Rose wandered the halls of HQ without urgency, yet every step carried intention.
She wasn't lost.
She was searching.
The words Raya had spoken lingered like frost that hadn't melted yet.
Hunger removed… but influence remains.
It wasn't a warning.
It wasn't reassurance.
It was a condition.
She followed the quiet pull of familiarity until the corridor opened into the café.
It hadn't recovered.
Not after Khelos.
People stood too still. Eyes flicked to ceiling panels, to silent alarms that hadn't gone off. No one wore earphones. No one spoke into a call. Conversations, when they happened at all, were short and careful, like everyone was afraid of waking something.
Breaks here used to be loud. Messy. Human.
Now they were measured.
The coffee dispensers were mostly empty—not because supply had failed, but because trust had. No one wanted to sleep. No one wanted to close their eyes long enough for something to slip in.
Except one person.
Allium stood in line with a cart full of bright packaging that didn't belong in a place like this.
Chips.
Chocolate.
Too much of both.
He laid them out on the counter with exacting care, grouping and regrouping them in shifting patterns, counting under his breath. His fingers paused as he repeated the card's pin number again. And again. As if forgetting it would mean more than inconvenience.
Rose took a step forward.
Then stopped.
She watched instead.
A small breath escaped her, half a chuckle meant only for herself.
"I told him we'd have to pay for it," she murmured, smiling despite the tension in her chest.
He checked out methodically. Placed each item back into the bag like it mattered where it rested. From a distance, he looked harmless. Almost ordinary.
Up close—his face told the truth.
He had control.
But even he didn't know for how long.
His arms were held too tight to his sides. His shoulders carried weight that didn't belong to muscle. His eyes tracked everything without settling anywhere.
Rose saw it.
No one else did.
Allium froze mid-step.
He turned, already knowing she was there.
He lifted the card in a small, sheepish motion, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
You were right.
He crossed the floor toward her, bare feet landing with a weight that still made people glance over. They always did. He noticed less now than he used to.
"Hey," Rose said softly. "I wasn't lying, Allium."
He shook his head once.
"I wasn't listening," he admitted. "My thoughts were… elsewhere."
He took another step, then paused.
"I'm going to bring these to Cassidy again," he said. "Would you mind accompanying me?"
Rose didn't answer aloud. She nodded, and they walked.
They moved almost shoulder to shoulder.
"I see what you're holding," she said gently.
He knew she didn't mean the food.
"Is it obvious?" he asked. "I have more control. But the tri-suns are different from the Trees. They feel… angry."
She studied his expression. Concern, not fear.
"I've been thinking about other ways we could enter the dreamscape," she said. "Ways you wouldn't have to be there alone."
He hesitated.
"I don't wish to bring others into it," he replied. "With tri-sun energy involved, I don't know what could be there."
She didn't push. She encouraged.
"Worst case," she said quietly, "I'm sure I could help in some way."
They reached the ICU.
Allium stepped inside. Rose stayed in the hall.
He turned back.
"Are you coming?"
She shook her head and settled against the wall.
"This was your idea."
He nodded and went in.
When he returned, his posture had softened just a fraction.
"Did she enjoy your gift?" Rose asked.
"She seems happy," he said. "Nina… seems irritated."
Rose smiled and gestured for him to follow.
"If we solve the dreamscape issue," she said as they walked, "you wouldn't have to fear every second of your existence."
He thought about that, steps too precise to be natural.
"It's not that I doubt control is possible," he said. "But Weaver made it clear that entering without the temple could be disastrous."
They disappeared into the dorm corridor.
A plan forming.
Control questioned.
Elsewhere, another kind of control was unraveling.
Weaver moved through HQ with steps too quiet for someone who didn't want to be noticed. His threads betrayed him, vibrating faintly, restless near his shoulders.
Thoughts pressed in, sharp and unrelenting.
What if Allium finds out?
What if someone tells him?
What if I tell him…
They weren't new thoughts.
They were old wounds reopening.
Footsteps tapped behind him.
He turned.
Elysia stood there, hands clasped behind her back, smiling up at him.
"You feel very loud," she said.
Weaver sighed.
"Elysia, you and Raya are supposed to be watching Valeum."
She thought for a moment.
"Oh. Yeah! He's okay. But Mama sent me to check on you." Her smile faltered. "She said not to tell you though… uh oh."
She looked briefly troubled. Then smiled again.
Weaver knelt slightly to her level.
"I'm alright, dear."
She tilted her head.
"But you're not," she said. "Why are you lying?"
He inhaled slowly, then gestured for her to follow.
They walked into the gardens.
The ground still bore scars—distortions etched into the sand, places where reality hadn't settled back into place. Elysia reached out and recoiled with a wince.
"They hurt," she said. "They hurt very bad."
"They once didn't," Weaver replied. "This was a beautiful place. It still is, in its way. Life is… resilient."
She giggled.
"You sound like Mama."
Weaver straightened, watching the ley-lines glow stubbornly beneath the soil, growth persisting where it shouldn't.
"Has Raya told you about me?" he asked.
Elysia nodded.
"She says you're grumpy. But you don't feel grumpy."
He laughed softly.
"She remembers me from long ago. I was… particularly grumpy."
She studied him again.
"You feel less loud now," she said. "You're okay?"
He wanted to tell her the truth.
But that truth wasn't hers to carry.
"I'm better," he said gently. "Thank you for checking on me. Tell your mother I said thank you."
She clapped once and ran off, feet light against the sand.
Weaver remained, staring at the distortions. They were beautiful in shape and color—ugly in origin.
He steadied himself.
Then turned back toward the base.
Toward a decision he could no longer delay.