The wind howled at thirty thousand feet, but within the pocket of compressed air surrounding Morgana, it was as still as a tomb. Henry's head lolled against her shoulder, his vision a blurred mosaic of bruised purples and fading gold.
He let out a weak, rattling chuckle that sent a fresh bloom of crimson down his chin. "I feel like a princess," he rasped, his voice barely audible over the hum of Morgana's mana.
Morgana didn't look down, her eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of the Academy peaks, but her grip on him tightened. "I always did love being your Knight in shining armor, Henry. It's a good look for me."
"The city..." Henry whispered, his eyes drifting toward the horizon where a pillar of golden dust was still rising into the stratosphere. "What happened to the city?"
"I destroyed it," Morgana said. Her voice was flat, devoid of regret or hesitation.
Henry's eyes began to glaze over, the exhaustion of a severed soul finally pulling him under. "Gonna take a nap..."
Morgana's composure wavered for a fraction of a second. She pulled him closer to her chest, her voice trembling with a rare, raw vulnerability. "Sleep, then. But please... Henry, don't leave me. Not like this."
Henry offered a faint, ghost of a smile, and then the world went dark.
Three Days Later, 33rd of Verdant, Year 4339
Henry's eyes snapped open. For a moment, he didn't know where—or who—he was. The ceiling was a sterile, vaulted white, etched with defensive runes that pulsed with a soft, rhythmic blue light.
He groaned, the sound grating in his throat like sandpaper. His entire torso was a cage of high-tensile medical bandages, smelling of antiseptic and healing salves. Instinctively, he reached inward. He searched for the familiar thrum of his Path, the Ascender's core that had been his constant companion since he was a boy.
Nothing.
The internal landscape of his soul was a silent, empty hall. There was no Ichor, no starlight, no weight. The implications hit him like a physical blow—he was hollowed out. A "Null."
Gritting his teeth against the white-hot flare of pain in his ribs, Henry forced himself out of the bed. His legs felt like lead, but he managed to stumble toward a full-length mirror near the window. He looked like a ghost. His face was pale, his eyes sunken, and his black hair was a tangled mess. With trembling hands, he pulled a stray ribbon from the bedside table and loosely tied his hair back, trying to reclaim some shred of the man he used to be.
The door hissed open. A young nurse stepped in carrying a tray of vials. She caught sight of the "corpse" from Room 01 standing at the mirror and let out a strangled gasp, the tray clattering to the floor as she bolted back into the hallway to scream for the doctors.
A minute later, the heavy thud of purposeful footsteps echoed in the hall. A woman stepped into the room. She looked to be in her late fifties, wearing a sharp white laboratory coat over tactical fatigues. Her hair was a striking, fiery red, shot through with thick streaks of iron-grey.
"You're upright," she noted, her voice carrying a professional, no-nonsense weight. "I suppose 'staying in bed' wasn't in the mission briefing."
Henry leaned against the sink, offering a weary, lopsided smile. "I'm feeling alright. Mostly."
"I'm Doctor Katherine Miller," the woman said, stepping forward to check the readout on his vitals monitor. "My husband and I spent the last seventy-two hours working ourselves into an early grave to keep you from joining the ancestors. You were quite literally held together by spite and Morgana's sheer refusal to let you die."
Henry blinked, a memory flickering. "Thank you for that. I feel like I've seen you somewhere before. The eyes, maybe?"
Katherine offered a small, knowing smirk. "You probably know my daughter, Wanda. She inherited my hair and eyes and her father's temper."
"Yeah," Henry muttered, the image of the Wanda coming to mind. "You definitely look alike."
"I'll come back later to check on you," Katherine said, and headed outside the room.
Henry was alone in the room now. Searching for his clothes, he found them neatly ironed and laid out on the table. He shed the flimsy hospital gown and pulled on his usual black outfit, feeling more like himself with every layer.
He looked down at his open palms. Suddenly, a small, golden-white flame flickered into existence, hovering just above his skin. He watched it for a long moment; the fire felt like home. It wasn't just a power; it was a reflection of his very soul.
When he closed his fist, the flames vanished.
Suddenly, the air in the room shifted. A heavy presence settled over the space, and it felt as though time itself had ground to a halt. Nothing moved—not even the dust motes in the light.
A man, or something that wore the shape of one, sat perched on the edge of the couch. He was a cadaverous figure clad in a perfectly tailored charcoal overcoat. His skin, the color of cured parchment, clung tightly to the sharp ridges of his skull. Within his hollow sockets, two orbs of icy, ethereal light flickered like dying stars. Long, skeletal fingers—adorned with heavy silver rings—rested atop the silver orb of his cane, unnervingly still.
The figure looked toward Henry. "Almost had you for a moment there," he rasped.
"It's been a long time since I last saw you," Henry replied, his voice steady.
"Twice now you have escaped my grasp," the man said, his gaze piercing. "But I will reap you someday. That, I assure you."
Henry offered a faint, defiant smile. "I've told you before, haven't I? You have no power over me. I will never be bound by anyone's plan ever again."
The man let out a sinister laugh that seemed to rattle the windowpanes. "It was stupid of you to cling to your mortality for so long. Did you enjoy the sensation of being human? I regret not reaping you right then; it would have been so easy."
His expression darkened. "Destiny is trying to lay its claim on you again. Become yourself once more, and quickly, before things get out of hand."
"It's only a matter of time," Henry said.
The man rose slowly and moved toward the door. "It was good seeing you again, Morningstar."
As soon as he stepped through the threshold and vanished, the world rushed back to life. The silence broke, and everything returned to normal.