The door opened without ceremony.
No alarms. No warning chime. Just the soft hiss of sealed mechanisms disengaging, followed by the quiet click of footsteps crossing the threshold.
I did not turn my head.
I didn't need to.
Qyra entered the room the same way she always had measured, deliberate, carrying herself like someone who had long ago accepted responsibility as a constant companion rather than a burden. The faint scent of metal and clean fabric followed her in, grounding and familiar.
She stopped a few steps from the Cot.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Neither did I.
Silent between us echoed.
The Cot's hum filled the silence between us, steady and patient, as if even the machine understood the weight of what had been deferred.
"You're awake," she said at last.
Not a question.
Not relief.
A statement of fact.
I turned my head then, meeting her gaze for the first time since she had left earlier. Her expression was controlled, as always, but there were cracks beneath the surface she did not bother hiding from me.
"You already knew," I replied.
A faint exhale left her. "I needed to hear it without instruments confirming
it."
Fair. I said
She stepped closer, eyes briefly flicking over the restraints, the readouts, the subtle shifts in light along the Cot's surface. Her fingers hovered near the edge of the frame, stopping just short of touching it.
"They stabilized you faster than projected," she said quietly. "You adapted."
"I always do."
That earned me a look. Not sharp. Not angry.
Tired.
"Fifteen years," Qyra said. "You've been gone for fifteen years."
The number landed heavier than I expected.
"I know," I said after a moment. "I can feel the difference."
She nodded. "The world changed."
"I can feel that too."
Another pause. This one stretched longer, the space between us thick with things unsaid. Questions she wasn't ready to ask. Answers I wasn't ready to give.
"Lyra is here," Qyra said finally.
"I know."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You sensed her."
"Yes."
"She hasn't acknowledged you."
"Yet.
Qyra studied me, searching for something. Fear, perhaps. Or frustration.
She found neither.
"You're calmer than I expected," she said.
I considered that. "If I wasn't, this room wouldn't still be standing."
A corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. "That hasn't changed.
"No," I agreed. "Some things don't.
She straightened, folding her arms.
"You need to understand something,
Flux. Your return
"Veyr" I corrected gently.
The name hung between us.
Silence again.
I held her gaze. "Neither do they."
The Cot hummed, the lights pulsing once as if marking the exchange.
Qyra exhaled slowly. "Nyra and Seris will feel it."
"They already have," I said.
Her eyes widened a fraction. "Already?"
I closed my eyes briefly.
Far away, beyond reinforced walls and political boundaries, the world was answering.
In the Nyxfall Dominion, the night never truly slept.
Towering spires of obsidian and steel cut into a sky perpetually veiled in twilight, lit by veins of arcane energy flowing through the city like exposed nerves. At the highest level of the central spire, Nyra Kael stood before a wide, open window, hands resting lightly on the railing.
The wind carried the scent of ozone and rain.
She frowned.
Something was wrong.
No alarms had sounded. No reports had crossed her desk. And yet, the air itself felt… misaligned. Like a chord struck slightly off-key in a symphony she had conducted for years.
Nyra closed her eyes.
She reached inward, not for power, but for awareness.
There.
A distant pull.
Subtle, restrained, but unmistakable.
Her breath caught.
"That's impossible," she whispered.
Tier VII harmonics. Stabilized.
Suppressed.
Active.
Her fingers tightened on the railing as memory surged training sessions under a merciless sun, a voice correcting her angles, forcing her to think three moves ahead instead of one.
Control before force.
Awareness before action.
Only one person had ever made her feel this way.
"Veyr," she said, the name barely audible.
The Dominion's wards shimmered faintly in response, reacting to her sudden spike in focus.
Nyra straightened, eyes sharp.
So you're alive.
And if you're awake…
Her gaze hardened.
Then the balance is about to shift.
In the Solara Expanse, the sun hung low over endless golden plains, bathing everything in warm light.
Seris Solwyn stood alone at the edge of a training field, hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed but alert. Around me, younger disciples practiced in disciplined silence, their movements precise, controlled.
Then I stopped.
Not abruptly.
Just… stilled.
The wind shifted.
The light felt different.
Seris closed his eyes, feeling the resonance ripple through the Expanse like a slow, inevitable tide. It brushed against him with familiar weight, not demanding attention, simply existing.
His lips curved into the faintest smile.
"So," he murmured, "you finally decided to wake up.
The trainees nearby faltered, sensing the shift but not understanding it.
Seris opened his eyes.
Prepare the council, I thought.
Quietly.
The past has returned.
Back in the chamber, Qyra stared at me.
"You're sure," she said.
"Yes."
Her shoulders sagged slightly. "Then
Lyra won't be able to delay much longer."
"No," I agreed. "And she knows it.
Qyra hesitated, then asked the question she'd been avoiding.
"Do you remember what happened?
I did not answer immediately.
Fragments stirred. Fire. Fractured skies. A promise broken in blood and silence.
"No," I said finally. "Not yet.
Relief flickered across her face, quickly masked. "Good."
That surprised me.
"You think that's good?"
"I think," she said carefully, "that some memories carry consequences."
I studied her. "You're afraid of what I'll remember."
"Yes."
"So am I."
That honesty seemed to settle something between us.
She reached out then, placing her hand on the edge of the Cot. The contact was brief, careful, but real.
"Rest," she said. "For now."
"For now," I echoed.
She turned toward the door, pausing once more before leaving.
"Veyr "Whatever happens next… you're not alone this time."
The door closed behind her.
The Cot hummed.
And far beyond the walls of Aurelion, three rulers looked up at the same unseen horizon, each feeling the same undeniable truth settle into their bones.
The world had remembered.
And so had those who were trained to listen.