“Happy—fucking—birthday, me,” Aster mutters through gritted teeth.

  Twenty-one. Legal adult. Spiritual liability. The kind of milestone he gets to celebrate alone, pacing through 7 Heart Lane like a ghost with commitment issues. Too weak to focus, too stubborn to quit. Ten days without food. Ten days of Matter’s cryptic instructions looping in his head like a bad mantra he can’t delete.

  He half-expects something—anything. A sign, a flicker in the air, a divine text message. Maybe a shooting star. Something that says, Yes, you’re alive, and yes, it means something. Instead, there’s just hunger, gnawing at the edges of thought, chewing through patience, imagination, and any optimism he still has tucked away in a corner.

  All before he gets to continue the “celebration”—back on the Astral Plane, where he’d be grinding through Will drills for a mentor who treats “off time” like a capital offense. His stomach twists at the thought, but he swallows it down and reminds himself: the universe doesn’t owe him anything, not even a Facebook message.

  He sighs, dry and humourless. Another year of not dying—what a win.

  Crossing over delivers the now-usual mundanity. No fanfare. No transcendent glow. Just gravity with an agenda, dragging him back into the Astral Plane.

  Same stupid room. No banners. No cake. Matter doesn’t even look up from his notes.

  “You’re late,” he says.

  Aster opens his mouth, but before a sound escapes, Matter cuts him off. “The ritual needs final preparations. Continue with Will training until I call for you.”

  The ritual-surgery. Aster doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel. Part of him wants to panic, another part wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all, and the rest of him just wants food. Ten days with Matter have taught him two things: the man knows what he’s doing, and Aster knows better than to assume otherwise.

  “You know, most people get cake on their birthdays,” Aster attempts, letting the words tumble out with a little sarcasm and a lot of fatigue. “Balloons, maybe. A small emotional breakdown surrounded by friends. I get divine detention.”

  Matter tilts his head, studying him like a stubborn equation. “Consistency builds strength.”

  “Yeah,” Aster mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “so does protein.” Before he drags himself to the task, muscles whining in complaint.

  The gem wobbles. Again.

  The buzzer congratulates him.

  BZZZZZT.

  Aster bites back a scream. Supposedly, this is “Will made manifest.” Realistically, it’s “rage in a tasteful container,” and the thing keeps trembling in the air like it knows it’s winning—a tiny, smug reminder that even his so-called Will hates him.

  He doesn’t notice Matter approaching until the man stops beside him, calm as a still pond.

  “The ritual’s ready,” Matter says.

  The stone slips again, smacking the side of the tubing. BZZZZZT. The obnoxious anthem of failure blares again. Aster curses under his breath. Halfway through. Halfway.

  Then it hits him. The ritual—actually ready. His stomach twists.

  “You can go get ready. Head to the tablet when you’re done. You remember what to do?” Matter asks, eyes still on the notes, voice even, but something in the tilt of his shoulders says he’s paying attention.

  Aster rolls his eyes but can’t stop a crooked grin. “Yeah. When the pain hits, stay on the guided path. Don’t freak out. Use my Will to keep it straight. You’ve reminded me, what, fifty times?”

  Matter nods once, satisfied, and starts to turn. Then pauses. Back to Aster, stiff and silent.

  Finally, low and quiet: “Your parents… they really did love you. Never forget that.”

  From the folds of his robe, he pulls a small chain. A simple pendant dangles from it, catching the muted light.

  “Happy birthday,” Matter says, voice steady but carrying a weight Aster can’t quite place—an almost imperceptible ache. “This belonged to your father. Keep it close. You may need reminders of where you come from.”

  Aster swallows, chest tightening in a way he hasn’t felt in years. He wants to joke, to make some sarcastic remark about sentimental nonsense, but the words stick. His fingers trace the familiar curves of the pendant. It’s warm. Almost pulsing, like it has its own quiet heartbeat.

  “Why…?” he starts, but Matter cuts him off with a glance. Not cold, not distant—just… knowing.

  Then he’s gone, leaving Aster standing in a silence that suddenly feels heavier than hunger, heavier than all the absence of celebration, heavier than everything he thought he’d learned about endurance.

  Aster lets out a slow breath. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little… human.

  The ritual tablet is cold against Aster’s bare back, the chill biting deep into his skin. He shivers. The carved grooves beneath him feel like jagged wires pressed against raw nerves, forming patterns too old and too intricate for him to comprehend.

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  But he feels them.

  Like a hum, low and steady, resonating under his skin.

  His heart pounds in his chest as he exhales slow and steady, trying not to lose his nerve. No turning back now.

  The room is dark, only the faintest whisper of dawn bleeding through the cracks. The air is thick, soaked in the scent of incense—the weight of unseen forces gathering like storm clouds.

  Calm before the storm, Aster thinks bitterly. Every day was either the goddamn calm or the storm.

  A soft rustle makes him look up.

  Matter steps into view. He’s cloaked now in something different, a robe that isn’t just black, but black like a starless void, shot through with faint pinpricks of light. Nebulas and constellations flicker across the fabric like ghosts.

  For the first time, Aster feels small.

  Small and mortal.

  Matter’s voice breaks the tension. “Ready?”

  Calm. Too calm. But Aster catches the tightness beneath it.

  He swallows hard and nods. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Matter’s eyes flicker over the setup one last time, fingers tracing symbols in the air like a conductor about to cue a dangerous symphony. Then, from within his robe, he draws out a small white disk, both sides etched with glowing red glyphs that pulse like tiny living flames.

  Aster’s pulse spikes. His instincts scream at him to move, to get up off this cursed stone and run.

  Matter’s voice stays steady. “When this activates, you’ll face the Wyrm. The ritual begins. You know what to do. Follow the pain, guide it along the path. Don’t let it stray. Don’t let it break you.”

  Aster’s throat is dry as sandpaper. He manages a nod. No jokes this time. No armour of sarcasm to shield him now. Just the cold reality of what waits.

  Matter’s cyan eyes catch his, sharp and cutting—but under that steel… there’s something else.

  Something sad.

  Something final.

  “Good luck,” Matter murmurs.

  And then—

  Crack.

  The world splits.

  Aster tumbles through blackness, weightless, breathless, as if every atom in his body is being torn apart and reassembled all at once.

  Pain flares in his skull—sharp, jagged, primal. Like a spike driven between his eyes.

  His body twists, warps, pulled in directions his brain can’t comprehend. His mind screams, but there’s nowhere to run.

  His eyes snap open.

  The Wyrm is there.

  A mountain of slick, chitinous armour and pulsing sinew, its body a grotesque hybrid of centipede, dragon, and nightmare. Hundreds of legs twitch and flex as its many eyes—cold, alien, multilensed orbs—lock onto him.

  Aster freezes.

  It’s like being seen for the first time. Not as a man. But as prey. As food. As… property.

  The hunger radiating from the beast is suffocating. An endless, bottomless need to consume. But it isn’t cruel. It isn’t evil.

  It simply is. A black hole in living form.

  Deep in his marrow, though, his soul recognises the injustice.

  This thing has been with him his whole life.

  It has stolen his parents, strangled every chance, poisoned every hope before it could bloom. It is the shadow on every step he’s ever taken.

  And in that instant, all ideas of running vanish, burned away by rage so pure it leaves him shaking.

  His fists clench. His teeth grind together. His chest heaves.

  This thing murdered everyone who ever cared for him.

  Not anymore.

  The space around the Wyrm twists, and suddenly Aster can see below.

  The ritual.

  Laid out beneath them like a circuit board drawn by a mad god—massive, intricate, alive. Symbols pulse, carved into the void itself. Not drawn. Grown. Dreamed. Bled. And at the centre, of course, the Wyrm. The engine. The anchor.

  Above, a light stirs.

  Faint at first. Then swelling. White to gold. Soft, then searing.

  The pain answers him. Waves of it ripple down his spine like wire tightening around his bones. His mind buckles. His soul—if that’s still a thing—screams like an animal in a cage.

  But he doesn’t break.

  It’s looking for him.

  No—it needs him.

  The point Aster needs to guide, he doesn’t think.

  Because that’s what you do when reality’s holding a gun to your head and the only thing between you and oblivion is holding a needle steady.

  He reaches for it.

  Steadies it and starts guiding it through the ritual with everything he has—which, granted, isn’t much. Just stubbornness, raw nerve, and the rapidly fading boundaries of his identity.

  Every motion feels like a nerve severing. The light scorches as it moves, pure, beautiful, and unrelentingly cruel. It’s like threading fire through his chest.

  Still, he moves it. Inch by inch. Mark by mark. Holding its path steady through the runes like dragging a blade across his own skin.

  Below, the Wyrm convulses. Its body thrashes, limbs spasming in some eldritch rhythm. Resistance coils against him, thick and clawed. But he keeps going. He doesn’t stop. Can’t.

  Time loses meaning. It always does in pain. Could’ve been hours. Could’ve been years. His body is nothing but trembling muscle and frayed nerve endings. His mind a howl stretched thin over silence.

  And then—

  Stillness.

  The light stops moving.

  The pattern is complete.

  For a moment, everything freezes. The Wyrm. The void. Even Aster. Just a long, suspended breath.

  Then nothing.

  No crescendo. No closure. Just the void again, waiting.

  Has it worked? Has he done it?

  His heart flutters like it’s asking the same question.

  And then—light.

  So bright it feels surgical. A figure materialises in front of the Wyrm, shining like divinity caught in a man’s outline.

  Aster squints against the glare.

  And feels his heart break in slow motion.

  Matter.

  No longer cloaked in shadow or mystery. Just him. Pure. Radiant. Unbearably sad

  cyan eyes find his.

  Aster, Matter’s voice echoes in his mind. I’m sorry. There was no other way. For the Wyrm to enter chrysalis and complete the ritual, it had to feed on a spirit.

  Aster’s breath catches. No.

  I promised your parents I would look after you.

  Tears sting hot, unbidden, blurring the edges of everything.

  The Wyrm stirs. Its jaws widen. Matter doesn’t flinch.

  Aster reaches out. He almost reaches him-

  Then the Wyrm moves.

  It doesn’t hesitate. It doesn’t roar. It just takes.

  Aster’s hand passes through light.

  Gone.

  Just like that.

  Swallowed. Absorbed. Consumed.

  No ceremony. No scream. No goodbye.

  Just absence.

  But Matter’s voice, his presence, lingers.

  Shake this world, Aster. For me. For Howard. For Seni.

  And then comes the collapse.

  Light. Sound. Everything.

  A detonation that isn’t heard, isn’t seen—only felt. A shattering that reaches inside and tears out the centre of who he is.

  And Aster falls.

  Not physically.

  Existentially.

  Like whatever kept him stitched to the fabric of reality has just given up.

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