On Earth —
Evening was arriving.
Slowly. As though it too was reluctant — to come. As though the day already knew that when it left, night would follow. And in the night — the house felt emptier still.
Riya sat beside the window.
Hands resting on her knees. Eyes fixed on the road — on that particular spot where Rana would sometimes appear — from a distance — bag slung over one shoulder — slightly late — slightly casual — as though time had agreed to wait for him.
Now —
The road was crowded with people moving in every direction, and yet the road felt completely empty.
Mummy came from the kitchen — without saying anything — placed a cup beside Riya — and went back. The sound of her footsteps moved down the corridor — then disappeared. There was a strange silence in the house — the kind that doesn't belong to houses. The kind that settles in when a piece of a house — permanently — is no longer there.
Papa was in the living room. The television was on — but no sound came from it. Only visuals — that no one was watching. Papa's eyes were on the screen — but he wasn't there. He was somewhere else — in that place where a father goes when his son is gone.
All three of them were home.
And yet all three were lost in worlds of their own — worlds that had no doors between them.
Three days ago, the police had made it official.
"No conclusive evidence has been found so far. The CCTV footage remains unexplained. We will keep the case open — but allocating resources to active investigation is not possible at this time."
Papa had nodded.
He hadn't argued. Hadn't asked questions. Because what would one ask. What would one demand. When there was nothing — that could be given.
Mummy had looked at the officer once — just once — then looked down. And in that downward glance — there was an entire world. A world that had existed, whole and complete, and had now ceased to exist entirely.
The three of them had driven home in silence — and arrived home in silence — and remained in silence.
Riya picked up the cup — but didn't drink.
Something was there. Something that had been there since she returned. She didn't know what it was — or perhaps she knew but didn't want to think about it — or perhaps, in the weight of missing Rana, she simply couldn't reach it. Sometimes it could be felt — from somewhere deep inside — like something was shifting. Slowly. Like something that had been asleep — and was now —
But not now.
She didn't want to think about it now.
She closed her eyes —
And for just one moment —
That scene came back to her.
Rana had held her hand — tight — that night when she had been frightened. It was dark. She had wanted to cry.
"I'm here," Rana had said. "I won't let anyone come near you."
There was no promise in his voice.
Only — certainty.
As though it wasn't even a question.
And Riya had fallen asleep.
Her eyes opened.
"Rana."
Just that one word. Inside. Quietly. Like a prayer — that wasn't meant to be heard by anyone. It only needed to be said. It only needed to — come out. That one word.
Despite the crowd, the road was empty.
The evening had grown deeper still.
Riya placed the cup back down — she wanted to stand — but couldn't bring herself to rise. That thing inside her — it shifted — for one second — and then went still again.
But going still didn't mean she would stop trying to pull herself back to the surface.
Something was there. Still there.
For now, she told herself.
For now — the road was empty.
And on Zyphoros —
In a hidden place —
The three of them were gathered.
There was silence — but this time the silence was different. The silence before had held only pain. This time — there was something else within it too. Something that resembled direction. Something that resembled a next step.
Rana sat on the ground — hands resting on his knees — eyes closed. The Figure stood before him — still — that same blue glow — ancient, cold. Xyolithian stood to the side — arms crossed — thinking.
A long stretch of silence.
Then Rana opened his eyes.
"The box is with them," he said. "Zaneath made it for me. Ryvok gave his life for it. And it — it is in their hands right now."
No response.
"We have to take it back," Rana said — this time it was a statement. Not a question.
Xyolithian took one step forward. "Going directly would be a mistake. Security will be tighter now. He knows you're free. There will be preparation on his side."
"Then what —"
"To get inside," the Figure said — slowly — "we'll need to draw them out. Or create a distraction."
Rana thought.
A distraction.
Something that would pull the Leader's attention — or at least the attention of security — away. For a few minutes. Just a few minutes.
"And the box?" Rana asked. "Even if we get inside — where will the box be?"
"That box is yours," the Figure said. "You can feel it. Zaneath made it — for you — only for you. When you are near it — you will know."
Rana looked at the Figure — for one second.
This was true.
That feeling — the one from the first time the box had come into his hands. That connection. The one he had felt every single time.
"And if he already uses it?" Rana asked — quietly. That question which had been sitting inside him — consuming him from within.
Xyolithian paused for a moment. "He cannot. The box can only be accessed by you. No one else can open it."
"But if he tries —"
"Then nothing will happen," the Figure said simply. "That box — it is only yours. Was. Is. Will always be."
There was something in those words — that felt good to hear.
Rana closed his eyes — for one second — then opened them.
"However, if it reaches Veyrath's hands, that becomes a problem — because apart from you, only Veyrath can use the box," Xyolithian said.
"We'll take the box back before that happens," Rana replied, his mind already turning.
"Alright. Let's make a plan. All three of us together."
And for the first time — all three were facing the same direction.
The plan took shape — slowly — carefully. Every step. Every possibility. Every single thing that could go wrong — was thought through as well.
Through the planning, Rana kept returning to one thought.
The box.
Ryvok.
Zaneath.
That chain — the one that connected them — it was still there. It hadn't broken. The Leader had taken everything — but he couldn't take that chain.
Rana looked toward the Figure — once — those blue eyes —
"When do we leave?" Rana asked.
The Figure paused for one second.
"When you are ready."
Rana looked at Zyphoros's broken sky — that sky beneath which, somewhere far away, Zaneath existed. Ryvok existed. Everything that had happened — and everything that was yet to happen.
Zaneath. Ryvok.
I am coming.
"I am ready."
"But if we fail this time — you will have to activate the weapon. And the sacrifice it demands — you will have to give it," Xyolithian said to Rana, his voice heavy with the weight of what he was saying.
Rana gave no answer.
And from the third direction —
Far away —
Another place entirely —
The airship broke through the atmosphere —
And this planet did not welcome the Leader.
This place welcomed no one. The concept of welcome did not exist here. Only — existence did. And within that existence — there was only one message — you do not belong here.
But the Leader had come. Not because he belonged or didn't. But because — there was a need.
He looked out through the airship's window —
And paused for one second.
Zyphoros was broken. Shattered. But Zyphoros had something — life still existed within its surroundings. Something that reminded you of civilization. There was soil in Zyphoros. Wind moved through it. There were structures that, even in their collapse, still said something.
This planet —
This planet was entirely different.
Not because civilization had never existed here. But because — whatever had existed — had ended so completely that not even a trace remained. No mark. No evidence. As though the planet itself had decided — erase everything. Entirely. Leave nothing behind.
And then — only this remained.
Only the planet remained.
The sky —
The sky's colour could not be defined.
It was not black — because even black has depth within it. It was not grey — because even grey holds a position. What existed — was something in between. That state which occurs when light does not exist — but darkness is not complete either. As though both had agreed — there will be no winner here. And that stalemate had become permanent.
Eyes could not settle on this colour.
There was something in the air. Or what passed for air — was simply the planet's natural atmosphere. But the feeling it carried — that was not the feeling of air. It was static. As though the atmosphere itself was a separate entity. Not solid. Not fluid. Something in between — that reminded you, with every breath — you are not from here.
The Leader took one deep breath — a test.
Technically — everything was fine.
But that word technically was doing an enormous amount of work.
In the sky —
There was something. That was not stars. Not ships. Not meteors.
It moved. Slowly. Constantly. As though it was part of the planet's atmosphere — organic — but even organic didn't feel like the right word here. It was something else. Something without a name. Or perhaps it had one — but no one had shared it.
The airship descended.
The Leader's hand — involuntarily — tightened its grip.
He stepped onto the ground.
And the first thing —
Sound.
Or rather — the absence of sound.
On Zyphoros, footsteps made noise. Here — here the surface did something different. Whatever sound arose — was immediately — absorbed. As though the planet wanted — silence.
With the Leader was a soldier — the same soldier — who had also been present at the Astra Building when the box was retrieved. But that soldier was not a Raxorian Leader's man. He had come from somewhere — or been sent — only to complete this mission.
He took one step — and paused for one second.
The Leader didn't look at him.
But he noticed.
This place affects people.
Within the first minute.
The colour of the ground —
Was dark. So dark that shadows could not be identified within it. Shadows require contrast — the difference between light and dark. Here there was no contrast. Only one consistent shade — everywhere — on the floor — on the walls — in the atmosphere — that merged everything into one. Boundaries blurred. Distance became impossible to judge.
There was the illusion of depth — where there was none.
And where depth truly existed — it hid itself.
There were structures.
But the structures the Leader had seen before — they were different. In Zyphoros's broken structures there was a tragedy — one that said — something existed here once. In the structures here, there was no tragedy.
Only — function.
Pure. Brutal. Uncompromising.
No curves. No ornamentation. No angle that was not strictly necessary — it simply didn't exist. Only vertical and horizontal. Only straight lines. As though whoever had designed this had not merely rejected the concept of beauty — they had declared beauty irrelevant.
The heights varied. No structure matched another. One was enormously tall — it dissolved into the sky — where that nameless colour existed. Another was so small it could easily be overlooked.
But in both — there was one thing — in common.
No openings.
No windows. No visible doors. No indication whatsoever that anything was inside or that anything happened within. Only — walls. Continuous. Unbroken. As though existing on the inside — acknowledging the outside — had not been considered necessary.
But something was inside.
The Leader knew.
There was one structure — slightly different from the rest.
Only slightly. Enough that it would only be noticed by someone paying attention. But the Leader paid attention — he always had — this was one thing he had learned from Zaneath. Every detail matters.
That difference —
That difference lay in the fact that outside this particular structure, there were presences. Still. Completely still. As though they were part of the environment — yet separate from it — because the environment does not track. These did. Every movement. Every step. Without turning their heads. Without any visible acknowledgment. Only eyes — that were always there.
The Leader spoke something in a specific pattern — a code — one that only functioned here.
"Nox Drav Kryx Vorn Zor" — words from an alien tongue, carrying the meaning:
"Darkness flows in blood… enemies fall by its power."
The gate opened.
And from within —
Nothing came from within. No smell. No sound. Only — a sensation. Something like a drop in temperature — but no thermometer would register it. The kind of drop that occurs not in the body — but in the mind. As though something inside was fundamentally different from the existing reality outside — and that difference — was deeply uncomfortable.
The Leader entered.
The soldier followed.
A corridor.
Long. Straight. No turns. No doors along the sides. Only one direction — forward. As though this place did not understand the concept of options. There was only one path. And that path — led to only one place.
There was light — technically. But what existed was the absolute minimum of illumination. Enough to avoid collision. Enough to distinguish floor from ceiling. Beyond that — nothing.
The concept of comfort did not exist here.
Every footstep — absorbed. Every breath — that sensation — reminding you that this place was offering only temporary permission — to exist. Only temporary.
And at the corridor's end —
A door.
Normal in size. But something about it was different — the material was different. The texture was different. As though this door existed solely for this one room. For this one moment.
The Leader extended his hand and opened it.
The room —
Was large — but felt small. Because the ceiling couldn't be gauged. The walls couldn't be gauged. That consistent shade — everywhere — keeping every boundary undefined.
One thing was clearly defined.
A window. On one side. An opening — through which that sky was visible. Those moving shapes. That nameless colour. That thing — which was not stars, yet occupied their place.
And before that window —
Someone stood.
Tall. Looking only toward the sky.
As though he had known all along that someone would come. As though he had heard — or hadn't heard — and it made no difference. He was there. And he was always there.
The Leader took one second.
Then suddenly a strange sound came — low, yet deep —
"Welcome to Raxorath,"
"But you are late."
The voice was quiet but carried a power that made the air around it feel thin. The kind of voice that belongs to something older than language itself.
And then he turned.
The one because of whom this entire story had begun. The darkness in his eyesight was profound — as though countless secrets had made their home within them across centuries. His steps were slow but carried an unbearable weight, and his very presence transformed the air into absolute silence. In that moment, everything stopped — as though time itself was watching him, and fearing what it saw.
And in that one name — before this entity — before whom the Raxorian Leader was nothing, his powers were nothing, and perhaps it was because of whom he himself had become nothing more than a piece in a game. A piece that only followed rules. But the one who made the rules of the game — was someone else entirely.
And in that one name, everything existed —
The beginning… and the end…
"Veyrath."