Five days after Khelos, Solara HQ no longer felt like a place built to withstand war.
It wasn't a fortress.
It was a convergence.
Human engineering intertwined with ancient ley architecture—angular steel and alloy fused seamlessly with curved stone conduits that looked grown rather than carved. Glowing channels laced the exterior walls like living nerves, pulsing faintly in rhythm with the planet's heartbeat. Solar plating refracted neon-red light into the air, casting warm reflections across the surrounding sand. Beneath every step, the ground hummed—not loud enough to hear, but impossible not to feel.
Nearby, a small reserve of trees stood in deliberate contrast.
They looked ordinary at first glance—thin trunks, muted green leaves—but faint glimmers of ley seeped through the bark, glowing softly beneath the surface. Dull green grass pushed stubbornly through cracked soil, uneven and defiant.
Between them, the air still bent in places.
Not violently. Not dangerously.
Just… wrong.
Small ripples of distortion lingered where the battle had torn at reality, subtle reminders that Fusion remembered what had happened here. The Balance Keeper's Overload had not stayed contained to a single night. Like years before, its echo had spread—quiet, persistent, undeniable.
Even here, life adapted.
Even here, it persisted.
Allium was not bound to stone.
He lay in an ICU bed.
Which, according to Nina, was far worse.
"Allium," she said for what felt like the twentieth time, hands braced on her hips, "you heard me. You know you are to remain here until you are fully healed. And if I have to explain it one more time, you're getting Nurse Hailey back."
Allium's eyes widened—not in fear of confinement, but something much more specific.
"She is mean," he said earnestly. "And she does not like questions."
Nina nodded once. "Correct. Because she has a job to do. And so do I."
She tapped the call button mounted beside his bed.
"This is for emergencies," she continued. "Not curiosity. I have other patients who need attention, and I cannot let you leave."
Allium's gaze softened, orange dimming slightly. His expression wasn't defiant. It was… small.
"But I feel much better," he said. "I don't really want to go out. I just want to see her."
Nina studied him for a moment—really studied him—then let out a quiet breath that almost resembled a laugh.
"Oh, you like her," she said. "You tell me you don't, but I can see how your orange reacts when she's near."
Allium shifted, shoulders drawing inward as if he could take up less space.
Nina softened her tone, just a fraction.
"Comply for now," she said. "This won't be permanent."
He nodded.
Not because he liked it.
Because he trusted her.
She left shortly after, already issuing instructions down the hall, when Weaver entered.
He looked better.
Bruised still, face healing in stages of yellow and violet, but standing upright. Most of his teeth had decided to stay where they belonged—save for a missing molar in the back that he pretended not to notice.
"Allium," Weaver said gently. "You seem improved."
Allium nodded, then hesitated.
"I am," he said. "But Hailey does not listen."
Weaver took the chair beside the bed, the movement careful but practiced.
"As Nina said," he replied, "she has a job. You are not owed answers."
Allium shifted again, clearly unhappy with that conclusion.
"She does not answer," he said, "because of my known status."
Weaver met his eyes.
He saw the shame there.
The regret.
It was familiar.
"You were not yourself, son," Weaver said quietly. "Do not let Central decide how you feel about that. You will overcome this."
The word son landed softly—and stayed.
Allium felt warmth at it, even as his gaze dropped.
"And if Rose trying to leave her room just to see you isn't proof enough," Weaver added, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, "then I fear you may be developing vision problems."
Allium tilted his head.
"Are you imitating Cass?"
Weaver blinked. "Absolutely not."
Then, after a beat, "It is simply how I feel."
Allium absorbed that.
For the last five days, Central's orders had been clear. He was to be supervised at all times. Classified.
Dangerous to citizens and personnel.
The fear wasn't born from what people knew.
It came from the label.
"Is the garden still bad?" Allium asked.
Weaver's smile turned into something half-sad.
"Partly," he said. "Some trees have been replaced. Reality is still mending itself."
Allium raised a hand to his face, fingers pressing into the bruised skin.
"I wish I had died within that sphere," he said quietly. "I do not wish to be better if it means staying here like this."
Weaver straightened at once.
"Allium," he said, alarmed. "Do not suggest such a thing. We care deeply for you. Challenges will come—and it is up to you to face them as a person. You are not alone."
He hesitated.
"I have faced grief like this myself."
Allium knew.
"…Kyros," he said. "Does it ever feel better?"
Weaver wanted to lie.
He didn't.
"I think about it all the time," he admitted. "But it does get easier. Not gone. Easier."
That helped.
And somehow, it didn't.
The door burst open.
Cassidy entered like a controlled explosion, one hand still wrapped, the other balancing a massive tray of cookies.
"Nobody panic," she announced. "I've returned with cookies. They may be slightly explosive, but that's what makes them special."
She spotted Allium instantly.
"Oh you loved those donuts," she said. "But these? You're gonna love these."
Weaver frowned. "Sugar and fats are not going to aid his recovery."
Cassidy pointed at him. "True. But they are going to help heal a soul. That's the point, Grandpa."
Allium stared at the tray.
There were oat cookies.
Fruit-filled ones.
Crescent-shaped pastries buried under powdered sugar.
"I do not know which to have," he said seriously. "This is troubling."
Cassidy laughed and handed him one of each.
"Problem solved. Try all three and decide which ones you want to destroy first."
Weaver sighed.
Then subtly slipped a thread.
The cookie vanished.
Allium examined his chosen one like a geologist studying a meteorite.
"This," he declared, "is edible."
Cassidy snorted. "Yes. Unlike the candle you bit last night."
Weaver blinked. "He… bit a candle?"
Cassidy waved it off. "I told him to ask if he could shower. He smelled weird. I put out a melon-scented one and apparently that was too tempting."
Weaver rubbed his forehead.
"How often are you bringing things here?"
Cassidy thought. "Dunno. He's like a caveman. It's interesting."
Allium frowned. "I do not dwell in caves. That is inaccurate."
Weaver stood, casually pocketing the stolen cookie.
"I need to file my daily report," he said. "Rest well, son. Enjoy your cookies."
Cassidy grinned. "Saw that, Weaver."
He pretended not to hear.
Cassidy followed shortly after.
"I'm back on the clock," she said. "Higher-ups breathing down my neck. I'll still visit though. See you later, sunburn."
Allium nodded.
Then he took a bite.
His eyes widened.
He processed.
Carefully.
"Pleasant…."
And for the first time since judgment had passed, something small survived it.