Illian sputtered forward, swatted his companion away with the lash of an unamused wrist.

“Your vitals were peaking to a dangerous level, Sol. I was worried about you,” said the Maiorian.

“Shaintro. You’ve gotta …” His bulbs graced Illian through a bloated suit, hydrated face submerged in its own cylinder cap helmet. A fishbowl. Illian quickly felt his breath concede, much like he’s done so throughout his two years of training trying to reason Shaintro, a Maiorian, to respect personal space. “Never mind.”

Illian wandered ahead to embark, with careful steps until his firm traveler boots mushed against a pocket of sediment grain; their pockets numerous, their cracking releasing a rarefied ferment smell. Illian was enamored. This colossal split he could finally explore, the evening cool, the-

“You need to be careful,” Shaintro cautioned. Illian’s cheeks swelled flustered.

Way to suck the magic out of the moment, blue man.

“A Mercenary ground team is outbound to us for assistance. Much more firepower to rely on.”

Shaintro’s had five-hundred cycles to sort himself out. Illian’s age for their culture, sure, but he hasn’t wasted a single minute. Playing the galaxy’s mother must come naturally to other Messengers.

Illian reached for his uni-translator nestled inside his inner coat pockets, held the convex button at the center down for a prolonged period. Just like that, “Locals warning of scalpers near The Breath” fizzled out into unintelligible nonsense. Though, the noise was smooth; it sounded like a swift, uninterrupted stream of prestigious brass winds. To foreign entities, Maiorians could recite spreadsheets and have it resonate poetic brilliance. “Roacivi, Sol. Fro a civilashunos sumola.”

Earth’s Messenger undid his headwear, revealed a pasture of shaved brown hair. Ears bracketed with glossed black rings caught the wind soaring by; they chilled, made Illian wonder if he’d be better off with his helmet back on. But his baby blues were too busy taking in the world. It was still beautiful.

“Sol?” Shaintro peaked.

Quickly, Illian turned his translator back on, followed with a sloppy acknowledgement: “Yes?”

“Please leave your translator on. You still have much to learn.”

“I can hardly imagine what.” Illian directed course, scouted an upcoming crevice blocked in by a web of dead vines like holding the planet together. Shaintro was close behind.

“Correct observation, Sol,” he seemingly conceded through muffled radio chatter. “We are almost complete with your initiation. All you must do is meet Gaia.” Illian nodded to acknowledge.

Overhead, an imposed net grid pieced through the sky with a traveling surge of activity. As of now, it’s the only thing stabilizing the planet’s magnetic core. Chunks of land peaked over the crevice, threatening to fly off through the atmosphere. A constant battle between gravity and vast emptiness, all brought on by a split-second genocide. And that grid was the only thing keeping them together.

That, and now him.

Pressure overcame the boy, but he managed a calm as he walked forward. “What should I tell her when we meet?” Illian’s tone shifted to pleading.

“Say hello,” said Shaintro.

Sol sank further in his boots. He groaned.

Inching, the boy scanned around the cavity. No luck. Hive nest combs, split apart like by a divine knife, were prevalent up to the cavern’s peak that trickled sediments. Except here.

Like a baby’s face … Illian kneed out the vine enclosure while his eyes wandered upward. Way too soft. There’s something here.

He was too preoccupied to notice that he was the only one lifting a finger. From a fair footing away, Shaintro examined the young Messenger’s movements carefully, as though he fancied the initiative. He stood comfortable, despite Illian growing more agitated.

“Dammit,” said Illian aloud. He then palmed against the rock. “Where’s the door?” When the Earth didn’t budge, Illian twisted around to his seasoned mentor. He rationed since this was no exam, he’d ask for help. “Any ideas?”

“Have you tried walking through the vines?” Illian took a desperate step to confront Shaintro, unamused.

“You’re joking, right?” he said. Shaintro stared blankly.

Flustered, Illian stormed over, not so impressed. “I appreciate your help”—he rose his voice—"but there is no way that these vines are just gonna—part aside!”

He waved his arm over the gateway, directing eyes as to prove a point. However, Shaintro uncharacteristically kept a straight face. Illian couldn’t recall their kind ever being so good at lying-

No way.

Illian turned back, denying every inch he craned. But dammit if what he saw weren’t an act of Gaia, Herself. By the swerve of his hand, the vines split apart, rose as to allow royal blood to pass.

Illian couldn’t quite comprehend the authority which he weld, despite being prepped to do just that. This regal feeling was far beyond anything sacred text could relay.

Shaintro chuckled like a smitten parent and approached the scrambled Messenger with wisdom at the ready: “You show some resourcefulness, Sol. Very humbled.” Now, he eclipsed Illian as he further soliloquized his mental checklist. “Not inclined to invite yourself in without the proper permission. I appreciate that trait.”

“That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” said Illian with a dash of sincerity. With nothing further to spill, the honored Maiorian allowed with a delicate curve of his rubber-guarded palm for the boy to lead on.

They continued forward, Illian now burying his doubts with every new vine clearing. And there were hundreds—he counted. In a row, each strand of Gaia’s veins parted back from their bow. With each step, the ground was sprinkled further with a variety of Earth’s spices. Grains of sand, gravel—till even stray ore flakes were littered in. They illuminated north-faced from a nameless, mysterious shine.

The cold, smoky cave rocks gave way to a full helping of these spices to path their approach; darkness no longer had a place in this crevice, either. Completely banished by its inhabitant.

She awaited. Illian hunched as much, but when investigating Shaintro’s body language, he could tell that this was exclusively his own. Clear, potent, his own personal beacon to Gaia.

After too much time, Illian and Shaintro gazed upon an empty alcove lined with fresh, undying grassland; some of these strains were flora not seen since eons’ past. And a small obtuse pond was collecting overhead droplets seeping from this garden’s maximum of fresh, coal-black soil and rail tree roots.

Scouting proved fruitless; Illian conceded he wouldn’t find the ceiling with eyes alone. The Messenger hopeful then approached the pond with a profound faith, took a deep breath, and sat on the grass with his legs crossed.

“Do you hear anything, Sol?” Shaintro asked. He studied emerald beetles jitter, creep through the grass near Illian.

“Nothing.”

Shaintro then admired an ageless root, in honor of Her sanctum: “Find your center. Ward the outside influences and allow your-“

He was hushed by the boy, now being fed another source trying to vie for attention. Illian’s breathing peaked, then a surge of pain demanded all his effort as he expelled a warm mist that was lofted forward.

A beacon.

Illian faced back to the maximum above, following the trickling water down to its descent. He arose then submerged his legs in the water, the coat barely doused at the tail cut of his bottom. As he touched base, dug into the mucky clumps of substratum greens and soil, a reverberating hum invaded his ears, only halted by the sudden piercing crunch of a stone emerging near him. It was flat and appeared to allow anybody to stand on top of it akin to a platform. An inline circle was engraved into the ends.

For a second, the boy swore this to be his sole rite of passage. But then he retraced to his training like an anchor. Speak for two, not as one.

His thoughts were brashly insinuating he were ungrateful, so Illian confided in Shaintro with eyes alone.

Shaintro nodded in approval, taking a step away.

Illian waved through the pond. This is it.

With an anxious climb, the boy took his place—stood tall and ready. But this was no time for ceremonies. At least, for his fellow Messenger.

Shaintro was spooked to retreat. He darted through the crevice, leaving Illian to his ritual. Curious, but Illian hardly had time to wonder; the pond began to thrash water furiously. His footing then rocketed upward, causing him to huddle to the platform for dear life.