The descent from the Volcano of Creation was a journey of violent contrasts. Behind them, the crater glowed with the furious, golden heat of the newborn universe. Ahead of them lay the Glacier of Silence, a landscape so cold that the air itself seemed to shatter like glass with every breath.
The ground was made of blue ice, deep and ancient, hiding the frozen corpses of stars that had died eons ago. The sky was a pale, sickly white, stripped of all color by the Entropy-Frost—invisible entities that fed on warmth.
Aryan walked in front, his boots crunching on the permafrost. In his arms, wrapped in the thick wool blanket Mira had "thought" into existence, was the Sphere of Dawn.
It was the size of a basketball, but it weighed as much as a mountain. It wasn't just heavy; it was dense. It pulsed with a rhythmic, golden light that pierced through the wool, casting long, dancing shadows on the ice.
"It's... getting... heavier," Aryan gritted out, his teeth chattering not from cold, but from the sheer effort of keeping his knees locked.
His mahogany arm was smoking. The Creation Ink inside the wood was reacting to the raw potential of the Sphere, creating a feedback loop of energy that felt like holding a live wire. His human hand was blistered and red.
"Let me take it, Aryan," Rhea pleaded, walking beside him. Her breath formed clouds of ice crystals. "You've been carrying it for miles."
"No," Aryan gasped. "It reacts to emotion. You... you're too worried, Rhea. If you hold it, your fear might seep into the crust. We can't have a world built on panic."
"I say," Barnaby whispered from his bowl, which was being carried by the First Son. "If I may interject... the water in my bowl is beginning to bubble. I am rapidly becoming a sous-vide experiment. A poached muse is of no use to anyone."
The First Son, the Siege-Engine, rumbled a low note of concern. He reached out his massive wooden hands to take the Sphere.
"Brother, be careful," Aryan warned, passing the glowing bundle to the Giant.
The First Son cradled the Sphere. For a moment, the relief on Aryan's face was palpable. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, clutching his burning arm.
But the relief was short-lived.
CRACKLE.
Smoke began to pour from the First Son's chest. The intense heat of the Sphere was igniting the Ironwood. The Giant didn't drop it—he was too loyal—but his amber eyes flickered with silent agony. A small flame licked up his shoulder.
"He's burning!" Sarah screamed. "He's kindling! Wood can't hold the sun!"
"Give it back!" Aryan shouted, scrambling up.
"No!" Mira's voice cut through the wind. "I'll take it."
The Melting of the Anchor
Mira stepped forward. She looked different in the glacial light. The cold had turned her skin pale, making the Heart of Flesh in her chest glow even brighter—a ruby beacon against the ice.
"Mira, you can't," Aryan said, stumbling toward her. "The heat... it's not just temperature. It's Creation Energy. It burns away anything that isn't real. You... you're still anchoring yourself."
"I am real," Mira said, her voice steady, though her hands trembled. "I bled in the dark. I ate the onions. Give it to me."
The First Son, his chest now smoldering dangerously, looked at Mira. He trusted her. Gently, he passed the glowing bundle into her arms.
The effect was immediate.
The First Son slumped into the snow, Sarah rushing to pack ice onto his burns.
Mira gasped. Her knees buckled, but she didn't fall. The heat of the Sphere slammed into her chest, directly colliding with the Heart of Flesh.
Steam rose from her skin. But it wasn't water steam. It was Shadow Steam.
"It's melting her!" Barnaby shrieked. "Not her body! Her existence! It's burning the 'Concept' of her!"
Aryan watched in horror as the edges of Mira's face began to blur. Her solid, human form was flickering, turning back into the translucent, violet-eyed shadow she had been for fifty years.
"Mira! Drop it!" Aryan roared, lunging for her.
"No!" Mira shouted back. Her voice sounded like it was coming from a deep well. "If we drop it... the world breaks. We came... too far... to make a broken omelet."
She forced herself to walk. One step. Two steps. The ice beneath her feet hissed and melted, leaving wet footprints.
"Talk to me, Aryan," Mira whispered, her eyes losing focus. "Keep me here. Remind me... remind me why I chose the weight."
Aryan walked beside her, his heart breaking with every step. He didn't touch the Sphere, but he kept his hand hovering near her elbow, ready to catch her.
"You chose the weight because you hated the float," Aryan said, his voice thick with emotion. "You told me that being a shadow was like watching a movie you couldn't step into. You wanted to feel the rain."
"The rain..." Mira murmured. Her left hand was turning transparent. "It was cold. I liked it."
"And the kebab," Aryan continued, desperation rising. "Spicy. It hurt your tongue. You loved that pain."
"Pain is... loud," Mira whispered. "This sphere... is loud too."
She stumbled. The Sphere slipped.
Aryan didn't grab the Sphere. He grabbed Her.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. He ignored the heat radiating from the bundle. He pressed his forehead against her temple.
"You are not a shadow," Aryan whispered fiercely into her ear. "You are the woman who crossed the Bridge of Romance and rolled her eyes at the dialogue. You are the woman who saved the clay boy in the trash. You are Mira. Stay."
The contact—skin on skin—acted as a circuit. Aryan's "Sleepless" energy poured into her, reinforcing the Heart of Flesh. The transparency faded. Her hand turned solid again.
Mira took a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm here. I'm still here."
The Shadow on the Ice
They trudged on for hours. The Glacier of Silence seemed endless, a flat white hell that stretched into eternity. The only sound was the wind and the hiss of the Sphere melting the snow.
"We need shelter," Rhea said, her voice weak. "The Entropy-Frost... I can feel them watching."
She pointed to the horizon. The white sky was darkening, but not with night. It was darkening with Absence. Shapes were moving in the distance—tall, spindly silhouettes made of pure cold. They didn't walk; they glided, freezing the air as they moved.
The Ice-Stalkers.
"They smell the heat," Sarah whispered. "They want to extinguish the new world before it even wakes up."
"There," Aryan pointed.
Ahead of them was a massive ribcage jutting out of the ice. It belonged to some ancient, dead cosmic leviathan. The ribs formed a natural cave, protected from the wind.
"Get inside," Aryan commanded. "We can rest for an hour. The Sphere needs to cool down, and so do we."
They scrambled into the bone-cave. It was cramped, but dry. Mira gently set the Sphere down on a flat rock. It was still glowing, but the color had shifted from blinding white-gold to a softer, harvest orange. It was cooling.
Barnaby let out a long sigh of relief. "My water is back to a tolerable temperature. I was five minutes away from becoming a bisque."
The First Son sat at the entrance of the cave, his charred chest facing outward, acting as a door. He was silent, healing his burns in the dim light.
Mira sat against the bone wall, shivering uncontrollably. Aryan sat beside her, pulling the remaining shreds of the blanket around them both.
"You're freezing," Aryan said, rubbing her arms.
"It's strange," Mira chattered, her teeth clicking. "I was burning a minute ago. Now I'm freezing. Is this what being human is? Just... temperature management?"
Aryan smiled weakly. "Pretty much. That, and taxes."
Mira looked at the Sphere. "It's beautiful, Aryan. I saw... I saw things inside it when I was carrying it. I saw forests made of crystal. I saw cities floating on water. I saw a version of us... old. Sitting on a porch."
Aryan looked at the glowing world. "A new draft. A chance to get it right."
"But the Frost is coming," Mira whispered. "They want to freeze it. If they freeze it... does the world die?"
"No," Aryan said darkly. "It doesn't die. It just never happens. It becomes a Stillborn Timeline. A world locked in ice, perfectly preserved but never lived."
He looked at the entrance. The First Son shifted uneasily. The shadows outside were getting closer. The silence was getting louder.
"I won't let them freeze us," Aryan said. He looked at his mahogany arm. The Creation Ink was settled now, dark and heavy. "I surrendered Peace, remember? I have plenty of fire left."
The Siege of the Cold
Suddenly, the First Son roared.
A spear made of Black Ice slammed into his shoulder, shattering against the Ironwood.
"They're here!" Sarah yelled.
From the darkness of the glacier, the Entropy-Frost emerged. They were terrifyingly beautiful beings—tall, faceless knights made of translucent ice, wielding weapons that radiated absolute zero.
"EXTINGUISH," the lead knight whispered. The word alone caused the temperature in the cave to drop ten degrees. The Sphere of Dawn dimmed, its light shrinking in fear.
"They're draining the heat!" Rhea cried. "The world is dying!"
Aryan stood up. He walked to the entrance of the bone-cave. He stepped past the First Son, out into the biting wind.
He didn't draw a sword. He didn't raise a shield.
He unbuttoned his collar, exposing the star-shaped scar on his chest. He tapped into the "Sleepless" curse—the infinite energy of a man who cannot rest.
"You want heat?" Aryan challenged the frozen knights.
He slammed his mahogany hand onto the ice.
"Inferno of the Draft!"
He didn't use fire. He used Passion. He projected the raw, chaotic energy of a writer in the middle of a climax. The ice around him turned to steam instantly. The glacier shook.
The lead knight took a step back, its ice-armor dripping.
"Come and get it," Aryan growled, his eyes burning with amber fire. "I'm warming up."