By the time he exits the final mirror and steps back into the Material Plane, Aster’s brain feels like warm oatmeal. But his body? His body feels incredible—loose, rested, like he’s just emerged from an expensive week at a recovery spa. Whatever Galamad has done to sync his consciousness between realms deserves a Nobel Prize.

  But his brief euphoria vanishes as soon as he remembers who he left behind.

  Anathi.

  Still infected. Still confused. Still a ticking Wyrm time bomb curled up on his couch.

  Panic flutters in his stomach as he bounds down the attic stairs.

  What he finds in the living room is… carnage.

  Snack wrappers and empty soda cans litter every available surface. The television blares a cartoon where a man argues with an anthropomorphic toaster. And in the middle of it all: Anathi, sprawled out like a queen on her sugar-crusted throne, dead asleep.

  Aster sighs and runs a hand down his face. “Right. She’s ten and traumatized. This tracks.”

  Still, something about seeing her like that—safe, peaceful, arms tangled in a blanket she’s halfway kicked off the couch—tugs at him. She looks young. Too young for the hell she’s carrying.

  He moves quietly, beginning the clean-up operation. Crumpled chip bags, soda bottles, a spoon dipped in raw peanut butter for some reason. The kind of chaos that only someone left alone with nothing but old cartoons and a fridge full of unchecked freedom could create.

  “You’re gonna give yourself a stomach ulcer before puberty,” he mutters.

  A soft groan stops him mid-wipe.

  Anathi stirs. Her brow twitches. Her eyes flutter open.

  For a moment, she stares at him like a feral cat caught in a trap.

  Aster raises both hands like he’s about to be arrested. “Relax. Just cleaning up your snack apocalypse.”

  She blinks. Glances at the mess. Doesn’t say anything.

  “You sleep okay?” he asks, tossing a handful of wrappers into the trash bag.

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  A pause. Then: “…Yeah.”

  “Good. ’Cause I’m making breakfast. Real food. Not just sugar and sodium wrapped in childhood dreams.”

  She doesn’t respond, but her nose twitches. She’s smelled the bacon.

  By the time he plates everything—flapjacks stacked like golden bricks, eggs cooked to runny perfection, bacon still sizzling—she’s sitting up on the couch again, hood over her head, eyes unreadable.

  He places her plate on the table.

  She stares at it. Then at him. “…Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you being nice to me?”

  Aster leans against the counter, arms crossed. He doesn’t look away. “Because you’re here. Because you didn’t ask to be. Because everyone else has been treating you like a curse, and I figured someone should treat you like a person.”

  Anathi looks away. Tugging at her sleeves. But she stands up, takes the plate, and goes back to the couch.

  Sometimes, the hardest thing to give someone is space.

  He cleans a few more things in silence. Sits beside her once he grabs his own plate. Cartoons drone on. They don’t talk.

  Then, quietly:

  “…Thanks.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  Just smiles into his eggs.

  They sit there for an hour, not speaking, not needing to, watching a man wrestle a demonically possessed sandwich press.

  Eventually, when she nods off again, Aster retreats to the attic and cracks open one of Lena’s monstrous tomes.

  Because Wyrm or no Wyrm, trauma or no trauma—he has work to do.

  Aster is jolted from his study trance by a sharp knock at the door. He blinks at the clock.

  Five hours.

  He’s been hunched over Lena’s alchemy books for five straight hours and somehow hasn’t noticed. The diagrams, formulas, and layering theories have him spiraling into academic madness. Even the way herbs are classified feels like it’s been designed by a vengeful deity with a grudge against clarity.

  Which means, mercifully, the knock has to be Lena.

  He quickly phases out of his Astral Form and rushes downstairs, throwing open the door with a sheepish grin.

  Lena stands with her arms crossed and an expression like she already regrets showing up. “Aster. I called you. Four times.”

  He winces. “Right. Sorry. Forgot the phone again.”

  She sighs but doesn’t bother arguing. Instead, she steps inside, her gaze immediately landing on Anathi on the couch, half-curled beneath her hoodie like a hedgehog trying not to be noticed.

  “Anathi,” Aster says gently, motioning to Lena. “This is the friend I mentioned. She’s here to explain everything.”

  The girl doesn’t move. Her eyes flick between them with that same quiet tension, like a cornered animal waiting for the net to drop.

  Aster takes the hint. “I’ll make coffee.”

  He backs away and heads into the kitchen. Lena slides into the seat across from Anathi, and before he’s even out of sight, he hears her voice—soft, calm, professional.

  The conversation starts tense. Anathi’s responses are short, clipped. But Lena doesn’t push. She just explains. Explains the Void Wyrm. Explains the Astral Plane. Explains why Aster has taken her in.

  Aster doesn’t interrupt. He just pours hot water over the coffee grounds and listens—every word driving another invisible nail through his ribs.

  By the time he places Lena’s cup on the table and quietly vanishes upstairs, he doesn’t need to ask how Anathi is taking it.

  He already knows.