Chapter 91
The River Beneath the Veil
The world was not asleep, not truly. Beneath the hushed breath of the galaxy, there stirred an old rhythm. A song not sung, but felt—a vibration through time, memory, and stardust.
Errin lay at the edge of his dream, between the strands of divine and mortal, his flesh still marked by the trial of the Fifth Root. His wounds no longer bled—they shimmered, soft rivers of celestial ink flowing under his skin. His breath was shallow, but steady, and in the hollowness of slumber, his soul wandered the Veil.
There, he walked barefoot on an endless river that shimmered with starlight and sorrow. Beneath the surface, memories danced—some his, some not. His reflection was not alone. With him walked the unborn god-son, not as an infant, but as a flickering light, shifting between forms. Sometimes a child, other times a star, and at moments—a mirror of Errin himself.
"You have returned," said a voice, warm and ancient, echoing across the liquid surface.
Errin turned. Beside the river, veiled in a shawl of moonlight, sat the Mother. Not his mother, but the One-Who-Sings—the eternal matron whose lullabies once softened the thrones of gods. Her face was soft and shifting, an amalgam of all mothers and none. Her eyes were made of galaxies, but her gaze was intimate.
"I have not left," Errin answered, his voice echoing in the dreamscape.
"The river flows again," she whispered, dipping her fingers into the starlit waters. Ripples burst forth—not in waves, but in visions: forests blooming from stone, planets healing, time bending toward gentleness.
"Because he stirs," Errin said. "The god-son."
The flickering child-form beside him smiled, then frowned. "But I am afraid."
"Of what?" Errin asked, kneeling. His voice trembled.
"Of becoming," the child answered.
The Mother hummed, and her song spilled into the river. The stars overhead dimmed in reverence. "Even gods must learn the path of becoming. You were once a mortal man, Errin. Now you shape destinies. Why would your son be any different?"
"Because I see what awaits him," Errin said. "A future of blood, burdens, and betrayal."
"That is the world," the Mother said. "But he will not face it alone. You are crafting more than a god. You are crafting legacy."
Errin dipped his hands into the river. It was not cold. It pulsed like a heartbeat. Images came to him unbidden: the terminators scouring the galaxies, the flickers of his alternate selves falling to hidden blades. The stolen essence of the sealed bloodlines returning to those it had once been denied. The resurrection of lineage long thought erased.
He saw Nayel, far away, still battling the defiant second star—struggling not to name it, not to own it, but to understand it. He saw Echo, her heart woven into the unborn's stirring soul, whispering lullabies of her own. He saw the heavens tremble.
"They are all moving," Errin whispered. "The stars. The enemies. The clans. Even time itself feels uncertain."
"Then let your son be the anchor," the Mother said. "But to anchor a storm, he must be more than power. He must be love. He must be choice. That is what you must give him."
The river surged beneath his feet. Errin felt it rising, not to drown—but to lift. He was no longer in the dream. He was the dream, and in the waking world, his body began to glow. The wounds from the Fifth Root restructured into divine runes. His spine, once cracked by celestial impact, straightened into golden rods of light. His voice, though silent, called to the stars.
The unborn god stirred in his divine vessel.
From across the void, Echo heard his heartbeat and whispered, "I am here."
A wave of warmth rippled through her, and from the sky above her temple-chamber, stars wept—falling like silver rain. She cradled her belly, now visibly marked by glowing symbols, old as creation, yet speaking a new language.
"Sing to him," said the Mother's voice in her dream.
Echo obeyed.
She sang of silence and thunder, of roots that broke through mountains and wind that carried forgotten names. Her voice wrapped around the vessel like silk, coaxing the divine spark within into a calm awakening.
Far away, Errin woke, eyes glowing, breath slow, but purposeful.
And in the sky above the Valley, a single star—a red one that had not shone in ages—pulsed thrice, as if acknowledging life. Not just life—but destiny.