He retreated into the darkness of the tunnel, his body moving on autopilot while his mind churned with anxiety. The familiar contours of the passage offered no comfort. Every shadow held the memory of her—the way she’d gasped when he’d carried her through the narrow sections, the warmth of her body pressed against his chest, the steady thrum of her heartbeat that had become as essential to him as his own.
Three days. An eternity.
The cavern welcomed him back with its soft bioluminescent glow, the vines and mosses pulsing gently as if in greeting. He should have found peace here, in this place that had sheltered him through eons of darkness. Instead, the absence of Alina made everything feel hollow, like a song missing its melody.
He crossed to the pool where they’d collected water together, remembering the way she’d laughed when he’d shown her the proper technique—that bright, startled sound that had made something warm bloom in his chest. She laughed so rarely, his mate. As if joy was something she’d forgotten how to trust.
Mate.
The word settled into his bones, as natural as breathing. He didn’t fully understand the biological imperative behind it, the way his entire being seemed to have reorganized itself around a single fragile human. But understanding wasn’t necessary. He knew what he felt. He knew what she was to him.
Everything.
Rhyx lowered himself onto the stone ledge where they’d slept, his tail curling around his legs. The surface still held traces of her warmth, her scent. He pressed his palm flat against the rock and closed his eyes, trying to draw comfort from the lingering evidence of her presence.
It wasn’t enough. Nothing would be enough until she returned.
Use the time, she had said. Rest. Explore. Try to remember more about who you are.
Easy words. Harder to follow.
Who was he? The question had haunted him since the moment he’d opened his eyes to find her standing before him—this strange, soft, impossibly fragile creature who had somehow become the center of his universe. He had memories, yes, but they were fragmented things. Shards of glass that cut him when he tried to piece them together.
He remembered flying. The rush of wind against his scales, the curve of the world spreading out below him, the feeling of absolute freedom that came with mastering the sky. But when he tried to recall the face of whoever had taught him to fly, there was only static. White noise where identity should have been.
He remembered battles. The clash of bodies, the spray of blood, the fierce satisfaction of protecting those weaker than himself. But the enemies he’d fought were shadows, and the allies who’d stood beside him had no names.
He remembered grief. An ocean of it, vast and bottomless, swallowing everything in its path.
That memory, at least, was clear.
Rhyx drew a deep breath and let himself sink into it.
The sky was red.
Not the pale pink of dawn or the amber haze of dust storms, but a deep, arterial crimson that stained everything it touched. The sun—their sun, the golden heart of their world—hung bloated and sick on the horizon, its light thick and wrong.
“The readings are confirmed.” The voice came from somewhere to his left, tinny and distant, as if filtered through layers of interference. “Atmospheric degradation has accelerated beyond our models. We have… perhaps fifty cycles remaining.”
Fifty cycles. Less than a standard rotation of the outer planet. Not enough time. Not nearly enough time.
Rhyx—was he Rhyx then? The name felt wrong, borrowed, like clothing that didn’t quite fit—stood at the edge of a vast observation platform, looking out over a city that had stood for a hundred thousand years. The spires of crystal and metal that had once scraped the heavens now seemed fragile, temporary, like flowers waiting for the frost.
“The seed ships are prepared.” Another voice, this one softer. Female. A face he couldn’t quite see, features blurred by the imperfection of memory. “The genetic banks are secure. If even one survives the journey?—”
“It won’t be enough.”
“It might be all we have.”
He turned from the view, and the movement felt strange, disjointed. His body was different in this memory. Larger. Heavier. Wings where now there were none, talons that could tear through steel.
“The hybrids,” he said, and the word tasted like hope and despair in equal measure. “What is their status?”
“The integration process is… complicated.” The first voice again, hesitant now. “The biological matrices require a specific resonance to achieve stability. We’ve had some success with the latest batch, but the failure rate?—”
“Show me.”
The scene shifted, lurching forward like a poorly spliced recording. Now he stood in a chamber filled with pods—hundreds of them, thousands, arranged in neat rows that stretched into the darkness. Most were dark, their surfaces dull and lifeless. But here and there, scattered among the failures, golden light pulsed with the steady rhythm of a heartbeat.
