The silence after Alexander's fall wasn't empty.
It was waiting.
Scarlett stood alone in the Ark's med-bay, David asleep in her arms, his breathing steady now—too steady, like he was holding his breath for someone who might never come back. Outside, the fleet floated in eerie calm. Stars burned. Time flowed. But everyone knew: this peace was borrowed.
Transcendence hadn't vanished. It had retreated—into the spaces between thoughts, into the gaps where doubt lived.
And it was watching.
She kissed David's forehead, then gently laid him in his crib lined with oak leaves that hadn't been there an hour ago. One of Alexander's seeds, already growing.
"Be brave, little star," she whispered.
Then she turned to the bloodline altar—a simple stone slab Luna had carved years ago, now glowing faintly with residual energy from seventeen dimensions.
Her hands trembled.
Not from fear.
From knowing.
