The news of open rebellion within the Canid Confederacy landed like a physical blow in the serene sanctuary of the Seraphina Drift.
The abstract concept of Valerius's victims had suddenly become a concrete reality: people were now fighting and dying, fueled by the spark of hope Bolt had sent them.
The weight of that unintended consequence settled heavily on his transformed shoulders.
"They are fighting because of the song I sent," Bolt rumbled, his voice low and troubled as he stood with Elara and Eva in the observation dome.
"Because I showed them they weren't alone."
"You showed them their own will was worth fighting for, Seed-Bearer," Elara corrected gently, though her expression was grave.
"You cannot hold the spark and not expect some to build a fire. But their situation is dire. Valerius will be merciless in crushing this dissent to make an example of them."
"Our timetable to find the Oracle and whatever wisdom they hold has just been drastically accelerated."
There was no time for gradual learning. While Aethelgardian "shapers" swarmed the Nyxwing, their forms gliding silently as they used focused light and resonant frequencies to persuade the ship's damaged hull to slowly mend itself, Elara put Bolt on a grueling training regimen.
She led him to the sanctuary's "Resonance Chamber," a perfectly spherical room carved from a single, flawless crystal that pulsed with a soft, internal light.
It was designed to amplify and focus empathic energy, allowing the user to perceive the faintest cosmic currents.
"Your previous lessons were about shaping your song," Elara began, as Bolt settled in the chamber's center with the Focusing Sphere.
"Wayfinding is about learning to listen to the songs the universe is already singing. The silver thread you saw is one such song, the oldest and purest of all."
Guided by Elara, Bolt reached out with the Ahna'sara. He found the luminous thread again in his mind's eye, a beautiful, fragile filament stretching across an imagined cosmos.
"Do not just see it," Elara's voice echoed in his mind.
"Feel its texture. Its flow. Is it steady, or does it waver? What is its unique resonance, its signature note?"
Bolt spent hours, which felt like minutes and days all at once, just… listening.
He began to discern its intricate melody, a harmony of life so profound it made the Ahna'sara within him feel like a single instrument in an infinite orchestra.
He felt its life-giving energy, a stark contrast to the devouring emptiness of the void-corruption that still scarred the distant Heart of Orion.
Then, as before, he encountered the shield.
"It is a ward," Elara explained, sensing his frustration as his empathic probe met the complex, shimmering barrier.
"Very old. Woven from will and ancient artifice. To push against it with force is to invite a devastating response. You cannot be a hammer, Bolt. You must be the water that finds the cracks."
Following her guidance, Bolt didn't try to break the shield.
He gently resonated with it, projecting the purest, most peaceful notes of the Ahna'sara, an offering of understanding rather than a demand for entry.
For a moment, he felt a flicker of something from the minds behind the ward – not hostility, but an immense, patient, and unwavering vigilance.
It was the psychic equivalent of a mountain, which does not hate the wind but simply endures it, unmoved.
He knew then that this shield was not something he could overcome with his current level of skill. Not yet.
While he trained, Eva was a whirlwind of pragmatic energy in the docking bay. She worked alongside the Aethelgardian shapers, her Terran engineering knowledge providing a different, practical perspective that sometimes sped up their more esoteric repair methods.
She studied the new star charts Elara had provided, focusing on the vast, blank spaces designated as the "Unsung Regions" – where the Dreaming Tree was rumored to lie.
Her datapad was filled with calculations, potential routes, and contingency plans for navigating a territory that, according to Aethelgardian records, was plagued by spatial anomalies and a complete lack of reliable navigational beacons.
During one of his deep meditative sessions, the agony of the Canid dissenters suddenly broke through Bolt's concentration.
He felt a pocket of fierce resistance in a system designated Cyrranus-IV being brutally extinguished by Valerius's forces.
It wasn't a vision, but a raw, psychic scream of pain, courage, and ultimate defeat that lanced through him, causing him to cry out and stumble, the connection to the silver thread shattering.
Eva rushed into the Resonance Chamber.
"Bolt! What happened?"
He looked at her, his face a mask of pain.
"We're losing them, Eva. I felt it. A whole resistance cell… snuffed out. We don't have time."
Elara entered behind Eva, her expression grim. "And your time to prepare has just run out," she said.
"The Nyxwing is space-worthy. We have done all we can. But more than that…" She brought up a holographic display.
"My sensitives have just confirmed it. Krell's fleet, or what remains of it, has altered course away from the Heart. But Valerius's network… a wing of his Star-Seeker ships has just broken from the main Confederacy fleet. They are headed towards the Ghost Nebula."
Bolt looked up, confused.
"The Ghost Nebula?"
"It is the first waypoint on your journey," Elara explained, her voice heavy.
"An ancient, turbulent nebula that, according to the legends, conceals a hidden songline entrance to the Unsung Regions." Her eyes met Bolt's.
"Valerius may not know the full truth of the silver thread, but his lore is deep."
"He knows the legends of the Heartwood, and he knows the Ghost Nebula is the first gate on that path. He is not waiting for you to get there, Seed-Bearer."
The choice was gone. The race had already begun.