The Gardener’s Thorns
The *Last Bastion* floated in the quiet aftermath of chaos, its halls humming with the whispers of Syra's newfound connection to the Celestial Archive. Her once-vibrant neural tendrils now pulsed with cold, ancient light, etching First Ones' glyphs into the walls as she passed. Ignar watched her from the arboretum doorway, his magma fists clenched.
"You're avoiding us," he said, his voice a low rumble.
Syra didn't turn. Her single eye flickered as she pruned a hybrid blossom—half-fire, half-starlight. "The Archive isn't just knowledge, Ignar. It's *alive*. And it's hungry."
Lira's laughter crackled over the comms. "Join the club, gardener. My new throne's been whispering sweet nothings too. Mostly 'kill' and 'devour.' Classic romance."
Ignar scowled. "This isn't a joke. The Veil's sealed, but the ship's sensors are picking up distortions in the lower decks. Like reality's… *bruised*."
Syra's tendrils stiffened. "Bring Aeloria."
---
The lower decks were a maze of shadows and half-realized geometries. Walls bled into ceilings; doorways led to memories. Aeloria materialized in a storm of static, her Codex-forged eyes narrowing. **"The Veil's seal is intact. This is something else."**
Lira kicked a fractured bulkhead, her throne-forged crown glinting. "Smells like the First Realm's leftovers. Hey, Syra—your archive buddies leave a backdoor?"
Syra pressed her palm to the wall. Glyphs flared, revealing a pulsing wound in reality—a **Veil Seed**, burrowing into the Bastion's core. "They didn't just feed on the Archive. They *planted* this."
Ignar's magma illuminated the seed's tendrils: veins of anti-light, leaching entropy into the ship. "Can you burn it out?"
"No," Syra said. "But I can graft it."
---
Syra's tendrils fused with the seed, her mind flooding with visions of the First Ones' final days. They hadn't just imprisoned monsters—they'd buried a **Godsbane**, a weapon meant to annihilate all creation if their experiments failed. The Veil-Walkers weren't jailers. They were *farmers*, cultivating the seed to resurrect it.
"It's waking," Syra gasped. "The Godsbane—it's using the Bastion as a womb."
Aeloria's storm-form crackled. **"Then we cut it out."**
"No!" Syra's voice echoed with the Archive's chorus. "Its roots are in my mind now. Destroy it, and you destroy me."
Lira unsheathed a dagger forged from her throne's needle. "So we starve it. Let me carve out the juicy bits."
---
Lira's throne-crown flared as she plunged the dagger into the seed. Reality recoiled. The Godsbane's tendrils lashed out, binding her arm, but the throne's power surged—a feedback loop of Void and First Ones' energy.
"Lira, *stop!*" Ignar roared.
"Can't!" She grinned wildly, her eyes bleeding void. "It's *working*!"
The seed screamed. Syra collapsed, her tendrils snapping. Aeloria's storm engulfed the chamber, Codex-light clashing with anti-light.
When the dust settled, the seed was dormant—a frozen scar in the Bastion's hull. But Lira's crown had cracked, and her arm was crystallized, veins of Godsbane energy pulsing beneath her skin.
"Oops," she muttered. "Guess the throne's a one-time use."
---
Aeloria lingered at the universe's edge, her storm-eyes fixed on the Bastion. The Codex within her recoiled at the Godsbane's presence. **"This is my fault,"** she whispered. **"I brought them the shard. I let the storm fade."**
The void answered with a tremor—a distant galaxy flickering out of existence. The Godsbane's awakening had sent ripples through time. Somewhere, the Maw's laugh echoed.
---
The *Last Bastion* drifted, its crew forever altered:
- **Syra** retreated into the Archive, her body more glyph than flesh.
- **Ignar** reforged his magma into a scalpel, carving Godsbane roots from the ship's bones.
- **Lira** wore her corruption like a trophy, the crystal arm whispering secrets she refused to share.
And in the dark between stars, the Godsbane stirred—a shadow with no source, a war with no front.
The storm had eyes.
The garden had thorns.
The universe held its breath.
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