The fragile levity that had briefly warmed the fissure's cold heart could not last. It was a phantom warmth, quickly swallowed by the grim, pressing reality of their circumstances. The salves were a temporary dam against a sea of agony; the journey ahead would be a relentless test of its integrity. The decision to move was a necessity. The planning of it was a fresh form of torture.

Statera was the first to give voice to the logistical nightmare they faced. Her voice was low, pragmatic, pushing past the pain in her shoulder. "We cannot travel as a single wounded beast. We must be a caravan, each with a role, each supporting the other." Her Polaris light, though still dim, traced over their broken forms. "I can walk. My leg is whole. My shoulder… it will scream, but it will bear the weight of aiding another." Her gaze settled on Shiro. "My rain baby can walk, I think. With support. He leans on me. I bear his weight. It is… manageable."

All eyes turned to Nyxara. The gash on her thigh, though packed and sealed by moss, was a deep, angry line of protest. She tested her weight on it, her face a mask of controlled stoicism, but a sharp, involuntary hiss escaped her clenched teeth. She paled, shaking her head. "I can walk," she stated, the words a queen's decree against the rebellion of her own flesh. "But not… not while bearing weight. The muscle is severed too deeply. It will hold my own passage, and nothing more." Her multi hued eyes, filled with a storm of frustration and fear, fell upon Kuro.

The unspoken truth hung in the air, vast and terrible. Kuro could not walk. The combined trauma of his facial wound, the internal damage from the fight, and the powerful sedatives left him as stable as water. He was propped against the wall, his single eye glazed, his body listing to the side. The notion of him taking a single step was a grotesque joke.

Kuro sensed the weight of their stares. The prince, the strategist, the "Baby Black Prince", reduced to a burden that could not even transport itself. A hot flush of shame, more burning than any wound, spread up his neck. "I can walk," he growled, the sound weak but laced with defiant venom.

"Kuro, no," Nyxara said, her voice soft but firm. "Do not."

He ignored her. With a grunt of sheer, stubborn will, he pushed himself away from the wall. For a single, breathtaking second, he stood, swaying like a sapling in a gale. His storm grey eye was wide with a desperate, furious concentration. Then his legs, utterly devoid of strength or coordination, simply folded beneath him. He did not crumple with grace; he fell like a puppet whose strings had been severed, a chaotic, boneless collapse toward the hard stone.

He did not hit the ground.

Lucifera moved not with a fighter's speed, but with the unnerving, instantaneous displacement of a shadow shifting with the sun. One moment she was watching from the entrance, the next she was there, her body intercepting his fall. Her arms, stronger than their slender frame suggested, caught him under his own, halting his descent with an unceremonious jolt that made him cry out in pain and fresh humiliation.

He hung in her grasp, utterly defeated, his breath coming in ragged, shame filled gasps. "Let… let me go," he choked out, struggling weakly against her immovable hold. "I can do it."

"You cannot," Lucifera stated, her voice devoid of judgment, merely reporting an immutable fact of the universe, like the weight of stone or the pull of the tide. "The attempt is a waste of energy we do not possess. The outcome is a foregone conclusion. You will be carried."

The finality in her tone brooked no argument. The mothers watched, a complex knot of pity, worry, and aching sympathy in their chests.

"She is right, my little tempest," Nyxara said softly, her heart breaking for his pride. "There is no weakness in this. Only necessity."

Statera nodded. "Lucifera is the only one among us with the strength and… unencumbered capacity to bear you. It is the only way."

The solution was logical. Inevitable. And to Kuro, it was a fresh hell. To be carried was one thing. To be carried by her, the impassive, razor edged, brutally efficient Sirius councillor, was a humiliation of cosmic proportions.

To everyone's astonishment, a remarkable thing happened. As the reality of the task settled upon her, a faint, unmistakable flush of colour rose on Lucifera's alabaster cheeks. It was not the deep crimson of Kuro's shame, but a subtle, rose tinted bloom of… something. Discomfort? Unfamiliarity? The sheer, bizarre intimacy of the act? She looked at the prospect of carrying her nephew with the same clinical dread another might view a complex surgical procedure.

She's blushing, Statera thought, a wave of sheer, unexpected fondness cutting through her own pain. The unflappable Lucifera is flapped.

Oh, by the lost constellations, Nyxara mused, a genuine, weary smile touching her lips for the first time in what felt like an eon. She's adorable. And he is going to spontaneously combust.

Seeing her expression, Kuro's own mortification deepened. "No," he whispered, a last, desperate plea. "Not… not like this."

"It is decided," Lucifera said, her voice a trifle tighter than usual, the blush on her cheeks deepening a shade. She did not give him a chance to protest further. In one fluid, shockingly effortless motion, she shifted her grip. She ducked slightly, pulling one of his arms over her shoulder, and then hoisted him up and across her back in a fireman's carry.

The action was so swift, so utterly devoid of ceremony, that Kuro could only emit a strangled yelp of surprise. His world tilted violently. The pressure on his stomach made him nauseous, and the jostling sent a lightning bolt of pain through his eye socket, forcing a sharp gasp from him. He hung over her shoulder, his face pointing toward the ground, his dignity in tatters.

"This is… undignified," he groaned, his voice muffled against the dark fabric of her robes.

"Survival rarely is," Lucifera replied, her tone dry, though the tips of her ears were now also touched with pink. She adjusted his weight with a slight shrug, settling him into a more secure position. "Complain again and I will carry you like a suckling babe in my arms. The choice is yours."

The threat, delivered with such deadly seriousness, silenced him utterly. Hanging over her shoulder was a nightmare. Being cradled in her arms would be an extinction level event for his sense of self.

From their positions, Statera and Nyxara shared a long, look. The same thought passed between them, a bright, shining thread of warmth in the oppressive dark: Aunt and nephew bonding.

The sight was, against all odds and reason, profoundly endearing. The mighty, stoic Lucifera, flushed with uncharacteristic colour, with the proud, furious Kuro draped over her shoulder like a sack of terribly angry, mortified grain. Both of them were radiating a shared, furious embarrassment that was almost tangible.

"The path is narrow and treacherous," Lucifera announced, her voice once again all business, though the blush stubbornly remained. "Statera, you and Shiro will follow behind me. Nyxara, you will follow last. Move slowly. Test your footing. If you feel weakness, stop. We move as one organism. Its failure is our collective failure."

With that, she turned and began to walk toward the fissure's exit. Her steps were sure and steady, even with Kuro's weight across her shoulders. He hung there, limp with resignation, his good eye squeezed shut against the humiliation.

Statera helped Shiro to his feet, his arm slung over her good shoulder. He leaned heavily on her, a low groan escaping him as he put weight on his injured ribs. Nyxara took a final, steadying breath, gripping a jagged outcropping of rock for support, and nodded, her face pale but determined.

Lucifera led the way, stepping out of the fissure mouth and into the oppressive, mist choked darkness of the tunnels beyond. The light from the chamber spilled out after her, illuminating the surreal, almost comical image of the deadly Sirius councillor and her royal, disgruntled burden.

The journey to Nyxarion had begun. It was not an exodus of warriors, but a desperate, limping retreat of the broken. But they were moving. And as Lucifera disappeared into the gloom with a red faced Kuro on her shoulder, the two mothers following behind couldn't help but feel the first, faint, and most unexpected flicker of something that felt like hope.

The journey was a slow, painful unravelling of time and space. The tunnels beyond the fissure were not the majestic, star lit Polaris paths of their initial voyage; these were the forgotten arteries of the mountain, choked with dust and the ghosts of dead echoes. The air was stale and cold, carrying the damp, mineral breath of deep stone. It was a place untouched by magic, only by weight and age and a profound, crushing indifference.

Statera now led the way, her Polaris light a feeble but unwavering beacon in the suffocating dark. It did not sing here as it had in her homeland; it fought, a determined star struggling to hold back an ocean of oblivion. Every few paces, she would pause, her good hand pressed against the cold wall, her senses reaching out not for beauty, but for threat. Her shoulder was a constant, grinding pain, a grim counterpoint to each of Shiro's ragged breaths beside her.

He leaned on her heavily, his arm draped over her good shoulder, each step a monument of effort. The world for him was a narrow, nauseating tunnel viewed through a slit of amber, the burning brand on his face a pulsar of agony that synced with his heartbeat. He said nothing, conserving his strength, his entire being focused on the simple, Herculean task of placing one foot in front of the other.

Behind them, the most surreal tableau of their procession unfolded.

Lucifera moved with her unnatural, silent grace, but her burden was a stark contrast to her efficiency. Kuro hung over her shoulder, a constant, mortified weight. The initial shock had worn off, leaving behind a deep, simmering humiliation that was, in its own way, as painful as his wounds. The pressure on his stomach was nauseating, and every jostling step sent fresh, sharp lances of pain through his shattered eye socket.

After what felt like an eternity of this torture, a small, pained voice broke the silence from ahead.

"A…Aunty Lucifera?" Shiro rasped, not looking back, his voice strained. "Could you… could you be a little… less… rocky? It's… it's shaking him. And… it hurts… I can see it."

The request, so meek and full of shared suffering, hung in the air. Lucifera did not break her stride, but her posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. She had been carrying him as she would a piece of equipment, securely, effectively, with zero consideration for comfort. The concept was simply alien to her.

From his inverted position, Kuro let out a low groan. "I'm… fine," he lied through clenched teeth, his pride a stubborn, dying flame.

"You are not fine," Lucifera stated, her voice echoing softly in the tunnel. But she adjusted her gait, her steps becoming somehow smoother, more fluid, absorbing the shocks before they could travel up into her passenger. The difference was immediate and profound. The nauseating bouncing ceased, leaving only the steady, rhythmic motion of her walk.

A long silence followed, filled only with the scuff of boots on stone and their laboured breathing. Then, a second, even more improbable request was forged in the fires of Kuro's utter desperation.

"Could you…" he began, the words seeming to physically pain him more than any wound. "Not… like this?" He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet. "Could you… hoist me… properly? On your back? I could… I could hold on. It would… it would be less… degrading." The final word was a whisper of pure agony.

Lucifera stopped walking.

Statera and Shiro paused a few steps ahead, glancing back. Nyxara, bringing up the rear and leaning heavily on her staff, watched with bated breath.

The Sirius councillor was still for a long moment, considering the request with the gravity of a military strategist assessing a new battlefield. Carrying him on her back would require a different kind of intimacy. It would require his cooperation, his arms around her shoulders, his body pressed against hers. It was a vastly more… personal method of transport.

Then, a remarkable thing happened. A soft, almost inaudible sound escaped her, a sigh that was not annoyance, but something akin to resigned amusement. "The 'Baby Black Prince' makes a tactical adjustment to his circumstances," she observed, her tone dry but lacking its usual icy edge. "A wise, if belated, decision."

Slowly, carefully, she lowered him from her shoulder. Kuro's legs buckled the moment they touched the ground, and he would have collapsed if she hadn't kept a firm grip on him. With a strength that was still startling, she turned him around, guided his arms over her shoulders, and then hooked her own arms under his knees, hoisting him onto her back in a piggyback ride.

The new position was a revelation. The pressure was off his stomach. The world was right side up. He could rest his throbbing head against her back, between her shoulder blades. It was immeasurably better. The humiliation was still there, a cold stone in his gut, but it was tempered by a shocking degree of physical relief.

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And then, the second miracle occurred. As Kuro's arms locked around her front, his body pressed against hers, a faint, beautiful flush rose on Lucifera's neck and the tips of her ears. She quickly bowed her head, letting her silver hair fall forward to hide it, but the mothers had seen it.

Oh my, Statera thought, her heart aching with a fondness that momentarily eclipsed her pain. She's holding her nephew. And she's blushing because of it.

I shall commission a painting, Nyxara mused, a real, weary smile gracing her lips for the first time in days. 'The Councillor and The Prince.' It will hang in the great hall. She will never live it down.

"Are you secure?" Lucifera asked, her voice a trifle tight, still facing away from them.

"...Yes," Kuro mumbled, his own face buried in the fabric of her robes, hiding his own furious blush. "Thank you," he added, the words so quiet they were almost inaudible.

"Do not thank me. Simply do not fall off," she replied, but there was no bite to it. She adjusted her grip on his legs and began walking again, her pace steady and, thanks to Shiro's intervention, remarkably smooth.

The procession continued, the dynamic subtly shifted. The journey was still a torment. The final leg felt endless, a slow march through a tunnel that seemed to have no end. The air grew colder still, and the nature of the light began to change. The clean, if feeble, silver of Statera's glow was tinged with a sickly, jaundiced yellow that leaked from somewhere ahead, polluting the darkness.

The path sloped upwards, culminating in a natural archway shrouded in a thick, cloying mist that smelled of ozone and cold decay. Statera paused at the threshold, her face grim in the foul light.

"We are here," she said, her voice barely a whisper, heavy with dread. "The border is just beyond."

She stepped through the arch, and the others followed her into the mist.

It was like stepping into a different, cancerous world. The stale but neutral air of the tunnels was gone, replaced by a heavy, oppressive atmosphere that felt thick in the lungs. The mist clung to them, damp and cold and unwelcoming.

They emerged onto a wide, overlook of jagged rock, hidden behind a screen of petrified, skeletal trees. And below them, stretching into the misty, jaundiced distance, lay the Plaza of Screams.

It was a vast, circular concourse carved into the base of two converging mountains. But it was not made of stone. The floor was a strange, fleshy, membranous material, dull grey and veined with pulsing, jaundiced runes that glowed with a faint, malevolent light. The runes were the source of the sickly glow, a dormant wound in the fabric of the world. Towering, twisted spires of black obsidian rose at irregular intervals like broken teeth. The air itself seemed thick with a psychic residue of agony and dread, a silence that was not an absence of sound, but a presence of countless, remembered screams. It was a place of profound and terrible power, a nightmare given form.

And they had to cross it.

The sight of the Plaza of Screams laid out before them was a physical blow. The sheer, oppressive malevolence of the place was a weight that pressed down on their already battered spirits. The jaundiced runes pulsed with a slow, sick rhythm, like a diseased heart beating beneath the fleshy floor. The silence was a living thing, a vacuum that threatened to suck the hope from their very souls.

"God," Nyxara breathed, her voice hushed with a horror that went beyond the physical. "It is worse than the stories. It feels… hungry."

"It is a wound," Statera corrected, her own voice thin with strain. "A wound that never healed, and has instead festered. It feeds on anguish. We must not feed it. Keep your minds guarded. Do not listen to the whispers."

Shiro shuddered, leaning more heavily on Statera. "It's already… whispering," he mumbled, his good eye wide with a fear that had nothing to do with their physical pursuers. "It sounds like… like the crowd from my…"

He didn't finish. He didn't need to. Statera's arm around him tightened. "Ignore it. It is a phantom. It has no power over you that you do not give it."

From Lucifera's back, Kuro was rigid. The psychic pressure of the plaza was a unique torment, scraping against the raw nerves of his new injuries. "It feels like… his laughter," he whispered, the words meant only for the woman carrying him. "His. It's echoing in here." He pressed his forehead harder against her back, as if trying to hide from the sensation.

Lucifera's steps, as she began the descent onto the fleshy concourse, did not falter. But her voice, when she spoke, was lower, meant only for his ears. "It is an echo. Nothing more. A recording on stone and spirit. It is powerful, but it is not sentient. It cannot harm you unless you mistake the recording for the poet." It was the most philosophical thing any of them had ever heard her say.

The act of walking on the plaza's surface was profoundly unsettling. The membranous floor was slightly soft, giving under their weight with a faint, resilient spring that felt horribly organic. It did not feel like walking on ground; it felt like walking on the skin of some vast, slumbering leviathan. The jaundiced light from the runes cast their faces in a sickly, pallid glow, making them look like corpses walking.

The journey across was a silent, internal battle for each of them. Every step was a fight against the psychic residue that sought to amplify their pain, their fear, their regrets. They were a chain of four, linked by trauma and a desperate, fledgling love, dragging themselves through a sea of solidified despair.

It was in the very centre of the plaza, where the psychic weight was heaviest, that Lucifera did something extraordinary.

Shiro stumbled, his leg giving way as a particularly violent wave of phantom screams seemed to crash over him. He cried out, a short, sharp sound of pain and terror.

Without breaking stride, without even looking back, Lucifera's voice cut through the miasma, clear and oddly steady.

"Steady, Rain Baby. Your footing is unsure. Do not let the phantoms steal your balance. It is all they are capable of."

The use of the nickname was so casual, so utterly matter of fact, that it was more shocking than any curse. It wasn't laced with Statera's teasing affection or Nyxara's playful mockery. It was delivered as a simple, clinical identifier, and yet it carried an undeniable, startling warmth.

Shiro, shocked out of his panic, blinked. "I… I'm not a…" he began to protest on instinct, but the words died in his throat. The nickname, from her, had been an anchor, not a barb. He focused on the sound of her voice, on the absurdity of it, and not on the whispers. "Right," he mumbled instead. "Sorry, Aunty."

A few steps later, Kuro, jostled by a slight adjustment in Lucifera's grip, couldn't suppress a groan as a throb of pain lanced through his eye.

"Cease your fidgeting, Storm Baby," Lucifera said, her tone one of mild, pragmatic admonishment. "You are compromising my centre of gravity. Your tempestuousness is best saved for the battlefield, not my spine."

Kuro's head shot up, his single eye wide with a mixture of outrage and utter disbelief. "Don't Call me that…," he hissed, his humiliation momentarily overpowering his pain.

"I did now what?" she replied, her voice perfectly even. "The title is accurate. You are a vortex of brooding intensity and, currently, disruptive movement. Now, be still. We are almost across."

Nyxara and Statera, walking ahead, exchanged a look of pure, unadulterated wonder. They dared not speak, dared not break the spell. This was new. This was Lucifera not just protecting them, but joining them. Weaving herself into the fabric of their strange, wounded family with her own unique, brutally honest thread.

The rest of the crossing was endured in a state of shocked bemusement. Lucifera's use of the nicknames, delivered with her signature deadpan precision, became a bizarre lifeline. Each time the oppressive dread threatened to overwhelm one of the twins, her voice would slice through it.

"The Rain Baby is slowing. Increase your pace."

"The Storm Baby is gripping too tightly. My circulation is being impeded."

They were complaints. They were observations. But they were also a constant, reassuring reminder that she was there. That they were one.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity in that psychic hell, they reached the far side. They stumbled off the fleshy membrane and onto cold, blessedly normal stone. The oppressive weight lifted, the whispers fading back into a memory. They collapsed against the tunnel wall, gasping not from exertion, but from the release of spiritual pressure.

For a long moment, no one spoke. They simply breathed in the clean, cold, silent air of the tunnel.

It was Statera who broke the silence, pushing herself upright with a wince. "We need to put distance between us and that place. We need to get to the high paths. No one will be able to follow us there."

She turned to face the solid rock wall of the tunnel. She placed her good hand against the cold stone, her fingers splayed. Her Polaris light, which had been guttering weakly, began to brighten, coalescing around her hand. She closed her eyes, her face a mask of concentration and pain. The wound on her shoulder wept silently, ignored.

A soft hum began to emanate from the rock, a vibration that was felt more than heard. Where her hand rested, the stone began to change. It didn't move, but its essence seemed to soften, to become less substantial. An intricate pattern of faint, silver lines began to etch itself into the surface, spreading out from her fingertips like frost on a windowpane, forming a complex, circular sigil.

Shiro and Kuro watched, their pain and embarrassment forgotten, replaced by pure, unadulterated awe. Kuro had heard of the secret paths of the Polaris, but to see one being woven from sheer will and stone was something from a legend.

The silver lines glowed brighter, pulsing in time with Statera's heartbeat. The centre of the sigil began to dissolve, not crumbling, but unravelling into a shimmering, liquid silver vortex. Beyond was not more tunnel, but a breathtaking, impossible pathway of crystalline light that arced away into a void filled with soft, swirling nebulae and distant, gentle stars.

The Polaris Path was open.

Statera sagged, her energy spent, but a triumphant smile touched her bloodless lips. "The way is open," she whispered. "We are going home."

The transition from the malignant, fleshy reality of the Plaza to the Polaris Path was not a step, but a translocation of the soul. One moment they were battered creatures of flesh and pain, breathing air thick with remembered screams. The next, they were suspended in a silent, stellar womb.

The world dissolved into a symphony of light and silence. The path beneath their feet was not stone, but a ribbon of condensed moonlight, firm yet somehow insubstantial. It arced through a void that was not empty, but filled with the slow, majestic swirl of nebulae in hues of violet and silver. Distant stars, cold and pure, watched their passage with ancient, indifferent eyes. The air was gone, replaced by a profound, breathing silence that hummed in their bones, a frequency that resonated with the very core of their being. It was the antithesis of the Plaza; where that place consumed, this one nourished. The oppressive weight on their spirits lifted, replaced by a cool, ethereal lightness.

For a long moment, they simply stood, absorbing the impossible peace of it. Their wounds did not vanish, but the pain seemed to leach away into the vast, gentle silence, becoming a distant echo rather than a screaming present. The path's energy was a balm, a cool cloth on a fevered brow. Shiro felt the burning brand on his face settle into a dull, bearable throb. Nyxara's leg ached with less ferocity. Even the dagger wound in Statera's shoulder seemed to hum in harmony with the path's song, the pain receding from a shriek to a murmur.

It was Lucifera who broke the stellar silence, her voice a soft intrusion into the sacred quiet, yet somehow not disrespectful. "Fascinating, every time I see it I cant get away from the sense of awe." Her brilliant white eyes were wide, taking in the swirling galaxies with the analytical wonder of a scientist discovering a new fundamental force. Her Sirius energy, usually a contained, sharp pulse, seemed to soften, its edges blurring to harmonize with the path's gentle resonance. The tension in her own frame, the constant readiness for violence, began to unwrap, layer by layer.

Shiro let out a shaky breath, his grip on Statera loosening slightly as the need to simply endure lessened. "It's… it's beautiful," he whispered, the words seeming to be absorbed by the star dusted void.

"It is a lifeline," Statera corrected gently, though her face was softened by a profound relief. Her Polaris light, which had been a desperate flicker, now bloomed around her, intertwining with the path's own luminescence. She was home, in a way that transcended geography. "It knows its children. It will guide us to safety."

The journey began. Walking the path was effortless, as if the ribbon of light itself propelled them forward. The silence was a balm, allowing their ragged nerves to slowly, painfully, begin to knit back together.

And in the safety of that silence, the dynamic between them began to shift once more. The fear receded, and in its place, the fledgling, awkward bonds of their new family began to stretch and grow, often through the sharp, precise needle of teasing.

It was Lucifera who started it. Her gaze, analytical as ever, swept over Kuro, still perched on her back. "The Storm Baby's breathing has stabilized," she announced to the group at large. "The rhythmic motion appears to have a sedative effect. Perhaps his tempestuous nature is soothed by predictable, wave like patterns. Like swaddling an infant."

Kuro, who had been drifting in a painkiller induced haze, stiffened. "I am not… being…" he grumbled, the protest lacking its usual fire.

"Of course not," Nyxara chimed in from behind, her voice laced with warm amusement. "You are being… strategically transported. In a very cuddly fashion. Look at you, nestled right in. It's where you belong."

"It is not cuddly," Lucifera stated, utterly serious. "It is an efficient distribution of weight and the optimal configuration for monitoring vital signs."

"And it gives you easy access to kiss his boo boos," Shiro added, his voice weak but a mischievous glint in his single amber eye.

The response was immediate and glorious. A brilliant, crimson flush exploded across Lucifera's neck and cheeks. She stumbled on the path, a truly shocking loss of coordination for her. "I…that is…a completely non standard and inefficient method of treatment," she sputtered, her clinical composure utterly shattered.

Statera laughed, a real, free sound that seemed to sparkle in the stellar air. "Oh, I don't know. I've found a mother's kiss to be highly effective on occasion." She winked at a furiously blushing Kuro. "Perhaps you should try it, Aunty Lucifera. For the sake of intrigue."

"The suggestion is rejected," Lucifera said stiffly, her face turned resolutely forward, though the blush remained. "Emphatically. And empirically unsound."

But the dam had broken. The mothers, sensing a newfound and utterly delightful vulnerability in their icy companion, began a gentle, united campaign.

"Look at her," Nyxara whispered loudly to Statera, a real smile gracing her features. "She's holding him so protectively. It's truly heartwarming. Who knew the deadly Sirius councillor had such a nurturing side? He brings out the softness in her."

"She's a natural," Statera agreed, playing along. "Though she does flush rather magnificently. It's like a lighthouse beacon. Every time he shifts his grip, the colour deepens. Crimson for 'embarrassed but tolerating it'."

Kuro, mortified, tried to adjust his grip to be less intrusive. His movement, meant to be helpful, made him slide slightly. Instinctively, his arms tightened around Lucifera's shoulders, his hands locking together over her chest to secure himself.

The effect was electric.

A visible pulse of energy, a 'Sirius Resonance', flickered around Lucifera, a brief, sharp burst of white light that was usually a sign of intense focus or combat readiness. It was completely at odds with the current situation. Simultaneously, the blush on her cheeks deepened from rose to a spectacular, fiery scarlet.

She froze mid step. "Do not… squeeze… with such force," she managed to grit out, her voice strained. "You are..."

She was lying. They all knew it. The resonance and the blush were tell tale signs of a profound, flustered reaction to the intimate contact. Kuro, sensing he had somehow made it worse, immediately loosened his grip, mumbling an apology into her back.

The three women, Nyxara, Statera, and a still furiously blushing Lucifera, continued down the path of light, the two queens smiling fondly at the sight of the fearsome councillor being utterly undone by her nephew's need for a secure hold.

After a time, the nature of the path began to change. The swirling nebulae ahead began to coalesce, not into the terrifying, jaundiced runes of the Plaza, but into something familiar to Nyxara. The colours shifted from cool silvers and violets to warmer, deeper hues of amethyst and cobalt. The starfields began to form patterns she recognized, the constellations of her homeland, the celestial map of Nyxarion.

Statera slowed, her hand once again coming to rest on the living light of the path. "We are approaching the terminus," she said softly. "The path is reversing its course. It will not take us to the border we left. It is taking us home. To the heart of Nyxarion."

She turned to look at them, her face illuminated by the emerging constellations of a dead kingdom. "The path remembers its friends. It is taking us directly to the palace. We will emerge in the Royal Sanctum."

The scene ended on that promise, a beacon of hope in the infinite dark. Ahead, the light of the path was rewriting the universe, weaving a new destination from memory and starlight. They were no longer fleeing; they were being guided home.

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