Chapter 67. The Fire We Choose
The Wraith drifted into position above the Nexan Cloud, cloaked in silence. Its hull glowed faintly from residual charge, like a beast biding its time. Below them, the Architect Nexus pulsed an impossible web of crystalized energy, living circuits, and synchronized dread. The fleet surrounding it was flawless. Geometric. Perfect in ways that always felt wrong.
Elara stood on the command deck, arms folded tight. She hadn’t slept. Not since the signal from the Fifth Seed reached her no, called to her, like a voice from a dream she never remembered but always feared. Her hair, now streaked silver-white from Drift Hollow, shimmered beneath the low lights of the ship.
Every breath in the Wraith felt borrowed. Every second, a countdown.
Nova leaned against the starboard console, chewing a nutrient bar like it owed her money. "This thing tastes like regret and metal."
Damien, hunched over tactical readouts, didn’t look up. "It’s protein-rich."
"It’s despair-flavored."
"You’ll live longer."
Nova scoffed. "To what end? So I can enjoy more terrible snacks while we dive into the universe’s deadliest kill box?"
Aeron strode in just in time to catch that last part. He was fully armored now—sleek, sharp, the edges of his combat vest catching the ambient red light.
"No suicide runs," he said. "Not unless I’m giving the order."
"That’s rich," Nova replied, tossing the bar wrapper toward the waste chute. "From the guy who once jumped onto a crashing dropship without a harness."