With a graceful gesture, Elder Zivan transformed their surroundings—the grand hall dissolved as if its walls were only the memory of wood. In its place unfolded a breathtaking starry cosmos that stretched infinitely in every direction. The ceiling fell away; the floor ceased to matter. Stars pulsed and drifted in living currents, their paths coiling into luminous rivers that crossed, merged, and parted. Constellations bent into shapes as his fingers moved—lines of light knitting the void into meaning. He did not simply speak; he wove with the night itself.
"The orb you carry," Zivan began, his voice circling through the celestial projection like a bell struck far above a valley, "is neither ornament nor mere object—it is part of a divine being, a fragment of their essence made manifest."
The stars shifted, and images flamed into being: a horizon swallowed by black, skies gone to ash, towers grayed to bone. "Long ago, these lands plunged into darkness much like today. Every living being succumbed to a mysterious plague—neither living nor dead, but existing as lifeless corpses that somehow endured. Demonic creatures of unknown origin emerged everywhere. Despair consumed everything. All survivors retreated underground, surviving without food or water for ten agonizing days."
On the eleventh beat of silence, new constellations blossomed—figures descending, their limbs braided with light, their faces indistinct and kind. "On the eleventh day, prayers were finally heard. Unknown divine beings descended, sharing their knowledge and power with chosen few. They promised that one day, a human would end this suffering—cutting through darkness to restore light to these cursed lands."
Zivan gestured toward the orb in Tian's hands. Even in this starmade room, the contained glow answered him with a soft, solemn pulse. "They left gifts like the one you possess: orbs containing divine knowledge, specific fighting techniques, basic incantations that channel life force as a medium, and most importantly—divine essence that settles only within chosen vessels. Not everyone can contain such energy; only those selected by divine will can bear this burden without being destroyed."
The star-story continued. Figures rose from ruin and became pillars—men and women lifting others, flames cradled in palms, water arcing obediently, mountains bowing to thoughtful hands. "Those who received these powers became the foundation of human survival. Among them was my father, Mryuta, chosen by the divine beings themselves. He trained tirelessly, sharing his knowledge with all who could learn."
Zivan's expression grew heavy with memory and pain. The constellations dimmed as if lowering their eyes. "Before his death, knowing his time was ending, father forced all his remaining energy into me—mixing it with his very life force. The side effects of receiving power I wasn't meant to bear made me as you see now." He coughed, sharp and wet; flecks of blood spattered his sleeve like fallen rubies and vanished into starlight. "I cannot settle the energy within myself—it flows constantly through my meridians. I contain it at the cost of my life force, sharing what I can with my people. Some acquire knowledge, others gain energy. The superhuman abilities you've witnessed come from understanding oneself, seeing the world clearly, mastering emotions, and learning perfect control over divine energy—this blossoms into unique powers."
Silence gathered. The cosmos leaned in. One of Tian's crew—voice low, respectful—asked, "What is your power, Sir Zivan?"
The elder smiled sadly. "I am merely a reader of fate. I watch the stars, trying to understand their whispered warnings. I'm not much of a superhuman—and my time grows short."
Another coughing fit bent him; a crimson thread marked his lip before he wiped it away with an unembarrassed hand. Stillness steadied around him, the way a crowd steadies a faltering elder without touching him. "Forgive me—I've talked extensively without truly listening to you. Young man, could you bring the orb closer? And the woman beside you—I sense extraordinary energy within her."
Tian and Amara approached until they stood directly before the ancient seer. Tian felt the orb's hum change—warmer, nearer to something like recognition. Amara's pulse thickened in her wrists, a tide answering a moon. Zivan's star-filled eyes widened in wonder. "In all my years, I have never encountered energy like this. I've met many gifted individuals, but this is… unprecedented. Please, tell me how you acquired this orb and how this young woman came to possess such power."
Tian told it all, the words falling into the star-woven room and finding purchase: the encounter with Kakabhushundi, the divine bird's impossible poise and gaze, the guidance given in a voice that felt like wind over feathers; the transformation of the feathers into orbs that thrummed with the promise of stable light; Amara's change—the galaxies that awoke behind her eyes, the way her spirit slipped its tether and returned with maps the world had forgotten. As he spoke, Zivan's expression brightened, grief thinned by joy, the weight of centuries lifting in degrees.
"You are blessed beyond measure," Zivan declared, reverence and relief braided in his tone, "to meet a divine being directly in their true form. These orbs represent their personal blessings." He turned to Amara. "Young lady, the energy within your body has not yet settled—it will take years to achieve complete control. You must guide this energy gradually, filling each chakra one by one until you can open and fill your Sahasrara chakra—the crown of enlightenment."
Amara swallowed. The word years landed inside her like a mountain and like a promise. She had imagined endurance in minutes and hours and days. Now time widened, and with it, a path.
To Tian, Zivan continued, "You must consume your orb and channel its energy, settling it permanently within your body." The elder's breath hitched; the stars above flickered in sympathy. Another violent cough brought blood he did not disguise. "My children will guide you through this process—they understand what must be done. I'm sorry, but I must end our meeting now. I will see you again soon."
He closed his eyes as if returning to a room he kept locked for everyone's safety, and the chant resumed—low, continuous, a river that irrigated this entire place. Waves of energy flowed from his failing form, not like a flood, but like steady rain, honest and tireless.
Hisag's usual cheerfulness dimmed by worry, he stepped close and spoke softly. "Please understand—the elder must concentrate all his willpower to control the energy in his body. It constantly rejects him, and he forces containment at the cost of his own life. Through this sacrifice, he predicts our future and foresees dangers approaching. We'll visit the Fourth Elder next—she will guide you through the awakening process."
Tian's group bowed deeply to the meditating elder, gratitude and a frightened tenderness folding them at the waist. When they straightened, they carried a different weight: not just the weight of need, but the weight of being seen and placed within a story that started before they were born.
They departed the star-hall, the cosmos dissolving back into living wood as if starlight could be put away like a ceremonial robe. The corridor's floating crystals resumed their watch. Along one of the great tree's branches, the air shifted—lighter in the heart, heavier at the ribs. Voices gathered ahead, hushed, then breaking, then hushed again.
A gathering of people stood in the distance, assembled around what appeared to be a burial ground—a crescent of earth held in the crook of two roots, bounded by stones etched with simple marks and tied with threads of color. Lanterns burned low and blue. Wind moved carefully.
Drawing closer, they recognized familiar faces.
Yavia knelt by a fresh grave, tears streaming down her face, her shoulders trembling like a branch holding too much weather. Muan and Glyph stood beside her, their eyes wet, jaws tight, hands empty and disciplined—warriors standing where war has no use. The world-tree's sounds gentled themselves around the trio, as if any creak or birdcall might be an intrusion.
Gently, Muan helped Yavia to her feet and guided her closer to the gravestone. With trembling hands, she placed a bracelet—the same one they had seen her companion recover from the ruins—upon the grave marker. The metal caught the lantern light and held it for a heartbeat, violet whispering along the pearl core, before going still forever. Yavia broke into uncontrollable sobbing, the kind that did not ask to be soothed. Grief had its own work and would not be hurried.
Tian felt the orb warm where it rested against his sternum, as if acknowledging the moment with a heartbeat of its own. Elena's hands, empty of bandages and vitals and tasks, curled into palms she could only hold shut. Amara stood very still, the clean air both mercy and ache; through her, the world's edges were sharp, and loss wore no veil.
The cost of survival in this cursed world had claimed another soul. Even in their sanctuary of magic and wonder, the weight of loss pressed heavily upon all who called this place home. Between prophecy and awakening, between aid and maps and orbs meant to be swallowed, there lay this—names spoken softly at dusk, bracelets given back to earth, the simple, stubborn fact that love kept count.
Hisag bowed his head, blue cloak whispering as it settled. "We remember," he said, almost to himself, almost to the tree. "We always remember."
Above them, the cranes circled once and settled on a higher bough, their long legs folding. The wind carried the scent of rain though no clouds showed. Somewhere deep within the trunk, Zivan's chant thread-wove through root and leaf, holding what could be held.
The prophecy had found them. The call to journey had been spoken.
And still, as the people mourned, Tian understood the hardest truth of any salvation: it must learn to walk at the speed of grief.