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They do not have a sky.
Not the way humans do.
Above the colony stretches a vast ceiling of living darkness, threaded with slow-moving veins of light, pulsing like the inside of a colossal heart. The ground is not solid either—it shifts subtly, breathing, responding to the weight of those who stand upon it.
This is where the Things gather.
Not all of them.
Only the ones who matter.
At the center of the expanse rises a spire of obsidian crystal, jagged and asymmetrical, growing upward as if it were trying to pierce whatever reality exists above this one. Symbols crawl across its surface—old glyphs that predate language, writhing and reforming endlessly.
Inside the spire is a chamber shaped like a wound.
That is where they stand.
Tall figures, humanoid but not, wrapped in forms that constantly change—smoke folding into flesh, shadow hardening into bone, eyes opening and closing across surfaces that should not have eyes.
They do not breathe.
They do not blink.
They simply exist in a state of patient hunger.
One of them steps forward.
It wears a shape vaguely resembling a man—broad-shouldered, long-limbed, its face smooth except for the black hollow where a mouth should be.
"She unlocked the new chapter," it says.
Its voice is not sound but pressure, pushing against the chamber, forcing meaning directly into the minds of the others.
"She has crossed the threshold. The Door has opened."
A ripple of reaction spreads through the gathering.
Some recoil.
Some lean in.
Some shudder with something like delight.
"That was not supposed to happen yet," hisses another, its form fracturing into sharp, angular plates. "She is too early."
"Too human," whispers a third. "Too fragile."
The first Thing's hollow face twists into something that might be frustration.
"And yet she did it," it says. "She learned his name."
At that, a low, dangerous murmur passes through the chamber.
One of the darker figures steps forward. Its shape is less stable than the others, as if it is being held together by sheer spite.
"Why," it whispers, "does he always get favored?"
The words are poison.
A few of the others turn toward it.
"You mean Azael," says one.
The jealous Thing's form sharpens. "Of course I do."
"Azael was not favored," another replies coldly. "He was chosen."
"There is no difference!" the jealous one snarls. "He was pulled from nothing. Given power. Given purpose. Given her."
It gestures violently, sending ripples through the living floor.
"I was first," it says. "I was stronger. I was brighter. And yet—"
"And yet you chose envy," the first Thing cuts in. "You chose hunger over harmony."
The jealous one laughs—a sound like tearing metal.
"He chose her," it snaps. "That is the real crime."
Silence follows.
Because all of them know it's true.
Azael's bond with you is not just an anomaly.
It is an offense.
"Immortals are not meant to be seen," mutters one of the watchers. "Not like that. Not with that kind of clarity."
"And yet," the first Thing replies, "she sees him. Knows him. Holds his name."
It raises one elongated hand, and in the air between them appears an image.
You.
Standing in your dimly lit room, eyes wide, Azael kneeling before you.
The moment of the name hangs frozen between you.
A fragile, terrible intimacy.
"She did not steal it," the Thing says. "He gave it."
A hiss of fury ripples through the chamber.
"That makes it worse," the jealous one growls.
"Love makes immortals dangerous," says another.
"Attachment makes us vulnerable," says a third.
"And Azael," the first Thing adds quietly, "has both."
The image shifts.
Now it shows Mira.
Twisted. Marked. Smiling with something else behind her eyes.
"Your experiment with the girl is progressing," the first Thing tells the jealous one.
"Of course it is," the jealous one replies. "She is breaking beautifully."
"Be careful," warns one of the elders. "If you push her too far, she will become uncontrollable."
"That is the point," the jealous one says. "I want her to tear the bond apart. I want Azael to feel what it is like to lose."
The air darkens.
"Then you risk exposing yourself," the first Thing says. "If he remembers who you are—"
"He won't," the jealous one interrupts. "He never remembers me."
"Not yet," the first Thing replies.
A low, ominous hum fills the chamber.
"Three months," it says. "That is all the time you have."
The jealous Thing's many eyes narrow.
"Three months is plenty."
The image shifts again.
Now it shows you training, hands glowing faintly, Azael standing close behind you.
The bond between you glimmers like a thread of light.
"So fragile," the jealous one murmurs. "And yet so offensive."
It steps closer to the image, reaching out as if it could touch it.
"When I am done," it whispers, "she will call his name—and he will not answer."
And in the living darkness of the colony, something ancient and cruel begins to smile.