The path ahead of the Crimson Glyph team shimmered and trembled, platforms and glyphic projections swirling like a living puzzle. The Crucible demanded their focus, their unity—but for Lux Solaris, her thoughts were tied elsewhere.
She moved mechanically, her whip striking radiant projections that flickered in their path while her mind twisted in ways she couldn't have anticipated. Every step forward—every swing of her whip—tightened the knot in her chest until it felt unbearable.
She kept glancing at him: Merir Solaris, walking a few paces ahead, his blade a sleek edge of golden light held ready in his hand. His movements were calm, his posture straight but relaxed as he led the team toward the next glowing glyph in the chaotic maze.
How could he be so composed? After everything?
He had saved her life. She hated it. Hated that she owed him anything. But more than hate, there was something worse creeping beneath her fury: shame.
Merir glanced over his shoulder once, briefly locking eyes with her. His gaze was searching—not for trust, not for connection, but for discipline. For focus. When she faltered, lingering too long in her own distracted thoughts, his voice sliced through the haze with cutting precision.
"Stay in the present, Lux," he said evenly, turning back to watch the path ahead. "The Crucible doesn't wait for anyone to figure themselves out."
The words weren't meant as a rebuke, but they felt like one. Lux tightened her grip on her whip, heat rising in her chest.
"You're awfully full of advice, aren't you?" she muttered sharply, just loud enough for him to hear.
Merir didn't respond. He didn't need to.
That silence only made her frustration burn hotter. She was so used to people pushing back against her. Yelling, arguing, trying to prove her wrong. But Merir didn't do that. Instead, he let her bitterness bounce off him like it didn't matter at all.
And that made her furious.
She thought about their mother again.
Lux had buried those memories so deeply for so long, so why now—of all times—were they clawing their way to the surface?
She remembered the way her mother's arms had wrapped around her, the warmth in her hands. The soft lullabies they had shared during restless nights. The promises her mother had whispered to her: "You're my bright star, Lux. You'll light the way for everyone."
And then she was gone.
Lux had spent years convincing herself that hatred was easier than mourning. Easier than forgiving herself. Easier than forgiving him—Merir—for existing when their mother no longer could.
But now, watching him hold this strange, quiet strength in the Crucible, she felt the weight of that hatred in ways she never had before. It didn't feel like strength anymore. It felt like weakness. Like poison slowly eating away at her.
She didn't deserve this guilt, she told herself stubbornly. He's the one who caused it.
But another voice whispered back—quiet and sharp, buried deep beneath her defenses.
He didn't. You just needed someone to blame.
Lux's jaw clenched as she watched Merir move ahead. The rest of the team followed quietly, too consumed by the relentless pace of the Crucible to notice the thick, unspoken tension between the siblings.
She didn't want to feel this way anymore. The resentment, the bitterness that had shaped every interaction they'd ever had—it felt wrong now, heavy and painful in ways that dulled her clarity.
She didn't know where to start. But she had to say something.
"Merir," she called out, her voice loud enough to pull his attention.
He turned, blinking once as he studied her expression. The hint of curiosity in his features surprised her. She hadn't expected him to even acknowledge her, let alone respond.
She hesitated for a moment, unsure what words were supposed to come next.
"... Back there," she said finally, her voice quieter now. "On that platform. When I fell. You didn't have to… I mean…"
"You're welcome," Merir said simply. It wasn't smug—just a flat, unadorned acknowledgement.
Lux winced at the bluntness of his response. She hated this. She wasn't used to fumbling for words, wasn't used to doubting herself, especially not in front of people. And yet here she was, grasping awkwardly at something she couldn't fully name.
"You shouldn't have done that," she snapped, her voice louder this time. She winced at how defensive she sounded. It wasn't what she wanted to say, but the words came out anyway.
Merir raised a single brow, his expression cool. "So I should've let you fall?"
"That's not the point!" Lux snapped again, though her frustration wasn't aimed at him. It was at herself. At everything she didn't know how to explain. "You don't get to act like this is... normal. Like saving me—like being stronger on your own—makes up for the fact that—" She stopped herself before she could finish, afraid of what was coming next.
"That what?" Merir said, his voice sharper now.
Lux faltered.
"...That you shouldn't even be here!" she blurted out before she could think better of it. The words cut through the air like a lash—louder than she had intended, and far uglier.
The rest of the team stopped. Fallon turned to glance at them nervously, clearly unprepared for the intensity brewing between the siblings. Even the Crucible itself seemed to pause in its relentless assault, as though the space between them had drawn some imperceptible line.
Merir didn't flinch. He just stared at her, his expression unchanged, though there was something colder now in the way he held himself.
"...I see," he said flatly.
Lux felt her breath catch. She hated the way he didn't yell back. The way he just stood there, calm and composed, while her pulse raced and her voice wavered.
"You shouldn't be here," she said again, softer this time. The words broke as they left her lips. "You shouldn't be strong. You shouldn't be… better than me. You shouldn't even be alive."
The admission hung there, raw and unfiltered, and Lux hated herself for how small it made her feel.
Merir didn't say anything at first. He lowered his blade slightly, his hazel eyes searching hers.
"I know," he said quietly. "But I am."
The words shouldn't have meant anything. But Lux felt the weight behind them like a blow.
He wasn't angry at her. He didn't even seem surprised. He just... accepted it. Like he'd been walking under the weight of her hatred all these years and had never resented her for it.
It made her fists clench in shame.
Lux turned wordlessly and began moving forward again, her grip tightening on her whip as she shoved everything else down. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know how to fix this.
But for the first time, in the silence that followed, she wanted to try.