Clean Up [END]

The Watcher swirled his drink, watching the dark amber liquid shift within the delicate ceramic cup. The scent of Luminseed drifted through the still air—a rich, grounding aroma, laced with a hint of something ancient. It was a drink of legacy, of memory. A drink that bound past and present.

He took a slow sip, savouring the warmth as it settled deep in his chest. The sensation was meaningless in a space like this—his mental domain, where thought shaped reality—but he indulged it anyway. Some things were worth keeping, even in a world where so much had been lost.

Across from him, his guest sat unmoving, her golden-white uniform pristine even here, in a place beyond the physical. Sammella.

Her expression was composed, poised, but the flicker in her golden eyes betrayed something beneath the surface. Not caution, not yet—but awareness.

The Watcher smiled faintly, his gaze sweeping over her. "Luminseed?" he offered, tilting the pot ever so slightly. "It's a rare blend. The finest Novatrix ever produced."

Sammella scoffed, crossing her arms. "You expect me to drink with you?"

His smile didn't waver. "I expect nothing from you, Sammella. I simply thought you might appreciate a taste of home."

Her golden eyes flickered. A reaction—small, but telling.

Yes. She had once known Novatrix well. Long before the war. Long before the ruins and the scars.

But that was a lifetime ago.

She exhaled, regaining her composure. "You're in a nostalgic mood, Watcher."

He chuckled, low and knowing. "Perhaps." He set his cup down, tapping a single finger against the rim. A soft chime echoed through the space. "But nostalgia is not why I called you here."

Sammella leaned back, tilting her head slightly. "Then let's dispense with the pleasantries. What do you want?

The Watcher studied her, his gaze calm, steady—merciless. "It's time for you to leave."

A slow smile spread across Sammella's lips, amusement dancing behind her eyes. "Oh? And who, exactly, is going to make me?"

The Watcher sighed, shaking his head. "Always so eager for conflict. You were like that even before the war. The moment someone tells you no, you bare your teeth." He picked up his tea again, taking another measured sip. "And yet, for all your power, you still fail to understand the most important lesson."

Sammella smirked, her voice dripping with condescension. "And what lesson is that?"

The Watcher placed his cup down gently, the sound impossibly loud in the stillness. He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "That the strong are only strong until someone stronger decides otherwise."

He let the words settle, heavy and absolute. Then, with a sigh, he added, "And you touched his loved ones."

Sammella's smirk twitched, ever so slightly.

The Watcher watched, savouring the moment.

The silence between them was no longer empty. It was waiting.

The space around them rippled.

A presence stirred, vast and overwhelming.

Sammella's smirk faltered completely this time.

A shadow stepped forward, the weight of its existence pressing against the fabric of the mental space.

Zeiric.

His entrance was unceremonious, yet his presence changed everything. He moved with measured ease, each step precise, effortless. There was no unnecessary motion, no wasted energy.

Power didn't radiate from him—it loomed.

He stopped beside the Watcher's chair and sat, his sharp gaze locking onto Sammella.

"Hi, Father," he said casually.

The Watcher inclined his head in greeting. "Zeiric."

Sammella tensed, but covered it well. "How quaint," she mused. "A family reunion."

Zeiric ignored her. He poured himself a cup of Luminseed, the liquid shimmering as it met the ceramic. Then, without preamble, he spoke.

"I can no longer allow your interference."

Sammella gave a low, throaty laugh, shaking her head. "How dramatic. You act as though you have a choice in the matter.

Zeiric lifted his cup to his lips, took a slow sip, and set it down. "I always have a choice."

Sammella's amusement didn't fade. "Please. You're the one who burned Novatrix. You slaughtered billions. You lost your daughter, lost yourself, and crawled into the depths of your own madness. And now you think you've found clarity?" She leaned forward, her golden eyes gleaming. "You're still the same mad dog you've always been, Zeiric. Chained to a planet no one dares approach. Rotting in your self-made hell."

Zeiric met her gaze, unblinking. "Am I?"

The words were spoken so simply, so quietly, and yet they carried the weight of a tidal wave.

The space around them pulsed again, deeper this time, more pronounced.

Sammella stiffened.

Zeiric continued, his tone unchanged. "You speak of the mad dog. The one who burned a world. The one who destroyed empires. You call it my prison." He took another sip of tea. "But you misunderstand."

Sammella's smirk twitched slightly, but she recovered. "Enlighten me, then."

Zeiric exhaled, as if disappointed. "Novatrix isn't my prison." He placed the cup down gently. "It's my grave."

The mental space shuddered.

Sammella's body went rigid, her breath hitching for the briefest moment.

Zeiric's voice remained eerily calm. "I left my old self there, buried beneath the ashes. The mad dog died the day I saved Sylvara soul."

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze never leaving hers.

"I burned away everything that was sick, everything that was diseased. I amputated the infection that had rotted my soul."

Sammella swallowed.

"And now?" Zeiric murmured. "Now, there's nothing left of him."

The words settled over the space like a funeral shroud.

The Watcher watched, sipping his tea, his expression unreadable.

Sammella inhaled slowly, regaining control. "Fine," she said, her voice quieter now. "So the mad dog is dead. And yet, you're still here, interfering in my work. What do you plan to do about it?"

Zeiric didn't blink. "Something merciful."

The moment the words left his lips, a ripple of energy passed through Sammella's body.

Her eyes widened.

She gasped, reaching out instinctively—grasping for the Fields, for the connection that had always been hers.

But there was nothing.

No response. No resistance.

No acknowledgment.

The Fields did not reject her.

They had forgotten her.

Her power—the very thing that had defined her for a thousands of years—was gone.

Sammella let out a sharp breath, panic flaring in her expression. "What have you done?"

Zeiric stood, adjusting his coat. "You'll live."

Sammella looked up at him, pure fury in her golden gaze. "You can't—"

"I already have," he interrupted smoothly. "Consider it a gift, I am giving you a second chance."

She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the ground, but she stumbled slightly.

Weak.

Mortal.

She had not felt so small ever.

The Watcher watched her carefully, savoring the moment.

Sammella's hands curled into fists. "This changes nothing."

Zeiric turned away, already walking into the void. "No, Sammella," he said over his shoulder. "It changes everything. It is time to let the young ones decide"

And with that, the space collapsed.

When Sammella opened her eyes, she was alone.

Alone in a world where the Fields no longer answered her call.

Alone in silence.

For the first time she was afraid.