The clamor of ion engines rose like a mechanical hymn. Reality trembled at its invisible edges, folding in upon itself like paper yielding to a great flame.
In a timeless flash, the ship leapt between layers of existence. It traversed space not as distance but as concept, surpassed time not as constraint but as mere cognitive limitation.
The previous scene dissolved - that mysterious shore which had seemed stolen from some cosmic dream - replaced by another manifestation: planet Earth. But not as human eyes had ever known it. It stood magnificent, towering, encircled by countless moons orbiting like pilgrims in cosmic prayer, each bearing its dead stories.
Mogan stood, his beard flowing like mist from a bygone era, staring not with his eyes but with something more primal within him.
He spoke in his cracking voice, eyes gleaming like a child finding candy: "This kind of reality manipulation... isn't magic. It's fantasy wearing magic's mask. What we've just witnessed resembles tales I told my children... This act is rooted in the very fabric of storytelling itself, not merely in nature's laws."
Butler approached with measured steps carrying cold elegance, his eyes monitoring the chaotic balance of the moons' orbits. With Swiss-watch precision, he stood and said:
"A technical skill like this, Mr. Mogan, can only be explained as the simulation of rational madness. As if reality had been poured through a mathematical sieve, retaining only what cannot be understood. However complex the equations, this leap reminds me that technology ultimately... is merely magic we don't yet comprehend."
The two exchanged glances. A moment of silence... Then the universe resumed its course as if nothing had occurred but the faintest tremor in some far greater consciousness.
Simon remained motionless before the panoramic glass. His ashen eyes navigated this planet supposedly called Earth, though in his gaze... it was but a colossal entity in mysterious slumber. The blue light reflected from atmospheric layers found no purchase in his features, as if the chill of his thoughts had repelled even radiation.
Fayet approached, her footsteps soundless as if the air itself hesitated to obstruct her path. She smiled, her tone carrying mysterious mirth:
"Isn't it beautiful? The Blue Narrative, as it used to be called... A framework holding some of creation's most delightful stories—a forest of wondrous tales, some tragic and dramatic, a few joyous and sweet. In the end, it's a grand collection of azure stories for you to savor... But don't be deceived. What your eyes see is not Uris as it is. What you see... is merely what your mind permits you to see"
He raised an eyebrow without diverting his gaze. She continued, circling him in a half-turn like a professional dancer:
"It's an imposed form born of perceptual strain. Your eyes aren't windows, but masks... and what lies behind the mask isn't always prepared to be seen."
Mogan arrived, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze intense...
"In the end, everything was true. Look there - endless continents, innumerable stories, possibilities beyond our capacity to imagine... Isn't this what you desired?"
Simon did not answer. The silence weighed on him as if it had taken physical form.
Here he stood, face to face with what he had pursued: Clonmacnoise. The goal that had turned him into a machine moving without clear purpose. Now that he had arrived, the question grew more brutal: What comes next?
He had never considered what would follow achievement. No plan, no analysis of meaning—only motion, as always, driven by a desire he neither understood nor questioned.
Why did I do all this? What did I truly want?
There was no answer. Only emptiness, absurdity, an infinite accumulation of possibilities that formed no meaning.
Leaving the ship docked in his palace? A trivial thought, unworthy of the sacrifices made.
Taking it elsewhere? Toward what? Toward what end? He had no destination, not even a valid question to lead him to one.
Seeking immortality?
But was immortality something one could seek? Was it not just a hollow idea invented by feeble minds to escape confronting their own limitations?
Should he continue his research on the girl?
And what result did he expect from such research? A solution? Or just another illusion to deceive himself?
Was he an actor in some meticulously crafted cosmic script, or merely adrift in chaos without any script at all?
In the end, the only truth that seemed clear to him was this:
He did not know. He did not know what he wanted. He did not know what he was doing. He did not even know if these questions held any meaning.
To mature is to choose."
Fayet's words echoed in his mind, lingering like a half-remembered hymn.
Then, at last, Simon moved. He took a single step back and spoke with a coldness resembling a military order:
"I descend. There is something... I must take."
Fayet approached him, her smile unwavering, and produced a silver ring crowned with a green gemstone that pulsed like a tiny heart.
"Take it. It will return you to the ship, should you wish to come back. Just think of boarding."
Butler stepped forward, offering a slight bow—respectful, yet effortless.
"I suggest accompanying the sir, as a precaution against unforeseen circumstances."
Fayet turned to him, as if she had been expecting this initiative, and retrieved from her coat pocket another identical ring, placing it calmly and precisely into his palm.
A brief silence settled. All eyes turned once more toward the planet—or "Uris," as Fayet had called it. The sight before them served as a reminder that what they saw was merely an image permitted by perception, and that many truths remained beyond the reach of both eye and mind.
Before they departed, Fayet spoke in a steady tone:
"If you wish to bring something without a ring, simply touch it—it will transfer with you."
The rings on their fingers pulsed with a faint glow, then vanished in a silent instant.
Mogan and Fayet remained alone, the space between them heavy with silence not the silence of uncertainty, but of a mind struggling to comprehend what had just transpired. Finally, Mogan spoke in a low, measured voice:
"Tell me... is there not a risk the Archdivines might detect our passage? We used a spacetime transition that pierced through layers of reality, leaving a trace in the causal weave. And our ship—this massive—floats in Uris' orbit, a glaring anomaly in the cosmic architecture."
"No need for concern, Mister Mogan," Fayet replied. "The ship is shielded by a hyperdimensional framework, woven into the folds of advanced reality. Its presence is beyond detection, insulated from causal surveillance, and invisible even to the tracking matrices used by the Time Wardens."
She paused, then continued softly:
"And what of you? Would you like us to visit your family?"
Mogan stiffened, caught off guard by the question, before hesitating:
"Yes... but my family resides in a private dimension—within the realm of my dreams. Can the ship reach there?"
Fayet laughed, her voice light with amusement:
"You still don't grasp the true nature of the Clonmacnoise, do you? This ship can breach worlds that were never meant to exist. Traveling into your dream? Simpler than buying groceries."
Mogan smiled. "Then what are we waiting for?"
A sharp electric hum surged as the ion engines roared back to life.
"Tell me," Mogan mused, "how do we even hear the engines? A ship of this size should be utterly silent unless we're inside the engine room. And how is it truly piloted? Does it simply... know where we wish to go?"
A faint smile touched Fayet's lips, a blend of admiration and certainty.
"Astute questions. What you hear isn't an engine in the traditional sense. The Clonmacnoise doesn't have engines. It is emancipated from material needs, self-sufficient, drawing directly from the First Source. It requires no fuel, no propulsion. What you mistake for a roar is merely the echo of its energy interacting with reality's layers."
She paused, then added calmly:
"As for its destination—it's not a matter of steering. The ship senses intent. It is designed to respond to thought, to read what takes shape in the minds of its passengers."
Mogan pressed his lips together, wary.
"So it's... sentient? What if I tried to shield my thoughts from it?"
Fayet answered without evasion:
"You can't. And if you could, the ship wouldn't move. It would remain inert—a blind, lifeless structure adrift in the void. As for consciousness... the ship possesses a rudimentary form, but it is not independently aware. It is part of a network connected to the Absolute Idea itself... to the Book. And *that* alone holds full awareness."
As Fayet spoke, the ship transitioned, and the scenery shifted.
Mogan gazed through the panoramic glass at a familiar sky stretching endlessly—pristine blue, scattered with slow-drifting white patches, as if an old painter's brush still swept across an unfinished oil canvas. The scene exuded tranquility, a dormant beauty.
At the heart of this celestial painting floated an island, drifting in majestic silence. A small patch of land, carpeted in green grass and wildflowers, crowned by a single tree whose branches swayed as if reaching for the clouds. At its edge stood an old wooden house, its sun-bleached planks weathered by wind, yet enduring—a silent witness to the expanse around it.
The house was simple: a slanted roof, small reflective windows, as if its inhabitant preferred to observe the world unseen. When the high breezes stirred, its white curtains fluttered like peace offerings to the heavens.
Mogan's eyes widened, his voice thick with awe.
"This... is truly astonishing. We've entered my domain, and I didn't even feel the threshold cross."
Fayet cut in with practical calm, pressing a ring into his palm.
"Go to your family now, Mogan. There will be time for wonder later."
He said nothing, offering only a brief smile before the ring glowed softly—and in a silent flash, he vanished from the ship.
Fayet stood alone. She stared into the emptiness before her and murmured, as if speaking to herself:
"Well... perhaps it's time for tea."
The ship's structure emitted a low electronic hum—almost like an agreeing whisper, as if sharing her sentiment.