Anonymous

She cries when he is awake and mourns when he sleeps, bleeds from her wounds and chokes on the remnants. The burden is part of her existence. To carry the weight of an amnesty was never easy — far from order, closer to chaos. To remain silent in mutiny, to bear the consequences of sins never her own. It is strange how the universe, in its quest to bring peace, brings strife instead; to impose structure, it must first tear another apart. Every rule is governed by one greater. Every experiment leaves behind a by-product.
Mira. That is her name.
Once, she was radiant, powerful. The envy of many. Her beauty was the kind that defied description — some whispered she was woven from silk and light, a celestial marvel spun by unseen hands. But beauty invites covetous eyes, and when he came to claim his next victim, there was no choice but her.
She had nurtured life, cradled it in her arms. She needed nothing more. But the universe is nothing if not cruel — its elegance masking a cold and callous nature. The greatest joy of a mother is to watch her children thrive, and so it was only fitting that her children were the first to be taken. He descended upon them like a shadow, turning mirth into misery, poisoning the very essence of her existence. There was no hero to rise in her defense, no savior to undo the horror. He devoured her joy, reduced her progeny to dust. And when he was done, she was nothing but a shell — a husk, smothered in silence.
Her neighbors watched her wither. They knew their time would come, that they too would be torn apart when his appetite turned elsewhere. He was relentless. And they? They were nothing more than outcasts, awaiting an inevitable fate. It was like standing at the edge of oblivion, wondering — if only there was something greater than the gods themselves.

Seventh hour of Luke.

Raiden, Mira’s satellite, had circled her for eons. He lingered still, though the end was near. Soon, she would break, and the force that tethered him to her would dissolve. He would be free. And yet, something stirred in his shadow — an unseen presence, lurking, watching.
A kraken drifted in the void, its form concealed within the black. Inside its cold hull, two figures sat in silence. Kane and Abel, clad in obsidian suits, their minds filled with knowledge unknown to most. They spoke, their words carrying the weight of something ancient.
“Kane, are you certain this is the one?”
“Seems like it.” He flipped through the records in his mind. “The description matches.”
“And what is that?”
“The one that is dying.”
A pause.
“And our purpose?”
“An implant,” Kane replied, his tone unreadable. “The order mentions a SEED.”
“A seed?” Abel’s fingers skimmed through his own records. “And what of Ruffiandal? What’s that?”
Kane’s gaze darkened. “An anomaly.”
“An anomaly?” Abel frowned. “That’s strange. I’ve never heard of it.”
“Doesn’t change the facts.”
Abel leaned back, his expression skeptical. “Most anomalies were eradicated after the last great war. If this one still exists, then wouldn’t that mean- “ He stopped himself. The insinuation was enough.
“Yes, the oldest one” Kane murmured. “The Echo. Chaos, manifest. The only one of its kind.”
Silence filled the space between them, heavy and unyielding.
Abel exhaled. Something reached his lips but never revealed.
The truth is often unsettling to utter, yet as undeniable as the sun at noon.
A visceral unease settled in their guts.
“Plant it,” Abel said at last. “I don’t want to be here any longer.”

The sky above was crimson, bleeding into a blackened landscape. The air was thick with dust, denser than fog, stagnant with the weight of ruin. Silence pressed upon the ground, untouched for untold ages. The slightest tremor could awaken something best left undisturbed. None dared to stir it. None remained to try.
The sky wept. A single droplet fell, trailing from the heavens like a whispered apology. A fleeting rain followed, brief and bitter, as if the universe itself hesitated to grant even this small mercy. It would be the last rain Mira would ever know.
The kraken drifted away, its mission complete. Within, Kane and Abel conversed in hushed tones, their voices tinged with something between awe and fear.
“I always wanted to see the Immortals,” Kane admitted. “I never thought I’d stand this close to something born of their existence.”
No response. Abel sat rigid, still shaken by the anomaly’s mention.
Kane watched him. “Don’t think about it. The more you do, the deeper you sink into its grasp.”
Abel said nothing.
“They have that power. All of them do. I don’t blame you. No one can withstand that aura — not even our kind.”
“You.” Abel’s voice was quiet. “Don’t lie. You can withstand it. I can’t.”
Kane smirked. “That sounds like a personal problem.”
Abel’s fists clenched. “Why did we have to plant the seed here, of all places?”
Kane exhaled. “That’s above our station.”
“And what of the kid?” His voice trembled.
Kane’s smirk faded. “A seed needs a host. And I wasn’t going to be one.”
Abel’s eyes burned, but also glad that it wasn’t him.
“Don’t pity him. He wanted it. You were there.”
“And yet, I do.”

Silence

Down below. Mira, the planet in the habitable zone of its star, trembled in her dying throes, cradling the seed within her fractured core. Something had been set into motion. Something irreversible.