Komus adjusted the clasp on his shimmering cloak, peering at the dim horizon. "Ayla," he said, squinting, "do you have enough in the tank for a shooting star, or should we summon Delaena?"
Ayla winced slightly and rolled her shoulder. "Honestly? I could try... but my last stunt with the Skotosars burned through most of my celestial reservoir. I'd probably set the sky on fire by accident."
Qaritas, still shadow-soft from his near-death awakening, tilted his head. "Are you... alright?"
She turned to him and smiled, a little too brightly. "I'm fine," she said, brushing stardust from her fingertips. Then, with a wink, added, "I just overdid it. Learning to control cosmic power is a delicate process. Especially when you're dramatic."
Komus groaned. "You call that delicate?"
"I call you jealous." Ayla flicked her wrist—and a puff of sparkling stardust exploded into Komus's face like confetti. He sputtered, wiping at his eyes.
"Ayla!" he snapped. "I just cleaned this cloak!"
She smirked. "Then let it shine brighter."
Sighing with theatrical defeat, Komus turned to Qaritas. "We'll call Delaena. You're going to love her. She makes a nebula brisket that'll put stars to shame."
Qaritas blinked. "A nebula... what?"
"You'll see," Komus said, grinning, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "She cooks. Among other things."
Ayla stepped forward, planting her boots against the ancient stone. "Let's get comfortable."
She raised her hand—and whistled. Just once.
The sound wasn't loud. But it cut.
Not through air—but through reality.
The hush fractured like glass under tension. The ground beneath her shimmered—and answered.
A magic circle bloomed beneath her feet: symbols unfolding like constellations caught in a dream. The circle pulsed—not bright, but deep—as if light were remembering how to be sacred. The glyphs rotated, each one aligned with ancient truth.
Then—light.
A surge of starlight erupted outward, flaring in reverse. A wind followed—not made of air, but of memory and motion. Then—arrival.
A carriage slid through the veil, hovering inches above the ground. Crafted of nocturne wood and dreamsteel, it shimmered with gold filigree etched by the breath of forgotten gods. Curtains of sleepless roses and mourning moons swayed in an unseen breeze.
The beast that drew it wasn't quite a horse—its body was shaped like one, but its mane flowed with nebulae, and its eyes burned behind a veil of twilight. Where its hooves fell, no sound followed—only shimmer.
And then came the coachwoman.
Or—her absence.
A sweeping gown of starlit embroidery took the reins. Gloves moved delicately. A crown rested on nothing. Her body was not invisible by trick—but by choice of reality. As if the world had politely declined to render her.
Only her dress moved.
Only her absence commanded presence.
She turned toward Ayla, her invisible gaze brushing them all.
"You whistled, Mistress Ayla," she intoned, voice silk and shadow, as if whispered through the mouth of a ghost. "Shall we ride between the breaths of stars today?"
"Not today," Ayla replied warmly. "Just Rygartha."
"It shall be done." Delaena bowed.
Komus leaned in to Qaritas and whispered, "She's a Dulajan. Beings of pure autonomy and magic. Invisible by nature, unless they wish to be seen."
Qaritas watched, stunned. "But... she's not... alive?"
"Oh, she's alive," Ayla said. "Just not like you or me. Niraí—the Ascendant of Cosmic Gates—created the Dulajan to help us travel without relying on brute power. She believes in traveling with elegance. And in giving servants the right to choose servitude. Every Dulajan has their own life when not summoned. Their own art. Their own dreams."
Qaritas blinked. "They choose to come back?"
Ayla nodded. "Always. Niraí made sure of it."
The magic circle faded behind them.
The carriage door swung open—not outward, but inward—revealing not seats, but somewhere. The glow from within pulsed gently, warm and waiting.
Ayla gestured grandly. "After you, gentlemen."
Qaritas stepped into what looked like a void—and stumbled into wonder.
The space inside was massive. Impossible. A grand dining room stretched before him, illuminated by floating lanterns made of frozen flame. Four private bedrooms branched off, and at the far end, nestled like a secret garden, was a steaming hot spring surrounded by living crystal.
"This..." Qaritas murmured, "...should not fit inside."
Komus laughed, plopping into a floating armchair that adjusted to his frame. "Spatial origami. Delaena folds the laws of size like paper cranes."
Qaritas wandered to a window—a starglass porthole that showed nothing but the inside of a rose-colored galaxy swirling outside.
Then his nose caught something.
"What is that smell?"
"Ah!" Komus stood, rubbing his hands. "Time for Delaena's welcome feast."
As if summoned by thought, the banquet table filled.
Plates shimmered into existence—glowing, steaming, tempting.
Nebula Nectar sparkled in crystal glasses, shifting like storms caught in gemstones. Qaritas took a sip—his eyes widened as mango, lychee, and starlight memory danced across his tongue.
Ayla smiled. "It tastes like remembering the first time you looked at the stars."
Next came the Celestial Brûlée. He tapped the sugar crust—crack. Beneath it, custard melted with the flavor of jasmine snow and vanilla stars.
Komus gestured to the centerpiece: Midnight Brisket, slow-smoked over cosmic wood chips, crusted in stardust rub, and falling apart at the merest touch.
Then—Stardust Bread: glowing faintly, airy and golden, melting
"What is this place?" Qaritas breathed, halfway through a second helping.
Ayla leaned back, sipping Nebula Nectar. "This is ours. Rygartha awaits—but for now? Let's take a breath."
Ayla arched a brow, still holding his gaze.
Qaritas turned to look at her—truly look.
Ayla stood just a pace away, starlight catching along the angles of her form, outlining her like a memory half-remembered. And for the first time, he noticed the complexity of her.
Her eyes caught him first: Her left eye smoldered with the ember-glow of a dying star, while her right blazed gold, fierce and pure, like the first cry of a newborn sun that pulsed like tiny, anchored galaxies. They didn't just glow—they saw, with a depth that made him feel both seen and unspoken.
Her hair—constellation-born—spilled like a comet's tail down her back, a seamless gradient of cosmic color. It began at her roots in blazing red, melted into orange, then sunbeam yellow, shifting through emerald green, sapphire blue, into deep indigo, and ending in strands of violet that shimmered like the last breath of twilight. She had scraped it back into a high ponytail with no ceremony—just a rough twist and a bandage wrapped around her head like a makeshift ribbon. The gesture was utilitarian, almost defiant, but it only made the wild elegance of her more stark.
Bangs framed her face—straight, unflinching, a soft curtain that stopped just above her brow like a breath held in place. Her cheekbones were high and sharply defined, catching every flicker of passing light. There was something statuesque about her—carved by intention, not vanity. Her skin, was the only thing he saw in his dream that remain the same.
She stood tall—seven feet, still a full two beneath his own towering height—but she carried herself with such sovereign stillness that the difference felt irrelevant. She didn't fill the space so much as bend it toward her. Slim yet undeniably curvy, her figure suggested grace honed through battle, and softness guarded by steel. She moved like someone who had danced through gravity and fought gods for the right to keep her soul intact.
Qaritas found himself wondering—Do her hair colors always stay like that? Or do they shift when she sleeps? When she loves? When she rages?
He didn't speak. Not yet.
Because in that moment, he realized something.
For all the wars he'd seen in dreams, for all the monsters that had called his name in hunger, this woman—this vivid flame of form and will—was the first thing that made the void inside him pause.
Not quiet.
But pause.
Ayla turned, catching his gaze. Her lips curved—half amusement, half question.
"You're staring."
Qaritas blinked. "I'm... not sure I know how not to."
A spark of color danced behind her eyes.
She smirked—but didn't look away.
Ayla arched a brow, still holding his gaze.
"Seeing what, exactly?"
Qaritas blinked, unsure if he'd meant to say the words aloud.
"...You. Differently."
She tilted her head slightly, starlight glinting along the curve of her cheek.
"'Differently' as in 'dangerously radiant'? Or 'mysterious and incredibly charming'?"
Komus, mid-bite of Celestial Brûlée, muttered around a spoonful.
"Don't encourage her, she already believes both."
Ayla grinned, but didn't look away.
"I prefer 'complicated.' Or 'brilliant and mildly unhinged Ascendant who probably shouldn't be left unsupervised around reality-warping artifacts.'"
Qaritas gave a rare half-smile. It was small, but real.
"Is that what you are?"
Ayla shrugged, sipping her Nebula Nectar.
"On my better days."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her expression dimming just a fraction.
"And on my worse days? I'm a girl trying not to drown in stars that keep asking me to save them."
The table fell into a hush. Even Komus glanced over, suddenly solemn.
Qaritas studied her face—not the beauty, but the ache behind the bravado.
"You carry too much."
"We all do," Ayla said softly. "Ascendants aren't chosen because we're whole. We're chosen because we broke in the right direction."
Komus raised his glass in a slow, deliberate toast.
"To beautiful damage."
Ayla clinked hers against his with a quiet laugh.
"To scars that shine."
Qaritas didn't lift his drink. He looked at his hands—still half-shadow. Still flickering between becoming and unbeing.
"I don't know what I'm carrying yet," he said. "But it already feels... heavy."
Ayla reached across the table without hesitation and rested her fingers over his—barely a touch. But warm. Real.
"Then don't carry it alone."
Qaritas stared at her hand. No flicker. No distortion. Just warmth where there had only ever been cold.
He didn't pull away.
Komus watched them from over his glass.
"Well," he said, trying and failing to hide the smirk curling across his lips, "if anyone needs me, I'll be in the hot spring—trying very hard not to eavesdrop on this emotionally loaded moment."
Ayla shot him a look.
"Make sure you don't drown in your own sarcasm."
Komus raised both hands.
"Look, if you two start whispering poetry, I'm going to need another glass."
He vanished down the hallway with a wink, leaving only steam and the sound of his footfalls fading toward the spring.
Ayla looked back at Qaritas. Her voice was quieter now. Not small—just real.
"You don't have to understand everything yet. But you do have to choose—who you trust. What you become."
Qaritas nodded once.
"And if I choose wrong?"
Ayla's fingers lingered over his, a pause between pulses.
"You won't," she said—but her voice didn't ring with certainty. It rang with hope.
Then, softly, "Or... you will. But even then—someone will be there to pull you back."
Qaritas met her eyes again.
Not the soldier's gaze. Not the Ascendant. Just her.
She wasn't a mystery in that moment. She was a flame held in someone else's wind.
"You talk like you've been pulled back before," he said.
Ayla smiled. Tired. Sharp. Beautiful.
"Too many times."
He moved slightly, instinctively—leaning forward, the distance between them shrinking to a breath.
The table between them flickered—heat shimmer from a slow-burning nebula dish rising like a veil.
"Ayla..." he began.
She looked up at him—really looked.
Not with laughter. Not with bravado. With a bare, unguarded truth that made time hesitate.
And she said—
"I think I'd let you pull me back, too."
He reached toward her—hesitant, but drawn. Not by duty. Not by destiny.
By gravity.
Fingers brushing the edge of her cheek, not quite touching.
She didn't pull away.
Her breath caught.
The moment hovered like a star not yet born.
Then—
"ARE YOU TWO HAVING A MOMENT?!"
Komus's voice exploded back into the room like a comet with poor timing.
A plate clattered. Qaritas froze mid-reach. Ayla blinked, startled into laughter and frustration all at once.
Komus stood at the doorway, a towel over his shoulder, hair wet, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"You left the door to intimacy wide open," he said, smirking. "I figured I'd walk right in."
Ayla glared. "I hope a sun frog crawls in your bath and lays eggs in your boots."
Qaritas exhaled—part curse, part relief—and sat back.
Komus stepped farther in, completely unrepentant.
"Well, I'm thrilled to report Delaena just passed through the Veil of Approach," he said. "Rygartha is five minutes out."
He glanced between the two, one eyebrow quirked high.
"Should I give you two time to... repress the moment? Or should I call for background music next time you make googly starlight eyes?"
Ayla stood up, brushing imaginary crumbs from her lap.
"Komus, I love you like a brother, but if you ever interrupt me again at that specific proximity, I will replace your bones with moon jelly."
"Romance really brings out your poetic side," Komus muttered, heading for the window.
Qaritas said nothing.
He only looked at her once more.
And this time—she looked away first.
Not with regret.
With restraint.
Because something had begun.
And neither of them had the language for it yet.
The carriage shuddered gently as it passed through the final veil. The view outside flickered—stars bending around a gravity well of light, then revealing...
Rygartha.
A fortress of impossible grandeur. Celestial towers spiraling skyward like the dreams of gods. Gothic alien spires pulsing with shifting color. Every surface shimmered with slow movement—cosmic energy coiled in the stone itself, breathing.
The carriage passed through the forcefield like ink through water.
Inside, the silence pressed down in reverence.
Even Komus grew quiet.
Qaritas leaned forward in his seat, staring out through the window as the fortress loomed, carved from the asteroid's bones and memory.
Ayla, next to him, said nothing.
But in the reflection of the starglass, their eyes met again.
The moment would return.
But not now.