched and sharpened through purpose. Once – scarcely – given a word.

Emanator.

Bronya had never known what the word meant. Not really. Stitched from lost Architect zeal, stripped of context, weighted with contradictions. One scribe described them as pillars formed of living will. Another as vessels carved hollow for something greater to flow through. Her instructors in preservation rites dismissed those fragments out of hand – as heresy, or invention, or mistake. After all, if the Aeon truly favored one over another, what else had they been mistaken about?

But now… whispers filled the Furnace Core. And the memory of that blazing shield would not die in her mind.

Emanator.

The syllables returned to her like a ghost pulled from the fog. A fragment with teeth.

She exhaled, forcing herself back into the flow of the crowd, burying the word where no one could see it.

Because if she let herself think too much of him – of the man who quite literally fell from the sky and raised a shield the likes of which no Belobogian had seen in centuries – then she would also have to think of everything else.

Think of the children carried into the elevator missing parents who would not follow. Think of the soot-streaked survivors who kept walking forward in silence because there was no one left alive to mourn with. Think of how every whimper of grief bent like an arrow back toward the truth she was trying to run from.

Her mother had done this.

Her mother had caused what was slowly coming to be known as the Long Night of Solace. The endless dead faces who walked before her were the price of Cocolia Rand's devotion to a Stellaron.

And worst of all, Bronya knew – sooner or later – her role as commander would corner her like a wolf in a frozen pass. That duty might demand the unthinkable: to raise her weapon, not against a pretender, but against the woman who had saved her from obscurity. The woman who had braided her hair, taught her to lead, tucked her into bed. Supreme Guardian. Mother.

The words tasted like ash in her mouth. Matricide. Regicide. One and the same.

The sound of Seele's voice pulled her back, grounding her in the flood of reports.

"Bronya," she said, brisk and tired all at once, "east shaft's clear. Luka's with the last group." Her violet hair hung in tangles, dust coating her cheeks, but her tone was steady – just another job checked off a long, bloody list.

Before Bronya could reply, another voice cut through.

"South passage secured." Gepard's tone carried the precision of a report, and his posture matched it – shoulders square, one arm bandaged where rubble had cut through armor. "Light casualties. The Guards are holding formations around the cart lines."

Seele and Gepard together. For a moment, Bronya realized she wasn't as solitary in the middle of this chaos as she thought. On instinct, she stood straighter, her voice sharpening into crisp command. She decided to latch onto their words gratefully, wrapping herself in duty like a shield. Better to count bodies, measure lifts, process names – anything but think of divine flames scorched into the shape of a man, or the night she knew lay waiting at the end of her path.

"Good. Seele – Rivet Town's miners get third priority. Too many wounded, too many children." She turned her gaze to Gepard. "Once your men are relieved, redeploy two squads to the north shaft. Luka doesn't have enough to keep debris moving alone based on his reports."

Both nodded, no hesitation.

It shouldn't have been her responsibility. Oleg and Natasha would normally lead the Underworld themselves – but in the furnace chaos, they had pressed her shoulder with brief, heavy trust: You can reach those above in the Overworld. You're a Commander. Take this, and help us hold it steady. We need all the help we can get.

So she had stepped into the role. Orders flowing through her to Silvermane Guards, Wildfire, healers, volunteers. And the people, the Underworlders who had cursed her kind for years, accepted it without protest.

No, more than accepted it – they leaned into it.

Bronya felt it like a cold thread inside her chest. Was it shock? Just the desperate need for someone, anyone to direct them after so much loss? Maybe. But in her heart, she suspected there was more. They weren't really looking at her. They were following the echo left by him, the Champion who had stood against falling stone and turned embers in the dark into heralds of safety. With a figure like that walking among them, her command could not easily be questioned.

Seele shifted her weight. "One more thing."

Bronya looked up, and the young woman's mouth thinned. "Shaft sixteen was a mess. Some idiots tried shoving families aside, yelling for space on the lifts. Wildfire and I stepped in before it got ugly. I recognized a couple of them – old Vagrant types."

"…anyone hurt?"

Seele shook her head. "Not beyond their pride. They won't try again." A faint, contemptuous snort. "Truth is, what we have known as Vagrants don't exist anymore. All that's left are stragglers who don't know their lords are dust. The faction's all but dead."

Gepard frowned. "Vagrants… I kept hearing that whispered while securing the lines with my troops. No one seemed willing to explain."

Seele's eyes cut sideways toward him. "Bandits dressed up as survivors. They raided the Fragmentum for scrap and peddled drugs. Thought themselves untouchable." Her voice cooled, sharp as a blade's edge. "They're finished."

"Finished?"

"Xander took their teeth days ago. Their worst leader – Igor – was snapped like a twig. The others were beaten down so badly that they won't breathe right again if they're even alive. And then the rest?" She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "The civilians finished it after he walked away."

Bronya's breath caught. For a split second, Seele's matter-of-fact words dragged her back to that moment in the desecrated temple – a man stepping out of ruined stone, Maria clinging to him, the crimson stains across graying hair and ruined vest. The golden light burning faintly in his eyes. She remembered how small the girl had been in his arms. How tired he looked.

She pulled herself back quickly, hiding the flicker in her expression.

Silence pressed in again – the distant groan of lifts climbing the shaft, the shuffle of exhausted feet. Gepard studied the ground for a moment, jaw tight, then glanced back to Bronya. He said nothing. But she saw his knuckles tighten, gratitude and unease tangled in equal measure, and felt again how thoroughly Salvatore's shadow bled across this moment. Even days before today, he had reshaped the balance of power in the Underworld.

And now, the atmosphere in the core shifted again.

It was subtle at first: a break in the usual churn of evacuees lining up for lifts, as though the air itself had leaned toward something. A murmur spread, low and insistent, snatching her attention despite herself.

Heads turned. Voices whispered, reverent and afraid in equal measure.

"...the Champion..." "...the Amber Lord's hand..." "...he walks again..."

Gradually, the noise of boots and bodies gave way to silence, and the crowd opened of its own accord, parting down the center like water before a keel.

Bronya's chest tightened as her gaze followed theirs – saw him.

He was moving steadily through the path cleared for him, the glow of the overhead embers clinging to the pale curtain of his silver hair. His steps were unhurried, deliberate – not ceremonious, but marked with the kind of gravity that demanded silence. Every few paces, hands reached out, not grabbing, not pleading – only brushing against the hem of his cape as if the briefest touch might anchor them.

And yet she saw what they didn't.

The set of his jaw, too rigid for comfort. The faint quickening of his stride as the whispers rose. The way his eyes slid away, searching anywhere but the faces lifted toward him in worship.

The crowd saw a champion blessed by the Preservation or a living scripture walking in their midst.

Bronya saw a man enduring the weight of it, not embracing it. And that unsettled her despite the relief that ran within seeing him standing, alive and breathing.

For a moment, no one moved. The crowd's whispers pressed in, hushed and reverent, like the bowing of heads in a cathedral. Even Seele, quick-tongued as ever, hesitated.

At last, the scythe wielder gave a half-smirk that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Back on your feet already? Hah. You really do recover faster than you look."

The words landed flat. There was no ripple of laughter or easing of silence. A few nearby evacuees even stiffened, as though joking with him was sacrilege. Seele's gaze dropped a second later, jaw set, and Bronya noticed the way her hand fidgeted against her sleeve.

For her part, she kept her own mouth shut. She had wanted to greet him as before and bridge the distance. But the memory of that shield hung like scripture between them now, and saying his name aloud felt heavier than it should after hours of reflection.

How painfully ironic. They had embraced him hours ago when there had been no time to think.

Gepard stepped in instead. "Salvatore." Just a nod, crisp as a salute. The name sounded stiff in his mouth. His eyes didn't linger; only his gauntleted fingers tightened once before falling still.

The name slid through the silence, square as a saluting stance. Bronya saw Xander stiffen, just for a second, before his mouth twitched at the corner. She followed the widening of his eyes, the faint curl of amusement that bent into something else – resignation.

"You too, huh?" he murmured, voice pitched for them alone.

Bronya froze at that, guilt tightening at the back of her throat. But where Seele had faltered toward informality, she found herself reaching for the one word that would not burn her tongue.

"I'm glad you're back with us again, Champion."

The air shifted on that syllable. His smile collapsed. He didn't lash out or scowl – just frowned, looking away, as though the word had dragged some invisible curtain between them.

"So be it, Commander," he said, with a dry finality that scraped her ribs raw.

The murmurs were still growing around them – half of Belobog's battered survivors watching them like the figures carved into a temple frieze, every line of body language etched into meaning.

Xander exhaled, low. His eyes flicked once toward the walls of the Furnace Core and back again. "...Can we talk somewhere private?"

Before she could answer, Gepard shifted. "Then you won't need me here." His voice carried too much formality for how quiet it was. He inclined his head toward Bronya, avoiding Xander's eyes entirely. "I'll attend to the cart lines and reinforce Oleg."

And with that he turned, not waiting for dismissal. The press of evacuees took him in like a tide swallowing a stone, his broad back vanishing between bodies and armor. Bronya caught the stiffness in his shoulders all the way down the platform.

Her lips pressed tight. She could begin to imagine what he was feeling, but now was not the time to wrestle with it.

"What could be so urgent?" she managed finally, her tone thinner than she intended. "I still need to—"

His answer was little more than a murmur, quiet enough that only Seele and she would hear.

"It's about your mother."

The word struck like a pulled trigger, short and merciless. She froze, pulse thrumming under her skin. Of course. She had known it was coming.

Her jaw clenched. "…Very well." Her gaze shifted to Seele, standing taut at her side. "Guide us somewhere quieter. Please."

Seele glanced between them, wary. "Bronya… are you sure?"

Please. The word broke sharper than she wished, and she hated the sound of it in her throat. "Please."

That seemed to settle it. The girl shifted her own weight, then looked to Xander. He gave her a simple nod.

"If she's comfortable with it," he said, low, "then you're welcome."

So Seele turned, leading them off the furnace platform. The echoes of evacuation dimmed step by step as they slipped through narrower side passages, until finally a small dwelling emerged from between slabs of tilted stone and collapsed scaffolding. Half-buried under debris, scarred black from falling rock, but intact.

Seele ducked inside first, sweeping her pale eyes over the shadows. "Empty. We won't be overheard."

Inside, the dim room smelled of soot and fractured stone. A single fissure along the ceiling admitted the faintest spill of emberlight, dust curling lazily in its path. It was quiet – quiet enough that Bronya almost wished for the clamor of the Furnace Core again, anything to anchor her in noise instead of silence.

She set herself straighter, folded the stylus back into her gloves. If he was going to drag her away from the platform, then she would speak as Commander. Structure. Detail. Duty.

"We've made progress," she began, her tone sharp, almost brisk. "In the hours you were unconscious, Wildfire and the Guard have established a steady rhythm. The lifts run nearly full each time. At the current pace, we'll have the last groups moved within six to eight hours."

She glanced to Seele, drew a thin nod of agreement, then pressed on.

"Pela's reports from above suggest slower intake than expected. The Overworld isn't untouched – some collapse damage, growing Fragmentum infestation near the sectors east of the Administrative District. It's made allocation difficult. We improvise. Some choke points delayed the dispersal of supplies, but if we keep––"

"Commander."

The interruption was quiet, but it cut through her words like a blade. She ignored it, driving her eyes back to the tablet.

"—keep processing on the same interval, then with Oleg handling rotations and Luka clearing shafts, we should—"

"Commander."

Harder this time. More insistent.

Her lips pressed thin. She refused to look at him, fixing her gaze on the glowing slate in her hands, as if numbers might shield her better than steel.

"Bronya," Seele said softly at her side, fingertips brushing her shoulder. "Stop."

The syllable landed with more weight than Xander's had. Her head dipped, unwilling, as she finally stilled. The false rhythm of reports guttered out of her chest, and she realized her hands were trembling faintly around the tablet.

"…Apologies," she said, her voice low and frayed.

"It's all right." Xander's tone was steady, not accusing. "I know this isn't easy."

Bronya clenched her jaw. No – it wasn't easy. Every part of her knew exactly what would follow, and every part of her wanted time she no longer had.

Xander didn't let the silence stretch long. He leaned forward slightly, eyes steady but softened with something she couldn't name.

"Cocolia must be stopped."

Bronya's breath stuttered. She blinked once, twice, as if the syllables might rearrange themselves or soften into something less final. Her mind pushed back against them with ferocity.

Her mother's face rose unbidden. The warmth of wool gloves tucking in a blanket at her bedside. A forgotten lullaby murmured against the roar of a blizzard night. The smile that had lit her eyes when she placed the commander's insignia on Bronya's shoulder for the first time.

"…You don't know that," Bronya said, her voice scraping as it left her throat. "The tremors… they stopped six hours ago. The Engine of Creation hasn't moved again. Maybe she's resisting it – maybe she's fighting back against the Stellaron's influence." Words spilled faster, grasping. "She's strong. Stronger than anyone I've known. If anyone could force back its control, it would be her."

Xander opened his mouth, but she rushed on, a small, brittle smile tugging at her lips as hope flared in her chest.

"Perhaps she hasn't lost herself completely. Perhaps she…" She swallowed. "She could be like you. You carry a Stellaron without losing who you are. She might still—"

"Bronya." His voice cut clean, but not harsh. Just certain. His golden eyes held hers, not bending. "She isn't me."

Her words faltered.

"My body was… made for this. It was built to contain one. Your mother is not. No matter how strong her will, a Stellaron doesn't care. It consumes, corrupts, and destroys."

Bronya's throat worked, dry. She imagined blizzards howling outside the old citadel walls, her mother's hand warm over hers. "But…"

"If she still had control, what transpired down here wouldn't have happened," Xander said quietly. The soft patience in his tone struck harder than any anger. "You know that."

Her fingers clenched around the tablet until the screen flickered beneath the pressure. She forced air into her lungs, her voice sharpening like broken glass, fragile but cutting.

"I'm the closest person she knows," she said, each word quivering with conviction. "If anyone can reach her, it's me. I can make her listen. Talk her down. You—" she swallowed hard, pushing the tightness from her throat – "you can tear the Stellaron from her, destroy it, contain it. Whatever it takes. But she… she can be saved."

Another image struck her: the snug press of Cocolia's arms around her after her first live-field exercise, when she'd come back scraped and shivering but not broken.

"You endure, Bronya. Never forget – that is your purpose. To endure."

She clung to that memory as if it could hold her upright now.

But Seele was watching her with an expression Bronya almost couldn't endure – sympathy and sorrow mixed with steel.

"Bronya… Look around. Look at what she's already done. Do you honestly think things can go back to how they were before?"

Her stomach twisted. She wanted to deny it. To spit that of course it could, of course it must. But the words stuck against the grief rising in her chest.

Still, she opened her mouth to answer – and Xander stepped in, cutting her off with quiet precision.

"You said it yourself. Fragmentum activity is worse than it's ever been. Monsters are more frenzied. That isn't a coincidence. That's her. Or rather… that's the Stellaron inside her. It's restless. For the first time, it isn't certain it will succeed in its goal to destroy Belobog. That's why it struck so hard and fast. And that's why you won't have the luxury of pretending it will stop on its own."

Her breath hitched. She knew he was right. Her own reports, Pela's updates – they had painted it too clearly.

Still, her throat burned with words unsaid, until finally they erupted.

"So that's it? You've already decided just like that. She's our Supreme Guardian – and you've already signed her death warrant."

She took a step closer, her eyes wet, blazing. "Well then, Champion of Qlipoth…" The title spat from her tongue like venom. "…why even bother with this conversation? If the Amber Lord's chosen hand already knows best, then what's the point? Are you asking me for permission as Commander? Or is this all just performance, so I can watch you pass judgment over my own family?"

Her words rang hot, louder than she meant them to, but she didn't pull back. She locked her gaze on him, daring him to flinch.

For a moment, Xander didn't move. His face tightened – something pained flickering too quick in his eyes – but he caught it and smothered it with calm. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, stripped bare of anything but simple truth.

"No, Bronya. I came to you because she is your mother."

The words cut her anger out from under her. She froze, breath shuddering.

"Do you think so little of me," he continued, steady, measured, "that I wouldn't at least have the grace to speak to a daughter before I told her what must be done?"

Her shoulders sagged as though her body suddenly remembered its weight. The retort she'd readied withered into silence on her tongue. Something inside her chest collapsed inward with a sharp ache she hadn't braced for.

"If that's true… give me one chance. It's just as you say: I am her daughter. If you're right – if the Stellaron has consumed everything – then fine, you'll have your opening. But if there's even a fragment of her will left, I won't stand by while you cut her down without… without trying."

Xander met her eyes, silent. There was no mockery or rebuke. He only inclined his head, slow and clipped, the faintest trace of weariness dragging at the motion.

And in that stillness, the unease in her chest deepened. He had agreed, but it felt less like a concession and more like an allowance – like he was giving her room to breathe, not because he believed, but because he pitied what little she still clung to. She hated the thought, and yet… she couldn't shake it.

Her mother's smile swam before her eyes – the same smile that had steadied her on storm-battered nights when she was a child. Tears blurred the image, hot, but she refused to let them fall. She locked her jaw, swallowing hard, forcing back the sob that clawed its way up her throat.

The silence that followed threatened to drown her. Her throat was tight, her face hot, but Bronya willed the tears to retreat. She would not let them fall. Not here.

It was Seele who finally broke the stillness, her tone quiet but firm, violet eyes settling on Xander.

"…What's the plan, then?"

Her voice was worlds away from Bronya's shattered anger, steadier and practical. Bronya almost wanted to thank her for it, but the words stuck like stones in her chest.

Xander drew a breath, shoulders squaring. "First – we don't wait for her to come to us. If we sit here, she'll strike again, and the next attack could reduce everything we've saved to ash. Which means we move. There's a path Sampo claims can bypass the Furnace Core entirely. It's how we were first brought down to the Underworld. We use it. We head for the outskirts above Belobog."

Bronya's gaze fell to his hands as he spoke – broad, scarred, one human, one steel. Hands that had lifted her people from the rubble, that had raised a shield greater than anything she'd believed possible. Hands she couldn't reconcile with the words leaving his mouth.

"You'll fight her?" Seele asked, though it wasn't really a question.

"Yes. In the scenario that all goes well, and truly, nothing can be done to help it," – he said as he looked into Bronya's eyes – "I'll end it before she even understands what's happening. Chronosurge – one decisive strike. It'll be painless."

A pause, just long enough for Bronya to look up. His mouth tightened slightly, as if bracing for his own admission.

"But…" He shook his head. "I can't count on it being that clean. I don't want to take chances I can't afford, which is why I came to you."

His golden eyes found Bronya's then, pinning her in place.

"You know her tactics. Her habits. You know her better than any of us ever could. And more than that—" his voice softened, grave. "…you're the only one who might make her hesitate if there is a chance her will hasn't entirely been lost. Long enough to expose her and act."

The emberlight filtering in from the fissure above seemed to dim. Her stomach turned, heavy as lead. To use what she was – a daughter – as a weapon against the woman who had raised her…

No, not just raised her. Chosen her out of obscurity, plucked her from the damp shadow of the Underworld, and given her a name, a place, a future. She remembered Cocolia's hand enveloping her small fingers, firm but warm.

"Bronya, from this day forward, you are a Rand. And with that name, you will protect Belobog."

And now protection meant… this.

The emberlight above blurred, swimming as Bronya closed her eyes. For a moment she couldn't bear the look in his – in their – faces.

And then, as if the silence itself cracked open, she remembered.

The office in the citadel, firelight flickering against frost‑rimmed windows. Her small hands folded tight in her lap while Cocolia took a knee to meet her at eye level. Not as Supreme Guardian then, but as mother. Her voice was quiet, sure, a serenity Bronya had envied all her youth.

"You're next, Bronya. One day, this burden will pass to you. Your desires, your wants… they come second. Your life, if it must, comes second. Belobog comes first."

At the time, Bronya had nodded in fierce pride, eager to serve. To be worthy.

Now, the memory cut like a blade.

Her chest ached as though frozen through. She forced her eyes open, blinking away the film of tears that refused to fall. Her fingers lifted reflexively, wiping her face as if smudging away hesitation itself.

She raised her chin, though it felt heavy as stone. "...Very well."

Two words, scarcely a breath, but they pulled something out of her ribs that would never return. She felt the cost of them already: the flicker of her mother's smile burned away by the cold, hard voice in her own throat.

Seele moved then, slipping closer. Her hand found Bronya's and gripped firmly, anchoring her.

"You won't be alone," Seele said. Her eyes, tired and raw, still held iron in them. "I'll be there every step of the way. And you can count on the others, Natasha, Luka – they'll surely march with us. Even Sampo, if only because he loves to boast afterward. You won't carry this weight by yourself."

Bronya managed only a brief nod, grateful but voiceless.

Seele pressed, gentler now, a veil of her usual sharpness flickering back just faintly. "And hey – if that Stellaron dares try 'sweet‑talking' you? Don't worry. I'll be right there to smack some sense into you."

It was the smallest jest, half‑hearted at best, but the note of levity loosened the vise around Bronya's chest just enough for her to breathe again.

She exhaled shakily, squeezing Seele's hand in thanks, though the words never formed.

A brief silence lingered after the purple-ette's attempt at levity, the air thick with things left unsaid. Then, almost as if to fill the weight, her voice pressed forward:

"…so, what happens after?" Seele asked, hesitant. "Let's say it works and we put her down. Will the Stellaron, um, die with her?"

Bronya stiffened at the word, bile rising unbidden.

Xander's answer came measured, but without apology. "Not exactly. Stellarons cannot be destroyed. Not by us, not by anyone. They… endure. That's their nature."

"So then what's the point?" Seele pushed, her voice cracking with frustrated honesty. "All this – all of this – and the cursed thing keeps existing anyway?"

"They can be sealed," Xander countered. His gaze slid from Seele back to Bronya, gentle but unflinching. "The Astral Express has dealt with them before. Sealed, contained, cut off from corrupting everything around them. They know how. Once she's stopped, I promise you the Stellaron won't threaten Belobog any longer."

His tone made it sound simple, final. But nothing felt simple here. Bronya's chest hollowed at the truth buried in his words: her mother's body would simply become another vessel cast aside, another tale of how the Preservation bought survival with sacrifice.

Xander exhaled. He glanced between them one last time, then straightened, his voice finding that clipped steadiness again. "I should go. Dan Heng needs to be prepared. There are too many moving pieces to leave to chance."

There was more he could have said, she thought. She could feel it hovering behind his eyes. But he gave her no more words, only that brief look – an acknowledgement heavy with respect – and then he turned, slipping out into the ember‑lit dark.

For a long moment, the silence he left behind was deafening. The muffled churn of the Furnace Core evacuation was distant, made unreal by the stone walls.

Seele's hand found hers again, stronger this time, insistent. She laced their fingers, grounding her in the trembling present.

Bronya didn't speak. She couldn't. Her mind painted its own ending – her rifle raised, her mother's face in the sights, the impossible pressure of a trigger beneath her glove. She saw the recoil, saw the bullet strike true, and the world collapse into black silence.

She blinked – yet the image lingered, burning itself into her skull. Perhaps it would never leave.

In her chest, the words rose without permission or sound:

I never hated being Commander. Or a Rand. More than now.

But if she were to bear that vision, then she would not waste it. If the Preservation demanded she stand as both daughter and executioner, then she would seize the only dignity left to her: she would speak first. She would shape her words into the sharpest blade, the one plea only a daughter could make, and she would drive it with every ounce of love and fury she had left.

Whether her mother heard her or not, Bronya swore it: she would not let this chance be hollow.

————————

Location: Herta Space Station – one day before Mechanical Fever's presentation at the Starlight Café

The Astral Express lounge still carried the hush of afterthoughts and tea steam. The chessboard sat between Welt and Xander, frozen mid‑game where Himeko had reset the pieces after their earlier talk. Welt had only just returned from Pom‑Pom's summons, composure mostly intact though a faint crease lingered between his brows from what he'd heard of Nanook's "glance."

Himeko lingered behind her cup, golden eyes softened by the weight of her last conversation with Xander. He stood by the table with one hand resting on a chair back, unconcerned by the unfinished game. Calmer than when she had left him earlier. Not relaxed, but centered in that resilient, controlled way that always seemed to hold him together.

"Picking up where you left off," Welt said, tone careful, easing them back to business. "You promised us more on Belobog. The city, its people… and the workshop you entered, if I recall."

Xander gave a small, pragmatic nod. "Right. Belobog."

The word lingered as he settled into the telling.

"I've been testing the waters there. Progress is steady. Serval's sharp, quick with her hands and her thoughts. Lately I've been handling most of the heavy repairs—engine overhauls, automaton fixes, even a bit of design work when she throws sketches my way." A faint warmth touched his expression. "She claims it's my 'precision.' Personally, I think she just enjoys the company. Maybe more than enjoys it."

No arrogance in his tone. Himeko arched a brow. Welt waited.

Xander went on. "We met her brother. Gepard Landau — Captain of the overworld garrison. That was less comfortable. He sat across from us at a meal, listened to our cover story about being from one of the districts overrun by the Fragmentum, and sized up every word with a soldier's precision. My bet's that he didn't buy it. Not fully. Even if he smiled."

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding loosely, gaze shifting between them. "Can't blame him. Belobog's overworld isn't small by any measure. The population's large enough, but it's been sealed off for centuries. No one new comes in. No one leaves. After a while it feels less like a city and more like a small town where everyone knows everyone else. Strangers stand out three streets away." He tapped the armrest with a fingertip. "And then Serval—his sister—suddenly takes an interest in me? Of course his guard was up."

Welt tilted his head. "You believe his suspicion had more to do with family than duty."

"Exactly," Xander replied. "He's not only the Captain of the Guard — he's her brother. He wanted to be sure I wasn't a threat to her. You could read it in how he sat and how he measured me over Dan or March."

Welt's finger traced across a chess piece. "So his eyes were on Serval as much as on you."

Xander lifted one shoulder. "Wouldn't yours be? Some stranger shows up at your sister's table with half the district already whispering, and she looks at him like…" His mouth shifted, almost a wince softened by self‑awareness. "…like she might look again. You'd be planning where your hand would go if things went wrong."

Himeko set her cup back onto its saucer, the porcelain ringing softly. Her voice was calm, but there was steel under it.

"All the more reason you should tread lightly. That woman's attention isn't something to lean on, Xander. She's not a calculation to move you closer to the Stellaron. If she offers you trust—or something more—you treat for the very real thing it is. Playing with that for convenience leaves damage you don't get to undo."

For a moment, his expression tightened — the faintest wince of someone who knew the truth in her words but couldn't bend to it. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, edged more with weariness than mirth.

"…I won't deny there's truth in that. But I can't pretend it changes the reality we're in. Call it inevitability or circumstance — the interest is there, and ignoring it doesn't erase it. What matters is what I do with it."

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. "If Serval's feelings give March, Dan, and me the freedom to move without Cocolia's eye on us, then it has value. I'm not twisting her feelings for sport, but I can't afford to act like they don't exist when they already shape the ground I'm walking on."

He let the words settle before continuing. "The results are there. Because of her trust, she's told me something she guards closely. In Belobog, she's seen as the black sheep who was fired from the Architects, but the official reason was never released. Everyone has their own theories: negligence, corruption, skimming funds, some personal scandal… I've heard it all. But the truth is she didn't botch anything. She was dismissed. Personally — by Cocolia. Expelled because she probed too deeply into the cause of the Eternal Freeze."

Welt blinked, a crease cutting deeper in his brow. Himeko set her cup down deliberately, attention sharpening.

"She didn't offer details – bound by an NDA, cautious even whispering about it. But the way she said it…" He shook his head once. "It reeks of a cover‑up. My gut tells me she asked questions Cocolia didn't want answered. Instead of letting her keep digging, she cut her out and locked her work away. If she silenced research like that, then she'd know far more about the Stellaron than anyone realizes. And instead of confronting it, she steered the whole city into silence to choke up in ice. For over a decade now, maybe longer—however many years she's sat on that throne."

His voice thinned but never broke into anger, still pragmatic. "Imagine if we had walked up to the Guardian directly – it would've tipped our hand to the one person most invested in hiding the truth. That doesn't just pit us against her — it sets her entire Guard corps on our backs. And I don't need to tell either of you what that would look like."

He drew a slower breath. "March and Dan can carry themselves, I don't doubt that. But I didn't join the Express to test their luck. Risk has its place. Needless risk is just self‑indulgence. If leaning into the whispers that follow me — and the affection Serval's begun to show — spares us scrutiny and gives us access to more intel, then it's a practical call. It means less pressure on us, less chances of conflict, and a cleaner path to the Stellaron."

The Express hummed underfoot. Welt rolled the knight lazily between his fingers, weighing it, his eyes lowered to the board.

"You're shielding them," he said finally. Quiet, even. "That's good. We genuinely appreciate you for doing that. But… you're framing things as if 'fewer complications' is always the better option. And that isn't always true for us."

Xander raised a brow. "I don't quite follow."

"That doesn't surprise me," Himeko cut in lightly, but her expression stayed sharp. She leaned forward, arms balanced on her knees. "Xander, a Stellaron is a major problem, and yes, we deal with them. They're roadblocks that damage the Star Rail and put entire civilizations at risk. But they aren't our mission. Our mission is to follow the path set by Akivili, to connect worlds and people, and that means getting involved on the ground. Understanding the local situation, helping where we can. Sometimes that makes things more complicated, not less. Sometimes it means the locals don't trust us right away, or we stumble into politics we didn't ask for. But that's part of the Path we walk. It would be wrong to close our eyes to it."

Welt inclined his head, his voice a shade warmer. "Which means how we resolve things matters. If we just focused on efficiency and treated obstacles such as the Stellaron like a checklist to cross, we'd be operating like the IPC. That isn't us. The trust we build with people is just as important as any problem we solve."

Himeko's gaze softened, her voice firm. "I completely get you're trying to minimize risks. Trust me, I do. But it's our responsibility as Nameless and members of the Express to treat everyone we encounter during our travels with care. The trust Serval's put in you isn't a resource to get a job done faster. If you exploit her feelings, you're working against the very reason you're on this train."

The silence that followed hung heavy.

Xander breathed out, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You two really have a gift for making a man sound like a villain in his own story."

Neither answered. Welt waited, calm. Himeko's gaze stayed on him, unflinching, but patient enough to give him room.

"Alright. Message received. I'll think on it." His voice was light. "Reflection doesn't cost me anything."

He turned the knight between his fingers, expression easing into something sharper at the edges. "Speaking of Stellarons," he said. "Say we actually locate Belobog's. What does sealing one look like in practice? Because everything else is just circles until that happens."

The question drew a pause. Welt folded his hands on the table.

"Before anything else, you must understand: a Stellaron cannot be destroyed, at least not by any known means. Attempts by countless Pathstriders, the IPC, and even the Genius Society have all failed. Therefore, our only remaining option is to contain it. That means pushing its output so low it's practically idle – imagine throttling it to a fraction of a percent. The Stellaron itself is still there and active, but at that level it's no more disruptive than background radiation."

Himeko spoke next, steady and matter‑of‑fact. "This is the reason why the containment has to be perfect. If the field weakens or fails, the Stellaron reactivates and you're right back at the start—with a world unraveling. It's why Herta kept constant watch over hers on the station with the help of her dolls."

"Every Stellaron's evolution is unique, shaped by its environment, making isolation a complex endeavor," Welt explained, nodding thoughtfully. "Each one presents different challenges and manifests distinctly depending on its surroundings."

"Are you suggesting, then, that there are multiple ways to go about it?"

"Correct," Welt said. "I use gravitational fields to bend space around the Stellaron to seal its influence inside a closed pocket, cut off from interacting with the outside."

Himeko gestured faintly with one hand. "The IPC prefers massive chambers designed with layered redundancies, reinforced through the power of the Preservation. Herta experiments with quantum fields, using her mirrors to phase a Stellaron's signature into contained subspaces. Each group leans on the resources and Paths they have access to." She gave the faintest smile. "The Intelligentsia Guild has written entire journals on containment theory. You'd probably enjoy those on your own time."

Xander's voice dropped, thoughtful. "Whatever the Stellaron Hunters did… it's also stable enough. They implanted one inside me. The method's a mystery, but the result speaks for itself."

Welt inclined his head. "Stable, yes. But most recorded containments succeed only in controlled environments—labs, chambers designed for the purpose, almost always built with technology from the Genius Society. Not inside a living body."

Xander leaned forward, elbows braced lightly on the table. "Understood. I'm just trying to weigh all of our options. Best case scenario, March, Dan, and I find the Stellaron. We call you, and you both come down with whatever tools you need to lock it away. Sounds straightforward. But what if that isn't possible? What if communications are dead or we're trapped? What happens if you can't reach us?"

The question hung in the air, heavier than casual curiosity.

"Could I contain it myself?" Xander asked after a beat, his voice low and even. "I already carry one. Stabilized. Could I take another?"

Himeko looked at Welt. His eyes had grown grave.

"That…" he said carefully, "we don't know. No one has ever attempted such a thing."

"But could it work in theory?" Xander pressed. His tone was even, but there was a tautness in the air, like a man already measuring the risk.

Welt hesitated, and the pause spoke louder than words.

"Possibly," he admitted at last. "Your body has adapted to a Stellaron in ways we still don't understand. That much is undeniable. But forcing a second into the same host is completely unheard of and far too dangerous." He shook his head slightly.

Xander's shoulders stayed square, his voice calm. "What's the worst we're talking about?"

Welt's expression tightened. "At the expense of repeating myself—we don't know. Even with the testing you've done on the station, there's more we don't understand about your physiology than what we do. For all we know, you might be able to carry multiple Stellarons without consequence… or the very next one could be enough to collapse you. We have no baseline."

He leaned forward slightly, voice steady but heavy. "What I can be sure of is this: If your body breaks under the strain—the result wouldn't end with you. The Stellarons wouldn't die inside your body. They'd tear free, raw and unchecked. The chain reaction could be anything from uncontrolled Fragmentum engulfing half the surface to an energy release catastrophic enough to erase Jarilo‑VI outright."

Xander inclined his head faintly. "So either I adapt… or I take the planet with me. Quite the range."

The words landed without inflection, flat as numbers on a ledger.

Silence pressed into the lounge. Even the steady hum of the Express seemed distant, muted under the weight of what had just been said. Welt's eyes stayed on Xander, searching, but Xander didn't elaborate. His posture never shifted. He sat as if discussing an engineering calculation, not the destruction of a world.

Himeko could hardly stand it. She leaned forward at last, voice cutting through the quiet.

"Xander… you can't reduce this to probabilities. This isn't a lever you pull to see if it holds. You are not an experiment. And you are not alone in this."

"She's right. Understand this: our ignorance doesn't lessen the danger. It magnifies it. You can't rely on instinct when the margins involve a planet's survival. We don't know your limits — not you, not Herta, not anyone. Which is precisely why you cannot treat them as if you do. We don't even fully understand how your current Stellaron is affecting you. That's why this talk of adding another has to stop."

He studied them for a moment, then drew a breath and let his expression soften into something weary, almost conceding. A crooked smile pulled faint at his mouth.

"Alright. You've made your case. I'll set that idea aside."

The tension in Welt's posture eased by degrees. Himeko exhaled as well, setting her teacup carefully back onto its saucer.

Xander leaned into his chair, gaze drifting toward the star‑washed window. His lips parted as though a thought pressed against them, but nothing came. Instead, his finger tapped once against the armrest, slow and deliberate. After that, he went still.

He'd leave for Herta's Space Station minutes after.

————————

The evacuation corridor near the Furnace Core throbbed with the pulse of machinery and human desperation. Gepard Landau stood at his post, back rigid despite the exhaustion that pulled at every muscle. His voice remained firm as he directed the latest batch of refugees toward the transport lift, a practiced cadence that betrayed none of the turmoil beneath.

"Group seven, proceed to station three. Medical cases to the right. Those with children under five, remain together." The words fell from his lips automatically, part of the intricate system of gears and logistics that had become his entire world since the Long Night of Solace began.

A flash of blue caught his eye across the plaza. Serval stood amid the chaos, her hands steady as she guided a small group of children toward one of the medical stations. Even from this distance, he could see the toll the past 48 hours had taken—her normally vibrant blue-streaked hair hung limp and dust-covered, pulled back in a hasty ponytail.

The sight of her cut through his operational haze. When was the last time they'd actually spoken? Not the perfunctory exchanges at family gatherings or brief nods in passing, but a real conversation between siblings?

The current transport lift sealed its doors with a pneumatic hiss and began its ascent. Gepard checked his watch—seven minutes until the next arrival. He nodded to Nikolay to take his position and crossed the plaza with measured steps.

Serval noticed his approach when he was halfway there. Her posture shifted subtly—shoulders squaring, chin lifting. She finished settling the children with a volunteer before turning to face him.

"Captain," she said, the formal title hanging between them like a barrier. "Problem with the evacuation?"

"No." Gepard stopped a few paces away, suddenly unsure how to begin. His eyes swept the devastation around them—the cracked walls, the makeshift medical stations, the endless stream of injured. "I just... I never imagined I'd see the Underworld like this."

Serval's gaze followed his, taking in the chaos. "Ten years of isolation was bad enough. We all knew they were struggling down here, cut off from us." She gestured at a section where the ceiling had caved in entirely, emergency beams holding back tons of rubble. "But this? Half the residential district is just... gone. Crushed. The reports say thousands died in the first minutes alone."

Her voice caught slightly. "All those years we lived above, complaining about rationing during a small window of the year while they..." She couldn't finish.

"Father would have—" Gepard caught himself, the words sticking in his throat.

A bitter laugh escaped Serval. "Would have been horrified to know we were even down here? 'Landaus belong in the Administrative District, not consorting with miners and factory workers.'" Her impression of their father's imperious tone was painfully accurate.

Despite everything, Gepard felt his lips twitch. "He did have strong opinions about maintaining proper boundaries."

"'The natural order must be preserved, Serval,'" she continued, her mimicry softening into something more contemplative.

Gepard's expression grew distant. "You know, for all his faults… in his last days, Father was different. More patient. Less..." He searched for the words. "Less cutting. Judgemental. I thought maybe he was just tired from work, but looking back..." His jaw tightened. "Isn't it ironic? Just when he was finally becoming the father we needed, he—"

"He was dying," Serval said quietly.

Gepard's head snapped toward her. "What?"

"That's why he was changing. Why he was softer." Serval's fingers drummed against her thigh—an old nervous habit. "He told me a few days ago. Cancer. The doctors gave him months, maybe over a year at best."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Gepard reached out blindly, his hand finding the wall for support. "What…?"

"He'd known for a while. Started treatments in secret, but... even if Cocolia hadn't—" She couldn't finish.

"Why didn't he tell me? Tell us? When did he even tell you, for that matter?" The question came out harsher than Gepard intended, edged with hurt and confusion.

"It was when you escorted me to his office, just right after Cocolia finished 'interrogating' me after what happened at Starlight Café. As for why he didn't tell any of us until it was almost too late?" Serval countered. "I can only assume he had his reasons. Maybe he wanted to control the narrative until the very end. Maybe it caught him off-guard, was afraid, and was mustering the courage to break the news. He asked me to keep it secret—said he wanted to tell you, Lynx, and Mother himself. In person. Properly." Her voice grew hollow. "I figured we'd all be having that conversation in a few days. But then..."

She didn't need to finish. The Long Night of Solace had stolen that chance along with everything else.

Gepard's mind raced, recalculating every interaction from the past months. His father's increased delegation of duties, the moments of uncharacteristic gentleness, the way he'd sometimes stare at family photos when he thought no one was looking.

"He wanted to make amends," Serval continued, her voice steadier now. "Said he didn't want to leave this world with so much broken between us."

Her expression darkened. "I tried, you know. After he apologized, Mother invited me to dinner. I even..." She gestured vaguely at herself. "I dressed conservatively, took out the blue streaks, tried to be the daughter they wanted. But sitting there at that table, all I could feel was the weight of all those years."

"What happened?" Gepard asked softly.

"I couldn't do it. Couldn't just smile and pretend everything was fine. I told them both—told him that I was drowning in resentment and didn't know how to forgive anymore." Her laugh was sharp, bitter. "I walked out on what turned out to be our last dinner together."

"Serval..."

"The worst part?" Her voice cracked. "I wasn't ready to forgive him. Even knowing he was dying, even seeing him try... it was too little, too late. And now I'll never know if I could have found a way past it."

They stood in silence, two siblings united in grief and regret. Around them, the evacuation continued.

"Funny how this place mirrors us," Serval said eventually, gesturing at the broken corridors, the fractured walls, the devastation outside the limits of the Furnace Core. "Belobog, our family—everything held together by habit and denial until the cracks became too big to ignore."

"And then it all came crashing down." Gepard's gaze dropped to the empty space at his hip where Earthwork should have hung. "Speaking of failures... I lost your shield. When the Engine struck."

Serval blinked at the sudden shift, then followed his gaze. "Earthwork?"

"I was on Everwinter Hill when Cocolia..." He swallowed hard. "When she commanded the Engine of Creation to strike. I saw it coming—that massive fist descending like the wrath of Qlipoth themselves. All I could do was raise Earthwork and pour everything I had into one last defense."

His hand moved unconsciously to where the shield's weight should rest. "The impact... I've never felt anything like it. Your shield held just long enough to save my life before it shattered completely. Not even fragments left to salvage."

Serval stepped forward, her expression shifting to something he hadn't expected—relief mixed with exasperation. "Gepard, you idiot. You're alive. That's what Earthwork was meant to do—protect you. It did its job perfectly."

Her hand briefly touched his arm. "I can make another shield. I can't make another brother."

Her touch, gentle and concerned, completely disarmed him. He'd prepared for anger, for sarcasm, for the familiar dance of accusation and defense. This simple humanity left him exposed.

"Thank you, sister."

He coughed then, feeling awkward as a thought hit him. "I've been meaning to talk to you, actually," he admitted, forcing himself to meet her eyes.

"Hmm?" Serval's head slowly tilted left.

"I wanted to apologize."

"Apologize? For what?"

Gepard took a breath, feeling the weight of years pressing down on him. "For everything. For doubting you about Cocolia. For choosing comfortable blindness over uncomfortable truth. For being so focused on upholding the Landau name that I forgot what it actually meant to be a Landau."

"Gepard..."

"You were right." The words felt like pulling shrapnel from an old wound. "About something being wrong with Cocolia. About there being more to your expulsion than misconduct. I was so desperate to believe in the system, in the order of things, that I dismissed you as..."

"As hysterical? Delusional? An embarrassment to the family?" Serval supplied, but without the bitter edge he expected.

Gepard's hands clenched at his sides.

Serval's expression cycled through surprise and old pain. "You never believed me."

"No, I didn't. And I should have." Gepard's hands clenched at his sides. "I know you couldn't tell me everything—"

"I was under NDA," Serval interrupted, her voice tight. "Cocolia made it very clear that discussing any details of my research would have... consequences. Not just for me." Her meaning was clear—the threat had extended to their family.

"But you tried to warn us something was wrong," Gepard pressed on. "You said the Eternal Freeze wasn't natural, that there was something in Belobog that—" He stopped, remembering her panicked warnings from years ago.

"I didn't know what it was," Serval admitted. "Just that we'd found evidence of something that could explain the Freeze. Some kind of... presence or artifact. The research division was studying it, but then Cocolia shut me down overnight. Destroyed my work. Then, she threatened anyone who asked questions about what happened."

"And I dismissed it all as the ramblings of a disgruntled employee." The self-loathing in Gepard's voice was palpable. "I told myself I'd restore the family honor by climbing the ranks. That somehow, if I became Captain, if I served with distinction, it would erase the shadow your expulsion cast on the Landau name." He met her eyes, his expression bitter. "I thought I was repaying you for all those years you looked after me growing up. What a joke. All I did was bury my head deeper in the sand."

Another tremor shook the corridor. In the distance, someone screamed—whether in pain or fear, he couldn't tell.

"Father would have understood, I think," Gepard continued, his voice rough. "At the end, he saw what his pride had cost him. Maybe he would have recognized the same blindness in me."

Serval stood frozen, processing his words. When she finally spoke, her voice trembled. "Why now, Gepard? After all these years, after everything that's happened, why choose this moment?"

"Because I might not get another one." The admission came out stark and simple. "We're surely about to march against Cocolia and that thing she controls. The Engine of Creation. I've seen what it can do, and I..." He paused, choosing honesty over bravado. "I don't know if we'll survive it."

"So this is what, a deathbed confession? Clearing your conscience before the final battle?"

"No." Gepard shook his head firmly. "This is me finally acting like the brother I should have been years ago. Win or lose, live or die, you deserved to hear this."

Serval's composure cracked. Her mouth opened, then closed, no words coming. She pressed a hand to her mouth, tears tracking through the dust on her face. For several long moments, she just stared at him, as if seeing a stranger.

"I don't—" She stopped, shook her head, tried again. "I don't know what to do with this. With you saying..." Another pause, her hands gesturing helplessly. "No one apologizes to me, brother. Not for real. Not about this."

"I know," Gepard said simply. "That's part of what I'm sorry for."

Having said his piece, Gepard felt strangely empty. Not in a bad way—more like an infected wound that had finally been drained. He straightened, his posture shifting back to one of military resolve.

"I should return to my post," he said, starting to turn. "The next transport will be arriving soon."

"Wait." Serval caught his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "That's it? You're just going to drop all of that and walk away?"

Gepard turned back, genuinely confused. "I've said what I needed to say."

Her brow furrowed. "What about... aren't you going to wait for me to respond? To forgive you?"

The vulnerability in her voice, the genuine confusion, made Gepard pause. He studied his sister's face, seeing not the confident engineer or the bitter exile, but someone who'd been hurt so deeply she'd forgotten what unconditional support looked like.

"Serval," he said gently, "I didn't apologize to be forgiven. I apologized because it was right."

"I don't understand." She shook her head, blue-streaked hair swaying. "That's not how it works. Someone apologizes, the other person decides whether to forgive them, and then you either move forward or you don't. It's a transaction."

"Is that what Father taught us…?" Gepard asked, though he knew the answer. "That apologies are currency to purchase absolution?"

"Isn't that what everyone teaches?" Frustration edged into her voice. "You hurt someone, you say sorry, you wait to see if they'll let you back in. That's the dance."

Gepard considered this, then slowly shook his head. "Maybe that's how we learned it, but I don't think that's how it should be. My apology, my acknowledgment of wrong—that's about my integrity. Your forgiveness is something else entirely. It's yours to give or withhold as you see fit."

"But then what's the point?" Serval's hand dropped from his arm. "If you're not trying to fix things between us, why bother?"

"Because the truth needed to be spoken and you deserved to hear it. Because maybe, just maybe, it might help you in some small way." Gepard's expression softened. "You don't owe me forgiveness, Serval. Not for the years of doubt, not for the silence, not for any of it. You don't owe Father forgiveness either, or Cocolia, or anyone else who's hurt you."

Serval wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly looking very young despite being the older sibling. "Then what am I supposed to do with all of this?" She gestured vaguely at the space between them. "All this anger and hurt—if I'm not supposed to trade it for apologies, what's the point of carrying it?"

Serval's laugh came out sharp, almost like a cough. She turned away from him, her fingers finding a loose thread on her sleeve and pulling at it. The thread unraveled slightly, and she kept pulling, her movements increasingly agitated.

"Forgiveness," she repeated, the word foreign on her tongue.

She started to speak, stopped, pressed her lips together. Her hand moved to her hair, tugging at a blue streak that had come loose from her ponytail.

"Do you remember..." She paused, swallowed. "Do you remember when we were kids? That stupid game Father made us play. The ledger game."

Gepard's brow furrowed. "The one with the—"

"The columns." Serval's fingers traced invisible lines in the air. "Good deeds on one side. Mistakes on the other. Everything had to be balanced." Her hand dropped. "He'd make us tally them up every week. Make sure we were... what did he call it? 'Maintaining proper accounts.'"

A piece of debris clattered somewhere in the distance. Serval flinched at the sound, then laughed—a brittle sound.

"I still do it," she admitted, not looking at him. "In my head. Every interaction. Every slight. Every—" She broke off, shaking her head. "When Father apologized, I actually started calculating. How many years of silence versus one apology. Like I could solve it with math."

"I don't—" She started pacing, three steps one way, three steps back. Her boots scraped against the debris-strewn floor. "At dinner. With Father. I wore that stupid cardigan. Took out the blue." Her hand touched her hair again, almost unconsciously. "Like if I looked the part, maybe I could play it: the forgiving daughter."

She stopped pacing abruptly. "He was dying, and all I could think about was how the food tasted like ash. How Mother kept trying to fill the silence. How I wanted to scream."

Her fingers had found that loose thread again, pulling harder now. "And then I did. Not scream, but... I left. Just walked out. And now—"

The thread snapped. She stared at the broken piece between her fingers.

"The anger's easier," she whispered, still staring at the broken thread. "It has rules, and there are clear boundaries. Someone hurts you, you hurt them back, or you wall them out."

She let the thread fall, watching it drift to the ground. "But when someone apologizes without wanting anything back, or when they save what matters most to you after lying to your face? When they—"

She caught herself, jaw tightening. Her fingers moved to her wrist, to the spot where she used to wear her father's watch before she'd given it to Lynx years ago.

"A child asked me earlier," she said, voice carefully neutral. "She asked me about some... complicated feelings. She wanted to understand why I was angry at someone who'd done both harm and good." Her laugh was hollow. "I actually had an answer for her and was able to explain it all so clearly. But did I actually feel that way…?"

She shook her head, fingers still worrying at her empty wrist. "Explaining it and feeling it are different things. Knowing someone deserves gratitude and still wanting to..." She made a pushing gesture, as if shoving something away.

"Saying 'I'm sorry' without expecting anything in return." She gestured helplessly. "How do I know what to do with that? How do I know what's right when there's no formula to follow?"

"There's not a 'right', Serval. That's the point. It's for you to decide." Gepard's voice held no judgment, only compassion. "Ask yourself what will bring you peace. Not what will fix the family, not what will make others comfortable, but what will let you breathe easier. You've earned that much and more."

"Captain Landau!" A sharp voice cut through their conversation. "Emergency at Station Two! Structural collapse imminent!"

Gepard held Serval's gaze for one more moment, trying to convey everything he couldn't put into words—support, understanding, and a love that had survived despite years of distance. Then duty called, and he turned away.

"Gepard," Serval called after him. He paused but didn't turn back. "Just... be careful. Whatever happens next."

"You too," he said softly, then strode back into the chaos of the evacuation.

————————

Location: Herta Space Station — Two days before Mechanical Fever's presentation at the Starlight Café

Five hundred and forty-seven...

Alexander collapsed onto the rocky outcrop, blood trickling from a gash above his eye. His sword clattered beside him, Neuromorphic Armament still smoking from the last swing. Another failure. Another death.

...five hundred and forty-eight...

Time had lost all meaning in the Simulated Universe. What had begun as training sessions measured in hours now stretched into a mental marathon spanning months of subjective time. The program's time dilation created a prison of endless combat where each death brought a momentary darkness before forced resurrection.

Alexander stared at his trembling hands. Dirt and blood caked under his fingernails. His knuckles, split open countless times, healed only to split again. He couldn't remember when he'd last slept—truly slept, not the artificial reset between simulation runs.

"I can't do this anymore," he whispered to the empty crimson sky.

A Herta doll materialized beside him with a soft pop, her mechanical joints whirring as she tilted her head. "I'll grant you this, test subject," she said, her voice carrying its usual mix of childish curiosity and condescending intellect. "Your pain tolerance is surprisingly high. Decent progress, for someone like you, I mean. Pity none of the Aeons seem to agree. Not a single one has so much as glanced your way yet."

She tapped a finger to her chin. "Speaking of which, has all this dying and resetting managed to shake any useful memories loose? You know the ones I'm interested in. Anything at all from your little encounter with Nous? You'd better let me know if you've remembered the answer to your little 'Unanswerable Question' routine."

Alexander didn't even grant her a glance.

Survive.

The command thrummed through his consciousness, an imperative branded into his very cells. Not his own voice, not the Stellaron's insidious whispers—something different, colder. The voice imprint buried deep within him, an echo of a will that refused to yield, that spoke with an authority that dwarfed his own exhaustion.

Survive.

"Shut up," Alexander growled, pressing his palms against his temples. "I've died five hundred and forty-eight times. What's the point?"

Survive.

He screamed, the sound echoing across the barren simulation landscape. The horizon wavered, reality folding at the edges of his perception. Was he losing his mind? Had he already lost it?

In the distance, a horde of Voidrangers materialized, their distorted forms rippling into existence. Behind them, the towering silhouette of an Antimatter Beast loomed against the blood-red sky. The Herta doll let out a theatrical sigh.

"Oh, this again? How terribly repetitive. Do try to make this death a bit more interesting, won't you? Gather some useful data for once." With that, she vanished.

Alexander's body moved before his mind could protest, muscle memory forcing him upright despite his exhaustion. The sword flew back into his hand.

Survive.

He staggered forward, a choked sob escaping his lips. But as he tried to raise his weapon, his legs finally gave out. He crashed to the ground, the impact jarring the air from his lungs. His cross pendant, shaken loose from beneath his shirt, swung forward and landed on the dusty ground beside his face.

The cool metal was a stark contrast to his feverish skin. He stared at it, the familiar shape a grounding point in the swirling chaos of his mind. An anchor in a sea of red. With the last of his strength, he reached out, his trembling fingers closing around the cross.

"I can't—" he gasped, his voice breaking. "Not alone. Not again."

The admission felt like surrender. With a trembling hand, he reached into the simulation's code, pulling forth something he'd resisted for weeks.

Blue light coalesced beside him, forming two familiar figures. March 7th materialized first, her customary finger-gun pose already aimed at the approaching enemies. Dan Heng followed, his expression typically stoic as he gripped Cloud-Piercer.

"Xander!" March's simulated face lit up with recognition. "You've been fighting alone for too long."

Alexander couldn't meet her eyes. "Please, March. Stop. You're not real. None of this is real. Don't act concerned for me."

Dan adjusted his stance, readying for the approaching enemies. "Does that matter right now?"

The question hung in the air as the first wave of Voidrangers closed in. Defeated, Alexander finally surrendered to his own desperate loneliness.

"God's damn it!" he roared, the admission tearing from his throat as he pushed himself to his feet. His eyes blazed with golden light, the Stellaron's power surging at his call as he prepared himself to activate Chronosurge once more.

He stepped forward, sword raised. March's ice arrows sailed past him, striking the lead enemies. Dan's lance cut through their flanks with practiced precision.

Fighting alongside them, even as simulations, felt like breathing after nearly drowning. For thirty minutes, they repelled wave after wave, working in seamless coordination that belied the artificial nature of his companions.

When the battlefield temporarily cleared, he sank to one knee, chest heaving.

"Why did you wait so long to call us?" March asked, kneeling beside him.

Alexander stared at the ground. "Because it's dangerous."

"The simulation's enemies? Xander – we're just data. You don't have to worry about us." Dan asked, scanning the horizon.

"No. You." Alexander's voice was barely audible. "Both of you."

March's brow furrowed. "I don't understand."

Alexander finally looked up, meeting her puzzled gaze. "The longer I spend with you, even these... copies... the harder it becomes to remember you're not supposed to be real."

"And why is that dangerous?" Dan asked.

"Because—" Alexander's voice caught. "Because if I accept you as real, then I'm trapped here forever. This becomes my reality. I have to believe I can get back home."

March reached out, her hand hovering just above his shoulder—close enough to feel, but not quite touching.

"Maybe we're not real in the way you think," she said softly. "But what we represent is. After all, isn't the security and the comfort we bring you real?"

Dan nodded. "Use what works, Xander. Real or not, we're here."

Alexander closed his eyes, allowing himself one moment of weakness. "I've been fighting for so long. Dying over and over. Sometimes I wonder if I've always been here, if everything before was just... delusion. Were my parents real? Did my entire life, all that I've gone through, and all of the worst parts of my past actually happen?"

"If you're so unsure… then anchor yourself to what feels true!" March said, her voice gentle but firm. "Use us as your fixed points when everything else shifts."

In the distance, another horde materialized—larger than before, bristling with weapons that glinted in the red light.

Alexander rose to his feet, steadier now. The sword in his hand felt lighter, balanced. March and Dan flanked him, ready.

"Okay… Okay. Just until I find my way back," Alexander said, more to himself than to them. "Just until I can go home."

"We'll be here," March promised.

As the enemies charged, he moved forward to meet them.

————————

The world is a smear of red and black.

Another Voidranger lunges, its blade a silver arc of death. He parries, but his arm screams in protest. The muscles are shot. His reaction time is a fraction too slow. It's always a fraction too slow. He stumbles back, the ground littered with the glitching corpses of his five hundred and fifty-third failure.

A voice cuts through the static in his head, sharp and clinical. "Your footwork is sloppy. You're over-relying on your right side."

He turns. Dan Heng stands there, a phantom of data and memory, his Cloud-Piercer held at a low guard. He doesn't look at Alexander, his eyes fixed on the new wave of enemies materializing on the horizon.

"They're flanking," he says, his voice flat. "They've learned your pattern. You charge the center, I'll take the left. March will cover our rear."

He blinks, and March is there too, nocking an ice-tipped arrow. They aren't real. He knows they aren't. But his body, beaten and broken, responds to the command. He nods. Dan doesn't need to see it. He's already moving, a silent, deadly wraith. He grits his teeth and follows, pushing his exhausted body into another charge, another desperate fight.

The ghost of a warrior at his side makes the burden feel just a little lighter.

————————

He's on the ground again. Not dead this time. Just… empty.

The last Antimatter Beast dissolved into pixels, taking the last of his energy with it. He lies in the digital dust, watching the crimson sky pulse like a dying heart. His arms tremble, the nerves fried from another overload. He can't feel them.

Footsteps, soft and hesitant. March kneels beside him. Her simulated form shimmers, a flaw in the code, or maybe a flaw in his perception. She pulls a strip of fabric from the hem of her own impossibly clean uniform and begins to gently wipe the blood and grime from his face.

"You push too hard," she whispers. Her touch is a ghost of warmth against his skin. "You don't have to do it all at once."

"There's no one else," he manages to rasp out. The words taste like defeat.

"That's not true," she says, her fingers carefully cleaning a gash on his cheek. "We're here. Even if we're just echoes. We're with you!"

He looks at her, at the genuine concern in her simulated aquamarine eyes. It's a perfect copy of the real March's kindness. So perfect it hurts. He wants to tell her to leave, to disappear, to stop making this prison feel so much like a home.

Instead, he just closes his eyes and lets her tend to wounds that will only be erased in the next run.

————————

The run ends before it begins.

He stands on the edge of the training platform, the abyss of the simulation yawning below. Neuromorphic Armament feels heavy in his hand. Cold. Final. His thumb traces the edge of the blade. It would be so easy. One quick movement. No more dying. No more resurrections. Just… an end to the cycle. To this.

Survive.

He clutches the cross pendant dangling from his wrist, its metal the only real thing he can feel. His head tilts back, and he stares at the uncaring, simulated sky.

I feel so tempted to end it, y'know? Only thing stopping me is that damn man inside my head. Why can I hear him, but not you? The weight of your silence is terrible. I pray, but I'm lost. Am I just praying to nothing?

A pair of arms wrap around him from behind. Gentle, but firm. He flinches, ready to lash out, but the touch is familiar. Soothing. March rests her head against his back.

"I'm here," she whispers, as if she heard the thoughts in his head. Dan Heng appears at his side, his presence a quiet, solid pillar. He just stands there, watching the abyss with him.

I feel so alone.

"We await you in Belobog," March says softly, her voice close to his ear. "Likely sleeping soundly in the rooms of that hotel Dan Heng managed to get for us."

She squeezes tighter.

"We're here. We won't leave you alone. Not now. Not ever."

For the first time in an eternity of silence, something answered back.