The silence that followed the death of the Source network was more deafening than the explosion of the Mothership. It was a vacuum of existence, a sudden, jarring cessation of the cosmic hum that had vibrated in the marrow of every living thing for eons. On the bridge of the shattered vessel, Leo stood amidst the cooling obsidian embers, his arms wrapped around the trembling, fragile form of his mother. The white-hot radiance of his True Primal Form had dimmed into a steady, rhythmic pulse of gold, but the air around him still distorted, unable to fully reconcile with his presence. He looked down at Elena. She was staring at him, not with the relief of a mother rescued, but with the wide-eyed, paralyzing awe of a mortal who had just witnessed the birth of a star. Her hand, thin and translucent from her time in the siphon, reached up to touch his cheek. When her fingers brushed his skin, a spark of pure, white essence jumped between them—a microscopic spark