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The world is ending.
Dan Heng knows this with a strange, detached clarity. Flames tear across the fractured ground in jagged lines, crawling over collapsed structures and the broken remnants of ships that never stood a chance. The sky hangs low and sick, bruised with gold and black, as if the cosmos itself is rotting from the inside out.
And at the center of it all—
THEY stand.
Nanook’s form looms impossibly vast against the burning horizon, a colossal silhouette etched in annihilation. Long gray twin braids, thick and heavy, drape down THEIR shoulders, unmoving despite the chaos. Golden eyes burn with distant, merciless light, fixed on the lone figure before THEM.
Golden ichor drips from The Blemished One’s severed arms in slow, deliberate rivulets, splashing against the shattered earth. It hisses on contact, eating through stone and steel alike, each drop glowing like a fallen star.
The air trembles.
Dan Heng’s vision blurs as pressure builds, dense enough to make his skull ache. Somewhere far above, weapons fire streaks uselessly past Nanook’s form. Fleets maneuver. Fighters charge. Entire factions throw themselves forward in desperate, futile defiance.
Their efforts barely register.
None of it matters. Not when his eyes can only focus on the woman in the middle of everything.
Stelle stands alone before Nanook, framed by devastation, light coiling violently around her body. The Stellaron’s power flares bright enough to hurt to look at, casting trembling shadows across the Aeon’s towering form.
Too far.
The thought surfaces distantly, without panic.
The air tightens.
Pressure builds until his vision darkens at the edges, until the world feels like it’s being pulled inward toward a single point.
Light surges.
There is a flash — blinding, absolute — and a shockwave tears across the battlefield with devastating force. Sound vanishes. Colour collapses.
Dan Heng feels himself stagger.
Feels the impact hit him like a physical thing.
And just like that—
it’s over.
Sunlight filters through the trees.
It comes in soft, amber ribbons, slipping easily between tall trunks and catching in the leaves overhead. The light here does not burn. It does not flicker or fracture. It simply is — warm, steady, patient.
The air is clean.
Dan Heng draws in a breath, slow and deep, and feels it settle in his chest. Whatever weight had been pressing against his ribs moments ago loosens, easing back into something manageable. The ground beneath his feet is solid, cushioned with moss and grass that bends gently under his step.
No alarms reverberating through his head. No heat biting at his skin. No pressure pressing his body down.
Just quiet.
He exhales, shoulders lowering without him realizing they were tense.
“This place is nice.”
The voice comes from his left — familiar, fond.
Dan Heng turns.
Stelle stands a few paces away, sunlight outlining her figure in gold. She looks exactly as she should: uninjured, whole, eyes bright as she takes in the forest around them. There is no trace of battle on her. No lingering light clinging too close to her skin.
Relief settles into him so smoothly it almost feels earned.
“You always say that,” he replies, the words leaving him easily, as if this is a conversation they have had before. Perhaps many times.
She glances back at him, amused, and then her smile softens into something quieter, more sincere.
“Yeah,” she says. “Because every place is nice if you’re there beside me.”
Something in his chest loosens further at that.
He steps closer without thinking, their shoulders brushing lightly. The contact is grounding. Real. The kind of simple reassurance that requires no words.
They begin to walk.
There is no clear path, but the forest seems to open for them regardless, the undergrowth thinning where they step. Sunlight follows at an unhurried pace, never straying too far ahead, never falling behind. The leaves overhead rustle softly, stirred by a breeze gentle enough not to disturb the calm.
Dan Heng lets his gaze wander, cataloguing details without urgency — the way the light dapples the ground, the sound of their footsteps, the gentle warmth lingering on his skin.
The chaos of war feels distant here.
Unreal, like something that happened to someone else.
Stelle hums under her breath as they walk, a half-formed tune she never quite finishes. Every so often she drifts closer, fingers brushing his sleeve, as if to make sure he’s still there.
He doesn’t pull away.
For the first time in what feels like far too long, the world does not demand anything of him.
And Dan Heng allows himself, just this once, to bask in it.
They stop near a fallen log, half-covered in moss and dappled with sunlight. Stelle sits first, palms braced behind her as she leans back to look up through the canopy. Dan Heng joins her a moment later, close enough that their shoulders brush.
She glances at him sidelong. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“I usually am.”
“Mm. Not like this.” Her gaze lingers, thoughtful rather than teasing. “You look… lighter.”
He blinks. “Lighter?”
“Yeah,” she says, smiling faintly. “Like you’re not carrying the weight of the past on your back for once.”
He considers that.
The weight in his chest — constant, familiar — does feel diminished here. Distant. As if it has been set down somewhere out of sight.
“Perhaps,” he says. “The surroundings are conducive to rest.”
She laughs softly, resting her head on his shoulder. “Only you would phrase it like that.”
Silence settles again, easy and unforced. Dan Heng finds himself tracing patterns in the moss with his gaze, aware of her presence in every small way, the warmth at his side, the steady rise and fall of her breathing.
“You remember that world with the endless dusk?” Stelle asks after a while.
“The one where the sun never fully set,” he replies without hesitation.
“Yeah. You spent hours just… watching the sky.”
“It was a rare atmospheric phenomenon.”
She hums. “You didn’t have to stay that long.”
“I wanted to.”
Her smile is small, but unmistakably pleased.
“This place feels like that,” she says, gesturing vaguely around them. “Calm. Like time isn’t in a rush.”
“I’m sure it won’t remain unchanged,” Dan Heng says. The words leave him before he can stop them.
She stills.
Only briefly, but he notices.
Then she shrugs, the motion smooth, practiced. “Nothing ever does.”
They sit with that for a moment. The light above remains warm, steady. Too steady.
A strange weight — something uneasy, wrong, oh so wrong — starts to press against his ribcage.
Dan Heng frowns slightly. “Do you know where we are?”
It’s an innocent question. One that should have an easy answer.
Stelle tilts her head, considering him. For a heartbeat, her smile falters, then returns, just a fraction too quickly.
“Somewhere safe,” she says.
“That’s not very specific.”
She nudges his knee with her own. “You trust me, don’t you?”
He hesitates. Not because he doesn’t, but because the question feels unnecessary.
“Of course.”
“Then don’t worry about it.” She reaches for his hand, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. “We’re together. That’s what matters.”
He exhales, tension easing as he squeezes her hand in return.
“…Alright.”
For now, that is enough.
They resumed their walk after a while.
Dan Heng isn’t sure how much time passes — minutes, perhaps, or something looser. The light never shifts. The shadows don’t stretch. The forest remains caught in the same gentle stillness, as if waiting for permission to move again.
Eventually, he speaks.
“When we leave,” he says quietly, “where do you want to go next?”
Stelle doesn’t answer right away.
Her thumb stills where it had been absently tracing circles against the back of his hand.
“…Next?” she repeats.
“Yes.” He turns his head to look at her. “We can return to the Express. Or somewhere else, if you’d prefer.”
The words feel right. Normal. Sensible.
Her smile falters.
Just for a second, but it’s enough.
“The Express,” she echoes, softly. “Right.”
There’s something wrong with the way she says it. Like the word is unfamiliar on her tongue. Like she’s repeating something she’s heard before rather than recalling it herself. Or rather… something she doesn’t believe in.
Dan Heng’s brow furrows. “Stelle?”
She squeezes his hand a little too tightly. “Why are you thinking about that already?”
“Because we always do,” he replies. “We plan ahead.”
Her grip loosens.
“Well,” she says lightly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, “maybe we don’t have to this time.”
“That’s not like you.”
That earns him a quiet laugh — too sharp, too sudden.
“People change,” she says.
His chest tightened further, the uneasy, wrong, feeling returning tenfold.
The forest goes very, very quiet.
No wind through the leaves. No distant birdsong. Even their breathing feels too loud in the stillness.
Dan Heng looks around slowly.
The trees seem… thinner now. Less defined at the edges, like a painting left too long in the sun. They’re further apart than he remembered. Their trunks thin as they recede, bark paling until it looks almost colourless. Where dense undergrowth once crowded the ground, there is now only sparse grass — yellowed, brittle beneath his boots.
“Stelle,” he says again, more carefully this time. “Something isn’t right.”
She doesn’t look at him.
The light above dims, not suddenly, but gradually, like a lamp being turned down. The warmth drains from the air, replaced by a dull, pressing chill. The sky, once blue and generous, dulls to a washed-out gray.
“Don’t,” she murmurs.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t pull at it.” Her voice is softer now. Tired. She’s not looking at him, instead her gaze settled on the ground beneath their feet. “Just— stay here with me, okay?”
A prickle of unease crawls up his spine, refusing to let him forget its presence. Something’s not right, something’s wrong, wrong, wrong—
“Pull at what?” He asks, staring at her in utter confusion. “What are you saying?”
He takes a step forward and the trees nearest him simply… aren’t there anymore.
Not fallen. Not burned.
Gone.
In their place stretches an open field, the ground rolling out endlessly in every direction, covered in dead grass that rustles softly despite the absence of wind. No horizon breaks the view. No landmarks. Just an infinite expanse beneath a low, heavy sky.
His pulse begins to quicken.
Stelle finally looked up at him. Her expression is… unsettling.
Still beautiful. Still familiar. But there’s something behind her eyes now, something deep and aching, like sorrow held too long. Golden ichor wells at the corners of her eyes, shimmering before spilling over, tracing glowing paths down her cheeks.
Dan Heng freezes.
“No,” he whispers. “That’s—”
She reaches for him, hands trembling as she cups his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones like she’s trying to memorize him.
“Dan Heng, dear…”
Her voice breaks. Her eyes reflect unmeasurable sorrow, something he hates to see on her face.
He can only watch as the golden liquid darkens, mixing with something red — blood, it’s blood, blood, blood, blood — as it falls.
“Wake up.”
Dan Heng wakes to silence.
Not the gentle kind.
The oppressive kind that presses in against his ears until he’s forced to acknowledge it, until the absence of sound becomes its own weight.
The ceiling above him is familiar — metal panels, faint seams traced by the low, ambient lighting of the floor beneath his mattress. Cool. Dim. Unmoving. The last remnants of gold and gray bleed from his vision as he blinks, disoriented.
His breath stutters.
For a moment, he lies still, staring upward, thoughts sluggish and unfocused. His body feels heavy, as though sleep has not fully released its grip.
Something is wrong.
The realization comes without context, without explanation. Just a quiet certainty lodged deep in his chest.
His hand shifts instinctively to his side.
Empty. Cold.
His fingers curl against the bedding, grasping for warmth that isn’t there. His brow furrows, confusion knitting tight as he turns his head slightly, expecting—
“…Stelle?”
The name slips out hoarse, unfamiliar in his own voice.
The room does not answer.
Shelves line the walls, filled with neatly organized records and data pads. The soft hum of the archive’s systems is the only sound. Everything is in its place. Orderly. Still.
Too still.
She must have just… stepped out, gone ahead.
The thought settles uneasily, but he clings to it anyway. He pushes himself upright, pulse beginning to quicken as he scans the room.
“Stelle?” he calls again, louder this time.
Nothing.
A faint pressure builds behind his eyes.
He folds his legs under himself and stands too quickly. Dizziness washes over him in a sharp wave, forcing him to brace a hand against the railing until the room steadies.
His gaze catches on something resting near the edge.
A small, familiar object.
His breath catches as he reaches for it.
The jade charm fits easily into his palm, cool and smooth, its surface etched with careful, imperfect lines. She had pressed it into his hand once, smiling sheepishly as she explained she’d found it on some backwater planet — said it reminded her of him.
For luck, Stelle had told him. And so you won’t forget me when I wander off.
His fingers curl tightly around it.
The room tilts.
Light. Heat. Pressure.
The battlefield surges into his mind without warning, memories of that wretched day breaking through like an unstoppable force.
He came back to himself on his knees.
The ground beneath him was scorched black, cracked open like broken glass. His ears rang violently; the world reduced to a dull, high-pitched whine that drowns out everything else. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
His vision swam as colour bled back in.
Smoke hung thick in the air, glowing faintly with residual light. Debris drifted down around him in slow, lazy arcs — ash, fragments of metal, pieces of something that used to be a ship.
Dan Heng dragged in a ragged breath.
“Stelle—”
The name tore out of him, raw and unsteady.
“No…” His breath shudders as he squeezes his eyes shut.
He forced himself upright, legs trembling as he scanned the battlefield.
Nanook was gone. Not fallen. Not retreating.
Gone — leaving behind nothing but a vast, gouged scar in reality where THEY once stood. The pressure that had crushed the air moments ago was absent by then, leaving an unnatural hollow in its wake.
Victory.
The word didn’t land.
His gaze snapped to the place where she had been.
Where the light had coiled around her body, bright enough to burn. Where she had stood alone, too far, framed against annihilation.
There was nothing there.
No body. No light. No trace.
Just scorched earth and drifting ash.
His eyes snap open.
His heart is racing now, pounding so hard it hurts. The jade charm trembles in his grip.
“She was right there,” he whispers, voice shaking. “She was—”
Gone.
The word lodges in his throat, refusing to pass.
“No,” he whispered.
He stumbled forward, boots scraping uselessly against the fractured ground. “No— no, no, no—”
He dropped to his knees again, hands pressing against the ground where she had stood moments before. The stone beneath his palms was still warm. Faintly glowing.
As if remembering her.
“Stelle,” he breathed, desperation clawing its way into his voice. “You’re— you’re still here. You have to be.”
Silence answered him.
Around him, the battle resumed in fragments.
Distant shouts. Weapons powering down. Someone cheered — thin, disbelieving.
Hands grabbed at his shoulders from behind, holding him back as he tried to lurch forward again.
“Dan Heng— stop—”
He didn’t hear who it was.
His eyes stayed locked on the empty space ahead, mind refusing to accept what his senses were telling him.
She wasn’t hurt. She hasn’t fallen. She’s just— Not there.
The truth presses in slowly, inexorably.
Nanook is dead.
And so is the one person he was still reaching for.
His knees give out.
Dan Heng sinks back onto the mattress, gasping sharply, breath tearing into his lungs as the memory releases him.
His heart is pounding violently now, hands shaking as he clutches the jade charm tighter, knuckles aching with the force of it.
“She didn’t even—” His voice breaks. “There was nothing left.”
The forest intrudes next.
Sunlight filtering through leaves.
Her warmth at his side.
Her voice, gentle and fond.
“Every place is nice if you’re there beside me.”
His breath hitches, the sound sharp and uneven.
“That wasn’t—” He swallows hard. “That wasn’t real.”
The realization settles slowly, cruel in its clarity.
The calm. The safety. Her presence.
It was his mind’s last, desperate attempt to keep her.
His chest tightens painfully, breath coming faster now, shallower. He presses a hand against his sternum, as if trying to force air back into lungs that refuse to cooperate.
“No,” he gasps. “No, no—”
His vision blurs at the edges. The room feels too small, the walls closing in as his heartbeat thunders in his ears.
“She can’t be—” His voice cracks. “She wouldn’t— she said it was worth it.”
Fire flashes behind his eyes again.
The emptiness where she stood.
A sound tears from his throat, raw and broken.
“Stelle!”
He lurches forward, nearly slipping on the covers as he looks around wildly, as if she might materialize if he searches hard enough.
“I’m here,” he pleads, breath hitching. “I’m awake. I’m right here—”
His hands shake uncontrollably as he presses the charm to his lips, eyes squeezed shut.
“Please,” he whispers. “Don’t leave. I’ll do anything. I won’t question it, I won’t pull at it, I won’t—”
His breath breaks into a sob.
“Just stay,” he pleads.
The archives remain silent.
His chest heaves as panic fully takes hold now, each breath a struggle, each inhale shallow and incomplete. His hands curl into the fabric of his clothes, fingers aching with the force of his grip.
“Please,” he begs again, voice barely audible. “I need you here.”
The silence stretches on, vast and indifferent.
Dan Heng curls inward on himself, clutching the last thing she ever gave him as his breathing finally fractures into quiet, broken sobs.
No matter how tightly he holds on—
she does not answer.
She does not come back.