Chapter 12 – Meet Me Halfway

  The Scorch Market – Drift 7

  The ship was coming apart. Bolts rattled and panels groaned with every jolt, the noise pounding in his chest like a drum. Pressure built inside him, threatening to crush him. "David!" Iliana shouted.

  His chair shook so hard he thought his teeth would break. His vision blurred, narrowing to a tunnel as he fought for each breath. His throat tightened. If he didn’t faint, he was sure he’d die.

  “It’s fine!” she yelled over the chaos. “It’s just the gravity on Devon Five. Heavier than Aurelion.”

  “1.3g, to be exact,” Dice chimed in.

  He gasped for air, trying to stay conscious. His heart pounded, ready to give out at any moment.

  “I don’t think he’s hearing you,” Remulus muttered from his chair, his voice shaky, as if he was vibrating as much as David.

  That couldn’t be right.

  “Touchdown in three, two, one. Touchdown,” Dice announced.

  The ship hit the ground with a thud that felt final and destructive.

  "Come on," Remulus said, giving his shoulder a shake. "You have to see this. This planet has something called a Purpura Drift. The sky turns violet. Shake it off and come outside."

  Violet skies could wait. His bones were melting.

  “You gotta see this,” Iliana said, urging him forward.

  He unbuckled his belt and stood up. His first step was clumsy and heavy, throwing him off balance. The floor seemed to hold his feet, making every movement hard.

  “It gets better in a bit,” she said. “You were in 0.7 or 0.8 before we landed. Now it’s a full half-g higher. But you’ll adjust.”

  “You’ve got twelve seconds before the suns set,” Dice said flatly. “And I’m not rewinding it.”

  “Did you say suns?” he asked.

  “What do you think Binary means?” Remulus shouted from the end of the corridor. “Now hurry, it’s almost over!”

  He tried to run, but his legs felt too heavy. His feet kept stumbling.

  Iliana grabbed his hand and pulled him forward. She moved so lightly she almost floated, her steps silent on the metal floor.

  Meanwhile, he struggled just to breathe.

  Remulus opened the outer door.

  And the ship inhaled violet.

  A rush of color and movement hit him as warm air, thick with drifting sand, rushed in. Not dust, but sand. Grit struck his skin, dry and sharp, sticking to the sweat on his neck.

  The scents hit next.

  He smelled burnt ozone, scorched stone, and baked minerals. Mixed in, faint but persistent, was something else.

  It was sweet, sharp, and earthy, like crushed citrus rind and bruised mint left to dry in the sun and wind.

  Not a flower. Not a spice.

  Something wild. Something alive. Blood? No, more like rust.

  It didn’t belong to the landing pad, or the ship, or any standard compound on his lists.

  Outside, the sky glowed mauve and gold. Shadows stretched long and twisted across the landing pads, shimmering in the twin light. Each pad was a wide white disk, cracked and half-buried in red sand, like the broken shell of an ancient creature. They almost looked alive.

  It looked absurd.

  Unheard of.

  His memory vault felt fractured. Nothing matched up: no clear data, no familiar cues. The Library hadn’t prepared him for this.

  Two suns.

  He knew from the data it was a binary system. But seeing it and feeling it on his skin was completely different.

  Two stars hung low in the sky. One was pale and sharp, the other a deep electric blue. Their light blended, casting violet shades over the sand.

  Then the heat landed.

  The heat hit him, dry and fierce. It crept into his sleeves, under his collar, and soaked his clothes. It settled behind his knees and in his mouth, smelling of iron and hot air.

  He squinted through it, shielding his face with one arm. But he didn’t look away.

  The sky above turned soft mauve, deeper by the second.

  Both suns were sinking fast.

  Beside him, Iliana cursed.

  He turned. She was already moving into the ship’s shadow, one gloved hand over her cheek and the other shielding her eyes. Even in the shade, her golden skin flushed quickly.

  “Iliana?”

  “You said twelve seconds,” she snapped at Dice. “This is not twelve.”

  “It’s been six,” Dice replied. “You just burn faster than average.”

  “No shit.”

  He stepped toward her, but she shook her head.

  “Stay out there. Watch it. You’re not the one blistering.”

  She ducked into the hatch. A faint trail of steam rose where her sweat met the sun.

  He stayed in the doorway, caught between her leaving and the impossible horizon.

  She disappeared into the dark, and the hatch hissed shut.

  He exhaled slowly. The heat boiled his lungs. It almost hurt.

  The red sand sparkled in the light. Each breeze stirred small whirlwinds that seemed to move with rhythm, not just chaos.

  “Two seconds left,” Dice said in his ear.

  He stepped forward and set one foot on Devon Five.

  Heat seeped through the thin soles of his shoes. The ship groaned behind him as it settled, echoing the exhaustion in his body. His shadow stretched long, distorted by the violet air.

  The suns dipped, slow and steady, and for one breathless second, they lined up.

  Not perfectly. But enough.

  Gold blended into blue, and blue flashed gold. The sky seemed to open up. Light scattered and spread in soft colors: first lilac, then mauve, then a pale red that hardly seemed real. The sand turned lavender, and the landing pad looked almost alive. His eyes burned, not just from the brightness, but from something he couldn’t name. There was a pressure in his chest, like a memory without a source. He felt alive and happy. Overwhelmed with wonder.

  The air shifted, and just as soon as it began, the fire faded.

  Dice’s voice, low now: “Purpura Drift complete.”

  He didn’t move right away.

  Behind him, the door hissed open. Remulus’s boots hit the floor with a sharp echo, his stride purposeful and slightly tense.

  "Come on. I have an idea," he said. His expression was unreadable as he spoke, though his eyes flicked toward the horizon. An urgency simmered beneath his casual tone, a restless energy he couldn’t hide.

  David followed him inside, taking one last look at the darkening sky. The darkness felt more familiar than the wild dunes. His shoulders eased, just a little. He would venture into the desert, but for now, he was happy to be inside the ship. Somewhat safer than out there.

  Iliana stood in the doorway to the galley, arms crossed, rubbing her tender skin.

  “How are you blistering from a sunset?” he asked. He’d crossed to her without realizing, already scanning her arms for damage. Her golden skin had darkened a shade.

  “This world isn’t meant for me, kid.” She sighed. “I thought I could handle it, but I’ve never been under a blue sun before. The UVs here are harsher than anything I’ve dealt with.”

  “I could’ve told you that,” Remulus muttered, rough. He was lugging a large crate across the room. “If you’d bothered asking.”

  He dropped the box at her feet with a thunk and pushed it toward the siren with his foot.

  “What is it?” David asked.

  “A protective suit. Comes with a radial helmet. It will block most of the radiation, the UV, all of it.”

  Iliana stared at him, unblinking. Then she laughed, knelt and cracked the crate open. Her eyes widened. “Where the hell did you get this?” she asked.

  “It’s mine. Used to be,” Remulus said, leaning against the wall, arms folded. “When they kick you out of the Ascendant Guard, they don’t collect your gear.”

  “You should get a label that says: I joined the Guard and all I got was this lousy suit.” She smirked, lifting it halfway out. “It’s not going to fit me,” she muttered, eyes fixed on the dark teal fabric.

  It looked soft and light, but she held it as if it were heavier than it appeared.

  “It will,” Remulus grunted, already turning toward the cockpit. He didn’t seem to want to wait for her to agree or not to.

  "You look like you’ve seen a ghost," David said before he could stop himself. "I mean..."

  “Seriously?” Iliana laughed. “You have no tact.” She shook her head, brushing past him. “Go see what your not-so-old pilot wants.” She walked to her sleeping quarters, the suit draped over her arm, looking unsure whether to wear it or leave it behind.

  He didn’t remember falling asleep. Only the heat leaving him in ragged breaths and the darkness closing in behind the last sliver of blue sun.

  When he woke, it was Drift 8.

  Remulus and Iliana were already arguing about when it was safe to leave, stacking empty crates by the loading pad. Iliana looked better, her skin less raw, her eyes less distant, but still fragile. Her breath was a little heavier, but then again, so was his. The gravity here made him not only stumble when he walked but also gasp from the effort. Over the past few hours, they had both learned to adjust their movements in small, deliberate ways, conserving energy where they could. Iliana took to shifting her weight slowly, like a dancer learning a new rhythm, while David focused on regulating his breathing, each inhale and exhale an exercise in patience. They both still struggled at times, but there was a subtle shift in how they handled themselves.

  They waited for nightfall, long enough that he almost left without them. Long enough that the suns set again, and the Monastery no longer loomed in the distance. He’d seen it. When he first went outside, like a monument to his struggle. Tall, empty, devoid of humanity. He’d closed his mind to it. If he started thinking about Emma, he’d run to her, and she’d find a way to make him return to Aurelion. No. It was better not look at it. Not think about her in that place. His sister. His only family. No. He would save her. He had to.

  Inside the cockpit, Remulus was hammering a small wrist device against the main console. “Light up already… I know I charged you during the last leap,” he muttered.

  David hovered near the doorway, cautious. “What are those?”

  “These,” Remulus said, slanting the device again until the screen flared bright blue, “are supposed to keep us in contact with Dice. We’ll need info on the way.”

  “On the way where?” he asked.

  “The market.”

  “The market?”

  “You need a herbalist, no?” Remulus grabbed his wrist and clipped the band snugly in place. “If it stops working, hit it against something. I don’t have any fancy comms, but these’ll do.”

  He fastened one to his own wrist, then picked up a third.

  "You gave Iliana your old army suit so she can walk the surface of Devon Five..." He trailed off. He hadn’t expected them to come with him. Remulus had called him back just as he’d been stepping outside. Now they were getting ready to join him, to help him, and he didn’t know what to do with that.

  He hadn’t planned this far ahead. Hadn’t wanted to. He kept putting it off, thinking he’d figure it out later. But now?

  “You’ve got no plan. That’s fine,” Remulus said, handling another comm. “Plans don’t always go the way you want them to. I can take you to a herbalist and see where we go from there.”

  He pushed the glowing device into his hand, already turning back to the console. “Give this to our barbecue siren.”

  The air outside was cooler now, still dry and charged from the day drift. Under the dark sky, the sand had turned deep purple. Lanterns bobbed ahead, strung between arched wires and swaying canvas like fireflies on a string, blinking in and out as they moved in the breeze. A hum rolled through the distance—not voices or engines, but life in motion. It reminded David of how Aurelion had felt as he entered the undercity, and for a moment, he felt a sense of excitement.

  Iliana walked ahead of him. Her teal suit moved with her, sleek and seamless, not bulky like he’d expected. It fit her perfectly, clinging as if it were painted on. She left the helmet off for the night, and her skin matched the dark teal suit. The anger in her face stood out, her scars catching the orange light and shining like gold on her cheeks. She looked angry and sad at the same time.

  “What?” she snapped, freeing him of all doubts.

  “Nothing,” he said quickly. “It suits you.”

  “Don’t lie.”

  “I’m not. Just… you look like you could knock someone out.”

  She smirked. “You’re assuming I need armor for that.”

  Remulus walked a few steps behind, muttering about the sand and his boots.

  Having both of them with him was comforting. Iliana led the way, strong and capable, intimidating enough that people moved aside. Remulus followed, tall and brooding, his sharp features making him look even more menacing than Iliana. David felt stronger with them. It was as if his purpose was protected and carried forward. He didn’t want to think about returning to Aurelion with someone else. He’d grown a little attached.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Ahead, the night market bloomed. People slid between stalls, looking, talking—desert traders in layered wraps, off-worlders in bright synthetics, children weaving between stalls with hands full of sugary treats and wide eyes. Laughter flared and died like sparks. Somewhere, musicians hammered a drumbeat in a drifting rhythm. Beautiful people walked by him wearing beautiful garbs and colorful jewelry finer than anything he’d ever seen.

  David stared at his own feet, still in the dusty, fabric-woven uniform shoes he’d worn leaving Aurelion only a few drifts ago. The sand was cool now, but his thin soles felt every grain. The higher gravity pulled him even deeper into the ground. He felt like a toddler, struggling to walk straight.

  Stalls opened all around them, some made of canvas and bone, others of glass and wire. Light came from every direction: glowing vials, lit insects, and floating flame spheres tied to the wind. Creatures coiled in baskets. Steam curled from open pots. Someone hissed at them in a language he didn’t know.

  A group of women crossed ahead, their skin dusted in gold pigment, long braids threaded with tiny light filaments that glowed as they moved. One laughed, head tipped back, and the sound carried clear through the market noise. For a second David forgot why they were here. Devon Five, harsh and punishing by day, felt impossibly alive at night. One of the girls took a sip from a tall glass, her eyes closed in delight, making his throat dry with thirst or something else entirely. He looked away, a little embarrassed and much too curious.

  A thin, reflective veil rippled over a cage, like the surface of still water turned vertical. It was big enough to fit him, if he crouched. Inside, barely visible, was a cocoon not bigger than Remulus’s helmet.

  He reached for it.

  Iliana slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch that!”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You don’t know?” She raised her eyebrows, clearly surprised.

  “I’ve never read about this,” he said, frustrated. “I only have access to priority data. Is this local?”

  “Figures,” Remulus muttered.

  He stepped closer, squinting through the veil. “What is it?”

  “It’s a Mirrora,” Iliana said quietly, looking around.

  “For the fighting pits,” Remulus added, his own voice a little hushed.

  “The what?”

  The cocoon shimmered, translucent gold with deep green veins. Inside, something moved: a small, half-curled shape with a long tail that pulsed gently, as if dreaming.

  For a moment, one eye rotated toward him, wide and unformed, its color flickering in the fluid. Then it resolved into something startlingly clear: A two-iris eye, one the color of liquid amber, the other a vivid, impossible blue. Exactly like the suns he’d seen set the day before. It blinked once, slow and fixed on David.

  David’s breath caught. He couldn’t have said why, but the way it looked at him, like it knew something about him that he didn’t, made his chest tighten. His hand reached for it again, but he stopped it before it could touch the glass-like surface of the veil.

  The eye drifted away again, dissolving into the milky membrane, leaving nothing behind but the shimmer of a pulse.

  “How much?” he asked.

  The vendor sneered. “Fifteen hundred.” Twice the price he’d paid to get here. “Pureblood.”

  He tapped the tank with a gloved finger, making the creature flinch.

  The man was balding, with old burn marks on his scalp. Both ears were covered in dull metal, probably replacements from too many days under the twin suns. His fingers looked clumsy, but they wore many colorful comm rings that blinked with mismatched lights. One pinky was mechanical, old, and badly soldered, unlike the animals in the sanctuary, and twitched with each movement. His breathing was rough and wet, more from damage than effort. He tapped the cocoon to make the creature flinch, then smiled slowly and meanly. "Waste of space if it doesn’t turn vicious."

  David wasn’t sure why, but something about the way the creature shrank from the touch made his stomach twist. “Say it doesn’t!”

  “Then I toss it in the sand and say it wandered off.”

  Iliana tugged his sleeve. “Come on. You don’t have enough value for that.”

  “But what is it?” he insisted, resisting her grip; she was stronger than he expected, and he stumbled forward.

  “It’s like a pet,” she said, steadying him. “They sell them after they crystallize, which increases the mystery. It’s sort of like a gamble. That is in your data, right?”

  “I know what gambling is,” he muttered, frowning.

  “Right. These are special. They have a two-phase life. First, they’re small, fat, and furry, like your earth gerbils, I guess, lovable, peaceful. Then they cocoon. When they emerge, they’re… changed. Sometimes they retain their personalities. Sometimes they go full feral. All lean muscle and sharp claws. Fangs too.” She exhaled sharply. “Humans like that kind of gamble. They use them in fighting pits and other cruel places. They don’t live long after the transformation. But while they do, they’re incredibly valuable.”

  “If they go feral,” Remulus added.

  “And if they don’t?”

  “You heard him,” Iliana said. “They’re next to useless. Some people still keep the non-feral ones as pets. They live a lot longer but are extremely rare.”

  “That’s strange,” he said. “I’ve never heard of these creatures.”

  "I’m not surprised," she muttered. "The Library probably only keeps the good parts."

  “You know that’s not true,” he snapped. “The Library keeps all truths. I just haven’t gotten that information yet.” His voice rose, sharper than he meant.

  “I still had five more sols before becoming Librarian, you know? My memory vault is not even at 0.0001 percent.”

  “All right, all right, here—” Remulus cut in, pointing toward a stall lined in yellow curtains. “This is Holland’s. My spirits supplier.”

  “Remulus!” Iliana barked.

  “He knows everyone in this market,” Remulus said. “I’m sure he knows a herbalist.”

  “There are twenty-two herbalists registered in the Scorch Market,” Dice chimed in from his wrist.

  “Remulus,” Iliana shouted again, louder.

  “Let’s just ask, okay?”

  “Ask what?” A tall, slender man appeared, ducking under a curtain with practiced grace. “Ahh, Remi!” he beamed as he registered their faces. “I’ve been wondering when you’d visit me again. I’ve got your order packed up in crates, ready to go.”

  “Remi?” Iliana raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.

  Remulus, usually so tough, suddenly looked excited, like a kid getting seconds at lunch. "Ni sha sing, my friend," he said, moving past Iliana to hug the man. Standing next to Holland, Remulus seemed smaller, his tough look replaced by a boyish happiness.

  And David suddenly felt like the small animal, the Mirrora, pressed against invisible glass. He found it hard to breathe.

  “How’ve you been?” Remulus asked. “All good, I hope.”

  Holland’s eyes drifted toward Iliana, then David. He nodded politely, smiling with just enough grace.

  “Ah, yes. These are… friends of yours?”

  Remulus turned to them, smiling wide—too wide.

  “This is Iliana. She’s…umm, a friend. Most of the time.”

  Iliana didn’t move, but David saw the beginning of a song surrounding her. Like a protective shield, just waiting for something to bounce off it.

  “And this brat is David,” Remulus added. “He needs your help. He’s looking for a herbalist. A very good one. Dabbles in rare, unattainable items, good one.”

  Holland bowed slightly, placing one elegant hand over his heart. “I am honored to meet Remulus’s friends. And if help is what you need, help is what I can offer.”

  He rested his hand briefly on Remulus’s shoulder, then turned.

  “You need Hayam, my friend. Last stall on the right.”

  “Hayam?” David asked.

  Holland nodded. “He’s the best herbalist we have. He and his wild daughter are exactly what you’re looking for. Trust me.”

  David narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  Holland laughed, surprised, and lowered himself until he was eye-level. “Because Hayam is another friend of mine,” Holland said softly. “And he doesn’t ask too many questions. Which, judging by your face that I have seen off-world recently, makes him exactly the kind of friend you are to Remulus.”

  His cheeks burned, and his heart kicked up a notch. Of course he’d been recognized. Even here.

  Here?" He glanced over David’s head. "News travels slower through gates. You're probably safe. For a few more drifts at least.”

  “Right,” he muttered, taking a few steps back and pulling the hat Iliana had given him on. Remulus cleared his throat. “Can you send my spirits to Dice? We docked on—”

  “I know your ship,” Holland interrupted, already disappearing back under the curtain.

  “You should hurry. Hayam doesn’t always linger too long after dark.”

  “Thank you,” Remulus said, placing one hand to his heart.

  David hadn’t expected that—the formality, the sincerity. He hadn’t expected anything, really. Not from Remulus. Not from himself. But nothing had gone the way he expected lately, and every little thing that did go in his favour was a step in the right direction. And he was taking it.

  They walked down a narrow lane. The market noise faded, replaced by the gentle clink of glass and a low, living buzz. The air smelled sweet and strong, like tea and fruit warmed by the sun. A scent he was beginning to associate with Devon Five itself.

  The stalls grew sparse, and at the end of the aisle, tucked between two closed ones, a shop was still open. Fairy lights glittered like stars, and real fire flickered in glass jars suspended in wire cages.

  And there, surrounded by pale orange light, he saw her.

  She sat cross-legged on top of a stall made of white branches and pale silk, with supports rising from the red sand to shelter her. Bowls of dried herbs, curled flowers, glass jars of powder, and tiny polished bones were all arranged neatly on the table.

  She sketched in a black notebook, circles in spiral patterns. Her gloved fingers moved slowly, in no hurry to finish.

  At the foot of the table, a small creature sat buried in sand: a shellkrat, as Iliana had called them earlier.

  She looked up, black eyes searching, curls soft around her face. She didn’t look at him, but through him. Her eyes didn’t narrow or widen. They just paused.

  He forgot what he meant to say. The heat, the ache in his calves, the mission—all of it faded. Her gaze weighed him. Measured him.

  She blinked once, halting her hand. “Are you lost?” she asked, as he approached her.

  Her voice was softer than he expected. Level, like she already knew the answer.

  He cleared his throat, trying to remember words and questions. “Can you help me?” he managed, then took another step towards her. “We’re looking for someone. An herbalist.”

  She didn’t answer right away. She watched him. Waited. He wanted to ask more, but had forgotten what.

  Iliana and Remulus stepped up behind, and the air shifted, the quiet shattered, and the market returned all at once: smells, heat, wind. But he didn’t look away.

  “His name is Hayam,” Iliana said, reminding him of what and who he was looking for.

  “I’m sorry,” the girl replied. “I’m afraid you missed him.”

  She set her pencil and papers aside and hopped down from the tall table.

  Her boots hit the ground with unexpected grace, and he looked at them a little too long. Good boots. The kind he might need for himself.

  She was a little taller than him. Her long, wild hair—dark as her eyes—caught the fairy light in violet hues, and the corners of her full lips tugged upward as she lowered her face toward his.

  “But if you need a herbalist,” she said, voice calm and unreadable, “I’m a herbalist.”

  “We’re looking for—”

  “For Hayam!” Remulus interrupted him.

  “I’m his daughter. Serendipity.”

  She lifted her hand to shake his.

  Remulus stepped forward, placing a firm hand on David’s shoulder and pulling him back a step.

  “Lovely to meet you,” Remulus said, not unkindly, “but we need a grown-up.”

  He blinked. Something sharp flashed through him, frustration, maybe. Or just heat.

  “Or,” David said, heat rising, “we ask the herbalist in front of us,” he snapped, and regretted it the second it left his mouth.

  Remulus didn’t flinch.

  “Maybe we do,” Remulus said flatly. “Should we ask every vendor, then? Or just the pretty ones who offer?”

  “Well, I’m flattered.” Serendipity smiled widely. “I can tell you don’t mean trouble,” she added, tossing a knife that came out of nowhere into the air and catching the tip between her fingers, effortlessly.

  He stiffened. Iliana didn’t blink.

  “I probably know just as much as Hayam,” Serendipity said, slipping the blade back under the table like it was nothing. “So ask me anyway. Worst case? I don’t know, and you’ll just have to come back in a week when he returns from his restock run.”

  “We might as well,” Iliana said, moving between David and Remulus.

  “I’m looking for—”

  “Really?” Remulus groaned. “You’re on his side now?” He turned to Iliana, shaking his head. “Fine. Ask away. It’s not like I’m the adult in this group or anything.”

  “I’m an adult too,” Iliana said casually. “And she has a trustworthy face.”

  “So did the occupants of Bode Eight.”

  That earned him a smirk.

  Serendipity said nothing.

  She was watching, still, but intensely present. Her hands rested calmly on the table, her body unmoving.

  He realized she was reading them. All of them. Watching with curious intent and the barest tug of a smile at her lips, she looked positively entertained by all their bickering. He had never seen an expression like that before. It looked so natural on her.

  Like a curious delight.

  “I’m looking for an organic compound,” he blurted, excited to see if her expression would change. “Variant Three.”

  Her smile faded, and she stilled completely. Her whole posture changed, becoming stiff and guarded, as if a wall had gone up between them.

  “Three?” she asked, softly. “Are you sure?”

  “Three,” he repeated.

  “Cognitive aid. For memory?”

  “Yes.” His voice cracked. His heart thudded hard enough that he felt it in his throat.

  She studied him. A moment longer. Longer than he could stand.

  Then, just one word: “Why?”

  “That’s for us to know and for you to sell, no?” Remulus cut in, casual.

  "I didn’t ask you," Serendipity said, her voice suddenly sharp.

  He flinched, panicked, and reached for the only lie he could carry.

  “It’s for my mother,” he said, voice catching. “She’s… forgetting my name.”

  A good story, he hoped. Sad. Real. Sympathetic.

  But it wasn’t.

  And her face said otherwise. The way her expression shifted with something colder. Something like disappointment.

  She turned her back on them. "That's not a common ingredient," she said quietly. "It's hard to find. You'd need a ship. A few dozen drifts. Maybe more." Her tone was distant now, measured, professional. But David felt the weight of her words pressing against his chest. Variant Three wasn't just any compound; it was the key to saving his sister. Without it, he feared he might never get her back. Not even if she survived the rite. "I can suggest a few guides who might consider taking you. But I think you should forget about it. It's not worth it."

  “You don’t have it?” he asked, voice cracking again. He hadn’t meant to say it. Not out loud.

  But she’d answered him anyway.

  “I really need it.”

  She leaned back against an armrest, pulled the knife again from somewhere unseen, and began cleaning her nails.

  “It’s an unstable compound,” she said. “You have to mix it as soon as possible. Otherwise, it loses its properties.” She didn’t look up. “You’re better off not going.”

  He swallowed hard.

  “Right,” he said. “Right. It’s too difficult. I understand.”

  But he didn’t, not really. He only knew he’d need more help, and she had mentioned guides. That was something to hold onto, something he could plan around.

  “Right,” he repeated, quieter. “I see.”

  He turned without another word. Remulus and Iliana followed.

  Behind him, the girl whispered a few words he didn’t catch.

  No one answered. The crowd pressed back in. Market noise rising. Heat, light, the flicker of flame-spheres. All falling away in the distance.

  He walked faster. Like he could outpace the lie.

  Behind him, he could feel Serendipity’s stare drilling into his spine.

  He'd asked. She'd answered. He'd lied. She'd seen through it.

  But he would find a way.

  He had to.

  Emma (Interlude)

  The monastery gardens were still and quiet.

  The almond trees swayed gently in the hot middrift heat, making a rhythm for the silence. Emma sat still, knees tucked beneath her robe, hands folded in her lap, sweat pooling in her palms. Her eyes were half-closed, not in meditation, but in waiting. She was at peace. Unmoving. Unshaken.

  Birds called softly above her. Somewhere in the distance, someone swept the stone floor. The world was full of quiet sounds, but she didn’t notice them.

  The Rite hadn’t begun.

  But the silence had crept in already. This place was void of sound and movement. Still. Like the surface of a lake, unbothered. Uncanny and unreal.

  Soon, her voice would be gone, freely given.

  Forty-two drifts of silence, proof of her upcoming devotion.

  Proof she was worthy of the Iso name. Proof she could carry it forward alone.

  She had feared this moment once. Thought it would crush her.

  But now…

  No fear. No doubts. No regrets.

  She waited, her heart steady and ready.

  “If this is the cost of legacy,” she whispered. “If silence is what keeps our name alive…

  Then I will not break.”

  Her voice could fade. But her determination had never been stronger.

  She opened her eyes. Ahead, carved into the inner walls of the monastery, a circular enclosure of polished stone held the words:

  Silence is the Rite. The Rite is not silenced.

  She had no data on it. But she read it anyway and logged it.

  She made a note to tell David.

  He lit up when she shared something before he found it himself. They’d sit on his bed, connect their memory vaults, transmit. She always got more than she gave.

  David’s records were scarce, disorganized, full of emotion, hesitation, and hidden tension.

  He never knew—might never know—that on his hardest days, she shared new data just to give him a reason to connect. Just to be close to someone.

  He always said he only had her.

  She only had him, too.

  Even if his small hands the last time she saw him cry could never quite grasp the weight of their purpose.

  His presence eased her mind, as he said she eased his.

  And here, in the quiet garden, she felt glad.

  Glad it would be her, not him, bearing this Rite.

  He would have been crushed beneath the monastery’s hand.

  She would not let him be broken. Not for legacy. And not for silence.