He doesn’t argue. He never does when it comes to me.
I feel the pulse of his will, raw and reckless, surge through the Meld as we divert every ounce of power into Whiplash’s left chain. The metal glows white-hot, trembling like it’s alive.
Then we strike again—this time together.
The impact is catastrophic. The left chain punches through Spectra’s outer hull, straight into the core of her right wing. Energy explodes outward in concentric ripples, shattering theair. The feedback slams into my chest like a meteor. I choke, scream. Naull grits his teeth.
Stay with me,he says inside my mind.
I’m here.
Then hold on.
We pivot midair, riding the recoil like surfers on a collapsing wave. Spectra recovers fast, her machine twisting, growing new limbs where the old ones are torn away. She’s more concept than construct now—a nightmare of shifting forms and endless rage.
The voice comes again, distorted, furious. “He belongs to us. The child was never yours to keep.”
I freeze. Just a heartbeat. But Naull feels it. He always feels it.
“Don’t listen,” he snaps.
“She knows, Naull. Sheknows.”
“Then let her choke on it.”
Whiplash drives forward, chains crossed in an X that sparks like thunder meeting flame. The hit is perfect. Precise. Beautiful.
I feel our Meld surge again—stronger, purer. For a moment, there’s no difference between his hand and mine. His breath is mine. My heartbeat is his. The Meld isn’t collapsing. It’s blooming.
And in that space where thought and flesh become one, something clicks. A rhythm. A symmetry. Aharmony.
We’re not fighting her anymore. We’rebecoming.
Whiplash ignites. Plasma whips spin outward in a spiral of energy, painting trails through the smoke like constellations. The mech moves faster than the human eye can track, torso rotating full circle, every strike singing through the desert night. Each impact lands like a vow.
For every promise we broke.
For every secret we buried.
For him.
Spectra’s mech reels. Its form falters, stuttering between light and darkness. Her voice fractures. “You can’t win. You can’t kill what’s divine.”
“Then we’ll unmake it,” Naull growls.
We push Whiplash past her limit. Systems flare red. Heat warnings scream across every display. But it doesn’t matter. The Meld is beyond data now—beyond fear.
“Together?” he asks.
I nod. “Always.”
The plasma whips cross again, forming a blinding sigil of light. Every atom of Trimantium in Whiplash’s body hums like a prayer.
We drive both arms forward.
The world explodes.
Light devours everything—sky, sand, metal, thought. The shockwave ripples through my bones. The Meld goes incandescent, and for a split second, I see everything: Garma laughing in orbit, Naull’s first smile, my mother’s voice, the stars rearranging themselves into something that looks like forgiveness.
