The journey back from the Stream Gate was quiet — but not calm.
Sahira leaned against Ashem as they walked, her steps uneven. One hand pressed firmly against her wounded shoulder, the other extended just slightly, fingers tracing symbols in the air as she whispered verse under her breath — low, rhythmic lines of the old Shayari verses. The faint shimmer of Shaiven energy pulsed from her palm, but her face was tight with pain. The spell was slow. Imperfect.
Ashem carried their packs, and the shard itself, wrapped in a cloth and tucked into the folds of his satchel. It wasn't heavy, but it was… strange. Ever since he started carrying it, something felt off. He would blink and lose whole moments — or feel seconds stretch into minutes. When he looked around, shadows seemed to move out of sync with their sources. Trees flickered at their edges, and even Sahira's voice, when she spoke a healing line, seemed to arrive half a breath late.
He didn't say anything. Just tightened the strap across his shoulder and kept walking.
They followed the creek's edge until it curled back toward the cliffs, the sun already bowing low behind the canopy. Somewhere in the distance, bells rang across the city. By the time they reached the crooked skyline and the leaning towers of the lower quarter, night had reclaimed the sky.
They walked in silence until the crooked tower of the shop loomed into view.
Sahira broke it first.
"I was supposed to do one thing," she muttered, not quite to him. "One gods-damned thing."
Ashem glanced her way, careful not to jostle the shard. "You mean the mission?"
She snorted. "Mission. Task. Favor. Doesn't matter what you call it. I traded my lyren for a job I never finished." She winced, and dropped her hand back to the healing wound. "Thought I'd talk my way out of it. Thought maybe Kharan would forget."
"And they didn't."
"They never forget."
Ashem watched her out of the corner of his eye. There was something else in her voice. Not fear — something closer to guilt.
"They gave me that instrument," Sahira said, quieter now. "Told me it was built for more than songs and stories. Said I'd understand someday."
She paused. "I didn't. I just used it to make coin."
Ashem frowned. "What were you supposed to understand?"
She stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up at the crooked door. "Don't know, but I think that 'someday' is here."
They stepped through the door, the chime above it ringing dully. The shop was dim and warm, shelves thick with dust and scattered relics, but Kharan was nowhere in sight.
"Kharan?" Sahira called. "We brought the — "
The second call never came. The door slammed shut behind them, the impact reverberating through the shelves. Before they could turn, they were there — Kharan, standing in front of the door like they'd always been.
Ashem took a step back instinctively.
Sahira opened her mouth again, but didn't get a word out.
The world twisted.
Suddenly, they were seated around the table in the rear of the shop. The shard and the golden artifact lay atop the old wood, side by side. Neither of them had moved.
Ashem stared at his hands, then at Sahira, who flashed a worried look at him. Kharan sat on the other side of the table now, their arms raised to shoulder height.
The shard floated.
Then the golden sphere rose, slow and silent, hovering above the shard. Lines and rings of white light projected into the air, swirling and locking into complex geometries — living blueprints made of essence and logic.
The rectangular shard shuddered and split apart in layers. From its core ascended what seemed to be a shifting dark crystal, twitching erratically, blinking in and out of presence like it couldn't decide on existing. Kharan leaned in concentration as the projection narrowed, coaxing stability from chaos. The white lines reoriented, flowing into sharp, angular configurations.
The Stream Crystal drifted into the golden sphere.
A whistling hum.
A wave of blue light burst outward like a silent scream. The walls shook. Sahira gasped.
Then — stillness.
The shard descended back to the table, hollowed and empty. The golden artifact remained afloat, glowing softly now with a pale cerulean pulse. Its surface patterns flickered in waves like breath.
Ashem stared, frozen. He could still hear his own heartbeat.
Kharan finally spoke, their voice wrapped in rhythm and time:
"The key was forged in silent thread,
Where future's eye and past have bled.
What once was scattered now may bind,
When hearts align and soul is blind."
They looked at Ashem. Not with kindness — nor malice — but knowing.
Kharan leaned closer. "Deliver it to the Monastery Ruins," they said. "And you won't have to deal with thugs nor debt any longer. Deal?"
Ashem couldn't shake the looming threat of a ripoff, yet he had no alternative. "I'll do it."
"You carry it now," they said, nodding at the floating sphere. "A piece of what you were. Of what you will be."
He didn't speak. Couldn't.
But the light of the sphere pulsed once — soft, slow, and alive.
The city glowed below, endless and alive. Towering spires shimmered with artificial starlight, their edges lined in neon blue. Hover-trams buzzed through arterial skyways, and digital billboards pulsed across glass skins. From the tallest point in Hal-Zarqon, none of it felt real — just patterns, simulations, predictable behavior loops in an open system.
Zarqon stood at the massive window, a silhouette in high-collared black, a single hand resting behind his back. His other hand moved with precision through a set of monochrome holograms hovering in front of him while he spoke through a telepathic voice-comm.
"Affirmative," he said flatly. "Expected."
A beat.
"Negative. No accusation. Just confirmation."
His fingers paused above one of the holograms. Then, coldly:
"Stand down. We're finished."
The line went dead. Without looking, Zarqon made a subtle closing gesture, and the holograms vanished as he returned both hands behind his back. For a few moments, the city flickered in his eyes as he watched the world below run its routines, completely unaware that, today, someone had dared trespass into his domain.
He didn't turn as he spoke.
"Nova. Do you trust his statement?"
A low chime echoed, then a female voice emerged — calm, fluid, and laced with synthetic grace.
"There's high probabilities that CEO Louren was telling the truth."
"No hidden deployments?"
"None that I can detect. Furthermore, NeoCorp is far from having the tech arsenal to bypass our surveillance systems. And none of our rivaling Corporations count with the resources to open such a Quantum Channel, much less in that place."
Zarqon said nothing. His jaw flexed faintly, but otherwise he remained still, a statue in silent computation.
Then Nova spoke again — cautious, but direct.
"Could be someone from your previous — ?"
Zarqon's expression didn't shift. His voice was nearly a whisper.
"Could be." He interrupted.
Nova processed the admission for exactly half a second.
"If that's the case, their calculations were poor…" A pulse of data shimmered across a projected display behind Zarqon. "…I was able to trace the quantum tunnel's endpoint."
Zarqon turned at last.
"Where?"
"A minor planetary body in quadrant K-17. Class 4 biosphere. Primitive infrastructure. But…" Her tone changed slightly. "…there is another Time Crystal present there, in a temple between two peaks. One of the original five."
A faint, rare twitch at the edge of Zarqon's lip.
"Approachable?"
"With difficulty. It's not under formal protection, but its region is… unstable. And there is a non-zero chance this is a setup."
Zarqon walked to the window again, reflected like a digital twin looming the city below.
"If it is," he said softly, "then it will be my move."
Nova didn't respond.
She didn't have to.