The planet cried out.
Not in sound.
In shift.
Sarela felt it as a sudden lurch beneath her bones, a deep internal adjustment that rippled through the basin like a suppressed convulsion. Stone compressed unevenly, gravity fluctuating in brief, disorienting pulses—never enough to throw her off balance, but enough to announce unmistakably that the world had reached a decision.
It could not do this alone anymore.
Raizen slept through the first tremor.
That frightened her.
His small body lay heavy against her chest, breathing shallow but steady, the fire inside him reduced to a pinpoint presence—so tightly compressed it barely brushed the seal anymore. He felt distant, not unconscious, but inward. Withdrawn in a way that felt intentional rather than exhausted.
The planet shifted again.
This time, the basin responded differently.
Instead of tightening further, the stone opened.
Not cracking.
Parting.
A narrow seam traced itself along the far edge of the basin, stone folding inward rather than splitting apart. The movement was slow, deliberate, accompanied by a low vibration that resonated through Sarela's ribs and into her arms.
The guards reacted instantly.
Weapons were raised—not in attack, but readiness. One stepped in front of Sarela without being told, stance wide, tail stiff.
"What is it doing?" he demanded.
The pilot stared at the seam, eyes wide with disbelief. "It's… reallocating."
"Reallocating what?"
"Load," the pilot said hoarsely. "It's redistributing stress instead of absorbing it."
The ground pulsed again.
The seam widened, revealing darkness beneath—not a cavern, not empty space, but something dense and ordered. The air above it thickened, pressure folding inward as if the planet were compressing reality itself into a smaller, more manageable form.
Sarela's breath hitched.
Raizen stirred.
His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first—then sharpening with sudden clarity.
The fire pulsed.
Weak.
Precise.
The seal responded immediately, tightening reflexively around the compressed core.
But the planet did not anchor him this time.
It invited him.
A subtle tug—gentle but unmistakable—pulled at Raizen's awareness, not outward toward sky or horizon, but downward, toward the opening seam.
Sarela felt it too.
"No," she whispered, instinct screaming. "Don't—please don't—"
Raizen did not cry.
He did not reach.
He considered.
For a heartbeat, his gaze locked onto the opening, attention sharpening as he assessed the pressure, the alignment, the unfamiliar configuration of gravity beneath the basin.
The fire pulsed again.
Not in distress.
In inquiry.
The seal strained—not from force, but from adaptation.
The planet responded with another shift.
Gravity softened around Raizen—not weakening, but guiding, creating a gradient that led downward without pulling. The stone beneath the seam folded further, forming a shallow descent rather than a drop.
Sarela's heart pounded violently.
"It's asking," she whispered.
The pilot nodded slowly. "Yes."
The guard in front of her stiffened. "Asking for what?"
"For help," the pilot replied.
The words hung heavy in the air.
Raizen made a small sound—not a cry, not a coo—but something quieter. A resonance. The fire inside him pulsed faintly in response to the planet's invitation.
Sarela tightened her hold reflexively.
"No," she said, louder now. "You don't owe it anything. You've already—"
The planet shifted again.
Not impatient.
Resolute.
The seam widened just enough to make the path unmistakable.
Raizen turned his head slowly.
Not toward the opening.
Toward her.
Their eyes met.
For a fleeting, devastating moment, Sarela felt the brush against her awareness more clearly than ever before—not a question, not a demand.
An understanding.
He knew what the planet was asking.
And he knew what it would cost.
Her throat closed.
"You're too small," she whispered. "You shouldn't have to—"
Raizen reached up weakly, tiny fingers brushing her collarbone.
The fire pulsed.
The seal adjusted.
The planet waited.
Sarela's breath broke.
"Please," she said, voice cracking. "Let someone else help."
The answer came not from Raizen—but from the world.
The basin trembled sharply, a spike of instability rippling outward before halting abruptly. The ground groaned, stress redistributing unevenly now, less controlled than before.
The planet was failing.
Not catastrophically.
But inevitably.
The pilot swore under his breath. "It's not sustainable. It needs a stabilizing presence inside the load-bearing structure."
Sarela stared at him in horror. "You're saying—"
"I'm saying," he cut in quietly, "that the world is asking him to anchor from within."
The guards fell silent.
Raizen's gaze drifted back toward the opening.
The fire pulsed again—slightly stronger this time.
Not power.
Consent.
Sarela shook her head, tears streaming freely.
"No," she whispered. "I won't let you."
Raizen did not fight her grip.
He did not struggle.
He simply waited.
The planet shifted again.
This time, the gravity gradient sharpened just enough that Sarela staggered forward a step despite herself. The seam widened further, the path downward smoothing, pressure equalizing as if preparing to receive something precise.
The guards moved instinctively to restrain her—but stopped.
Because Raizen stirred again.
Not weakly.
Deliberately.
He straightened slightly in her arms, tiny body aligning with the planet's pull in a way that felt different from before. Not reactive.
Intentional.
The fire inside him pulsed once—steady, focused, unmistakably chosen.
The seal screamed—then adapted.
Sarela felt her chest tear open.
"You're choosing this," she whispered. "Aren't you?"
Raizen blinked.
Not in confusion.
In affirmation.
The world answered.
Gravity stabilized.
The trembling slowed.
The opening held steady, no longer widening, no longer threatening collapse.
The planet had made its request.
And Raizen had understood it.
Sarela fell to her knees at the edge of the seam, arms locked around him, sobbing openly now.
"You don't have to save everything," she cried. "You don't have to carry the world."
Raizen rested his forehead briefly against hers.
The fire burned faintly.
Contained.
Precise.
But something else stirred beneath it now—a structural resonance that echoed the planet's own.
He was not just carrying weight anymore.
He was becoming part of the structure.
The guards stood frozen, caught between duty and disbelief.
The pilot whispered, voice hollow. "If he does this… the world won't fail."
Sarela looked up sharply. "And him?"
The pilot did not answer.
The planet waited.
Raizen waited.
And Sarela understood with crushing clarity that this was the moment she had been dreading since the day he was born.
Not the moment of destruction.
The moment of integration.
Because once Raizen anchored himself within the world—
He would never again be just a child resting upon it.
He would be something the planet depended on.
And dependency, once formed, was never easily broken.
The seam pulsed softly, pressure equalizing, the invitation still open.
Raizen's small body relaxed in her arms.
Ready.
The world had asked for help.
And the universe, watching from afar, held its breath—
Because if the anomaly chose to become a foundation rather than a force…
…everything that came after would have to be built around him.