The chamber of the High Sovereign was unlike anything Kaelen had ever seen. The walls pulsed with soft light, as if the room itself were alive. Great translucent tendrils wove through the ceiling, feeding into a massive, throne-like structure carved from living crystal.
Upon it sat Veilara, the High Sovereign of the Shardborn—an ethereal figure with skin like obsidian glass and veins of molten gold. Her four eyes blinked asynchronously, unreadable as she regarded them.
"You carry the Seed," she said, her voice like layered whispers. "Do you know what it is?"
Lyra met her gaze, refusing to look away. "I know enough. It's why everyone's hunting us."
A low, musical laugh escaped Veilara. "Everyone? No, little spark. The Seed is older than your wars, older than your species. It is a key to the Architect's Forge—a place where universes are born… and unmade."
Ceyra stiffened. "That's just a myth."
"Is it?" Veilara leaned forward, and for an instant, the air around her warped, shimmering with impossible colors. "The Forge is real. And the Echo-Lord will stop at nothing to reach it. That is why I should take the Seed from you."
Kaelen's hand hovered near his phaseblade. "You're not taking anything."
The High Sovereign's eyes flashed, and suddenly Kaelen was lifted into the air by invisible force, choking as pressure squeezed around his throat.
"Brave," Veilara murmured. "But foolish. You are gnats playing with a star."
Lyra stepped forward, voice steady despite the danger. "If you wanted it, you would've killed us already. So what do you really want?"
Veilara paused… then released Kaelen, who collapsed to his knees, gasping.
"Very well," she said, standing. "I offer you a bargain. Deliver the Seed to the Forge before the Echo-Lord claims it, and I will grant you my fleet. Fail…" Her golden eyes burned like suns. "…and I will tear your worlds apart myself."
The tendrils above shifted, revealing a map of star systems spiraling toward a single point—a black void at the galaxy's edge.
"The Forge," Ceyra whispered.
Lyra felt the Architect's whisper again, cold and mocking in her mind:
Run faster, little spark. The end waits for you there.