He hesitates.
Then nods once.
“Do it.”
The broadcast goes live across divine channels.
My face appears on screens mid-collapse.
Not polished.
Not composed.
Sweat-soaked.
Shaking.
But visible.
“I know you’re afraid,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Don’t fight the surge.”
“Breathe.”
“Don’t amplify.”
“Let it slow.”
The eastern children’s flare trembles violently.
I feel their panic.
Their confusion.
Their pain.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
“Don’t burn.”
The baby screams inside me.
Not audibly.
But in field intensity.
The silver lattice tightens.
The eastern spike fractures.
Not rupture.
Breaks into smaller pulses.
One by one—
They drop.
Stabilizing.
Not perfectly.
But safely.
Morgan sobs quietly behind me.
“It’s working.”
The final flare dims.
The room goes silen
