Fractured stars bled across a sky that couldn't decide its color. Mountains formed and crumbled in the distance. The ground beneath them shifted between sand, grass, and nothing at all.Medea knelt in this unstable mindscape, cradling what remained of Vylaas. His form flickered like a transmission struggling to maintain signal—sometimes solid enough to touch, other moments just a whisper of light. Her own body wavered at the edges, her essence bleeding into him.

  "Stay with me," she commanded, weaving mana threads between her fingers. She pressed them into the dissolving edges of his consciousness, binding his fraying mind with her own substance. Where his thoughts unraveled, she stitched her memories in their place.

  Galaxies spun in miniature around her head—a manifestation of the cultivation techniques they'd practiced together for years. She pulled a constellation from the array and crushed it between her palms, transforming it into a glowing salve that she worked into the broken places of his spirit.

  "You're burning yourself out," Vylaas whispered, his voice distant yet present everywhere at once.

  A weak smile crossed her lips. "Typical. Half-dead and worrying about me."

  "How bad?"

  The landscape shifted violently in response to his question—reality buckling as his concentration slipped. Medea grabbed for his essence as it started to drift apart, pulling threads of his consciousness back into coherence.

  "Focus on me," she said, ignoring his question. Her form flickered dangerously, parts of her dissolving into motes of light that flowed into him. "Remember the garden on Gerandium? The one with the silver pools?"

  The space around them shuddered, then solidified into a partial rendering of the garden—though the edges remained hazy, undefined. Spectral fish swam through air where water should have been.

  "That's it," she encouraged. "Hold that image."

  Vylaas's form stabilized slightly. "You're dodging the question, Dea."

  "And you're dying. One problem at a time."

  She pulled another constellation from the array circling her head, this one pulsing with blood-red light. As she pressed it into his chest, her own form dimmed noticeably.

  "Stop," he gasped. "You're giving too much."

  "Not your call to make." Her voice hardened as she continued weaving her essence into his. She traced patterns into the air, visualizing her complex improvised spellcraft in the form of fractal runes that burned to look at.

  "No, darling," She continued as the runes began to spin around them and form a ring. "I chose my namesake purposefully."

  Her form flickered noticeably, but the ground beneath them steadied in equal measure.

  "Don't sacrifice—"

  "Be quiet and let me work." Her eyes flashed with fierce determination. "I didn't spend four years keeping you alive to lose you now."

  I am the blade that cuts through fate. I am the shield against death's touch. I am the balm to salve all wounds.

  Were she a Harmonic cultivator, like the Tylwith or the Humans they warred with, the words might have resonated with her Path. Instead, they simply served to focus her Intent and her Willpower. With a rush, power poured from her and into Vylaas, putting the final touches on her haphazard attempts to extend Vylaas' life.

  The garden scene around them gained clarity—water filling the spectral pools, grass growing more defined. Medea's form, however, grew increasingly transparent.

  "Dea," Vylaas whispered, his voice stronger but filled with quiet horror. "What have you done?"

  She flopped onto the ground beside Vylaas, spent.

  "I've bought us a few final minutes together."

  Vylaas stared at her for a long moment before she saw the pieces clicked into place. She smiled at him wearily.

  "How bad?" He asked, struggling to return her smile.

  Medea sat up and folded her legs beneath her. Her hand passed through his when she reached for it, but she a moment's concentration solidified her mental avatar enough to squeeze his hand.

  "Your body's beyond repair. Most of your chest cavity is gone." She said bluntly. "Not damaged. Gone."

  Vylaas nodded once, his face calm. The garden around them wavered, then strengthened again as he controlled his reaction.

  "And the ship?"

  "Tumbling through the Autochthon network." Medea gestured at the sky, which rippled with impossible colors. "No telling where we'll emerge. If we emerge."

  A ghost of a smile touched Vylaas's lips. "I've been ready for death. For years now."

  "I know."

  "My only regret—" His form flickered like a bad transmission. "I couldn't ensure you'd survive me."

  Medea laughed, a sharp sound with no humor. "Typical. Even now."

  "What?"

  "My co—sorry, Chimera's core shattered, but she survived." Medea held up her hands, which had begun to dissolve at the fingertips, motes of light bleeding into the air. "She pulled back to her original cultivation core. The one still tethered to you."

  Understanding dawned in Vylaas's eyes. "The one you're in… And you—"

  "Could have merged with her completely when that happened. Still could." Medea curled her dissolving fingers into fists. "I'm holding it off."

  "Why?"

  The garden shifted around them, pools of silver water rippling as Vylaas's concentration wavered. Medea steadied it with a thought, pouring more of herself into maintaining his mindscape.

  "Our core could survive whatever comes next. Even if you don't." Her voice softened. "There might be a future for her."

  A flicker of hope crossed Vylaas's face—not for himself, she knew. Never for himself.

  "So you could live?"

  "No, Vylaas." Medea's form grew more transparent. "I'm going out with you—but we might be able to save Chimera."

  "No," Vylaas reached for her dissolving form. "There must be a way—"

  "Shut up and listen for once." Medea pressed her fingertips to his lips. "I got to live. Chimera never did."

  The garden around them rippled, silver pools melting into a cramped maintenance corridor. The smell of machine oil and recycled air replaced the scent of flowers.

  "Remember this?"

  Vylaas stared at the narrow passage with its exposed pipes and bundled cables. "The servant's elevator. Palace west wing."

  "First time you called me by name." Medea's lips curved upward. "Not 'Chimera' or 'the symbiote.' You said 'Medea.'"

  The memory played out before them—Vylaas stumbling, playing drunk, collar askew. His practiced slur as guards passed: "Just need s'more wine..." Then straightening once alone, eyes sharp and focused.

  "Because you saved my ass." Vylaas watched his past self punch the elevator code. "The chancellor nearly caught me downloading those transport schedules."

  "I hacked the security feeds," memory-Medea whispered from his wrist device. "But next time, try not to spill wine on the console."

  "Thanks, Medea."

  The corridor dissolved, reforming into Vylaas's private quarters. Rain lashed against windows while holographic maps hovered above a desk strewn with datapads.

  Vylaas recognized the night immediately. "The Syrani whiskey."

  "Sixteen refugees dead at the checkpoint." Medea nodded. "The night you told me everything."

  Memory-Vylaas hurled a glass against the wall. The smoky scent of spilled Syrani whiskey filled the air.

  "They'll pay for this," his past self whispered. "All of them. My father. Kaelen. Valerius. The whole corrupt system."

  Memory-Medea materialized beside him, hand hovering near his shoulder. "How?"

  "I don't need to limit myself to just helping refugees. I know of at least three armed and serious rebel groups who would burn down cities for intel like I can access." His fingers curled into fists. "And day by day I'm more inclined to let them."

  The scene shifted again—a balcony overlooking palace gardens. Vylaas watched himself lean against the railing, eyes fixed on a fountain where he'd once tended wounded birds.

  "You always looked there," Medea said softly. "Every time we returned."

  "Wondering if that boy still existed somewhere." Vylaas smiled faintly. "You'd tell me he did."

  "Because I saw him. When no one was looking."

  The scenes blurred together—a dozen stolen moments. Vylaas planning supply routes while Medea calculated optimal paths. Midnight debates over strategy. Her voice pulling him back from the edge when the mask of drunken prince threatened to become reality.

  The mindscape settled back into the garden, but fainter now. Medea's form had grown almost transparent.

  "I lived more in four years than I did in twenty as Chimera," she whispered. "I argued with a prince. Saved lives. Broke rules. Fell in—" She stopped herself. "I don't know how to exist without you, Vylaas. And I don't want to learn."

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "Dea..."

  "Let Chimera have her turn." Medea's smile was peaceful as she began to fragment into motes of light. "Maybe she'll find someone who makes her feel as alive as you made me."

  "Was it really that bad between us?" Vylaas asked, frowning. "Before the split, I mean."

  Medea's laugh sounded brittle. "No, it wasn't 'bad' between you. It simply wasn't much of anything."

  The garden dissolved into the medical bay of the Asklepios. Memory-Vylaas sat in a command chair while memory-Chimera, formless and contained within her interface, ran diagnostics on a wounded soldier.

  "Reroute power to the stabilization field," memory-Vylaas ordered. "And prep the surgical suite."

  "Already done," memory-Chimera replied. "Vital signs stabilizing."

  Memory-Vylaas nodded, moving on to the next task without acknowledgment.

  The scene shifted to the Colossus cockpit. Memory-Vylaas interfaced with the war machine while memory-Chimera managed targeting systems.

  "Three degrees port," memory-Vylaas said. "Hold defensive protocols."

  No response necessary. No thanks required.

  "You spoke to me like that for years," Medea said. Her form flickered as more of her essence transferred into him. "A tool that happened to talk back."

  "That's not fair," Vylaas protested. "I relied on you. Trusted you."

  "Soldiers value their rifles, too. They're valued, maintained, relied upon." Her voice softened. "But never asked what they want or how they are."

  "You're not a weapon."

  "No. I'm not." Medea's form blurred further. "But Chimera was what you needed—medical equipment when required, targeting system when necessary, armor interface always."

  The garden reappeared, but now the silver pools reflected dozens of memories in rapid succession. Vylaas issuing orders. Chimera complying. A perfect, functional relationship.

  "I didn't know," Vylaas whispered. "I never thought—"

  "I know." Medea placed a dissolving hand against his cheek. "That's why I don't blame you. Neither did she."

  "But she died for us." The realization carved lines of regret across his face. "She shattered her core to create that wormhole, and I never once treated her as..."

  "As a person." Medea nodded. "She didn't expect you to. That's the tragedy. She accepted her role completely."

  Vylaas closed his eyes. "And you?"

  "I became someone else. Someone who argued with you. Challenged you. Someone you couldn't ignore."

  The garden shifted one last time, transforming into Vylaas's quarters. Memory-Vylaas paced while memory-Medea, now with a holographic form, blocked his path.

  "You'll get yourself killed if you go in there," memory-Medea insisted.

  "Then I die."

  "Not on my watch." Memory-Medea crossed her arms. "Find another way."

  Memory-Vylaas stopped, truly seeing her for the first time. "Since when do you give me orders?"

  "Since you started making stupid decisions."

  Present-Vylaas watched the exchange with new understanding. "You became real to me."

  "Now you get it," she said, cupping his cheek.

  "I'm sorry," Vylaas whispered. "To both of you."

  "She knew." Medea smiled as her form began to dissolve entirely. "And she was loyal to a fault. But again, she isn't dead."

  Medea's fingers moved again, manifesting patterns in the air and leaving trails of silver light that hung suspended between them.

  "What are you saying?" Vylaas caught her wrist, his touch passing through then solidifying as he concentrated.

  Medea pulled her arm free and continued weaving the complex pattern, giving Vylaas a stern look.

  "I won't fight Chimera for dominance when she wakes." Her pattern grew more intricate, forming a lattice of light. "I won't try to merge with her either."

  "Then what—"

  "I'm burying myself." She spoke matter-of-factly, her hands never pausing in their work. "Deep in our core where she won't find me unless she's looking very hard."

  Vylaas stared at her, disbelief giving way to understanding. The garden around them shimmered, reflecting his emotions—flowers wilting, then blooming, then wilting again.

  "You're choosing to die with me."

  "Do you even listen when I talk, pretty boy?" Medea's laugh cracked like glass. "Besides, it wouldn't really be dying… No. Sleep, perhaps. Rest until... well, until never, most likely."

  The lattice expanded, encompassing them both in a dome of silver light. Inside, motes of gold—memories—began to separate from Medea's form.

  "I could fight. Take over. Make her remember everything." A memory floated past—Vylaas teaching Medea to appreciate classical music. Another followed—their first successful evacuation of refugees. "But what kind of existence would that be? Forcing myself on someone who never asked for my personality?"

  Vylaas watched the memories orbit around them. "She deserves her own life."

  "You're not doing this for her." Vylaas realized. "You're doing it for yourself."

  "Finally catching up." Her smile was gentle. "I don't want to exist without you, Vylaas. I became myself because of you. The arguing, the planning, the late nights... that's who I am."

  She gestured at the fading garden. "Without you, I'd just be... waiting. For what? To find someone else? Become someone else? No thank you."

  The lattice contracted slightly, drawing the floating memories into organized patterns. Medea concentrated, her form growing transparent as she worked.

  "Maybe someday she'll find these memories. If she heals enough, grows enough." Medea's voice softened. "A time capsule of who we were."

  Vylaas reached for her hand. This time, she let him take it. "I never deserved you."

  "To be fair," she said, her visage snapping back into sharp focus as she gave him a playful grin. "you were the backup pick."

  The garden dissolved around them, colors bleeding away. In its place, a beach formed—white sand stretching to meet a crimson sea. The sun hung low, balanced on the horizon's edge.

  Vylaas felt his throat tighten. "Your favorite place."

  "I've never been here." Medea sank to the sand, pulling him down beside her. "It's from that novel you read me. The one about the planets that orbited each other so closely they shared atmospheres."

  "Binary worlds," Vylaas murmured.

  "Binary hearts." She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder. "I thought it was disgustingly romantic at the time."

  "You called it 'scientifically improbable cosmic wish fulfillment.'"

  "That too."

  The lattice of light contracted further, now a tight mesh wrapped around Medea's fading form. Each strand pulsed with intent—pure magical purpose condensed into a form the System would recognize.

  So much of what she was screamed "artificial," especially with how tightly she was integrated with the various bio-mechanical nanites that made up the bulk of her biomass—but here, in this moment, she could confidently say that she was real and alive.

  Sure, she was "reprogramming" herself, but she was doing so with spellcraft backed by the System. If Demiurge thought she was alive enough to recognize her cultivation, then who could argue?

  Medea raised her hand, studying the mesh as it tightened. "Not bad for someone who never got formal training."

  Wind swept across the beach, warm and salt-scented. Waves lapped at the shore, their rhythm synced to Vylaas's slowing heartbeat. In the garden, he'd controlled the mindscape. Here, Medea shaped it from her own essence—one final gift.

  "Will you be conscious?" Vylaas asked. "Aware, while you're... buried?"

  "No." She shook her head. "That would be torture. I'll sleep. Dream perhaps, if I'm lucky."

  "Dream of what?"

  "This, maybe." She waved at the beach, the sunset. "Us. Not fighting a war. Not saving people. Just... existing."

  The mesh contracted again, now skintight around Medea's form. She winced slightly.

  "Does it hurt?" Vylaas asked.

  "Less than watching you die would."

  The sun slipped lower, its bottom edge touching the sea. Crimson light painted everything in shades of blood and fire.

  "I should say something profound." Vylaas stared at the horizon. "Some final meaningful words."

  Medea laughed, the sound pure despite her fading form. "When have we ever needed those?"

  She was right. Four years of shared purpose, shared danger, shared grief—they'd said everything that mattered in a thousand small moments. In arguments over tactical approaches. In silent vigils by hospital beds. In the quiet aftermath of missions gone wrong or miraculously right.

  "No speeches then." He pulled her closer.

  The mesh around Medea pulsed one final time, then sank beneath her skin. Her form flickered, then stabilized—more transparent than before but still present.

  "It's done," she whispered. "I've woven myself so deep she'll never find me by accident." All of the tension had gone out of her. There was nothing left of her awake now except this final mental construct.

  The sun touched the water, sending a path of fire across the waves to their feet. Soon it would vanish completely.

  Vylaas felt his own form beginning to fade. Not dissolving like Medea's, but thinning—becoming insubstantial as his physical body failed beyond the mindscape.

  They sat in silence, watching the sun's descent. No more words were needed. His hand found hers in the sand, fingers interlacing. Her head rested on his shoulder. The waves kept time with his slowing heart.

  The sun slipped lower.

  The light dimmed.

  The beach darkened.

  Just before the final sliver of sun disappeared, Medea turned to Vylaas. Her eyes caught the last rays, holding them like captured stars.

  "Alright, darling," she whispered, "let's get some rest."

  The light vanished.

  A distortion rippled through the void, and the fabric of space opened—not with the violence that marked this journey's beginning, but with a gentle rustling sound like paper-on-paper. Through this parting of reality's curtains emerged a small craft, tumbling end over end, its navigation systems long since failed.

  This particular depository world, one of hundreds scattered across known space, served its purpose without complaint, accepting all the discarded and forgotten things the wormhole network saw fit to deliver.

  Inside the pod lay a body—once royal, now anonymous. Prince Vylaas Orestes of the Tylwith, face locked in an expression of peaceful finality. A smile, slight but unmistakable, graced lips that would speak no more. The body's arms curled protectively around its chest, where a faint glow pulsed beneath torn fabric—steady but weak.

  The pod struck the surface with a crunch, burrowing into a hill of discarded machinery parts. No witnesses marked its arrival except for small scavenger creatures that scattered at the impact, then cautiously returned to investigate the newcomer.

  Days passed. The pod's emergency beacon, damaged beyond function, remained silent.

  Inside, the bond between the dead prince and living symbiote weakened. Though he was dead, Chimera instinctually did her best to preserve her host. She wrapped his body tightly in a thin layer of protection. She couldn't maintain him forever, but neither could she let go completely. Not yet. Her remaining mana reserves focused inward, repairing catastrophic damage to her foundation.

  By the seventh day, the bond was nothing more than memory.

  On the twelfth, small tendrils of the Chimera's essence began to explore the confines of the pod, seeking paths to resources, to repair, to survival.

  The nineteenth day brought rain that seeped through cracks in the pod's shell, providing moisture the Chimera absorbed greedily. Water molecules broke down, restructured, became fuel for her slow healing.

  Twenty-six days in, the first significant change occurred. The Chimera's consciousness, dormant since the wormhole passage, stirred briefly—not enough to form thought, merely enough to register her existence.

  Thirty-four days after arrival, she registered a new presence. Approaching footsteps. A heat signature unlike the small scavengers. Something large. Something alive.

  No, not something. Someone. Someone was coming.

  Go, a voice inside her whispered. It should have alarmed her, but she barely registered it.

  The person came closer. Chimera was uncertain how well this would work, but it might be her only chance.

  Survive.

  A hand touched her, then. Warmth. Life.

  Chimera took her chance.