The transition from being a body to being a frequency was not a sudden death. It was a slow, agonizing expansion where every thought felt like a tectonic shift and every memory was a continent slowly drifting away. Malphas existed as the bedrock, his consciousness anchored in the deep obsidian veins of the planet. Above him, intertwined in the golden atmosphere and the songs of the trees, Lyra was the current.
They held the world in a fragile embrace, but the cost was their distinct edges.
Can you still feel the shape of my hand, Malphas projected.
It was not words. It was a visual representation of a scar on a palm, a warm touch against a cold stone throne.
Lyra did not respond with words. She responded with the smell of electric rain and the taste of the silver blood she had spille
