The

  space in the Aether stretched like a densely woven net of light and

  shadow, alive and pulsing. No floor, no walls – only structures

  that reacted to every movement. Every breath, every stirring of the

  witches, every trace of magic was registered and weighed.

  Aelthyria stood in the middle. Azure-blue glowing runes

  pulsing at her hands, temples and shins. Calm was for her merely a

  measure of composure. Patience was a virtue of necessity. The lesser

  secondborn did not know who she truly was. They took her for a

  powerful, experienced witch, a figure in the game – but not for one

  of the Seven Origins. For them she was only Aelthyria, perhaps

  someone who had long stood in the great game.

  Pyraxis, the bothersome demon flame, stepped forward first.

  Tall, lithe, skin like molten metal, eyes like liquid coal. "I

  desire power over the fires of the worlds and over the mortals who

  enter them," she said proudly.

  Ishkara, demoness of excesses, crossed her arms, her lips

  formed into a mocking smile. "And I desire influence over all

  pacts that none can break, and that my will remains unbroken."

  Further of the thirteen witches stepped forward one after

  another, each wish a mirror of their own vanity: power, control,

  influence. Each believed her word to be decisive. Aelthyria listened. Every movement, every word flowed into her

  perception. She knew that her own wish was different. No witchcraft

  could fulfil this wish for her – the only wish she could still

  have: a child.

  She stepped forward, her voice clear, calm, unmistakable in

  the Aether:

  "I wish for a child."

  Silence.

  Pyraxis' eyes flashed. The heat of her arrogance flickered, as

  if wanting to ignite fire. "A child? You... dare to demand that?

  A witch like all of us – and then so brazen?"

  Ishkara leaned forward, mocking, laughing softly: "You

  mean, you could allow yourself something that no one else may?"

  An aura announced itself from the shadows. Only Aelthyria

  could perceive it – another of the seven origins, who whispered

  ironically: "The shadow will be delighted."

  The room froze. Not through resistance. But through

  hesitation. For the first time in aeons the Aether tensed not with

  anticipation – but with uncertainty. No rejection. No approval.

  Something... was missing. As if a part of the order had not been

  foreseen. A thought glided through the web of perception.

  Incomplete. Overlooked.

  Aelthyria felt it. And smiled inwardly.

  "I know the price," she said calmly, before the

  Aether could answer. "And I offer it."

  The room aligned itself toward her.

  "A star," she continued. "One you

  already know." "Its matter. Its order."

  "And every soul that walks upon it – as tribute for the

  balance."

  Silence in the darkness. The Aether deliberated. Not out of doubt about the payment. But because

  something had slipped from it: That this wish... had never

  been foreseen. That it should never have been granted. Yet the offer was correct. Formally as well as unassailable.

  And above all: necessary. The decision fell not with power. But with

  acceptance. The Aether itself raised its voice, deep, arrogant, above

  all thoughts of its children:

  "You have expressed your wishes. Power, influence,

  control – registered. The creator chooses her wish.

  For it a tribute is demanded: a world of your choice, their souls

  serve the balance. The choice lies with her alone, free

  within the order. Whoever falls today, falls not by chance.

  It is an honour to surrender your souls to this balance.

  Farewell."

  The witches swallowed. Pyraxis glowered, Ishkara nodded in

  reluctant confirmation of the judgement. No one dared to contradict.

  No one could truly comprehend the price. Aelthyria felt with absolute self-satisfaction how the tribute

  would flow – the star, the souls, everything for the order. She

  alone understood the true scope.

  "Then the choice is made," she said quietly, only to

  herself, and imagined how the tribute would come. Her wish was

  fulfilled – a child, the only thing that had never been permitted

  to the witches.

  She turned away. A fox smiles before it strikes – and

  everything was going according to plan. Elendiel waited. With an

  almost casual gesture an azure-blue shimmering portal appeared before

  her. In the next moment Aelthyria stood on the bridge of her ship

  "Nyx Oblivion".

  Her gaze glided over the void, and for a moment light and

  darkness lost themselves in her eyes, like a gas nebula drifting

  between stars – a pulsing that seemed to originate from creation

  itself. She raised her hands, felt the power that flowed through her,

  the runes on arms and shins drew tighter, and her entire body became

  a resonance chamber that called, shaped and absorbed something.

  Beneath the wings of the battleship lay an object, still,

  almost breathing in the endless expanse of the cosmos. A star, once

  an origin, now limited, sealed, ready to respond to the forces she

  would unleash. A soft humming passed through the air, barely audible

  but perceptible – like the resonance of a universe waiting on the

  will of a single creature. Aelthyria let her gaze briefly sweep over

  the witches who observed her from a distance. Pyraxis, Ishkara, the

  others – they were convinced they could judge what was happening.

  Pride, vanity, curiosity – all visible, all calculable. She smiled

  contentedly.

  They believe they have power, thought Aelthyria, and a trace

  of amusement passed through her. They do not understand that they are

  merely tools. Every thought, every wish, every stirring – only

  material for my decisions.

  She raised her hands higher, felt how the currents of the

  Aether responded, how the battleship vibrated beneath the force. Her

  eyes, which hovered like a gas nebula between light and darkness,

  absorbed everything: the pulsing of the star, the resonance of the

  cosmos, the unspoken prices. A final humming of the Aether settled over the scene.

  Everything stood ready. Everything was prepared. And Aelthyria felt

  how the force she would unleash slowly grew beneath her control,

  ready to touch the star, to demand the tribute, and to secure her

  gift – her child.

  Object 013 – Mephisto's Tear

  The days after he had seen the lifeless body of 012 were not

  truly a break. They were a continuation. A repetition of what had

  always in the end proven itself to be inevitable. The routine did not truly change. If anything, it became more

  precise. His days always began the same. Clinically cold calculated

  cruelty, for as long as he could remember. First came the light, so

  glaring that 013 wanted to cry out loudly. Afterwards followed the

  usual injection, which fought its way through his bloodstream like a

  foreign body. He had grown accustomed to it, just as to the

  measurement of his vital functions that followed.

  Someday, thought 013. You will pay. For everything.

  Then silence.

  From the darkness screams rang out behind walls that were

  never thick enough. Bodies that disappeared and were not replaced.

  Numbers that came. Numbers that went. And the few who remained were

  condemned to take lives in exchange for their own.

  013 no longer counted.

  Sometimes he believed he saw her face in the glass of the

  observation chamber. Not as she had looked at the end –

  not contorted, not lifeless. But as she was when she spoke

  quietly, so the cameras would not hear. Together, she had said. No matter what they do to us.

  Together.

  013 remembered her hand. How it lay thin and warm in his. The

  promise that neither of them had ever truly believed – to live

  together or die together.

  She had smiled as if it had been enough. Now she was gone. And

  he was still here. That was worse. It was devastating, for there was

  no one left with whom 013 could share the emptiness of his world

  between golden cage and eternal combat. A fight for a world he had never seen beyond the battlefield.

  An eternal sacrifice for figures behind masks who beyond the other

  numbers were everything that 013 knew. A small fragile world.

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  The next phase came without announcement.

  No name. No number. Only more substances. More heat

  beneath the skin. More pressure in the skull. He felt

  something foreign growing within him, something that did not ask

  whether it was permitted to stay. He no longer screamed. Not from strength. But from rage and

  hate. In the pauses – if one could call them that – he lay on

  the floor of his cell and stared at the ceiling. He imagined how 012

  had lain there. Whether she too had tried not to think. Whether she

  had known that she would be the last of them to die still human. Sometimes he wondered whether she had been glad not to have to

  continue.

  That thought made him angry. Not at her. At everything else.

  At the people with masks. At their voices behind

  glass. At their order and doctrine. At their fear of what they themselves had created. At their

  arrogance, to enter into the bitter promise of demons in order to

  fight demons. And at some point, between two injections, he understood:

  He no longer wanted to survive. He wanted it to end. And if that

  was not possible, then 013 would someday put an end to the people

  behind masks. Of that he was certain. As certain as Mephisto's Tear

  and the souls it took in exchange for his own.

  The day came without warning.

  They led him and the others outside. Not into cells. Not into

  chambers. Into an open space. A hangar. Or something similar. And

  then he saw it. In the sky. No – before the sky. A shadow, so large that it swallowed the horizon. A

  structure of stone, metal and something that could not be

  categorised. A castle. A battleship. Both at once. It moved soundlessly. Majestically. As if the universe itself

  stepped aside to make room. Some of the others fell to their knees.

  Others screamed. 013 stood still.

  Something within him contracted – not from fear, but from

  recognition. So this is it. The final battle. And he was in agreement

  with that. Combat was all he knew. Combat was the penetrating light

  in the morning, the injection afterwards as well as the examination

  of his obedience. A clockwork that 013 wanted to see burn.

  Then the voice rang out. Not from loudspeakers. Not from the

  air.

  In their heads. Clear. Cold. Superior.

  "Hear my words, you lesser beings, and rejoice in them.

  You have soiled the order." "You were warned and

  yet you rose up."

  Images flickered up. Cities. Worlds. Fire. Not as a threat. As

  a statement of fact.

  "Through the gracious power of Ananke's creation,

  redemption is granted to you today." "Honour.

  Return. Dissolution."

  A trace of mockery lay in every syllable.

  "It is a privilege to fall through us." "It

  is an honour when your souls return to her."

  A brief pause. Almost like a smile.

  "Go now. And soil the order never again."

  013 closed his eyes. Not from fear. But because there was

  nothing left for which it was worth keeping them open. In the darkness he saw once more the graceful-seeming face of

  012. Not pale. Not dead. But alive. And then everything

  began to dissolve. Space. Time. Himself. He thought this was the end. He could not know that it was

  only the moment in which he lost himself in the void – and

  something greater began to find him.

  The planet did not die with a bang. It disintegrated.

  013 did not even notice it at first. He had closed his eyes,

  as if he had decided to deny the world the final glance. Yet

  something changed – not in sound, not in pressure, but in the

  feeling of weight. As if something that had always held him was

  letting go. He opened his eyes. The world he knew – the grilles, the

  walls, the sky above the yards in which they had trained – was

  still there. For one breath. Perhaps two. Then it began to tear. Not

  to explode. To decouple. The ground beneath his feet became translucent, as if it

  consisted of memory rather than matter. The buildings lost their

  edges, their weight, their meaning. Everything that had ever

  surrounded him became thin. Fragile. Like a picture that had been

  exposed to the light too long.

  And then he saw them. Souls.

  At first he thought they were dust particles. Then he

  recognised faces. Fragments. Feelings. They released themselves from

  everything: from the cities, from the bodies, from the ruins that had

  not yet even become ruins. Billions of them. Silent. Without screams.

  Without resistance. They moved like a current. Not pulled. Not pushed. Called.

  013 stood in the middle of it.

  The souls glided past him, through him, as if he were no

  obstacle but a part of the path. And with each one that brushed him,

  something happened. He lost something. No pain. No memory in the

  classical sense. Something deeper. A part of his weight. A part of his bond. A

  part of what still chained him to this existence. Like a price. Like a ticket being paid piece by piece. He did

  not understand it – but he felt it. With every soul that passed by, he became lighter. And

  emptier. And at the same time... wider.

  He saw 012. Not as a body. As an imprint.

  A warm afterglow in the current, a brief resistance against

  the movement, as if a part of her hesitated. For one tiny moment she

  touched him – and something within him contracted painfully. Then she was gone. Carried further. He wanted to follow her.

  Not to save her. Only not to remain alone. Yet the current yielded to

  him. Not with hostility. Respectfully. As if he were not destined for

  this path. Before him something spanned open. A horizon. No edge. No line. No boundary. Only expanse. An endless before that swallowed everything it

  touched, without destroying it. The souls flowed toward it,

  disappeared within it, dissolved – and yet it did not feel like

  annihilation. More like return.

  013 observed.

  He did not intervene. He did not scream. He did not beg. He

  watched. And while billions passed him by, he understood something that

  he could not have understood: That he was not part of the current. That he was not

  returning. That he remained. Not because he wanted to. But because something held him.

  Something saw him.

  And then the void began. Not suddenly. Not brutally. It

  settled around him like water around a body that had stopped

  fighting. Space lost meaning. Time dissolved. Even the feeling of

  standing or falling disappeared. He thought he was dissolving. And perhaps he was. Everything

  collapsed. Memories. Sounds. Space. Swallowed. And yet he felt

  something. A connection. Not to a place. Not to a person. To

  something that existed beyond space, time and matter. A pulse. An echo. A force that did not ask whether he was

  ready.

  Runes burned on his skin. Not visible – perceptible. In

  his eyes something stirred that was no light and yet shone. He was no longer merely a child of civilisation. No longer

  an orphan. No longer 013. Something greater

  lived within him. And it would demand. Force. Sometimes torment. But

  never break. One last feeling, before everything disappeared: A presence. Graceful. Immeasurable. Azure-blue eyes

  that regarded him – not as a tool, not as a soldier. But as a wish.

  A voice, gentle and commanding at once, like a smile at the

  edge of the abyss: "You are my wish. You are my echo. And yet

  you will be your own whirlwind."

  A mist of light and power closed around them both. The

  darkness did not come immediately. First came the hesitation. 013

  hung somewhere between what had been and what called him. Not

  hovering, not falling – rather held by something that had neither

  hands nor intent. He tried to breathe. He no longer knew whether he did. There

  was no body he could feel. No weight in his limbs. No pain. Not even

  the void one would have expected.

  Only... consciousness. Or what remained of it. He thought of

  012. Her face appeared immediately – too clear. Too sharp. That was

  wrong.

  He had seen her face so often that it should have worn away or

  faded. But here it was untouched. Like a picture that had never aged.

  He wanted to say her name. The sound did not come. He knew that she

  was 012 – yet even this number began to flicker. Not blur.

  Dissolve, as if it had never meant more than a marking that could be

  wiped away. Why is she important? The question arose... and died before it

  could be answered. He remembered grilles. Light. Voices behind masks.

  They came in fragments, unconnected, like shards of a mirror that had

  never been whole. He saw hands that belonged to no bodies. Corridors

  without beginning or end. Screams that he no longer recognised as his

  own. And then something worse happened. He forgot the context. Not

  that something had happened – but why.

  The cruelty remained, but without frame. Like pain without

  wound. He knew that he had suffered. He no longer knew for what.

  "I am...", he wanted to think.

  The sentence remained incomplete. Not because the words were

  missing. But because the thought itself disintegrated before

  it was concluded.

  I am... I was... I—

  Time lost all meaning. He could not say whether he spent

  seconds or eternities here. The concept itself became foreign. Past

  and future detached from one another, then they were gone. He searched for himself. For a core. For something that could

  not be lost. He found only splinters. A promise. To live together or

  die together. The words existed – but without voices, without

  faces. Only meaning that pointed into the void.

  Rage. Yes, there had been rage. He still felt it, like an echo

  in a room that had long since collapsed. But he no longer knew what

  it was directed at. People? Gods? The world? Or at himself? And then

  even that began to fade. The rage became blunt. The longing quieter. The

  grief... pleasantly distant. No tear and no regret. It was cruel. Not because it hurt – but because there was

  nothing left that could hurt.

  He noticed how he forgot where he had been.

  The planet – its name was missing. The civilisation

  – only a feeling of constriction. The stars – an

  abstract concept without image.

  And finally came the worst realisation. He no longer knew who was being forgotten. He only knew that

  he had once been someone who should have had to mourn. The darkness did not approach. It waited. And for the first time... he felt relief. Not as escape. Not

  as capitulation. As calm. As the end of a battle he could no longer

  name.

  If everything disappeared – then also the loneliness. Then

  also the void. Then also the feeling of having lost something. He let

  go. Not from fear. Not from hope. But because there was nothing left

  that held him.

  He had believed death would come like a redemption. Silent.

  Final. Deserved. Yet instead he remained. Bound to a world

  he had never been permitted to live and which now expected him to die

  for it. Again and again. A weapon, created from fear, held

  on a short leash, forced to end the lives of others while his own

  refused to be extinguished. Perhaps that was his punishment.

  Not for what had been done to him – but for the souls that

  Mephisto's Tear had taken. More than he could ever have counted. He

  welcomed death. And yet his journey was not yet over. Regrettable.

  The last splinters of his memory dissolved like dust:

  A girl. A number. A glance. A

  promise.

  Then also the numbers. Then also the images. Then also the

  thought that he had thought. And as even the feeling of being began

  to fade, the darkness finally settled around him. Gently. Not cold.

  Not warm. And somewhere deep beneath – beyond names, time and

  identity – something continued to glow, untouched and waiting. Then

  darkness descended over mind and space alike.

  Aelthyria stepped closer. She regarded her work. You are my

  wish, she thought. And my price. There is no going back. No regret

  followed. The wish was granted. The price was paid. And the universe

  was lighter by one star.