The White Garden was gone. The peace was gone. In its place was a terrifying, infinite void of black ink that seemed to swallow the very concept of light. I stood on a thin shard of golden glass, the only solid thing left in a universe that had decided to stop existing.
Below me, Silas was being pulled down into the ink. It wasn't water; it was raw, unrefined data—the "Trash Code" where the Architects sent everything they no longer needed. He wasn't fighting it. He couldn't. His violet eyes were fixed on mine, full of a heartbreaking, silent plea. He wasn't asking me to save him. He was asking me to choose the worlds.
"Don't do it, Elara," his voice drifted up, faint as a memory. "Don't give her what she wants."
I looked at the Prime Mother. She stood at the center of the void, her gold
