The hill stretched upward like a jagged spine, winding endlessly toward the store that shimmered faintly against the golden glow of the black hole's rings. The air had grown thinner the higher they climbed, the plateau's vast silence broken only by the crunch of boots against uneven rock and the shifting creak of bags on their shoulders.
They had already carried the woven objects—round after round, each load heavier than the last, as though unseen hands pressed down upon their shoulders. Still, they did not falter. Samar, ever the charmer, still cracked the occasional smirk to ease the suffocating weight. Roumit, quiet yet sharp, moved with unflinching concentration. Armaan, however, felt the strange air around them tugging at his thoughts, gnawing at the back of his mind like invisible teeth.
And Zykarith—always present, always watching—trailed behind in silence, her eyes holding secrets she refused to speak.
Now came the next burden: the bags of vases, jugs, and sealed glass containers. Fragile things. Each step was accompanied by the clink of glass within, reminding them of how easily everything could shatter with one wrong move.
"Careful," Armaan muttered, his eyes narrowing as he steadied his balance on a slope.
They carried the glass bags in careful silence, their breaths growing heavier with each round. The path felt longer than it should, and though none of them said it aloud, all three sensed the trick at play—the invisible threads of trial woven into the simple act of helping an old man.
By the time they placed the last of the glass-laden bags before the store at the hilltop, sweat dampened their foreheads, and their arms ached as though carved from stone.
"Finally," Samar exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "That should be—"
He stopped when he saw the old alien staring at the last group of bags still waiting below.
The stones.
The precious ones.
The cyan crystal sat among them like a heartbeat of light, pulsing faintly under the golden hues of the black hole's reflected glow. It shimmered too vividly, too alive, as if it did not belong to stone or mineral but to something deeper—something sentient.
Armaan remembered instantly the way the old alien had leapt to his feet despite his injury, shouting with unexpected ferocity: "DON'T TOUCH THAT STONE!"
The words replayed in his mind now as he stared at it.
This wasn't going to be as simple as lifting woven baskets or fragile vases.
They descended again, the silence between them thicker than before. The old man sat at his rock, cradling his leg again, his eyes shifting toward the crystal bag more than once.
"I'll carry the larger bag," Armaan said, taking charge. His voice was firm, though a flicker of doubt edged it.
Samar nodded easily. "Got it."
Roumit, however, paused near the crystal bag. His eyes lingered on the cyan glow, tracing the way it seemed to pulse like a hidden flame. He reached for one of the smaller bags beside it, but his fingers brushed dangerously close to the crystal's edge.
A gust of wind swept across the plateau, rattling the bags stacked near the cart. One of them tipped, the mouth of the sack gaping as stones tumbled out across the dirt. Among them, the cyan crystal rolled free, stopping right at the edge of the slope.
"Damn—!" Roumit dove instinctively. His hand closed around the crystal just before it could slip over the edge and plummet into the chasm below.
The world froze.
The old alien's head snapped up, eyes wide. Samar let out a sharp gasp, and even Armaan's heart lurched in his chest as if someone had torn the air out of him.
Roumit straightened, holding the crystal in his palm. The cyan glow flickered against his skin, almost as if it recognized him.
But what hit harder than the glow was the silence—the silence of disobedience.
Armaan stormed forward, his voice sharp. "Roumit! What the hell are you doing? He told us not to touch it!"
Roumit didn't flinch. His usual calm eyes met Armaan's burning ones, and in that moment he looked strangely older, more resolute than the boy Armaan had always known.
"If I didn't catch it," Roumit said quietly, "it would've been gone."
Armaan froze, his anger clashing with logic. His fists clenched at his side.
"That doesn't matter!" Armaan shot back. "It wasn't ours to decide. That crystal—it's clearly precious to him. You should've respected that—"
"But if it's precious," Roumit interrupted, his voice steady, "isn't it more important to save it… rather than save it from me?"
The words struck harder than a blade.
Samar let out a low whistle, scratching the back of his head. "Well, when you put it like that…"
Armaan opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came. He wanted to say Roumit was reckless, that he had disobeyed, that he had broken trust. But the logic… no, the truth of his words cut deep. The crystal was safe. And wasn't that what truly mattered?
Armaan's anger melted into silence. He looked at Roumit again, really looked at him. The boy who always seemed quiet, who often stood in his shadow—Roumit's eyes now glimmered with an intensity that made him seem different.
This guy… Armaan thought. He's sharper than he lets on.
Inwardly, without speaking, Armaan praised him—from the bottom of his heart.
"…Fine," Armaan muttered at last, though his voice was softer now. "But next time… at least warn us before giving me a heart attack."
Roumit smirked faintly, slipping the crystal back into its bag with careful hands. "Noted."
The old alien, who had been silently watching, lowered his head. His lips curved into something that could almost be mistaken for approval.
They lifted the stone bags together. Each one heavier than the last, but not in weight alone—it was as if the crystals themselves pressed against their minds. The cyan glow seemed to hum faintly in Roumit's bag, almost as though it whispered to him alone.
No one said it aloud, but they all felt it: they had crossed an unseen line.
The air grew thicker, their breaths shorter, but still they climbed.
By the time they reached the top and laid the last stone bag before the store, something in the air shifted. The tension uncoiled, replaced by an unsettling quiet.
The old man's smile lingered faintly as he approached the bags, his frail hand brushing against them as if counting each one. His gaze lingered for the longest time on Roumit's bag—on the crystal within—before finally lifting toward them and than...
"You three," he said slowly, his voice rasping like the grinding of old wood. "I have one last request before you go."
The words carried no malice. No force. But they rooted into the air with the weight of inevitability.
The boys exchanged glances. Armaan frowned slightly, sensing that this wasn't just another errand.
"What is it?" he asked cautiously.
The old alien's eyes flickered with an unreadable gleam. Then, without standing, he gestured toward Armaan.
"First… you."
Armaan stepped forward, his fists unconsciously clenching.
The alien's gaze bored into him. "Tell me, boy… Do you think helping me was the right choice?"
The question struck harder than he expected. Simple words. Too simple. Yet his chest tightened around them like a trap.
Armaan's mind flickered with everything—the sweat on his back, the ache in his arms, the strange weight games, the shouting over the crystal, Zykarith's unnerving silence, Roumit nearly falling into danger.
Was it the right choice?
He swallowed. His voice came out steady, but it trembled faintly beneath. "Yes. It was the right choice. Even if it was difficult. Even if it felt… wrong at times. Helping you wasn't just about you. It was about us."
The alien's expression didn't shift. His eyes remained locked, deep and impenetrable. For a heartbeat, Armaan wondered if his answer had been enough.
Then the alien gave the faintest nod.
Armaan stepped back, his chest heavy, like something unseen had measured him and quietly passed judgment.
The alien turned next to Samar.
"You," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Would you have still helped me… if no one else did?"
Samar blinked, then smirked lightly as if trying to cut the tension. "That's a trick question, isn't it?"
But the alien did not smile. He waited, unmoving.
Samar's smirk faded. For once, his words didn't come instantly. He stared at the ground, then up at the black hole's golden ring shimmering across the sky.
"Would I have helped you… alone?" Samar repeated the question, softer this time. He let out a slow breath, shoulders straightening. "Yes. I would have. I may joke around, but when someone's struggling in front of me… I can't just walk away. Even if I have to do it by myself."
His tone carried no theatrics. Just a raw honesty that even he seemed surprised by.
The alien's gaze lingered longer on him than it had on Armaan, but at last, he gave the faintest nod again.
And then… he turned to Roumit.
The cyan glow in the bag seemed to pulse brighter as the alien's eyes settled on him. The boy who had caught the forbidden crystal. The boy who had spoken with strange calm when Armaan's voice burned with anger.
"You," the alien said at last, voice cutting like a knife through the stillness. "If you knew I was lying… would you call me out?"
The words rang like a whisper, yet felt louder than a scream.
Roumit froze. His eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. He stared at the alien for what felt like a long time, silent.
The question didn't just hang in the air—it pierced it. Armaan and Samar unconsciously leaned forward, their breaths caught.
"If you knew I was lying…"
Roumit's lips parted, but no words came. His chest rose and fell, his thoughts invisible behind his steady gaze. The silence stretched, longer and longer, until even the sound of the wind seemed to hush.
Then, finally, Roumit spoke.
"…Yes."
His voice was quiet, but sharp enough to slice through the silence. "If I knew you were lying, I'd call you out. Not because it's easy. Not because I want to. But because pretending I don't see it… is worse."
The alien's expression shifted for the first time—a flicker, brief but undeniable. His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile, and wasn't quite disapproval either.
"Interesting," he murmured.
Then, before their eyes, his form began to fade. The wrinkles, the frail body, the tattered robes—all of it melted into faint wisps of light, dissolving like mist beneath the black hole's reflected glow.
In moments, he was gone.
The plateau fell silent again, but this silence was different—colder, sharper.
Samar's mouth hung slightly open. "The hell just happened…?"
Armaan stared at the empty space, his fists clenched, his mind spinning.
Only Zykarith seemed unsurprised. She remained where she stood, her violet eyes calm, watching the last fragments of light vanish.
Armaan turned sharply toward her. "You knew."
Her gaze flicked to him but offered no explanation.
"You didn't help us," Armaan continued, his voice hardening. "Not once. You just stood there. Watching. Silent. What are you hiding?"
Zykarith tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a faint, unreadable smile. "You ask questions… but do you truly want answers?"
Her voice was soft, almost mocking, but not cruel.
Armaan's eyes narrowed. "This was the first stage, wasn't it?"
The words slipped from him before he could stop them. His voice was calm, almost expressionless, but heavy with certainty.
For the first time, Zykarith's violet eyes widened. Just slightly. Enough to betray that she hadn't expected him to say it aloud.
She opened her mouth, as if to respond—
—but then a scream ripped through the air.
"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"
It was Roumit.
The sound shattered the silence, sharp and raw, tearing through the still plateau. He clutched his chest, his face contorted with agony, his voice breaking as though something inside him was being ripped apart.
"Roumit!" Armaan shouted, rushing forward.
Samar darted beside him, panic flashing across his usual easygoing face. "What's happening to him—?!"
Roumit's scream grew louder, piercing, echoing across the empty expanse. His knees buckled, his body convulsing as if something unseen burned within his chest.
Then, with one final, strangled cry—he collapsed.
"ROUMIT!"