The Nyxwing, a wounded moth escaping a inferno, limped through the chaotic aftermath of their passage by the Executioner's Blade.
Eva fought the controls, her injured shoulder a throbbing agony, her gaze flitting between the rapidly diminishing image of Krell's dreadnought – momentarily crippled by Bolt's psychic assault but undoubtedly recovering – and the terrifying, spreading stain of the void-corruption emanating from the Heart of Orion.
Bolt slumped beside her, his great, transformed body utterly spent. His breathing was shallow, the silver light of the Ahna'sara almost entirely extinguished within his fur.
He muttered incoherently, fragments of Aethelgardian lessons, snatches of the Heart's sorrowful song, his own pained whimpers.
"Hang on, Bolt," Eva whispered, her voice hoarse with exhaustion and fear. "Just hang on." She was alone.
The ship was dying, her co-pilot was comatose, and two distinct forms of cosmic annihilation were vying for their attention.
Just as despair threatened to engulf her, the Waystone, still clutched in Bolt's inert hand, pulsed with a stronger, warmer light.
It was the gentle, inviting frequency she remembered from Aethelgard, the one Bolt had identified as the Heart's true call, or perhaps something through the Heart.
It seemed to tug at the Nyxwing's own empathic sensors, suggesting a direction amidst the terrifying chaos.
With little else to guide her, Eva followed that faint, hopeful resonance.
She navigated the Nyxwing through a graveyard of shattered Progenitor constructs – colossal, crystalline spars and metallic fragments that looked like the bones of dead gods, perhaps remnants of the Heart's original containment sphere or ancient guardian stations, now adrift and scarred by eons of the Heart's instability and Krell's recent, brutal assault.
The void-corruption was strong here, its tendrils of absolute blackness coiling around the larger shards, its chilling emptiness palpable even through the Nyxwing's failing shields. But amidst the debris, the Waystone's light led her to a relatively sheltered area – a hollow formed by three massive, interlocking crystalline plates that offered some measure of protection from direct sensor sweeps and the worst of the void's encroaching hunger.
It was a sanctuary of shards, precarious and unstable, but it was something.
With the last of the Nyxwing's maneuvering energy, Eva guided the ship into the lee of the largest plate and powered down all non-essential systems, hoping the ship's Aethelgardian stealth properties would blend its faint signature with the surrounding debris.
For a long while, she simply sat there, trembling, listening to Bolt's shallow breathing and the creak and groan of the damaged ship around them.
She forced herself to check their status: life support minimal but stable, starboard engine sputtering but theoretically repairable if she had the parts and the time (neither of which she possessed), port engine a molten ruin.
Stealth… a prayer at this point.
She tended to Bolt, wiping his brow, speaking softly to him, though he gave no sign of hearing.
The vibrant, powerful being he had become was now so terribly still, the spark within him so faint.
Hours passed, or perhaps it was only minutes; time had lost all meaning in this chaotic halo of the dying Heart. Eva dozed fitfully, jolting awake at every shudder of their makeshift refuge.
Then, Bolt stirred. A deep groan rumbled from his chest. His eyes, when they finally opened, were no longer burning with that almost feral light from his transformation, nor clouded with the overwhelming pain of the Heart.
They were deep, unnervingly calm, and held an ancient, somber wisdom that made Eva catch her breath.
The Ahna'sara within him wasn't blazing, but it glowed with a steady, profound intensity, like a star seen through the deepest layers of the void.
"Eva," he rumbled, his voice weak but clear, devoid of its earlier gravelly tone. He pushed himself up slowly, his gaze already fixed on the viewport, towards the distant, corrupted Heart.
"Bolt! You're awake!" Relief, sharp and overwhelming, washed through her. "How do you feel?"
"Changed," he said simply. "The… the terror I projected at Krell's ship… it scoured me. But it also… cleared something."
He touched his chest. "The Ahna'sara… it understands the void-song now. Not just its hunger. Its purpose."
Eva felt a chill. "Purpose?"
He nodded, his eyes still fixed on the distant Heart. "Krell didn't just wound the Heart and let something out. His weapon, the Despoiler… it acted as a key, a catalyst.
It didn't just break a seal; it inverted a part of the Heart's core process.
The Heart was a regulator, a balancer of cosmic energies. Now, that section Krell struck… it's actively converting the Heart's life-energy, the very fabric of this nebula, into that… that devouring emptiness. It's a self-propagating wound."
The full horror of the situation settled upon Eva. This wasn't just a leak; it was a cosmic disease, and the Heart was both the patient and the source.
"The Last Bark," Bolt continued, his voice gaining a steely resolve that belied his physical weakness. "It was meant to heal the Heart, to re-harmonize its fractured state.
But now… now it must also sever this parasitic conversion, cauterize the wound before the Heart is entirely consumed and becomes a gateway for… more."
He looked at Eva, his ancient eyes filled with a terrible clarity. "The Solstice Concordance is peaking. The Heart is at its most vulnerable, its natural defenses compromised by the alignment and by Krell's initial attack.
Krell knows this. He failed to control it, but he won't let anyone else try to fix it. He'll try to finish what he started, to shatter it completely, perhaps hoping to harness the resulting chaotic energy, or simply to deny anyone else the prize."
As if on cue, the Nyxwing's proximity alarms, which Eva had set to their most sensitive, passive mode, let out a soft, urgent chime.
On the tactical display, a single, massive energy signature detached itself from the distant chaos of Krell's recovering fleet.
It was the Executioner's Blade, moving with renewed, grim purpose, not towards them, but on a direct, unwavering course towards the very core of the wounded, weeping Heart of Orion.
Krell was making his final, desperate play.