“You do. You just haven’t allowed yourself to believe it yet.”
The wind howled around them, lifting flecks of red sand into the air.
Gemma shook her head, stepping back. “I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted any of this.”
“And yet the orb chose you. It saw in you what it had been waiting centuries for. You offered kindness in a world of cruelty, mercy in a time of war. And when you were broken, you still chose to rise.”
Her voice broke. “I didn’t choose to be rewritten.”
Other-Gemma stepped forward. “You are not being rewritten. You arebecoming.” The sky above darkened. Reminiscence flickered like lightning behind Other-Gemma’s eyes. “You are not the first to bear this gift. But you may be the first strong enough to hold it without failing.”
Images bloomed in the air around them—fractals of memory. Revarian warriors with eyes like hers. Shields of energy, temples of divinity, languages sung through breath and gesture. And death. So much death. Wielders who lost control. Eyes gone black. Whole cities consumed in storms of violet fire.
“The Revarians were created to protect, to heal, to guide,” Other-Gemma said, “but over time, the power twisted in those who craved control. And it consumed them.”
Gemma’s knees buckled.
Other-Gemma knelt beside her. “Those who still understood their gifts eliminated those who’d chosen domination over benevolence and then left this world, placing their powers—their resonance—inside orbs. They spread these orbs across the galaxy, with strict instructions to unlock only for those deemed worthy.
“The one you found is just the first in thousands to be discovered. But you need not fear it, for the gifts you inherited amplify what already lives inside you.”
Gemma’s heart stuttered. The memories from Zion flashed like lightning. All that blood, all those bodies broken by her will alone.
“Then why did I like killing those people so much?” Her voice cracked. “I don’t want to become that.”
“You were angry. And it gave you the means to act on that anger. It doesn’t choose your path. It follows your intent.”
“I never intended to kill all those people.”
“You were protecting someone you loved in the midst of battle without having control over your gift. You need not feel guilty.”
Another tear dripped off Gemma’s chin. “But what if I lose control again?”
“You are afraid because you think the world is the cost.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Gemma’s gaze narrowed at the otherworldly version of herself.
Other-Gemma did not answer but simply stared, soft and understanding.
Gemma shook her head. “I just want to be me.”
Other-Gemma placed her hand on Gemma’s knee. “Nothing you truly are can be taken from you. You are not the orb. You are not the Revarians. You are still human, still Gemma.” Her voice deepened, not in pitch but in weight, like it carried truths that bent gravity. “But you carry something old now, somethingawake. It will never force you, but it will answer to you. Whatever you feed it—grief, fury, love—it will become.”
She shook her head again. “No. I don’t want this. I came here to find a cure.”
“There is no cure. Only choice.”
A tremor passed through the sand beneath them as glyphs bloomed behind her eyes, full of echoes and memories. A thousand lives she hadn’t lived, impressions she couldn’t name.
She tipped onto her haunches and crawled backward toward the platform that had brought her here, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t want this. Please, give it to someone else. Anyone else.”
Other-Gemma stood, an understanding sadness in her eyes. A blinding, violet light erupted from every line in Other-Gemma’s hand as she pointed it at Gemma. “I will see you soon.”
Gemma squeezed her eyes closed against the onslaught of radiance projected from Other-Gemma’s palm, and then the air around her grew familiar, damp, and cold. When the light faded and the cave reassembled around her, she sat exactly where she’d started.
She leapt onto her hands and knees seconds before her stomach released its contents. Gemma wrapped her arms around herself and sobbed. At last, she had the answer she was so desperate for, except it wasn’t the one she’d wanted to hear.
There was no cure.
