Third-person POV
Lirian jolted awake with a gasp, heart hammering against his ribs.
The nightmare clung to him like damp silk: golden light pouring from his own veins, flooding cracks in a vast, pulsing crystal heart. The core had screamed—low, resonant, furious—as if his blood was acid instead of salvation. Then the scream had turned inward, ripping through him until he felt his body dissolving into static, adapting or dying, he couldn't tell which.
He sat up, sheets pooling around his waist, and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Probably just his stupid human physiology trying to adjust to this unreal plane. The air here was too clean, too charged. Every breath felt like inhaling starlight. No wonder his dreams were fracturing.
He'd cried himself to sleep again last night. Lashawn's photo kept looping in his mind—lips on someone else's, easy smile, new chapter. Lirian had no one to call and ask *Is he really done with me?* No true friend left who'd answer without pity or judgment. His parents—his only family—had cut contact the day he came out. An only child choosing to be gay, ending the family line. In 25th-century Earth, with gene-editing and surrogate tech and interstellar colonies, they still clung to that crude, bloodline obsession. It would have been laughable if it hadn't still ached like a fresh bruise.
He exhaled shakily and swung his legs over the edge of the floating bed. The room responded to his movement: soft dawn light bloomed across the walls, mimicking a sunrise he'd never see again.
Enough.
He stood, wrapping the pale robe they'd given him around his body. It was beautiful—silken, temperature-regulating—but it felt wrong. Too formal. Too alien. On Earth, he'd have thrown on a cropped sheer top and high-waisted jorts or fitted fem pants that let him breathe and move. Something soft, stylish, his.
He crossed to the digi-wardrobe, a seamless panel of crystal that hummed faintly when he approached.
"Customize outfit," he said aloud. "Breathable. Mid-thigh shorts, tunic-style top. Sheer but modest. Incorporate Zephyrian traditional designs—keep it respectful, nothing that violates custom."
The wardrobe pulsed once, then unfolded a hanger of fabric that shimmered into existence. The result was perfect: high-waisted jorts in deep indigo, ending midthigh, embroidered along the hems with subtle, swirling Aether motifs that caught the light like living thread. The tunic was pale silver, sheer enough to hint at skin without being overt, sleeves loose, neckline scooped just enough to feel elegant. Traditional patterns wove across the shoulders and hem—delicate, geometric, unmistakably Thalorian.
Lirian dressed quickly, twisting his long ash-blond hair into a high, messy bun. He caught his reflection in the wall panel: soft thighs exposed, fair skin almost luminous against the darker fabric, tunic clinging gently to his slender frame. He looked… himself. A small victory in this impossible place.
He headed to the lab.
The research wing was quiet when he arrived, consoles humming softly. Mara and Elias weren't in yet—probably still sleeping off the jet-lag equivalent of portal travel. Lirian settled at his assigned station and activated the sample vault. A single crystalline vial rose from the floor, containing a fragment of Aether harvested from the core's outer lattice.
He leaned in, adjusting the magnification field. The sample should have pulsed with steady violet-gold light.
It didn't.
The glow was dimmer than yesterday's baseline readings. Fractures spiderwebbed through the crystal lattice—tiny, but spreading. Energy output had dropped 1.3% in the last cycle. That wasn't normal degradation; that was hemorrhage.
Lirian's stomach tightened. He pulled up comparative data. The decay rate was accelerating. If it continued unchecked—
A shadow moved at the edge of his vision.
He froze.
Vaelor stood in the far corner of the lab, half-concealed by a column of refracting crystal. The prince hadn't announced himself. Hadn't needed to. His presence filled the room like low pressure before a storm—towering, silent, watching.
Lirian's pulse kicked up. He remembered the cold withdrawal yesterday, the way Vaelor had yanked his hand back as if burned. He made a mental note then and there: *keep your distance.* Stay professional. Stay invisible. The prince tolerated them only because his father ordered it. One wrong move and they'd be on the next portal home—or worse.
He forced his attention back to the sample, fingers trembling slightly as he logged the degradation metrics.
Another tremor rolled through the citadel—subtle at first, then sharper. The floor vibrated. Consoles flickered. A low groan echoed from the core far below.
Lirian instinctively grabbed the edge of the workstation.
In the next heartbeat, Vaelor was there.
He moved faster than physics should allow—Kragvorn's strength propelling him across the room in a blur. One massive arm wrapped around Lirian's waist, yanking him back against a broad chest. The other hand slammed against the console, bracing them both as the quake peaked. Crystal dust sifted from the ceiling.
They were pressed together—Lirian's back flush to Vaelor's armored torso, the prince's breath hot against the top of his head. Vaelor's heartbeat thundered through the contact, steady and enormous. One scaled forearm banded across Lirian's ribs, protective, immovable. The heat of him seeped through the sheer tunic, making Lirian acutely aware of every inch where their bodies touched: the hard ridges of Vaelor's armor against his spine, the faint shimmer of bioluminescent scales brushing his bare thigh.
The quake subsided.
Vaelor didn't release him immediately.
For three agonizing seconds, they stayed locked—Lirian's heart slamming, breath shallow. Then the prince exhaled roughly and stepped back, arms falling away as if the contact scorched him.
Lirian stumbled forward, catching himself on the console. His face burned. He didn't dare look up. Yesterday's rejection flashed through his mind—the cold snap of Vaelor's hand withdrawing, the unspoken *you are nothing here.*
He jumped back another step, putting space between them.
"I'm—sorry," Lirian stammered, voice cracking. "I didn't mean to—"
Vaelor cut him off with a low sound, almost a growl. "Stay behind the reinforced zones during tremors."
His voice was clipped, colder than before. He turned on his heel and stalked toward the shadowed corner he'd emerged from, armor plates shifting with each step.
Lirian watched him go, thighs still tingling where they'd pressed together, heart racing for reasons he refused to name.
He turned back to the sample.
The degradation reading had ticked higher.
1.7%.
He swallowed hard.
Whatever was happening to the core, it wasn't waiting for them to figure it out.
And whatever was happening between him and the prince…
That wasn't waiting either.