The Desert of Oblivion.
No wind.
No sound.
Only a pulsing shimmer over scorched sand, and a sky bleached to the bone — like the sterile gaze of another reality.
The Desert of Oblivion is outside time, off the map, beyond law.
It doesn't appear on satellites.
The commands of Kyros do not reach it.
No eyes penetrate it.
Matter itself rejects control.
And only in such fractures of reality can true conversations happen — the kind that cut through flesh and speak directly to the soul.
Three figures stand among the dunes, at the heart of an ancient crater.
Three people at the fault line of history.
Camilla stands in the shadow of a twisted obelisk — the ancient language etched into its stone long since erased by winds that haven't blown in centuries.
Her hood conceals part of her face, but tension defines every line — clenched lips, a taut neck.
Beside her stands Nicholas.
Tall. Angular.
A face worn thin by decisions no one would ever forgive.
And above them — the Boy.
He floats cross-legged, suspended in stillness.
His body has forgotten weight, gravity, death.
His eyes hold no age, no origin.
Light poured from time itself.
He says nothing, but his silence thickens the air — like the pressure before a gravitational collapse.
Around him, shadows stir.
From the shimmering haze, one by one, they arrive — hermits, outcasts, adepts.
They sit in a circle. Wordless.
Witnesses to the inevitable.
Nicholas breaks the silence.
His voice is low, rough, as if it rises from beneath the crust of the planet.
"The platform's construction is nearly complete. Last components delivered. They're loading the ergon now. All that's left is to connect the batteries… and activate the module."
Camilla, barely audible:
"Alien?"
The word drops like a curse.
She doesn't look away — as if trying to burn through the illusion of this reality.
Nicholas nods.
"Yes.
The one. What Kyros calls 'the heart of the new world.'"
The sand shivers from a glint of reflected light.
The Boy — Ivor — doesn't open his eyes.
But his voice slices through the space like a blade:
"And the schematics? Has Vikhar received them?"
"He has," Nicholas replies.
"But even with them, they don't have the firepower to strike directly. The platform is shielded.
I think… they'll try infiltration.
Quiet. From the inside.
It's their only chance."
Camilla frowns.
Her face flickers with fury, worry, pain — all at once, like an unfiltered signal.
"They won't make it alone. They need support.
Without us — it's suicide."
Nicholas looks into the desert.
Through the haze. Through the sand.
Toward the place where the future already pulses.
Eight layers of defense.
Smart drones.
Fear-trained algorithms.
Even the slightest anomaly, and the system will devour you — like fire devours oxygen.
He steps forward.
His eyes — glass over flame.
"I'll insert the codes. Through the core. I still have root access.
When they enter, the system won't alert security. It'll just send a signal — to me.
The codes will give them maintenance credentials.
For a few minutes.
That'll be enough."
Camilla locks eyes with him.
Her voice trembles — not from fear, but from knowing all too well what this will cost.
"You understand what that means?
They'll trace it. From the logs. From the timing.
Half a day — that's all."
Nicholas smiles.
A smile without fear. Without regret.
Like a soldier who's already accepted the verdict.
"By then, I'll be gone.
Vanished.
There's a route — one they don't know.
You'll have a cover story.
Convincing."
He turns to Ivor.
The Boy gently descends.
His bare feet touch the sand — and it seems to flinch.
Ivor's voice is calm, devoid of drama — as if he's announcing the sunset of a universe.
"I'll help.
There's a place.
It's not listed in any chronicle.
I'll transmit the coordinates straight to your neural interface.
You'll hide from Kyros there.
Disappear completely, if you choose."
Nicholas nods.
No words.
But in that nod — agreement, yes. And also farewell.
Camilla steps closer.
Meets his gaze. Unflinching.
"We'll only be safe when Therma brings back those we've lost.
But you…
You'll give them a chance.
And we'll remember that.
Always."
Nicholas smiles.
But there's no warmth in it.
Only breath — the kind you take when crossing a final bridge.
"You both talk like this is goodbye," he says hoarsely.
"Don't.
We'll meet again.
I believe that."
He opens his arms.
Camilla embraces him.
Tightly.
As if holding not a machine, but the last hope of a world.
Ivor closes his eyes.
A moment of stillness.
Time cracks.
The world exhales.
The air vibrates.
Even the sand forgets how to fall.
Ivor raises his head.
His voice is quieter than the wind — and yet it carries a truth older than language:
"We are no longer alone."