The dome trembled.
Beneath the acid rain, streaks of mana tore through the sky like open veins, spilling green and red light across the glass surface. Beyond, the horizon had twisted. It was no longer a sky, but a wound suspended above the earth.
The Gate was taking shape—slowly, in pulses. Each beat made the structure shudder, sending ripples through the ground, the walls, the air saturated with electricity. The entire world watched the phenomenon through screens. But he, Eiden Vale, was there—only a few hundred meters away.
The observation penthouse overlooked the containment center: a circular space, silent, bathed in unstable light. The glass walls mirrored the outer storm, casting shifting reflections on the floor—sometimes green, sometimes scarlet. The holographic consoles were dark. There was only the low hum of the manatic field and the breath of the rain.
Eiden stood before the vast window, motionless. The reflection of the fracture crossed his face, distorting his features in the glass. Twenty-two years old, black suit, loosened tie, gaze too calm for a day like this. His AETHERION coat hung from his shoulders. Every flash of lightning caught a faint red glint in his eyes.
The Gate widened. A spiral of greenish light undulated around the vortex, mingling with crimson filaments that quivered like living nerves. The storm seemed to follow its rhythm—breathing with it.
Eiden slowly raised his hand. His fingers brushed the glass. It was cold, almost organic. A faint shock ran through him—light but real, as if something on the other side had answered his touch.
His heart began to beat in sync with the trembling of the dome.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
— "It's been a year, Father…" he murmured.
The words vanished into the thunder.
A year since the First Gate.A year since a continent vanished.A year since he had last heard his father's voice.
He inhaled, his hand still resting on the glass.
— "I miss you so much…"
Outside, the vortex pulsed. A red light flooded the bay, sweeping the room with an invisible gust. The reflections flared against his skin; his shadow stretched long across the wall. Eiden opened his eyes. In the glass, his reflection was no longer entirely his own.
A beat echoed—slow, deep. The dome groaned under the pressure, as if the earth itself held its breath. The light contracted, pulsed, then stretched into a crimson wave that crossed the glass. And far away, the Gate opened—not violently, but like an eye awakening.
Then, nothing.
For a heartbeat, the dome seemed to hold its breath. The light dimmed, the alarms fell silent, and the air sank into a thick, living quiet. He blinked. His ears rang.
That's when he heard it—the creak of the door.The penthouse door opened with a sharp hiss, letting in a draft of ozone. He turned slightly, without taking his eyes off the window.
— "You're still awake, Lyra?" he asked, his voice calm, steady.
The girl stopped on the threshold, clutching a still-glowing holographic tablet against her chest.
— "I still can't sleep, big brother," she replied, her voice hesitant.
She stepped inside, barefoot on the cold floor. The greenish light of the Gate shimmered across her silver hair, giving her a spectral glow. Her bright eyes betrayed fatigue—but also that fierce intelligence she was known for.
Lyra Vale, thirteen years old—AETHERION's prodigy child, and for the past year, the anxious shadow of a world in ruins.
Eiden sighed softly.
— "I understand," he said. "After all… today's a special day."
She approached him slowly, stopping a few steps away. Behind the glass, the Gate expanded. The storm's energy threw flickering patterns across their faces.
— "Do you have to go, Eiden?" she asked suddenly, her voice lower now.
He finally looked at her.
— "You know I don't have a choice."
— "Yes, you do," she insisted. "I can't stop thinking about it, and… I really wish you'd stay. With Mom and me. Here."
Her hands trembled.
— "I'm scared. Really scared, Eiden."
He said nothing. The rumble of the dome filled the silence between their words.
Lyra spoke again, faster this time, as if afraid to stop.
— "Mom already lost Dad because of this damned project. If you go in there, she'll lose you too. And I…"
Her voice broke.
Eiden stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder.
— "Listen to me. Father disappeared inside the First Gate believing he could understand what no human ever should."
— "Exactly," she shot back. "He disappeared. Why make the same mistake?"
A faint, bitter smile touched his lips.
— "Because someone has to finish what he started."
He lifted his gaze to the red light outside.
— "Because someone has to carry the Vale name with pride."
Lyra shook her head, her eyes wet.
— "Pride won't bring you back, Eiden."
He smiled softly, tired.
— "Maybe not. But it'll tell me I didn't run."
Silence.
The dome shuddered again, stronger this time, rippling through the glass. Lyra took a step back. Eiden's expression softened.
He reached out, ruffling her hair gently.
— "Come on… go to bed, Lyra."
— "I don't want to."
— "We have training early tomorrow, remember?"
She pouted, arms crossed.
— "You always find excuses to dodge real conversations," she muttered.
Eiden let out a quiet laugh.
— "Exactly."
She stared at him for a moment, then turned away, resigned.As she reached the door, a red wave rolled across the ceiling, casting a strange shadow on her face. Eiden clenched his fists silently.
Lyra turned one last time.
— "Promise me one thing."
— "What is it?"
— "That you'll come back."
He smiled softly.
— "Of course I will, Lyra."
But in that smile, she saw the hesitation—just enough to know he didn't believe his own words.
The door closed behind her.
Silence settled—thick, heavy.
Eiden stood still for a long moment, eyes lost in the red light pulsing in the distance. Then he turned away, walking slowly across the room.
The desk was cluttered: sealed files, dim holo-photos, an empty glass left near the edge. He grabbed the whiskey bottle and poured himself a drink without shaking. Outside, the storm painted the room in shifting hues of blood and emerald. From the dome below came a low, constant vibration—the hum of a colossal heart.
Eiden sank into a wide black armchair facing the window. Cold luxury. The scent of metal and alcohol. He crossed his legs, lifted the glass, watching the amber surface quiver between his fingers.
Footsteps echoed in the hall. Heavy. Synchronized. Muffled voices, mechanical orders.
He exhaled softly.
— "After kindness, force. Predictable, Mother."
He raised the glass, offered a faint smile, and drank it in one motion.
Then, calmly, he set the glass down, wiped it with the back of his hand.
He picked up a pack of cigarettes and slipped a few into his inner pocket—a precise, habitual gesture. Then he crouched. At the foot of the couch rested a metallic briefcase. On its lid, the inscription read: AETHERION — Experimental Model.
He traced a finger across the surface.
At that moment, the door burst open. Four soldiers in white suits stormed the room—opaque visors, flexible armor, weapons drawn. Their electromagnetic batons lit up with a sharp hiss, tips glowing red. Voices crackled through encrypted comms.
— "Heir Vale, by order of the Council, you are to be placed in preventive custody. Protocol Omega-2 is now active."
Eiden rose slowly, expressionless.
The taste of whiskey still lingered on his tongue. He adjusted his collar.
— "I suppose 'preventive' means I won't be seeing the sky again until that Gate closes, correct?"
Silence. The visors didn't move.
He pressed a button on the briefcase. The metal unfolded in a smooth, fluid motion, twisting into a black staff veined with faint red light.
The air crackled.
The soldiers moved into formation.
A breath of stillness.
Eiden inhaled deeply.
— "Very well, then. Let's make this quick."
He moved.
The first strike was clean, surgical—an explosion of force that sent the nearest soldier crashing against the wall before he even registered it.
The other three reacted instantly, weapons cutting through the red light. Eiden dodged, pivoted, struck from an unexpected angle. Every movement was calculated, anticipated, almost mathematical.
He used the furniture—slid, leveraged a table edge for momentum. One blow, two. He disarmed the second, shattered the third's helmet with a sweeping arc.
Electric arcs burst through the air. The sharp scent of ozone filled the room.
A surveillance drone descended from the ceiling, lens glowing red. Eiden seized a chair and threw it without hesitation. The drone exploded in a flash, crashing against the window in a rain of sparks.
He barely breathed.
His movements were those of a man who'd learned to survive through precision, not rage.
One final motion—a rising strike—and the last soldier collapsed, neutralized.
Silence returned.
Only the faint crackle of burnt circuits remained.
Outside, the Gate roared. The dome trembled as if a giant heart beat beneath the city.
Eiden collapsed the staff with a swift motion—it folded back into a briefcase.
He stepped over the unconscious bodies and opened the hallway door.
That's when the alarms finally blared—red, shrill. On the wall, a message flashed:
[ALERT: CONTAINMENT FAILURE — DEPLOYING REINFORCEMENTS]
He paused, watching the light pulse in time with the Gate.
A faint, almost wistful smile touched his lips.
— "Too late, Mother."
He closed his eyes briefly. One last image crossed his mind: Lyra's laughter, his mother's voice on the phone, his father before the first vortex.
When he opened them again, his gaze held no hesitation.
He began to walk. Calm. Composed. The briefcase tapped softly against his thigh with every step.
The floor shook under his boots. Alarms screamed through the lower levels. Silhouettes rushed past in panic, not even seeing him.
Eiden advanced straight toward the main airlock, the red glow spilling across his skin. With every step, the Gate's rumble deepened—a call, ancient and inescapable.
The doors slid open with a burning hiss. Outside, the manatic storm consumed everything. The light of the Gate filled the horizon—red and green, a wound hanging over the world.
He placed a hand against his chest, inhaled slowly.
— "Mother. Lyra."
A whisper. Barely a breath.
— "I love you."
Then he stepped through.