The time saved through Orin's insane 'Silk Road' reclaimed itself as their bodies demanded rest over the next three days. Hem ensured that healers tended to both their physical wounds and mental exhaustion while they slept like 'Sh'Karuns'.
Hem's initiative shocked Orin, though his excitement over the Arachnivis on his head quickly overrode the unfamiliar emotion, filing it away into the archives of his Whispkeep: a place from which information never returned.
Instead of dwelling on what they'd lost, Hem considered their journey back to the Halloway Station a success, having gained an extra day to work on the murder mystery.
Another assumption Orin was about to shatter.
He vanished behind a massive oak trunk, abandoning the group as they ascended the 'Elevating Brach' up to the Halloway point.
Hem instructed the twins to inform Retterford of their current situation using the station master's Drifthawk, then set out to track down Orin himself.
It took Hem an hour to find him—nearly enough time to make him question his tracking skills.
In Hem's defense, no one expected anyone to wander into such a place.
Being forbidden and creepy was one thing, but having an ancient tree mystica stare into your soul with a hundred shifting emotions? That's where Wanderers drew the line. No pun intended.
Shaped like a cavern, many believed the mighty oak had swallowed an entire cave for nourishment. Only a select few claimed the oak was simply whimsical enough to uproot a cave from deep within the earth for fun.
You guessed it right—it's always the Sylvarins.
This particular mystery, among countless others in Wanderlust, remained unsolved. The oak's nature was too entwined with various nature-attuned mystics for anyone to study definitively. While the oak itself was classified as an ancient mystica shaped like a colossal tree, the real challenge lay in pinpointing a mystica's concentrated essence—impossible when dealing with a three-mystic problem.
It was enough to make seasoned Oracles abandon this mystery.
For now, Wanderers took the oak at face value—quite literally.
The walls of the cavern were etched with countless faces. They appeared rocky at first glance, but upon touch, they revealed the smoothness of wood. Each face bore a distinct expression, always moving, always watching, tracking any intruder who dared step into their ancient chamber of roots.
People dreaded visiting the 'Million Faces of the Oak.' Only a select few Sylvarin dared step into this sacred ground, mostly to prove they weren't as scared as the rest.
They tried to act indifferent, but words delivered on shaking legs never made a compelling point.
And yet, here stood a nine-year-old child at the center, staring back at the faces with a glint of pure curiosity in his eyes. No fear in his legs. No tremble in his voice. Just a hunger to solve yet another mystic mystery.
"Valeri claims them to be mystica." Orin rotated slowly, taking in every stare, and staring back with amusement. "Tree people claim them to be a step above."
"Sylvarin?" Hem guessed aloud.
"Yeah, that!" Orin nodded.
"Valeri!?"
"Teacher of mine."
'Teacher' was a title given to those who had recently accepted and begun the path of instruction. And Hem didn't have to be a genius to guess that anyone short of the title Guru—the second-highest rank in the profession—was likely unequipped to handle this kid.
Orin ignored Hem's follow-up question about his Guru, shifting the topic back to the majestic oak.
"I've never been able to place them... I—my mind can't seem to comprehend a single piece of information they leak." He gestured to the many faces. "At least, nothing that matters." He let out a deep sigh.
"Legendary mystica have that effect on us." Hem peered into one of the faces' eyes—it frowned at him. Somehow, it held his attention more than the unknowable things it concealed behind that expression.
"Does the almighty Aurochs make sense?" he added, half-joking.
"A bit," Orin replied nonchalantly.
'A bit!?'
The phrase sat on Hem's heart like an immovable mountain. And then the kid's earlier comment resurfaced—magnifying the weight: 'At least no information that matters.'
"This kid…" Hem had no words to describe the— "EH...!" He shook the feeling off with a low, guttural sound.
"One line... one unproven hypothesis." Orin shook his head, dissatisfied. "They at least move. Unlike this one."
He kicked a root, flipping Hem's emotions from annoyed to outright alarmed, and said, "Let's go."
"Got what you came for?" Hem asked, already backing away toward the cavern's exit.
"Saw what I can…" Orin frowned. "…and said what I had to. Let's see if 'he' understood—up top."
Before Orin and Hem circled the massive trunk, taking the more scenic route to the Halloway Station, the officials of 221N were already back at the station… creating a scene.
"I said inform them… not call them in!" Hem yelled at the twins.
Before they could reply, he turned his ire on Retterford.
"And you! Shouldn't you have told me the Mystward wasn't home?"
"Last we heard, he was heading home," Retterford replied, raising his hands defensively—then confirming with his wife, who nodded in agreement.
"If he isn't on the premises, he must be nearby," Diva snapped. "The Queen has restricted him to this zone until she requires him elsewhere. Don't you know that?" She leapt to her husband's defense by throwing Hem for a loop.
Hem pivoted, now aiming his frustration at Orin. "Is it possible your father was in town and you didn't know?"
"He could be in the next room and I wouldn't," Orin said, brushing past Hem without a care.
"Whose kid is he?" Retterford asked under his breath.
"Conan's."
"Who's Conan?" Orin chimed in.
"Your DAD!" the twins yelled in unison.
"Oh…! Forgot his name for a moment," Orin said, halting mid-step. "Now that I remember… I shall try my best to forget it again."
"Why!?" the twins gasped, astonished.
"Unnecessary crap clouds one's Whispkeep," Orin said dismissively, already distracted by the massive hole on the platform.
"I 'see' the resemblance now," Diva chuckled. "Is he as good, or does he only carry the sass?"
"All we got," Hem muttered, breaking under the absurdity of it all and letting out a reluctant chuckle.
"What happened to him?" Retterford asked, gawking at this unfamiliar side of Hem. "I've never seen him like this before."
"Wasn't 'Sir Lock' always like this?" the twins asked.
"No!" Retterford looked at them as if they'd grown horns. "You've heard the rumors… everything they say about him used to be true. Calm, rational, cold—always in control. What happened to him?"
The twins gave a brief rundown of their recent adventures, and only Diva seemed to grasp why Hem was so riled up over a kid.
Among the many things that had stacked up to make the impossible possible, the cherry on top was Orin's uncanny insight into the ways of mystica.
It's a basic instinct—something innate in every living being—to reach for the unknown, especially when it promises a taste of mysticism. And in Wanderlust, the ultimate unknown was mystica and their connection to unbridled power.
Every child dreams of magic. Whether born in a world without it or raised in a place filled with the impossible, that yearning remains the same.
In Wanderlust, that dream only grew stronger, nurtured by the endless array of mystics who bent the laws of nature on a whim.
Anyone close enough to the mystica—say, a Mystward who treats them as equals—inevitably ends up one step closer to mysticism itself. And when that belief gets proven right, time and again, their credibility skyrockets, leaving little room for anyone to argue.
Even Wanderers like Hem can't help but feel something—envy, or perhaps fear—for those who stand closer to the heart of mystica. Especially when 'that someone' is a nine-year-old kid.
And when that kid wanders the outskirts of the kingdom without fear? That's the perfect cliff from which Orin gets to flaunt his higher standing.
"Kid's got the power to piss off 'ANYBODY," Diva said, cutting the deduction short for the benefit of the denser crowd.
"Makes no sense," Retterford muttered, shaking his head. "We're talking about 'Hem Lock' here. Not some regular Wanderer."
"Oooh." Diva slid closer, looping her arm through his. Her voice turned syrupy and dangerous. "Let me put it in simpler words. First, 'you' shackled his arms and legs," she gestured at the twins, "then he goes and calls in a giant pain in the ass... who tends to leave more question, rather than offer any solutions—" she pointed at Mimado, lounging nearby like an arrogant broom. "And now we've got ten Mimados packed in a tiny little package." She tilted her chin toward Orin. "Case? Hem is not going to have a good era."
"No, he ain't," the twins agreed in unison.
Retterford watched Orin and couldn't help but see a touch of 'Diva' in the boy's sharp tongue and stormy confidence. And if Orin had red hair instead of that ethereal green—a hue he couldn't recall on any other Wanderer—his next words might've landed better.
"…Did you have a child without me?" he asked, a strange kind of hurt edging into his voice.
"We've been together for two decades, dear." Diva rolled her eyes.
"So!?"
"Say I did," she said dryly, "he'd be over twenty by now."
"…Oh. Ah! Wait—you cheated on me!?"
That earned him a slap across the face.
"We can still turn this around," Retterford mumbled, trembling, trying to redirect the avalanche.
"Oh! I almost forgot," Diva said suddenly, grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him to face her. "The Queen is going to be in Ouroboros."
"…Which Queen?" he asked, still dazed.
"Ooooh… you know which Queen?" Diva dragged out each syllable like a funeral bell. "Our Queen."
Tiny ice crystals formed around Retterford's eyes. Not metaphorically—literally. The weight of the news triggered his aura, freezing his tears in place.
"What did I ever do to deserve this?" he whispered.
"You left me for another," Diva replied coldly.
"When!?"
"In your little, unfiltered accusation." She raised a brow. "Now that I think about it… Maybe that's why you sabotaged my plan and tanked your career. Isn't it?"
Retterford wanted to scream into Diva's face: "That makes no sense!" But after years of wrangling the wild winds of the Diva race—and thanks to his folk's natural laid-back nature—he swallowed the urge. Instead, he asked the right question: "What can I do to prove my allegiance?"
"Solve this mess," Diva ordered, planting a burning kiss on his forehead. It shimmered on contact, melting away his frozen tears.
With that flame still smoldering between his eyebrows, Retterford forced himself toward Orin, who was busy inspecting the massive hole in the platform like it was a project he'd started this morning.
"Listen to me, kid," Retterford said. "From now on, you have all the power I do." He pulled off his badge and tossed it toward Orin. "Do whatever it takes to solve this case. All of our lives might depend on it."
Orin caught the badge. Squinted at it. Then casually tossed it down the hole.
Retterford dove after it without thinking.
The twins followed with matching yells of "Chief!!"
"Rache!" D'Las chanted the word second nature after years of yanking reckless children off platform edges.
A vine snapped from the platform, wrapping around Jorek's foot, who grabbed his brother's ankle, who caught both of Retterford's legs just before they all tumbled down. The others jumped in, dragging the trio back onto the platform.
The near-death stunt turned everyone's complexion into the same shade of near-death as their chief.
"That was close," Diva gasped, color returning with her rage. "WHAT! WAS! THAT!" Her eyes flared at Orin.
"I wanted something to measure the depth," Orin said flatly. "And that super pale guy tossed me a shiny rock at the right moment." He shrugged. "I had no idea he liked his rocks that much." He cocked a brow. "Anywho, mind becoming a human ladder instead? If all of you link together with your Ekanzes, I might finally get an accurate measurement."
Before anyone could fully process what just happened—or dogpile the kid—Orin stood tall and raised his arms. For a second, it looked like he was giving a respectful bow. Instead, he conjured a fireball.
Everyone dove for cover.
Orin blinked at their response, a large glowing question mark practically forming over his forehead. "Are you guys really part of the Arcane Force?" he frowned. "Or adults for that matter?" he muttered, half to himself.
D'Las twitched. There was a burn deep in her gut—a strange, prickling heat eating through her insides like embers on nerves. She followed it with her senses, realizing the sensation connected to the heart of the hole.
The same spot Orin had bombarded with two fireballs larger than her.
"That's it! You're done!" D'Las and Diva yelled in unison.
"You can't hurt a mystica-linked kid!" Hem snapped, stepping between the two furious women and Orin. "Did Conan—your father—never teach you that? Or do you want a life in prison?"
"Calm down..." Orin replied, clearing his ear with his pinky. Unfazed. "...it takes a lot more than that to make him notice, let alone care." He rolled his eyes. "Seriously, you kids might want to re-enroll in a mystic institution—a proper one, this time."
D'Las stepped forward, voice calm but eyes like blades. "What do you mean 'he'?" she asked, latching onto the one word that unsettled her most. "Who is he?"
"This guy." Orin stomped his foot, gesturing to the giant oak that was the entire Halloway station. "You can close this up now. Sorry for the delay."
On command, in an instant, the massive hole sealed shut. The platform knit itself whole again, no cracks, no marks, no memory of what had just occurred.
"That was fast," Orin muttered, noting the time on an invisible mental clock. He gave a small, genuine bow. "Thanks for waiting," he said to the oak.
Diva tried to explode forward, but Retterford caught her by the waist and held firm.
"Who gave you the right to close the hole?" she demanded, rage spitting from her lips like sparks off steel.
"Him." Orin pointed at Retterford without hesitation.
'Selective hearing,' Retterford groaned inwardly, squeezing his eyes shut to avoid looking directly into Diva's seething aura. 'Kid is definitely from a Diva…'
"That was the 'only' evidence we had," Hem added grimly. "You just destroyed the scene. Do you have 'any' idea what that means?"
"No more words." D'Las stepped forward, fist raised, her voice filled with finality. "You've broken the sacred treaty. And you will pay."
She spread her arms wide, chanting under her breath. "Lend me your strength."
Lights shimmered into existence—glowing faerie sparks gathering around her, spinning faster until they formed a dense, humming sphere of raw energy. It pulsed with the kind of power only the 'Fey-touched' could wield.
"You get no last words," she said. And she meant it.
"Wait!" Diva shouted.
She ducked low, twisted her body, and flipped Retterford off his feet to break his grip. He hit the ground with a surprised grunt.
"D'Las—that's too extreme!"
"Am I outside my jurisdiction?" D'Las asked, voice sharp with authority. "This punishment is within the law. Unless you're claiming otherwise?"
Her words made Diva falter.
That's when the voice cut through, cold as iron.
"There's no point," said Mimado.
He stepped into view, smug as a vulture circling carrion, blocking the path of any would-be heroes.
"If she doesn't do it," he said, "I will. I'll make sure he rots in prison—alongside anyone who intervenes."
His gaze locked on Hem.
"After all... I do carry the queen's authority," he said with a smirk. "And this time… we've got witnesses."
While the twins trembled and Hem struggled to stitch together an argument that might hold weight, Garry dropped to his knees and crawled toward Orin. His forehead almost kissed the stone floor.
"Please! Let the kid go, D'Las!" he begged. "Prison is better than death."
Desperation overtook him, and he tried to pull Orin down with him, to beg on the boy's behalf. But Orin stepped aside, hands still tucked in his pockets. Unshaken. Unmoved.
"The Arachnivis…" Garry's eyes shot up, fixating on the mystica nestled on Orin's head. "Isn't hurting another mystica a crime?"
"Good point," Orin said, smiling. "So, if she kills me…" He tilted his head toward D'Las, then pointed up at the Arachnivis. "… Does that count as murder? Or does your law have a double standard?" he asked Mimado.
Mimado blinked, mouth opening uselessly. "I… I…"
"Collateral damage," D'Las said coldly.
Orin's smile faded. Something shifted. "Is that so?" he replied, voice calm but suddenly void of warmth.
He stepped forward.
Garry scrambled to stop him, but his hands missed the boy's ankle. He hit the ground face-first with a grunt as Orin passed, moving toward D'Las like a storm in slow motion.
Hem snapped out of his fog, lunging to shield the boy—but the twins, panicked, reflexively locked him in place with their Ekanzes, unable to tell enemy from emergency.
Retterford made to move—only for Diva to stop him with a sharp "No."
They all knew the law.
The last world council had made it clear: no one harmed a nature-bound mystica in front of a Sylvarin. If they did, the punishment is left for the Sylvarin present. No questions asked.
Even an Aurochs had once bowed to an Ancient Oak. That act alone cemented the Sylvarin's divine standing in the world's eyes.
But now... a child's life hung in the balance.
Yet they all knew: the pollen spear didn't just kill. It suffocated. First, it made the lungs reject themselves. Then it drowned its victims in airless silence.
The twins couldn't lose Hem. Diva couldn't lose Retterford.
And yet… Orin? Orin had survived bigger threats.
Those fireballs—the ones that came effortlessly, untrained, impossibly precise—they might be his only shot.
Diva closed her eyes. 'Use it, kid…' she prayed.
Before her prayer commenced, D'Las acted.
She unleashed the pollen orbs—a dozen glowing orbs—pale gold, laced with green—spiraled toward Orin like divine judgment.
"Mine is the only truth that matters!" she roared. "The only justice that prevails!"
Orin didn't flinch; he flicked them away with little effort, barely even moving his wrist or putting his weight behind the squat.
Each orb exploded midair, evaporating in bursts of harmless powder as if dismissed by the air itself.
Orin's smile returned—wider, and far colder.
He kept walking... Step by step. Until a towering D'Las blocked his path.
He looked up at D'Las. His eyes filled with pride... his gaze forcing her eyes to scramble.
His aura loomed over her.
"Devotion to one doesn't exempt you from treason to another," he said, voice quiet but cutting straight through her madness.
D'Las froze—everyone did.
"Begone," Orin ordered.
The nature-bound mystica surrounding D'Las obeyed without hesitation. Leaves rustled, vines recoiled, and moss withdrew into the crevices of the stone. Only the strands woven into her hair remained, quivering.
"Wha…t—how… is this happening?" D'Las whispered, her strength unspooling like roots torn from soil.
"Guess I understand your god better than you do." Orin turned away, his smile vanishing. "And it brings me no pleasure." He gestured lazily behind him. "You can go back to her now. Playtime's over. No time to mime around. You kids need to grow up."
"But you're the only kid here!" the twins blurted.
"Doesn't look like it." Orin paused mid-eye-roll, then squinted at them. "You two look identical. Underdeveloped. Nonetheless identical "
Orin's lack of interest towards his fellow Wanderers flipped the entire group's shock into a different lane.
"He's just noticing that?" Diva said in a pitch two octaves too high. "How self-centered is he, Hem?"
"He's a Diva…" Retterford muttered, already regretting being within earshot.
"Hem?" Orin echoed, confused.
"Very much so," Hem replied to Diva, deadpan. Then, turns to Orin, a touch more human: "My parents died before writing my full name. I didn't want to change it, so I kept it incomplete."
Orin's frown deepened. "A simple 'incomplete name' would've sufficed."
"Is he a Dreadmorne by any chance?" Diva asked Retterford, her curiosity bubbling.
"Don't know. But he's more self-centered than any Diva I've met."
"And how many's that?"
"I'm not falling for that twice in one lifetime."
"Pst." Diva clicked her tongue in disappointment.
Orin squinted at Retterford. "Are you one of those 'teeth folk' by any chance?"
"Dreadmorne," Hem clarified for the group.
"Yeah, that," Orin nodded, still focused on Retterford. "Your pronunciation's breaking my ears."
"How can I stop that?"
"Either stop talking, or remove those teeth that split your words apart."
"The second one would kill me."
"Duh. Then go with the first."
He casually pointed toward Diva. "Red-hair-boom?" She blinked, then gave a wary nod.
He pointed at Retterford. "Tooth guy."
Retterford sighed. "Sure."
"Proximity of hot and cold makes norm. Sweet." Orin nodded, satisfied, flipping a small card through the air.
It landed in Retterford's hand. A single line was scrawled on it: Call me once you make a toddler.
His eyes shot up—Orin's expression had the same glint as someone tweaking the last dial on a lab experiment.
"I think he is our kid," Retterford whispered, slightly horrified.
The twins took a reflexive step back, bracing for another explosive slap.
But Diva… smiled.
"Seems so."
D'Las had a lot to rethink about. She had a question she wished the higher-ranking member of her race could solve. A question she had once asked before turning into a Sylvarin. And now, a question that she's been forced to reconsider after accepting herself.
She threw the worries away. They were something she couldn't solve now, so why not concentrate on something she could... She approached Hem, the twins trailing behind, curiosity gleaming in their eyes.
"The hot-and-cold theory," one muttered. "It… normalized them?"
Even Mimado discreetly adjusted the lens on his Linpo mystica, calibrating it to pick up every word. Hem's offhand comment—that Red-hair-boom and Tooth Guy canceled each other out—left him wide-eyed, gears turning.
Orin's screech, furious with the lesser folk ignoring his excellence. "This is serious! Our world hangs in the balance here!"
Mimado yelped, clutching his ears, missing everything that followed.
"Again?" The twins frowned in unison. "You're the one who went off-topic."
Orin ignored every comment, glad he reclaimed the spotlight. "I've reviewed the footage." He plucked the Arachnivis from his head. "That fire wasn't normal. Not a single Ornyx flame, not even what we use to dissolve a Fervorox's stomach lining, could scare an Oak into giving more than it should."
"I thought the same," Hem nodded. "But—"
"No butts. Trust your gut. Even someone like you might find truth hiding there."
Diva barely suppressed a chuckle. "How much heat are we talking? Something over four hundred P? That's insane."
"Yes," Retterford confirmed, crossing his arms. "To do that, you'd need a full cluster of Heat Ornyxes focused at a single point—and an absurd energy spike, all in under a second."
"With that kind of burst," Hem added, "everyone at the station should've suffered second-degree burns at least."
"Slow," Orin said, cracking his neck. "But you're crawling in the right direction."
"We don't have time for games or taunts, kid," Hem reminded. "Just tell us what you saw."
"We know he knows," the twins chimed in. "He just keeps forgetting we're on a clock."
"There's nothing on the footage that shows who—or what—caused the flames," Orin admitted.
Hem, narrowing his eyes, snatched the Arachnivis from Orin's hand before he could toss in another curveball. He activated the mystica and let the weaves play out.
They shimmered into the air—half-formed glyphs, jumbled echoes of movement, heat, motion, and warping light. The group leaned in… but couldn't make sense of it.
"Faulty mystica?" one twin whispered.
"No," Orin replied. "Just a bad weaver."
"A what?"
"Bad at weaving. Bad drawer. An artist who can't thread their outlines." He listed the insults off like a grocery list.
"Okay! Okay, we get it," Diva interjected before the next roast landed.
Hem adjusted his gloves and faced Orin again. "But you understood those weaves?"
"I mean… It isn't good. But not 'that' bad."
Hem sighed, half-exasperated, half-impressed. "Alright then." He pulled out a Whisper Leaf. "Think about drawing a straight line," he said. "And stay on it this time."
Orin took the Whisper Leaf and focused.
The leaf folded at odd angles, edges curling in, almost forming a perfect sphere. When Hem repeated the instructions—"Draw a straight line"—the leaf twitched and simply folded in half, a crisp line down its center.
"You both suck at drawing," Hem declared.
Out of options—and luck—they had no choice but to accept Orin's insight.
"There is… or was, a way for fire-concentrated, higher-power flame—to move like it was alive," Orin said.
"Yeah!" Retterford chuckled nervously. "If the unit of measure had a personality." He looked around, expecting at least a pity laugh.
No one cracked a smile.
Their faces were still. Pale. Eyes locked on something far worse than a bad joke.
"Come on, guys…" Retterford forced a grin. "The 'P'? It's a myth. A relic. A bedtime horror story cooked up by the First Era's elders to scare their kids—our long, dead ancestors?"
He glanced over his shoulder, unsure if something was watching.
"You still fear to speak their name," Orin said, frowning.
"It's forbidden to even think it," the twins whispered in unison. "Even the dunces of the dunce know that much."
"And yet…" Orin raised an eyebrow. "We measure heat in their name. We use the Ornyxes they left behind." He pointed skyward toward the blazing suns overhead—those perpetual engines of energy orbiting Wanderlust.
"Phoenix," he said, with a grin.
The word struck like thunder as everyone froze, hearts surged into their throats. The air became thick, choking. Time itself seemed to recoil.
For the first time in her life, Diva went pale. The red in her hair dulled to a muted orange, like flame put to shame.
Her people worshiped the Suns—their divine warmth, their protection, their rhythm of time and tide. But not their creator. Not the harbinger of both life and death during the First Era. Not the one who had burned the stars into place, then turned away, leaving only chaos in its wake.
Not the Phoenix!
The primordial mystica.
The terror between Wanderlust and the devouring dark beyond.
Pyreborn, an ancient name lost to history, for a good cause.
Now known as the Phoenix, said to be born from infernos that never die. They are not merely mystica. Not spirits. Not gods. They are living calamities—fire given form, wrath made eternal.
Their wings blaze with relentless hunger, each beat scattering embers that birth worlds… or end them. Their bodies shift between molten brilliance and searing shadow, and in their eyes swirl twin voids where suns are born screaming.
The Ornyxes of Wanderlust?
Gifts, perhaps. Or cast-off flesh.
Forgotten offspring torn from their burning hearts and flung into the heavens to keep the dark at bay.
Yet even in creation, the Pyreborn offer no mercy.
To see a Phoenix is to witness the instant before annihilation. Air ignites. The world recoils. And all that remains is the echo of something that was never meant to return.
"That can't be true." Diva's voice cracked. "They can't be back," her voice fell into a whisper.
But her hair betrayed her—the color leeching away in streaks of grey as fear took hold. She fell to her knees, clutching her chest, breath catching in ragged gasps.
"They shouldn't be back…" She said, looking up at Orin, eyes wide. "How can you be so sure?"
Orin raised his arms, hands open toward the Suns—as if to grasp them. One for each palm. A gesture of play... or defiance? His voice was calm. Soft.
"Reality is often bent to one's vision," he said. "But if stripped to the core—cut from all bias, all expectation—whatever remains, however improbable…"
His lips parted into a huge grin.
"…becomes the one true truth."
Hope shimmered in his eyes—not naïve, but resolute. As if he'd seen the Phoenix already… and not blinked.
He looked at Diva and said in a gentle, deep voice. "Elementary, Miss Diva… Elementary."
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