Their team moved forward through the Solaris Crucible, tense and fractured under the strained dynamic between Lux and Merir. Fallon and the others walked in silence, both participants and awkward witnesses to what had just unfolded on the platform. The flickering crimson and gold glow of the Crucible reflected on their wary faces as they shot occasional glances at the siblings, clearly too nervous to address what was brewing.
Lux marched ahead of the group, her mind racing. She gripped her whip like it was the only thing anchoring her, the energy sparking in irregular flickers as though feeding on her tension. What had possessed her to say that out loud? To let all the bitterness, all the resentment spill over in the middle of the Crucible?
You shouldn't even be alive…
The words haunted her. She hadn't meant to say it—not like that. Not with that much raw venom. Lux had spent her whole life feeling that weight press on her heart, but hearing the admission echo in her own voice made her feel hollow inside.
Merir walked a few steps behind her—not far enough to lose track of her but not close enough to approach her either. He hadn't said much since the argument. He hadn't yelled or demanded anything of her, hadn't thrown her words back in her face like she was used to people doing. He'd just accepted it, quietly and firmly, like someone who had already resigned himself to judgment long ago.
And somehow, that hurt more than anything.
They entered a section of the Crucible that looked deceptively quiet. Floating pathways spiraled out into a maze-like structure, with beams of light crisscrossing in erratic patterns. The next glowing glyph hovered far in the distance, pulsing faintly like an unreachable star. The radiant projections that had hounded them earlier hadn't reappeared yet, and Fallon whispered to the team in a hushed voice, "We have a bit of breathing room... finally."
But that silence only made Lux's thoughts harder to ignore.
After what felt like an eternity of walking in strained quiet, she stopped abruptly. Without looking back, she said, "We're regrouping here for a minute."
Fallon and the others exchanged uneasy glances. "Are you... sure?" he asked hesitantly.
"We're regrouping," she repeated firmly, swinging her whip in one sharp motion to plant it in the ground beside her.
Their teammates hesitated only a second longer before nodding and stepping aside to check their weapons and catch their breath. Fallon stayed furthest back, clearly sensing Lux wanted to speak to Merir alone.
Lux turned and glanced at her brother. He had stopped walking but made no effort to approach her, his unreadable hazel eyes watching her carefully. That calm detachment only made her chest tighten further.
"Merir," she began, her voice quieter than usual, though no less firm. "Can we talk?"
He blinked, as if she'd surprised him. He said nothing for a moment, then nodded. "I'm listening."
Lux looked at him properly now, for the first time since he had saved her. He looked stronger than she had remembered—lean, determined, with a kind of quiet resolve etched into his movements. This wasn't the frail child from their youth, the one who had stumbled behind her when they trained or fumbled when asked to summon his light.
It was strange. She had spent so much time scoffing at him, dismissing him, assuming he would never grow into anything meaningful. But standing here now, after everything she'd seen him do in the Crucible, there was no denying it anymore. He wasn't useless. He wasn't a mistake.
He was more than she had wanted to admit.
"I…" she trailed off, her lips parting, but the words caught in her throat. She looked away for a moment, her hand flexing tightly around the hilt of her whip. "I said something back there I didn't mean. Or—I mean, I did, but I shouldn't have said it. Not like that."
Merir raised a brow, his expression still unreadable. "I didn't take it lightly, if that's what you're asking," he said evenly.
Her gaze snapped back to him. "I don't want—" she stopped herself, frowning. She didn't know how to do this. She had never apologized to Merir before—not in any meaningful way. "I didn't want it to—"
"What do you want, Lux?" Merir interrupted bluntly, not unkind but not softly either. "You've hated me for as long as I can remember. What made you change your mind just now? The Crucible? Or the fact that I pulled you out of it?"
Lux flinched, the sting of his words carefully measured but still striking. She didn't lash out this time. For once, she didn't have the strength to fight him. Instead, she exhaled deeply, pulling her whip back into glowing motes and letting her arms fall to her sides.
"When I look at you… I see her," she admitted finally, her voice brittle and aching.
Merir blinked, caught off guard for the first time.
"Mother," Lux clarified. "I look at you, and all I see is the space she left behind."
Her words hung there like a fragile thread, and for a moment, the Crucible around them seemed to quiet.
"I know it's not fair," she continued, her voice thick and trembling. "I know it's not your fault. But it doesn't stop the part of me that... that resents you for being here when she's not. You took everything from me, Merir. Everything that mattered."
Merir didn't respond immediately. He knew she had always hated him, but hearing her speak the words aloud was something else entirely. Part of him wanted to be angry—wanted to shout at her for carrying that resentment all these years without ever trying to see him for who he was.
But instead, he sighed softly, lowering his blade.
"I didn't choose to take her," he said quietly. His tone was steady but heavy with something neither of them could quite name. "I didn't ask to be born. I didn't ask for you to lose her because of me."
Lux swallowed hard, her breath hitching as she finally forced herself to say what she'd been avoiding all along. "I know that. I do. But knowing and feeling it aren't the same thing."
"And now?" he asked, his voice calm but pointed.
She looked at him, her fury burnt out, replaced by something quieter and rawer. "And now... I think I'm tired of pretending that hating you helps anything."
For the first time in years, Merir saw something that resembled vulnerability in his sister's face. She wasn't shouting, wasn't trying to crush him under the weight of her anger. She just looked... exhausted.
It wasn't an apology, not directly. Lux wasn't the kind of person who could just say "I'm sorry" and expect it to fix things. But it was something—and that was more than he'd thought she was capable of giving him.
Merir nodded slightly, a faint sigh escaping him. "We can't undo the past," he said finally, his voice softening just a fraction. "But we're here now. Let's survive this trial first."
Lux frowned at him for a moment, dissatisfied with the simplicity of his answer, yet relieved by the lack of hostility. "...Fine," she muttered, stepping past him to rejoin the group.
As she moved ahead, she caught herself glancing back at him. She couldn't say this was forgiveness—not yet—but it was a start.