The ground beneath Gix's feet split with a sharp, sinister sound, like a broken bone. Luminescent cracks radiated out, tracing uncertain paths across the ground that had been stable just a second before. Gravity had gone haywire, trying to pull him toward the sky of embers.

Tharneth was dying around him. It was falling apart under the deadly blows of the Broken Song. The flashes of the past—the laughter of young weavers, the haunting melody of memory crystals—were no longer mere visions, but blades piercing the soul. This past was being consumed by the screams of the present, leading to a future where all life was already nothing but ashes and eternal nothingness.

Panic was no longer a feeling, but an antagonistic force. A wave of palpable terror that crushed everything in its path. The cries around them were nothing but pure pain, lamentations torn apart by temporal distortions. Weavers faded away, their sparks extinguished like shooting stars swept away by the unpredictable waves of the Broken Song. Bodies dissolved and then briefly reformed, caught in an endless loop of suffering. Tides of bodies jostling, stumbling into cracks, driven by a survival instinct that had become utterly futile. The cries were raw, heart-wrenching sounds. High-pitched screams that ended abruptly, cut short by a collapse or a sudden fall into nothingness. Heartbreaking cries for help. “Mommy!” or “Help!” lost in the deafening roar of the dying planet.

But amid this despair, glimmers of stubborn courage burst forth, even more present than fear. Figures stood tall, paradoxical and heroic in their acceptance of their fate. A Zadie attempted to lead the survivors to a place that might no longer exist. Knowing full well that there was no refuge, he nevertheless resolved to do his duty until the very end. A group of weavers, their faces pale and contorted with pain, but determined, had formed a chain to pull survivors from a building. Their hands clasped together as the ground swayed beneath them formed a chain of support that was useful in this final moment. They looked at each other, and in their eyes there was no longer any hope of salvation, but a fierce determination not to go alone. Offering a hand for the final fall, a soothing glance to face the inevitable. Their courage mirrored that of Milea, magnificent and painfully futile. A silent challenge to the apocalypse itself.

Gix's short breath was a solitary complaint amid the chaos. The temporal charge, encased in filaments of light, vibrated against his chest. It was a hot, unstable mass that threatened to escape him at any moment. His muscles cried out for help. But the thought of what he carried—that fragment of hope, that sliver of possibility for the future—kept him moving. Sweat ran into his eyes, blurring his already fragmented and impaired vision. He was a helpless witness to this collective agony. Every fall and every cry was a stab in his heart. He could only move forward, carrying the Charge through this theater of the end. His own sacrifice was a tiny flame of hope in the growing darkness.

Every step Gix took was agony. Every breath was a burning sensation that reached deep inside him. Thanerth was nothing but noise, murderous light, pain, and treacherous gravity. All that remained within him was a mantra, an obsession: Reach the Heart. Deliver the Charge.

He had traveled a long distance with this mission. Twenty-five days of walking, without rest, to accomplish a task that would determine the survival of the web-house, their home. Then, suddenly, around a bend in a crater-strewn mountainside, he saw it.

The Sanctuary of Sharing.

A wave of warmth enveloped him. Hope. A feeling of overwhelming joy rose up inside him, so strong that it made his legs wobble. He had succeeded. He had made it. Tears, mixed with dust and sweat, streamed down his cheeks. They were not tears of pain, but of immense relief. For a moment, his fear left him. He felt light, almost at peace. Here, at the edge of the Sanctuary, he believed that everything would be all right.

This illusion lasted for three heartbeats. He stepped forward courageously. He had needed courage to get this far. He lunged toward the barrier, one hand outstretched toward this unspoiled paradise he wanted to conquer. His palm met the warm, vibrating resistance of the barrier. A shock. A gentle, relentless repulsion.

He pushed with all his weight. Nothing. The barrier did not acknowledge his existence. It was functional, and he... he was empty. His spark had burned out to carry him this far. He was now an empty being, a shell unworthy of the salvation he desired. Despair returned, cold and brutal, erasing the brief glimmer of joy. The contrast was unbearable: before him, warmth, light, preserved life. Behind him, hell. And he was being called to disappear. With a groan that came from the depths of his being, he used his last strength to slide the Charge. The object, smooth and heavy with promise, crossed the barrier effortlessly, as if drawn by the purity of the place, and came to rest on the immaculate ground. Gix was leaving, but he refused to give up, having come this far.

The movement caught the attention of the figure before him.

Yulet turned around. Her face was marked by terrifying intelligence and a will that seemed to transcend the wisdom of the Weavers. Her gaze met Gix's across the barrier. For a few seconds, the mad scientist disappeared. All that remained was an elder, like a mother. She was witness to the ultimate sacrifice of someone who loved their shared home as much as the rest of their people.

She approached slowly and solemnly. She did not attempt to cross the barrier. She knelt down to be at his height, on the other side of this border between life and death. She held out her hand, palm to palm with his, separated by a few centimeters of vital energy.

-Gix...

Her voice, filtered through the barrier, was soft, strangely calm, and carried the echo of all the pain in the world.

-Look at what you've accomplished. You've been through hell. You've carried our future this far. I am... immensely proud of you. Thank you.

The words were true. The sadness in her eyes was real. But already, the machine within her was taking over again

- Your name will be the first engraved in the time we are about to write. Thank you.

This thank you was the most beautiful and cruel epitaph. Gix didn't need to respond. The peace he had glimpsed when he arrived here overwhelmed him again, for good this time. No more fear. No more fighting. His mission was accomplished. He smiled faintly and stopped resisting. His body, held together by sheer willpower, disintegrated. It did not fall into dust, but into a myriad of exhausted particles of light and ashes that were immediately swallowed up by the surrounding darkness.

Yulet remained kneeling for a moment, her hand still outstretched. The emotion on her face was restrained. The pain was controlled, repressed, buried under layers of urgent necessity. She rose abruptly, picked up the Charge with cold efficiency. Her face was now a mask of absolute determination.

Her voice, now clear and sharp as crystal, issued the order that would seal the fate of billions of lives:

- The Charge is secure. This core of pure potentiality is stable. The gift they have given us is priceless. We are proceeding to the activation sequence. Now.

The light from the Heart of Sharing bathed I'vi in a peaceful, golden aura. Sitting cross-legged in the center of the Mechanical Flower, she was the calm in the midst of the storm. The air caressed her skin like a final blessing. 

Yulet arrived, his silhouette bent by the invisible burden of command. Her eyes, usually piercing, were two burning embers in a face ravaged by time, calculation, and carefully contained pain. In his arms, the Temporal Charge pulsed with a harsh, bright light, an energy that smelled of sacrifice.

I'vi's gaze fell on the object, then immediately searched behind Yulet. She scanned the vibrant edge of the barrier, where the pure light of the Heart collided with the chaotic mists of the Broken Song. Nothing. He wasn't there. The emptiness in Yulet's eyes, the tension in her shoulders, gave him the answer. She understood that Gix had not been able to enter. Their eyes met, and Yulet said nothing. Her silence was a silent cry, a eulogy more eloquent than any speech, the only honor she could still bestow upon the young Weaver.