Five days.
That was apparently all it took for Qaritas to acquire another child.
He wasn't entirely certain when it had happened.
On the second day, the boy had begun following him.
On the third, he had started asking questions.
On the fourth, he had corrected Qaritas's understanding of Veyrathi propulsion seventeen times.
By the fifth—
Yandaro had apparently decided Qaritas was his teacher.
Qaritas had apparently decided Yandaro was his student.
Neither of them remembered discussing it.
"Don't touch that."
Qaritas's hand stopped.
Approximately one finger away from a translucent tube filled with something violently blue.
He looked toward the thirteen-year-old standing half-inside an engine.
Yandaro looked back.
All four arms were occupied.
One held a tool nearly as long as his torso.
Another held a crystal plate.
His lower left hand was turning something inside the engine.
His lower right was holding food he had apparently forgotten existed.
Again.
Qaritas slowly withdrew his hand.
"I wasn't touching it."
"You were going to."
"You can't prove that."
"I watched you."
"Unreliable witness."
Yandaro's sensory fins flattened.
Qaritas had learned that expression.
It translated roughly to:
You are an idiot.
He was becoming surprisingly fluent in Veyrathi facial expressions.
The actual language—
less so.
That was improving.
Mostly because five days earlier Qaritas had eaten something at Warakai's table and abruptly begun understanding fragments of their language.
Nobody had successfully determined why.
The leading theory among the Veyrathi healers involved a symbiotic organism contained in one of the foods.
Qaritas's preferred theory was:
magic fruit.
Xheavend had informed him that wasn't a theory.
He had informed her he hadn't asked.
Yandaro disappeared farther into the engine.
"Your pressure regulator is going to explode."
The boy stopped.
Slowly—
his head emerged.
All four eyes stared at Qaritas.
Qaritas frowned.
"Unless I mistranslated that."
Yandaro blinked.
"You said my grandmother is pregnant."
Silence.
Qaritas stared at him.
Yandaro stared back.
"...I'm still learning."
Yandaro's throat markings flashed.
Bright.
Qaritas pointed.
"Don't laugh."
That made them brighter.
"I know what that means now."
Yandaro disappeared into the engine again.
Qaritas heard something that sounded suspiciously like snickering.
He folded his arms.
"I could leave."
"No."
"Very convincing."
"Hold this."
A tool came flying out.
Qaritas caught it.
Then another.
Then a crystal.
Then something warm, wet and disturbingly organic.
Qaritas stared at it.
"Yandaro."
"Yes?"
"What is this?"
"Fuel membrane."
"Why is it breathing?"
"It isn't."
The thing pulsed in his hand.
Qaritas stared.
"That was a breath."
"Contraction."
"That's breathing with additional syllables."
Yandaro emerged.
His storm-gray face was streaked with black lubricant.
His clothes had at least three new scorch marks.
One sensory fin had somehow acquired a piece of wire around it.
And he looked—
delighted.
That was the thing Qaritas had learned about Yandaro.
The boy loved machines.
Not in the way some of Qaritas's Thousand Masters had loved knowledge.
Not because machines represented power.
Not because understanding them elevated him above anyone else.
Yandaro loved them the way children loved impossible things.
Completely.
Loudly.
Without embarrassment.
Every mechanism was a question.
Every failure was an invitation.
Every explosion—
apparently—
was progress.
Yandaro took the membrane from Qaritas.
"Explosions are useful results."
"You say that frequently."
"Because you keep calling them failures."
"They're explosions."
"Exactly."
Qaritas stared.
"I am beginning to understand why your father dislikes me."
Yandaro's fins lowered slightly.
Qaritas noticed.
He didn't comment.
Instead—
he looked around the workshop.
It occupied one of the lower engineering chambers inside the Veyrathi vessel.
Black ribs curved overhead.
Transparent channels carried water through the walls.
Living cables wound around metallic structures.
Crystal interfaces pulsed softly beneath Yandaro's tools.
Nothing here had been constructed according to one discipline.
Biology.
Chemistry.
Engineering.
Metallurgy.
Gravity manipulation.
All of it existed together.
The Veyrathi hadn't built machines separate from their world.
They'd built machines from its rules.
And Qaritas—
an Ascendant—
had spent five days being taught those rules by a thirteen-year-old.
He found that strangely wonderful.
Yandaro climbed onto the workbench.
Not around it.
Onto it.
Because apparently horizontal surfaces existed primarily to be stood upon.
He pointed toward four transparent containers.
"Veyr."
Qaritas nodded.
He knew that one now.
The first contained a faint blue gas.
Highly energetic.
Highly combustible.
Extremely useful for propulsion.
Extremely enthusiastic about becoming everyone else's problem when compressed incorrectly.
Yandaro pointed toward the second.
"Shyra."
Nearly invisible.
Used in buoyancy systems and atmospheric craft.
Then—
"Nhal."
Silver vapor curled inside the third container.
Cooling.
Reaction control.
Stabilization.
Qaritas pointed toward the fourth.
It contained something stranger.
Dark violet vapor drifted inside the glass.
Tiny orange sparks occasionally appeared within it.
"Azhren."
Yandaro's entire face changed.
There it was.
The look.
Qaritas had learned to fear that look.
It meant:
I have invented something.
Or—
Something is about to catch fire.
Frequently both.
"Azhren," Yandaro repeated.
Qaritas leaned closer.
"Natural?"
Yandaro nodded quickly.
Then began speaking much too fast.
Qaritas caught approximately seventy percent.
Geothermal microorganisms.
Deep vents.
Waste product.
Reactive vapor.
Ionization.
Veyr.
Nhal.
Pressure.
Combustion.
Something about transitional states.
Something about molecular binding.
Then—
"...grandmother..."
Qaritas raised a hand.
"Stop."
Yandaro stopped.
"I lost you at grandmother."
"I didn't say grandmother."
"Excellent. We're improving."
Yandaro's fins twitched.
Then he slowed down.
Azhren, he explained, reacted unusually when electrically excited.
It didn't produce enough energy to serve as fuel itself.
Instead—
Yandaro believed it could act as a mediator.
Veyr produced enormous energy.
Nhal controlled that reaction.
But forcing the two into the pressures required for orbital propulsion created instability.
Azhren could potentially bridge the reaction.
Make it smoother.
Hotter.
More efficient.
Stable enough—
perhaps—
to push a small vessel beyond Hstrarkit's atmosphere.
Qaritas looked at him.
Then at the scorched wall behind him.
Then at another scorched wall.
Then at the ceiling.
There was also a scorch mark there.
He wasn't sure how.
"How many prototypes?"
"Eleven."
Qaritas looked at the blackened section of workshop.
"How many survived?"
Yandaro hesitated.
"Define survived."
Qaritas slowly smiled.
"Oh, I like you."
Yandaro grinned.
Then Qaritas looked at the calculations spread across the bench.
His smile faded.
He moved one page.
Then another.
Pressure curves.
Thermal expansion.
Flow rates.
Ionization timing.
Primitive in places.
Brilliant in others.
Wrong.
Not completely.
That was the interesting part.
Qaritas picked up a piece of charcoal.
Yandaro immediately slapped his hand.
Qaritas stared at him.
"Did you just hit me?"
"You're writing on my calculations."
"I was going to."
"No."
"They're wrong."
Yandaro's fins shot upward.
"They are not."
Qaritas smiled.
There.
Thirteen.
Definitely thirteen.
"They are."
Yandaro snatched the page.
"Where?"
Qaritas pointed.
"Here."
Yandaro stared.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Would you like me to explain?"
"No."
"Excellent."
Qaritas sat down.
Yandaro lasted eleven seconds.
"...Explain."
Qaritas's smile widened.
He took the charcoal.
"You keep treating Azhren as part of the fuel."
"It is."
"No."
Yandaro frowned.
Qaritas drew three lines.
"Veyr is fuel."
First line.
"Nhal regulates the reaction."
Second.
"Azhren changes how those two interact."
Third.
"You're calculating all three as though they're contributing equally to thrust."
Yandaro leaned closer.
Qaritas continued.
"Don't ask how much Azhren you need to produce more force."
He circled the third line.
"Ask how little you need to keep the other two from destroying each other."
Yandaro went still.
Very still.
Qaritas knew that look too.
Thinking.
Fast.
His upper hands moved across the papers.
One lower hand grabbed another page.
The other began calculating.
Numbers.
Ratios.
Pressure.
Heat.
His eyes widened.
"Oh."
Qaritas leaned back.
Yandaro recalculated.
Then again.
Then—
"Oh."
"Good oh?"
Yandaro looked at him.
"You might be right."
Qaritas placed one hand dramatically against his chest.
"Someone record this."
Yandaro ignored him.
He was already writing.
Qaritas watched.
And something uncomfortable occurred to him.
Yandaro called him teacher.
Yet Qaritas had learned more about Veyrathi engineering in five days beside this child than he had learned about some entire civilizations during centuries of existence.
That had happened increasingly often lately.
Mortals teaching gods.
He wondered when Ascendants had become arrogant enough to find that surprising.
"Come."
Yandaro suddenly jumped from the table.
Qaritas blinked.
"Where?"
The boy was already moving.
"Come."
"That doesn't answer the question."
"Secret."
"That makes it worse."
Yandaro disappeared through the doorway.
Qaritas stared after him.
Then sighed.
"I have terrible judgment."
He followed.
The secret was approximately forty metres long.
Qaritas stopped.
"...Oh."
Yandaro beamed.
They stood inside an abandoned maintenance bay near the vessel's lower hull.
Suspended between enormous support ribs was—
technically—
a ship.
Qaritas thought.
Mostly.
Black Veyrathi metal formed the narrow hull.
Mismatched crystal panels had been fitted along its sides.
Two small gravity rings surrounded the rear section.
Biological tubing ran beneath exposed plating.
Several components had obviously been scavenged from completely different machines.
One panel was a different color.
Another had been repaired so many times Qaritas suspected the repairs now contained more material than the original component.
Eleven separate sections were visibly scorched.
Qaritas counted.
Of course.
But despite all of that—
it was beautiful.
Not because it was elegant.
It wasn't.
Not because it was advanced.
By Veyrathi standards, it probably wasn't.
It was beautiful because every centimetre of it looked like someone had refused to stop trying.
Then Qaritas noticed something painted beneath the cockpit.
Stars.
Seven of them.
Uneven.
Childishly drawn.
Connected by a crooked silver line.
Qaritas pointed.
"What's that?"
Yandaro looked up.
His expression softened.
"A constellation."
"I gathered that."
"I want to see it."
Qaritas looked at him.
Yandaro climbed onto the ship's wing.
"I'm going to leave Hstrarkit."
Qaritas nodded.
"Eventually."
"No."
Qaritas paused.
Yandaro looked at him.
"I'm going."
"You personally."
"Yes."
"Into space."
"Yes."
"In this."
Yandaro frowned.
"It will be better."
"I sincerely hope so."
The boy's fins flattened.
Qaritas smiled.
Then he looked back at the stars painted beneath the cockpit.
"You've never left the planet?"
Yandaro shook his head.
"Why do you want to?"
Yandaro looked confused by the question.
Not because he didn't understand it.
Because the answer seemed obvious.
"Because it's there."
Qaritas stared at him.
Yandaro pointed upward.
Past the vessel.
Past the black hull.
Past kilometres of atmosphere they couldn't see.
"All of it."
His voice softened.
"I want to know what's there."
Something inside Qaritas hurt.
Not badly.
Just enough.
He remembered being younger.
Before Fragments.
Before wars.
Before universes became responsibilities.
Before every unknown thing had learned how to become a threat.
When curiosity had been enough.
Yandaro touched the painted constellation.
"I'll reach it."
Qaritas believed him.
That frightened him more than it should have.
"No."
The voice came from behind them.
Yandaro froze.
Qaritas turned.
A Veyrathi male stood in the doorway.
Older.
Broad.
Storm-dark skin crossed by pale silver markings.
Four muscular arms.
Work clothing.
Burn scars across two hands.
And four eyes currently fixed on Qaritas with approximately the same warmth Yzer reserved for disobedience.
Yandaro's fins dropped.
"Father."
Ah.
Wonderful.
Qaritas smiled politely.
"Deyaro."
Deyaro didn't return it.
His eyes moved toward the ship.
Then Yandaro.
Then Qaritas.
"No."
Yandaro jumped down.
"I didn't—"
"No."
"Father—"
"Your mother is looking for you."
"I'm working."
"You're thirteen."
"Those aren't opposites."
Qaritas's eyebrows rose.
He liked that one.
Deyaro noticed.
His expression suggested Qaritas liking anything his son said was worsening matters considerably.
"My son does not need another person encouraging his delusions."
Qaritas's smile disappeared.
"They're not delusions."
Deyaro's upper arms folded.
"His last aircraft caught fire."
"Most good inventions do that at least once."
"Eleven times."
Qaritas paused.
"...That's slightly more concerning."
Yandaro made an offended noise.
Neither adult acknowledged it.
Deyaro stepped closer.
"You will leave this world."
Qaritas went quiet.
"He will not."
Yandaro stiffened.
Deyaro continued.
"You will take your damaged vessel."
One hand pointed toward Qaritas.
"Your weapons."
Another.
"Your wars."
His throat markings brightened.
"Whatever follows beings like you."
Then he pointed toward the floor.
"And you will leave."
Silence.
"My son stays here."
Yandaro opened his mouth.
"Father—"
"Go."
"But—"
"Yandaro."
That ended it.
Not because the boy agreed.
Because he knew that tone.
Yandaro's jaw tightened.
He looked at Qaritas.
Then at his ship.
Then walked away.
Four hands clenched at his sides.
Deyaro waited until his son disappeared.
Then looked at Qaritas.
"Stay away from him."
Qaritas could have laughed.
Could have threatened him.
Could have reminded this mortal that the being standing in front of him had survived things that would turn Hstrarkit's mountains into dust.
Once—
perhaps—
he would have.
Instead Qaritas looked at the empty doorway Yandaro had disappeared through.
Then at the ridiculous little ship.
Then at the seven badly painted stars.
"He loves you."
Deyaro's expression changed.
Barely.
Qaritas continued.
"That's why you're afraid."
Deyaro stepped forward.
"Do not pretend to understand me."
"I don't."
Qaritas looked at him.
"But I understand that."
Fear.
Protection.
The desperate belief that if you held someone tightly enough—
the universe couldn't take them.
Qaritas had believed that once.
He had watched universes prove otherwise.
Deyaro deliberately struck Qaritas's shoulder as he passed.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to make the point.
Qaritas didn't move.
Didn't retaliate.
Didn't even turn.
He simply listened to Deyaro's footsteps disappear.
Then looked at Yandaro's ship.
There were things fathers could protect their children from.
Falls.
Fire.
Predators.
Bad decisions.
Maybe even eleven exploding aircraft.
But Qaritas knew what was coming.
Fragments did not care how much a father loved his son.
They did not stop at locked doors.
They did not respect homes.
Planets.
Universes.
There were some things you couldn't protect someone from.
Sometimes—
all you could do was make sure they were ready when those things arrived.
Qaritas found Xheavend three hours later.
Writing.
That, by itself, wasn't unusual.
Xheavend wrote constantly.
She had journals for everything.
Training.
Creatures.
Universes.
Ascendants.
Things Goro had taught her.
Things Zcain had taught her.
Things she'd learned specifically because neither of those two had thought to teach her.
There was apparently an entire journal dedicated to mistakes.
Qaritas had once attempted to read it.
The first page contained his name.
He had closed it.
Some knowledge was dangerous.
This journal—
was different.
Xheavend sat beneath one of the enormous Kaereth trees several kilometres from the Veyrathi settlement.
The trunk behind her was wider than some buildings.
Black bark rose hundreds of metres into silver mist.
Ribbon-like foliage hung somewhere impossibly high overhead.
Violet-black Shaal covered the ground around her, metallic edges catching the dim light.
Her back rested against one enormous root.
One knee was raised.
The journal rested against it.
She was writing.
Qaritas approached quietly.
Xheavend didn't look up.
"Yandaro?"
Qaritas stopped.
"How did you know?"
"You smell burned."
He looked down at himself.
Fair.
"His father hates me."
"Also fair."
Qaritas frowned.
"You could at least pretend to be supportive."
"I'm writing."
"About my suffering?"
"No."
"Missed opportunity."
Her mouth twitched.
Qaritas sat beside her.
Not too close.
Just enough that their shoulders almost touched.
For several moments—
he watched her write.
Veyrathi characters.
Her handwriting in their language had improved disturbingly quickly.
Probably because she somehow understood it instinctively.
Qaritas was still occasionally informing people their grandmothers were pregnant.
He leaned sideways.
"What are you writing?"
Xheavend immediately tilted the journal away.
Qaritas gasped.
"Secrets."
"Personal."
"That's what secrets are."
She ignored him.
Qaritas leaned farther.
She moved the journal farther.
He leaned.
She moved.
He leaned again.
Xheavend placed one hand directly against his face and pushed him upright.
"Stop."
"I saw Warakai."
"Congratulations."
"And Yandaro."
Her hand disappeared.
Qaritas looked at the page.
Not lists.
Not exactly.
Names.
Dozens of them.
Warakai.
Beside it—
several paragraphs.
Qaritas recognized references to the chief's family.
Something about the way his throat markings flashed when he found something funny.
The fact that he apparently hated one particular fermented drink but drank it during diplomatic gatherings because refusing it was considered rude.
Another name.
A hunter.
The woman who had taught Xheavend how to tie one of the Veyrathi climbing knots.
Another.
A child who had followed Xheavend through the market for nearly half an hour before finally asking whether Ascendants had four stomachs.
Another.
The cook who had given her a second serving of some lavender fruit after noticing she liked it.
Someone's favorite food.
Someone's terrible joke.
A Veyrathi couple who had been married for sixty-three years.
A mechanic who sang silently with his hands while he worked.
A little girl who wanted to become a hunter.
A boy who hated heights despite living on a planet where half the civilization apparently considered the ground an inconvenience.
Qaritas stopped smiling.
He looked at the pages she'd already filled.
There were so many names.
Not kings.
Not generals.
Not gods.
People.
"X."
"Hm?"
"Why write all of that?"
Her pen stopped.
Only briefly.
Then continued.
"Because gods remember civilizations."
Qaritas looked at her.
Xheavend didn't look up.
Her pen moved.
"Someone should remember people."
Qaritas said nothing.
Something about the sentence hurt.
Especially because he understood what she hadn't said.
If they're still here to be remembered.
He looked toward the Veyrathi settlement.
Platforms hung between colossal trees.
Ships drifted silently between them.
Children climbed.
Workers carried supplies.
Hunters returned.
Someone somewhere was probably arguing over food.
Yandaro was probably disobeying his father already.
Thousands of lives.
Millions beyond them.
A civilization.
That was what history would call them.
The Veyrathi.
One word.
As though millions of people could fit inside it.
Qaritas looked back at the journal.
Warakai.
Yandaro.
The cook.
The hunter.
The child afraid of heights.
Individuals.
"Give me another journal."
Xheavend finally looked at him.
"Why?"
"I've met people too."
Something softened behind her eyes.
She reached into her bag.
Then handed him one.
Qaritas opened it.
Blank.
He considered the first entry.
Then wrote:
Yandaro.
Paused.
Added:
Thirteen.
Another pause.
Thinks explosions count as useful results.
Xheavend looked over.
"They do."
Qaritas slowly turned toward her.
"Not you too."
She smiled.
Then closed her journal.
And stood.
Qaritas noticed immediately.
That shift.
Small.
Almost invisible.
But after ten years with her—
he knew it.
The softness disappeared.
Not completely.
It simply moved somewhere safer.
Her shoulders changed.
Breathing changed.
Eyes changed.
Training.
Qaritas sighed.
"You're doing it again."
Xheavend stretched one arm across her chest.
"Yes."
"You trained yesterday."
"Yes."
"And the day before."
"Yes."
"And the day before that."
"Yes."
"Do you know how patterns work?"
She started walking.
"Are you coming?"
Qaritas looked down at the journal.
Then at her.
Then sighed.
"Apparently."
The training field wasn't really a field.
Hstrarkit didn't believe in convenient open spaces.
The Veyrathi had cleared an area between several enormous Kaereth roots.
Targets stood throughout it.
Wood.
Stone.
Metal.
Dead vegetation.
Fruit.
And several small cages containing local animals.
Qaritas immediately pointed.
"No."
Xheavend looked at him.
"No what?"
"We're not killing those."
"I'm not killing them."
"Good."
"They're for Conquest."
Qaritas paused.
"...Slightly less good."
She walked toward the center.
The cages opened.
Three Oruun emerged.
Round.
Long-eared.
Glowing sacs beneath their stomachs.
One immediately began eating something.
Another sniffed the air.
The third looked directly at Qaritas.
Qaritas pointed.
"I like that one."
"Why?"
"It looks judgmental."
"That's why you like it?"
"I respect honesty."
Xheavend ignored him.
She closed her eyes.
Qaritas felt the change before anything happened.
Pressure.
Not physical.
Something pushing against the inside of thought.
Xheavend opened her eyes.
"Stay."
The three Oruun froze.
Perfectly.
Qaritas's smile disappeared.
A Kavari somewhere above them stopped moving.
Then—
another.
Wings folded.
Insects went silent.
Something crawling beneath the Shaal stopped.
A distant Velka herd—
stopped.
Qaritas felt it.
Not words.
Not exactly.
An instinct.
Stay.
His muscles almost obeyed.
Almost.
Xheavend's eyes widened.
She released it.
Everything moved.
Immediately.
The Oruun scattered.
The Kavari launched from the branches.
Insects resumed.
Qaritas flexed his fingers.
"Still too wide."
Xheavend frowned.
"Yes."
"But weaker."
She looked at him.
"On you?"
"I nearly obeyed."
"Nearly?"
Qaritas smiled.
"I'm difficult."
"You're annoying."
"That's why it didn't work."
She rolled her eyes.
Then walked toward the targets.
War came next.
Qaritas hated War.
Not because it was violent.
He'd known violence longer than most civilizations had existed.
War was different.
War wanted continuation.
Xheavend stood before a reinforced stone target.
Breathed.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
her fist moved.
BOOM.
The target disappeared.
Stone exploded outward.
The Shaal flattened.
Silver mist blasted between the trees.
Xheavend turned.
Another target.
BOOM.
Gone.
Another.
Her breathing accelerated.
Qaritas watched her eyes.
There.
War.
Not possession.
Not another mind.
Impulse.
Momentum.
Again.
Xheavend turned toward the fourth target.
Raised her fist.
Stopped.
One inch away.
Her arm trembled.
Muscles tightened.
War wanted impact.
Resistance.
Victory.
Continuation.
Xheavend breathed.
"Enough."
Her fist remained there.
One inch.
For several seconds—
nothing moved.
Then she lowered it.
Qaritas smiled.
"Better."
Xheavend exhaled.
"Harder."
"I know."
Destroying the target had been effortless.
Not destroying it—
that had taken everything.
Famine came next.
One fruit.
Purple.
Round.
Filled with water.
Xheavend held it in her palm.
Qaritas watched.
The fruit wrinkled.
Slowly.
Moisture disappeared.
Skin collapsed inward.
Within seconds—
it had become a dry husk.
Qaritas immediately looked down.
Grass alive.
Moss alive.
Nearby fruit untouched.
The Kaereth root unchanged.
Xheavend stared at the fruit.
Then—
smiled.
Barely.
Qaritas remembered when Famine had once crawled through soil like disease.
When stopping it had required someone else.
Now—
one fruit.
Exactly one.
"Show-off."
Xheavend tossed the dried fruit at him.
He caught it.
"That was a compliment."
"I know."
Death came last.
And Death—
was always the one that made Qaritas stop joking.
A small insect rested against a Kaereth root.
Its wings were damaged.
Life already fading.
Xheavend crouched.
Held one hand above it.
Didn't touch.
Death arrived quietly.
No pressure.
No violence.
No command.
The insect simply—
stopped.
Qaritas watched the ground.
Nothing.
One blade of Shaal moved in the breeze.
Alive.
A tiny organism crawled across the bark.
Alive.
Something chirped beneath a root.
Alive.
Only the insect had died.
Xheavend lowered her hand.
Qaritas stared.
That—
was frightening.
Not because she could kill.
He'd watched Xheavend kill things considerably larger than mountains.
Precision was worse.
Once—
Death had leaked from her.
Now Death stopped exactly where she told it to.
Xheavend stood.
Qaritas looked at the four training areas.
Conquest.
War.
Famine.
Death.
Four Horsemen.
Four disasters.
And somehow—
the greatest evidence of her power wasn't what she'd destroyed.
It was everything she'd chosen not to.
"Again," Xheavend said.
Qaritas frowned.
"You've done all four."
"I know."
"Then what are you—"
She closed her eyes.
Qaritas stopped.
Something changed.
He felt it immediately.
Not End.
He knew End.
He had felt that thing sleeping inside Xheavend since she was nine years old.
Ancient.
Patient.
Final.
End felt like the last star going dark.
The final heartbeat.
The period at the end of reality's final sentence.
This—
Qaritas forgot to breathe.
Something had opened.
Not inside the forest.
Inside her.
The silver mist moved.
Not away.
Toward her.
Qaritas stood.
He didn't know why.
Something inside him simply understood that sitting suddenly felt inappropriate.
Not reverence.
Not submission.
Nothing commanded him.
That was the strangest part.
He could leave.
He knew he could.
Whatever this was—
it didn't want him kneeling.
Didn't want obedience.
Didn't seem to want anything from him.
It simply—
existed.
Warmth passed through his chest.
Not heat.
Something older.
Simpler.
The first breath after drowning.
Soil splitting above a seed.
Rain striking a world that had never known water.
The instant before a newborn screamed.
A door opening somewhere the universe had previously insisted contained a wall.
Qaritas's skin prickled.
End was not alone.
There was something else inside Xheavend.
Something equally impossible.
Equally vast.
And utterly opposite.
"X."
Her eyes opened.
The sensation vanished.
Qaritas stared at her.
"What was that?"
Xheavend didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
"You know."
"No."
"Xheavend."
"I don't."
She looked down at her hands.
"But I know they're there."
Qaritas caught the word.
"They?"
Her fingers curled.
Qaritas took one step closer.
"Can Yzer see them?"
That got her attention.
Her eyes lifted.
"No."
Immediate.
Certain.
Qaritas frowned.
"How do you know?"
"Because he sees End."
She looked toward the forest.
"He always has."
Something cold settled inside Qaritas.
"He can see what End does?"
"Pieces."
"What pieces?"
"What End lets him."
That was considerably worse.
Qaritas's jaw tightened.
Xheavend continued.
"It's like my name."
Qaritas looked at her.
"My appearance."
Her hand touched her own chest.
"Parts of me don't belong to him."
A pause.
"They never did."
Good.
Qaritas liked that sentence considerably more.
"And this?"
"He can't see it."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Xheavend looked down.
"Because End hides it."
Qaritas went still.
That—
was interesting.
"End is protecting them?"
"I think so."
"From Yzer?"
"Maybe from everyone."
Qaritas stared at her.
"Except you."
Xheavend's mouth twisted.
"Apparently."
He folded his arms.
"What are they?"
Silence.
Then:
"I don't know."
Qaritas waited.
Xheavend glanced at him.
He continued waiting.
She sighed.
"They call themselves Beginning."
Qaritas's arms slowly lowered.
"Beginning."
"Yes."
"Not the Beginning?"
"No."
Just—
Beginning.
End.
Beginning.
Qaritas looked at Xheavend.
Of course.
Of fucking course.
Because apparently being the living Apocalypse had not been complicated enough.
Now she contained whatever the opposite of that was.
"They."
Xheavend looked away.
"You said they call themselves Beginning."
Nothing.
"How many?"
Nothing.
"X."
"I don't know."
That one—
he believed.
Qaritas rubbed his face.
"Wonderful."
Xheavend's eyebrows lifted.
"Wonderful?"
"No."
He lowered his hand.
"That was sarcasm."
"I know."
"Good. Language lessons are working."
She almost smiled.
Almost.
Then the expression disappeared.
Xheavend walked back toward the Kaereth root where she'd left her journal.
Picked it up.
Held it against her chest.
"Every time I learn something new about myself—"
She stopped.
Qaritas waited.
"The danger gets worse."
His expression changed.
"That's not your fault."
"I didn't say it was."
Good.
She'd learned that too.
"But it still happens."
She looked toward the distant Veyrathi settlement.
Ships moved between black trees.
Tiny from here.
Lives.
"So I need to understand it before someone else does."
"Agreed."
"Before Yzer does."
"Very agreed."
"Before the Fragments do."
Qaritas's humor vanished.
There it was.
The real fear.
Not Yzer.
Not entirely.
Fragments.
The things even Ascendants had spent far too long running from.
Xheavend tightened her grip around the journal.
"One day I'm going to leave you."
Qaritas stared.
"No."
Her head turned.
"Q—"
"Absolutely not."
"You don't even know what I'm going to say."
"I know enough."
"Q."
"You're planning to do something stupid alone."
"I'm planning to—"
"Stupid."
"You haven't heard it."
"Alone."
"Would you stop?"
"Not remotely."
Xheavend glared.
Qaritas folded his arms.
"Continue."
She looked like she was considering hitting him.
Eventually—
"One day I'm going to leave."
Qaritas didn't joke this time.
"Is that what Yzer told you?"
"No."
"End?"
"No."
"Beginning?"
"No."
"Then who?"
Xheavend looked toward the enormous black trees.
For several seconds—
she said nothing.
Then:
"I can feel them, Q."
Qaritas frowned.
"Who?"
"Everyone."
He went still.
Xheavend looked down at the journal.
Her thumb brushed across its worn edge.
"Every mortal life in this universe."
Silence.
Qaritas didn't interrupt.
"I don't know their names."
Her voice softened.
"I don't know their faces."
Her eyes moved toward the Veyrathi settlement.
"But sometimes..."
She swallowed.
"I can feel them."
Qaritas's stomach tightened.
"How?"
"I don't know."
Frustration entered her voice.
"That's the problem. I don't know anything."
She pressed the journal harder against her chest.
"I feel fear."
A breath.
"Hunger."
Another.
"Birth."
Her eyes lowered.
"Death."
Qaritas said nothing.
"Millions."
Her voice became quieter.
"Billions."
Then—
"More."
The word barely existed.
"Sometimes it feels like the entire universe is breathing through me."
Qaritas felt something cold move beneath his ribs.
Xheavend looked at him.
"And they're waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
She held his gaze.
"Me."
No.
Qaritas didn't like that.
At all.
"Xheavend—"
"I think that's why I'm here."
"You don't know that."
"No."
Immediate.
Honest.
"I don't."
Good.
"But I feel it."
She looked toward the sky.
Toward stars hidden behind Hstrarkit's clouds.
"Something is coming."
Qaritas knew.
He'd known for a long time.
The Third Universe wasn't drifting toward war anymore.
War had already begun.
They simply hadn't reached all the battlefields yet.
"When that day comes—"
Xheavend looked at him.
"Don't look for me."
"No."
"Q."
"No."
"You need to listen."
"I listened."
"You answered before I finished."
"Efficiency."
Anger flashed across her face.
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
"If Yzer follows me—"
"I'll follow him."
"If the Fragments follow me—"
"I'll follow them."
"If I tell you not to—"
"I'll be extremely offended."
"Qaritas."
That stopped him.
Not Q.
His name.
Xheavend rarely used it when they were alone.
Her eyes were serious.
Afraid.
Not for herself.
For him.
"You can't follow me everywhere."
Qaritas knew.
That was the worst part.
He knew.
There were roads he couldn't walk for her.
Wars he couldn't fight instead of her.
Choices he couldn't make.
Yandaro's father had reminded him of that only hours ago.
Protection had limits.
Love did not magically erase them.
But that didn't mean surrendering before those limits arrived.
Qaritas stepped closer.
"No."
Xheavend's brow furrowed.
"No what?"
"I won't promise."
"Q—"
"I won't promise not to look for you."
She opened her mouth.
He continued.
"I won't promise not to follow."
Her jaw tightened.
"I won't promise not to help."
"You're impossible."
"I've been told."
"This could kill you."
"Many things could."
"This is different."
"It usually is."
Xheavend looked away.
Qaritas's voice softened.
"But when the day comes—"
She looked back.
"If you need to go somewhere I can't follow..."
The words tasted terrible.
He said them anyway.
"I'll let you go."
Xheavend went very still.
"But until that day?"
He tapped the journal against her chest.
"You have me."
Her eyes shone.
She blinked it away immediately.
Qaritas pretended not to notice.
"I don't know what I am," she whispered.
"You're Xheavend."
"That's not what I mean."
"I know."
She looked toward the forest.
"I'm the End, Q."
A pause.
Her hand tightened around the journal.
"But I'm the Beginning too."