Through the thick, reinforced glass of the observation deck, I watch my son.
He is twelve years old. He should be playing in the courtyard, drawing pictures in the dirt, complaining about homework. Instead, he is holding a geometric labyrinth in his mind, fighting off the primordial entity of pure entropy that wants to consume the world.
His heart rate is spiking, Margot says, her voice tight over the comms. The Formless is probing the eastern quadrant of the maze. Asher is struggling to maintain the structural integrity of the paradox.
I press my hand against the cold glass. Through the mate bond, I feel Kade’s sharp, sudden spike of tactical alarm. He is standing beside me, his right hand gripping my shoulder, his physical presence a solid, unyielding wall of support.
He’s losing the
