*Transitioning into Ophelia's POV
Inside the spacious, sterile room where Ophelia had been brought, multiple Ankarians stood firmly at each corner of the polished interior.
Their tall, alien bodies, supported by numerous arms, moved with a rhythmic grace that bordered on unnatural.
*Click... *clack...
*Beep! *beep!
Their gloved fingers clicked and hissed as they handled their tools with a precision born from years of medical mastery—tending to the injured who lay silent on beds lined up against the walls.
The patients, most unconscious, were connected to various humming machines. Tubes and wires extended like tendrils across the floor, while monitoring devices blinked with dull, eerie lights.
*Hiss… *Click! Tch-chk!
The room was filled with the mechanical sounds of automated treatments, joined by the low murmur of Ankarian speech—a language soft yet alien, layered with unplaceable tones and pitch.
It was constant, a chorus of coordination, their sentences weaving together like a strange lullaby in the background—efficient, emotionless, and calm.
But suddenly, a single voice cut through the soft hum of order.
Different.
Sharper.
It was mechanical, its words punctuated by small internal clicks that clicked with every syllable, giving it the uncanny rhythm of a machine trying to sound human.
"Well, would you look at what we have here—the saintess herself, gracing us with her presence."
Ophelia flinched, startled, her head whipping toward the source of the voice.
There he was—
Amaron.
That strange cyborg who had carried Jinn aboard the dreadnought.
"You…" she muttered, eyes narrowing in recognition as she took a wary step back.
"You're the one. You carried Jinn when we were still inside the Crimera. I remember you now."
"None other," Amaron replied, nodding with a smirk that barely tugged at the edges of his artificial mouth.
His mechanical eyes, glowing a pale, soothing blue, gave a soft tick before slowly scanning her from head to toe.
For a brief moment, faint lines of light passed over her body, and the corners of his eyes pulsed—clearly analyzing something, though Ophelia couldn't tell what.
It felt like being x-rayed and judged all at once.
"Hmm… just as I thought," Amaron said after a moment, tilting his head slightly with a calculated hum.
"Lady Merilyn made a clever choice selecting me for this role. Or… was it Venedix?" He gave a playful shrug, as if it no longer mattered.
"Ah well, one of them had good sense."
He rotated his neck with a sharp
*clunk!
followed by a series of clicks and whirs as gears aligned and settled.
His glowing eyes locked onto her again, more focused this time.
"No time to waste. I'm going to teach you how to properly harness and wield your Eidra."
Ophelia blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift, but she gave a small nod and stepped forward.
Her face remained composed, but inside, her thoughts spun with uncertainty.
She took a deep breath.
Inhale... Exhale...
She raised her hand and began to focus, her fingers splayed gently as she reached inward—toward that familiar, nurturing warmth she had always known.
A subtle pulse radiated from her chest, traveling down her arm like liquid sunlight.
A soft, golden glow shimmered to life in her palm, warm and steady, like a sacred flame.
"Well, I only know how to do this—"
*FWIP!
Before she could finish, Amaron's hand lashed out with lightning speed, gripping her wrist in one sharp motion.
She gasped, recoiling instinctively, her breath caught in her throat.
The light in her palm flickered violently, threatened to go out.
She looked up at him, confused and on guard.
Amaron said nothing at first.
His glowing eyes swept across the room with precise, rapid motions—left, right, upper corners, shadows, doorways.
His expression grew serious, calculating, as the Ankarians continued their work in the distance—still lost in the rhythm of healing.
Only when he was sure they weren't listening did he return his gaze to her.
His voice dropped, low and sharp like a scalpel.
"You mustn't show your Eidra to anyone, young lady," he whispered firmly, not as a suggestion, but as a command.
"Not now. Not yet. You have no idea who might be watching—and no clue what they'd do if they saw what lives inside you."
Ophelia blinked, surprised.
The light in her hand vanished entirely, leaving behind only the faint warmth that still lingered in her chest. She stared at him in silence, stunned by the sudden shift in urgency.
What… why?
She wanted to ask—but something in the tone of his voice, the precise tension in his movements, told her that now wasn't the time.
This wasn't a lesson—it was a warning.
I guess… I'll ask later.
When we're alone.
When it's safe.
Amaron gave a quick glance over his shoulder, then motioned for her to follow.
Without another word, he led her out of the room and into a narrow hallway.
The noise of tools, machines, and voices slowly faded behind them, replaced by a growing silence that pressed in the deeper they went.
Eventually, they reached a heavy metal door at the end of the corridor.
With a press of Amaron's hand, it opened with a hiss.
Inside was a small room, quiet and dimly lit. No Ankarians, no surveillance.
Just four metal walls, a table at the center, and a few shelves filled with scrolls, dusty books, and unfamiliar devices.
Ophelia sat down as instructed, her eyes watching Amaron carefully.
He moved swiftly, pulling a stack of aged papers from a drawer and spreading them carefully across the table.
He flipped through a few before stopping at one in particular and slid it forward.
Then he sat down across from her.
"Young lady," he began, tone calm but deliberate, "from whence do you come?"
*tap... tap... *tap...
He tapped a metal finger softly on the table. "Where were your parents from? Your bloodline?"
Ophelia tilted her head in confusion, her snow-white hair spilling to one side like fresh silk.
"Why are you asking that?" she said, her voice quiet, uncertain.
She paused, then looked away.
"I don't really know… My parents abandoned me. I was just a baby when they left me—at the gates of an orphanage." Her voice softened, tinged with the weight of old wounds.
"I've never met them. The people in the orphanage... they were the only family I've ever known."
Amaron gave a slow, thoughtful nod, not interrupting.
His mechanical fingers continued to shift through the documents until he found the one he'd been looking for.
With gentle care, he pushed it toward her.
"I have strong reason to believe," he said, tapping the image etched into the paper, "that you are of Seraphim descent."
Ophelia's eyes widened, lips parting slightly in disbelief as she stared down at the symbol.
It was beautiful.
A golden flame surrounded by wide, intricate halos that shimmered faintly, almost as if the image itself held light.
The lines danced and flickered subtly, like it was more than ink—
like it was alive.
"Your Eidra," Amaron continued, "based on the readings I took using my sensors... it matches the energy used by the Seraphim. Within their empire, it's called Aetherys—the light of Aurevian, their deity."
"W-What…?" Her voice was barely audible. Her breath caught in her chest.
"Me? A Seraphim?"
She felt her body go still.
Her thoughts swirled into a fog of disbelief.
Amaron leaned in closer, his voice now low and serious.
"Listen to me carefully. You must never, ever reveal your Eidra to anyone again—not unless you trust them with your life. The Empire of Zerafhon... they hate the Seraphim. They have reasons—old blood, ancient wars—but that hatred still burns."
Ophelia furrowed her brow.
"Then… why are you helping me? Aren't you Zerafhon?"
"I am," he said without pause. "But not all Zerafhon believe in blind loyalty to old grudges. Some of us—like Merilyn, and even Venedix—know that there's more to life than bloodlines and banners."
He leaned back, folding his hands.
"The Empire may appear mighty and unified from the outside… but on the inside, it is full of cracks. Corruption festers in silence. People in power cling to it. And eventually, that corruption will lead to chaos. I don't intend to be a part of it."
Ophelia took a deep breath, letting the silence settle between them.
She felt the weight of his words press against her heart, heavy but somehow comforting.
Amaron gave her a gentle smile and leaned forward again.
"But that's for another day. Right now, you have something the world needs. Healing. Light. A gift that might save lives in the dark times ahead."
He chuckled softly. "Especially Jinn. He seems to have a habit of stumbling back half-dead more often than not."
That earned a faint smile from Ophelia.
Her shoulders relaxed.
"Yeah… that sounds like him."
But even as she smiled, something heavy stayed in her chest.
Her Eidra was different.
Forbidden.
A spark of hope in a place that had no room for it.
But maybe… maybe that's exactly why she had it.
As long as I stick close to Jinn… I'll be okay.
And if her light could help him survive… then that would be enough.
For now.