The orb hovered between Lindarion and the Celestial, radiating not heat, not light, but possibility. It pulsed like a heartbeat, but the rhythm was wrong—too slow, too vast, like it belonged to something that measured time in centuries instead of breaths.
Nysha stepped forward despite herself. "That thing… it feels like my mind is trying to fold in on itself just by looking at it."
Kherael didn't speak; he was kneeling, trembling, every instinct screaming that mortals were not meant to witness such a thing.
Ashwing regained consciousness just long enough to see the orb—then immediately pretended to still be unconscious. No one blamed him.
Lindarion didn't reach for it.
Not yet.
"What kind of 'seed'?" he asked carefully.
The Celestial tilted its head, as though processing how to compress an entire pre-cosmic concept into a mortal-friendly sentence.
"A seed of a path."
Lindarion waited.
The Celestial elaborated.
"Before destinies.
Before systems.
