The gold veins beneath Older Kael's skin pulsed like liquid sunlight, etching his flesh with the Seed's commandments. He stood at the edge of the reclaimed cathedral, now a fortress of gilded thorns and roses that hummed with obedient life. Below, Nyx rallied survivors—a ragtag mix of rebels and half-mutated hybrids—their distrust palpable even from this height.
"You're losing them," the Seed crooned in his mind. "Show them strength. Crush the dissenters."
Kael clenched his fist, thorns sprouting from the earth to cage a rebel who dared hurl a rock. The man aged to dust mid-scream. "No," Kael muttered. "Control. Not cruelty."
But control slipped daily.
Young Kael lurked in the cathedral's shadows, his clawed hand hidden beneath a tattered cloak. Nyx cornered him, dagger drawn. "Your brother butchered three scouts for questioning him. You still think he's salvageable?"
"He's trying," Young Kael said, though doubt gnawed at him. His mutated arm itched, a reminder of the Seed's lingering poison. "We need him to fix this."
"Fix it?" Nyx scoffed. "He is it."
A scream pierced the air. They sprinted to the infirmary, where Young Lira convulsed on a cot, her veins glowing violet. The scar where the Seed had burrowed split open, tendrils of cobalt and gold spiraling into a spectral figure—Lyra's ghost, but sharper, hungrier.
"Hello, Kael," it hissed, its voice a chorus of timelines. "Did you miss me?"
Older Kael descended, drawn by the chaos. The ghostly Lyra grinned, her form solidifying as she siphoned energy from the rebels' fear. "You thought binding the Seed would save them?" She gestured to Young Lira, now comatose. "She's my anchor now. A bridge between death and more."
Young Kael lunged, his claw slashing through her spectral form—but she reformed, laughing. "You're still a child. Let me show you what rage can do."
Her tendrils speared his mutated arm, flooding him with memories: Older Kael burning villages to "purify" timelines, Nyx executing dissenters, the Seed's gold veins consuming the sky.
"Stop!" Older Kael roared. The cathedral's thorns ensnared Lyra's ghost, but she dissolved into smoke, her voice lingering:
"You can't protect them from what's coming."
That night, Older Kael confronted Young Lira's still form. The Seed's shard glowed in his palm, its whispers relentless. "Purge the girl. Burn the corruption."
"She's not corrupted," he argued. "She's a victim."
"We're all victims," the Seed replied. "But you're the hand that cuts the rot."
A whimper. Young Lira's eyes fluttered open, her irises now fractured—amber, cobalt, violet. "Kael… it's everywhere. The Seed, Lyra, Gideon… they're all inside me."
He reached for her, but gold veins lashed from his hand, binding her wrists. "Do it," the Seed urged. "Save your legacy."
The door burst open. Young Kael stood frozen, his claw trembling. "What are you doing?"