Chapter 273
The air on the mountain is cleaner than I ever remember breathing. It’s crisp and sweet, alive with the scent of moss and pine and something old, untouched. We’ve climbed higher than we probably should’ve—Wake keeps glancing over his shoulder like he’s expecting Lily or one of Shoal’s guards to materialize from the trees, their hands full of questions we don’t feel like answering.
But there’s no one. Just wind and water and sky.
Miore’s nervous. He doesn't say it, but it’s all over him—tight shoulders, darting eyes, a hand constantly fidgeting at the edge of his coat. “If Shoal finds out we’re up here—”
“He won’t,” I say. “And even if he did, what’s he gonna do? Kick us out of his little doomsday cult?”
Wake doesn’t smile, but his mouth twitches slightly. That’s as good as a laugh, in his language.
We find a stream near the summit, a narrow cut of water winding down from the peak like a vein. The rocks are cold, slick with moss, and the water—when I crouch and dip my fingers into it—is freezing. I love it. It feels clean. Like truth.
Miore kneels beside me, unsure, his gaze flicking between us. “So... what are we doing exactly?”
“We’re getting away from the Darklite,” I say.
Wake finds a seat on the bank, silent as ever but close enough that I feel his watchfulness settle over both of us like a second skin. He doesn’t trust Miore yet—not fully. But he’s trying. That’s progress.
The air shifts as we sit at the edge of the stream, mountain water running cold over our legs. The climb was long—longer than I expected, honestly—and Miore’s breathing still hasn’t quite slowed. He looks unsure of himself. Of us. Of all of this. But he's here, and that means something.
Wake stands watch a few paces away, arms crossed, back leaned against a crooked tree whose roots hang over the streambed like a sentry. He’s still, but I can feel the tension in him. Being this far from the facility makes him twitchy, but he hasn't said a word against it. Not once.
I reach into my bag and grab hold of a familiar object, the crystal warm to the touch.
Miore glances down at my hand, at the orb nestled in my palm. “I thought you said Darklite was an inhibitor,” he says, brows drawn low. “Why are we using that?”
“It is,” I say, studying the orb. Its glow is muted here in the sunlight, but there’s a subtle shimmer beneath the surface, like trapped lightning. “But I think it can do more than just suppress us. I think it’s a kind of bridge too—just not the one Enigma wants it to be.”
He frowns, clearly not following.
I glance at Wake. He gives me a short nod. Just enough to say, I’m here. Do it.
“Miore,” I say. “You’ve never communed with Nu, have you?”
His lips press into a line. “No.”
“Do you know how?”
“Not really. I mean… I’ve read things. But I’ve never… felt him. Not the way you say you feel Electra. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
I nod, not unkindly. “Then we’ll start small. We’re going to enter the Ether. Together. I’ll walk you through it.”
He looks nervous, but intrigued. “And the orb?”
“The orb’s just the key. You’re the one who opens the door.”
I pass it to him, and his hands tremble just a little as he cups it between his palms. “Okay. What now?”
“Close your eyes.”
He does.
“Breathe. Steady. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
The stream rushes around us, a cool lullaby. I let my own breathing match the rhythm of the water.
“Picture yourself submerged,” I say. “Not drowning. Floating. The water doesn’t push you. It carries you. Feel that weightlessness, and let your thoughts go with the current. Don't fight it.”
Miore tilts slightly, eyes still closed. His lips part.
And then I feel it.
The orb pulses. A rush of energy blooms outward, faint and golden. Wake shifts slightly where he stands.
And just like that—
—we’re somewhere else.
The Ether folds around us like silk.
Colors bloom in impossible gradients, and the ground beneath our feet isn’t ground at all. It’s motion, swirling and pulsing in rhythm with some silent, cosmic heartbeat. The stars are close here. Closer than they should be, as if the sky has bent to meet us.
Miore gasps beside me. “Is this…?”
“This is the Ether.”
He stares around in awe. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s everything.”
And standing ahead of us, waiting just beyond the shimmer of astral light—Nu.
He stands tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in robes that glisten with riverlight and woven constellations. His skin is the color of fertile earth, dark and radiant, his eyes twin lakes beneath the stars. His presence is like gravity—not heavy, but anchoring. A force of stillness and creation.
Next to him stands Electra.
She looks as she always does—ever-shifting, ever-beautiful, each breath a new iteration. Her eyes find me first, warm and unreadable.
But it’s Nu who speaks.
“Miore.”
The name carries a resonance that humbles the air itself.
Miore stumbles forward, eyes wide. “You know me?”
“I made you,” Nu says gently. “From ocean breath and freshwater soul.”
“I—I thought you never answered me.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to listen.”
Miore blinks rapidly. His shoulders shake. “I didn’t know how.”
“You do now.”
Something in Miore breaks. Not in a bad way—in the way a dam breaks to let a river flow. He drops to his knees, and Nu kneels with him, cupping a hand to his temple.
In that moment, a glow passes between them. Miore’s skin glimmers with pale aquamarine lines, like bioluminescence drawn from his bones.
“I… I feel him,” Miore whispers, and he’s crying now, openly. “I feel home.”
Electra steps forward beside me, watching him.
When she speaks, my blood turns to sleet in my veins. “You’re wasting time.”
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