I walk up to Elara and kneel in front of her. I place my hands on her knees.
Through the merge, I reach out to her consciousness.
It’s a chaotic, blinding storm of mathematics and starlight. She is holding the entire architectural schematic of the labyrinth in her head, rotating it, testing it, looking for flaws. And in the center of the storm, I feel the tiny, fragile core of my seven-year-old daughter, crying in the dark.
Elara, I project, my mental voice a soothing, golden thread in the storm. Baby. Look at me.
The storm pauses. The holographic shapes freeze in mid-air.
Elara’s eyelids flutter. Mama? It’s so loud. The angles... they don't make sense. The Devourer doesn't have corners. How do I trap something without corners?
You don't trap it with corners, I project, wrapping my A
