I sat in silence for a while, watching as Cypher moved around the small captain's quarters. He pulled a piece of fabric from his pocket and covered the viewport, blocking out whatever might be watching us. Then he took out the glowing crystal he'd found earlier and set it on the desk. Immediately, the room filled with a soft blue light that cast long shadows across the walls.
My eyes followed him as he removed his captain's coat and laid it carefully over the back of a chair. One by one, he placed his weapons on the desk—his curved sword, two daggers, and a small knife that looked like it was meant for carving fruit. I didn't want to watch him. I didn't want to feel anything for this man who had manipulated me at every turn.
"You said the First Dark was the origin," I said, desperate to break the silence. "What did you mean by that?"
Cypher paused, then came and sat on the edge of the bed, careful to keep distance between us. He ran a hand through his long dark hair and sighed. "My people had stories dating back to the dawn of existence. They spoke of it as a place where things were created. The birthplace of all realms."
"How does that work?"
"Think of the Gallery as a river or a stream, and the First Dark is the sea it's fed from. It's the source of all energy, all creation. The Gallery is just one path it takes."
"So the Gallery I know—the one we've been traveling through?—"
"Is justoneGallery," he finished. "There might be more out there. Infinite Galleries, each with their own currents, their own portals to new realms."
I tried to wrap my mind around that. "So there could be countless realms we've never even heard of? Places completely disconnected from our own?"
"Exactly." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Places the Assembly has never reached. Places where Nytherians might have escaped to without ever knowing there were others who survived. If they had a rift, it could be possible theoretically"
All my life I'd thought of the Gallery as the space between all realms, the connective tissue of existence. But if Cypher was right, it was just one branch of something much larger, much more complex.
"So the Genesis Engine can tap into this?"
Cypher nodded. "The Engine exists at a nexus point where all Galleries potentially connect back to the First Dark. It channels pure potential. That's why it's so dangerous. That's why so few have ever found it, and why fewer have survived using it."
"And you think I can control it because I've been touched by this place?"
He looked at me then, his copper eyes reflecting the blue light of the crystal. "I don't just think. I know. The First Dark chose you. It reached out to you when you were lost. It marked you. That doesn't happen to every rift. It's not normal, or common. It has to mean something."
"If there are infinite Galleries," I said, "does that mean there are infinite First Darks too?"
Cypher shook his head. "One sea, many rivers. The First Dark is singular—the origin point for all existence. That's what makes it so powerful. And so dangerous."
A distant wail echoed through the ship, making me tense. The denizens were still out there, hunting.
"Will we make it to the Engine?"
Cypher was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know," he finally admitted. "But I've come too far to give up now. We've all come too far."
I thought about the others—Kora, Click, the entire crew. Were they lost too? Were they facing these same horrors alone?
I jolted awake,and for a moment, I couldn't remember where I was. I must have fallen asleep despite my determination to stay awake. The crystal Cypher had placed on the desk still glowed softly, casting the room in a blue glow. I started to sit up, then froze when I realized I wasn't alone on the narrow bed.
Cypher lay beside me, one arm draped heavily across my stomach. His breathing was deep and even, his face relaxed in sleep. The perpetual tension that lined his features had smoothed out, making him look younger.
I should have pushed his arm away. Should have moved as far from him as the small room would allow. But something kept me still, studying his face in the blue light.
His shirt was off—when had that happened?—and I found my eyes drawn to his exposed skin. I could see them clearly now, the network of raised silver scars that crisscrossed his torso. I'd caught glimpses before, that day I'd walked into his quarters unannounced, but never this close. Never with this much clarity.
Some were thin lines that had to have been made by blades. Others were wider, jagged, as if his skin had been torn rather than cut. Ten years in the Dredge. Ten years as a prisoner, an experiment. A child growing into a man in darkness and pain.
I felt a shift in his breathing and looked up to find his copper eyes open, watching me. He hadn't moved, hadn't pulled his arm away, but I could feel the tension and stillness returning to his body.
"They used air batons," he said softly, voice rough with sleep. "When we got restless. When we showed any sign of resistance."
I swallowed hard, not knowing what to say.
"Air magic leaves distinctive scars. It doesn't cut like a blade. It tears the skin from the inside. Makes the pain last longer."