The lunar dust settles slowly in the low gravity, drifting down like gray snow over the dissolving remains of the Formless golems. The silence of the vacuum returns, heavy and absolute, broken only by the ragged, wet sound of Asher’s breathing over the comms.
He is slumped against the base of the Third Anchor, his small hands still pressed against the shifting, golden liquid metal. The shimmering, metallic silver veins on his forearms are pulsing erratically, flashing between deep emerald and a sickly, ashen gray.
Asher, I project, my mental voice tight with a quiet, terrifying clarity. Baby, let go. The cage is built.
It’s not just a cage, Mama, Asher projects back, his mental voice tight with the physical exertion of holding the connection. It’s a bridge. I mapped the geometry. I taug
