The sobbing still muffled by E.K.'s chest, a wet, hitching rhythm against the silent void of Desolace. E.K. felt his heart drumming, a deep, resonant thud against his ribs, after eons of stillness.
Alive. The boy shook against him, breaths shallow and ragged, each inhale a soft sound through clenched teeth.
They stood frozen in the grey waste, time bleeding into eternity. E.K. didn't mind. This weight, this fragile warmth, made the crushing emptiness fade.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, dry, cracked skin stretching over his skull, before vanishing.
Illirim's rapid breaths and choked sobs slowly stilled, but his arms remained locked around E.K.'s waist, desperate.
Gradually, muscle by muscle, the grip weakened. His arms fell limp to his sides with a soft rustle.
He wiped his cheeks roughly, knuckles scraping skin. A soft sniff cut the silence. His head hung low, staring at E.K.'s boots, refusing to lift his gaze.
E.K. ached to hold on, to anchor himself in that fleeting warmth. But he released it, the comforting thrum of his heartbeat fading back into the abyss.
He looked down at the boy. Same hair color as you, my son. The thought echoed, sharp as a knife.
Illirim's head snapped up. Sky-blue eyes met the shadows beneath E.K.'s hood. Not rage now, but a dawning, terrifying clarity. "H-he… lied," the boy whispered, voice raw, fractured like glass.
"Walker lied." He shook his head, strands of blond hair sticking to tear-streaked skin. "It w-wasn't… you… mister. I know that."
A trembling finger pointed at his own chest. His smile wasn't joy, but the frown of a deep realisation. A wave of cold, clean relief washed over him, pushing away the Walker's clinging deceit.
The truth, agonizing and pure, stood exposed: the hand that ended his mother's sorrow had been his own. A knot of ice formed in his heart, but the suffocating fog in his mind… gone.
"It was mine," Illirim stated, the words empty, final. He offered E.K. the fragile smile again before turning to the bruised purple sky. E.K. stood still. No breath. No rustle of cloth. Only the vast, listening silence of Desolace pressing in.
"Wyvern… needs me," Illirim murmured, the name catching. "And… Momma…" The memory of her plea, her hollow eyes, crashed over him, raw and untouched by lies.
A low whimper escaped him. "I… need to go back. To where… it happened."
He closed his eyes, brow furrowing.
A psychic call, pure need and sorrow, pierced the stillness, a silent chime resonating across dimensions. Distantly, a responding shriek tore the air, raw, reptilian, and laced with recognition.
Hesitation.
Then the heavy sound of vast wings beating against air, growing louder, shaking the dust at their feet. The Wyvern descended, landing with a ground-trembling thud that sent plumes of grey ash swirling.
E.K.'s mind recalled something. After the Gehenuan Campaign… riding a Wyvern's back. Wind screaming past. Gonk's booming laugh. Kima's steady hum. Ism's dry commentary. Ytetra's quiet strength… and…
Silence.
A jagged hole ripped open in his memory. A silhouette formed, a man, face blurred, long hair flowing in an unfelt wind. He sat… sat? In a… chair? Wheels?
The figure reached out, hand pale and fading. E.K. strained. A name danced on the tip of his tongue, tasting of ozone and salt.
He blinked.
Gone.
The silhouette vanished, replaced by the stark emptiness of Desolace. Only the phantom squeak and rattle of wheels on stone lingered for a split second before evaporating.
A sharp, hot pain lanced through E.K.'s head, a thorn ripped from the root of his being.
The Wyvern nudged Illirim's hand with a low, rumbling purr deep in its scaled throat, snuffling softly. It licked his cheek, a wet, rasping sound, then pressed its massive snout into his palm, radiating warmth and wordless comfort.
Family found.
Illirim stroked its neck, scales clicking faintly under his touch. He mounted with practiced ease, the leather of his pants scraping against the beast's hide.
One last look at E.K., a slow, solemn nod, gratitude etched in the lines of his young face.
"Let's go..."
The Wyvern surged upwards, wings beating with thunderous cracks that sent swirls of ash spiraling into the bruised sky. Illirim raised a hand.
Space shivered, then ripped open with a sound like tearing paper.
They plunged through. The wound in reality snapped shut behind them, leaving only settling dust and ringing silence.
-
It watched from the skeletal tree line. Coldness radiated from its non-form, leaching heat from the air, making the nearby branches snap with sudden frost.
Its gaze dissected the scene: the embrace, the tears, the wyvern's return. No flicker touched its borrowed face. Only assessment. Pure, chilling observation.
It saw the light bloom within them, a defiant spark against the crushing void they both carried. Its eyes narrowed infinitesimally. The trees closest to it crackled, their brittle wood freezing instantly, then crumbling to grey powder with a sound like breaking glass.
The wave of cold expanded, a silent, creeping death.
The light… it persisted.
Nurtured in darkness, blooming in desolation. A clawed hand, Gonk's hand, pressed against its chest cavity.
Nothing beat there. Only the hollow whisper of cosmic wind through an infinite tunnel. A foot shifted forward. Dead leaves beneath it crushed into frozen dust.
Then… a hand materialized on its shoulder. No pressure. No sound. Just sudden presence.
"Don't forget," the voice was the scrape of stone on stone, echoing from everywhere and nowhere, "this… light… is found by a handful. The rest find…" A pause stretched, long and absolute, swallowing even the memory of sound.
Eons formed into a heartbeat. Both entities flickered, their forms bleeding into the impossible before resolving. "…Nothing."
The Walker stared after the vanished Illirim. The truth resonated, cold and undeniable. It gave a single, slow nod.
Acceptance.
Agreement.
"There is a new task," it stated, the words dropping like stones into a still pond. "The puppet cut its strings. Find The Spirit World…"
"Moon?" Its avatar's voice was flatter, devoid of even the Walker's depraved intonations.
"Yes." The syllable hung, final.
"We must unmake the fundamental lie… of hope."
The Walker turned, robes, Ytetra's robes, swirling soundlessly. "I will find… The Angelic World." It dissolved. Not a pop, not a fade. One moment something, the next, nothing.
A brief, silent implosion of air rushing to fill the sudden absence.
Its avatar stared at the empty space. The Angelic World? The unreachable strata, where only wings of pure concept dared fly… A place of searing light and crushing order.
The avatar tilted its head, Kima's head, a faint crack echoing from its neck.
No matter.
I must go.