Page 112 of Echoes From the Void

Through our distant bond with Frankie, I feel something pulse—like she’s witnessing this moment across impossible space. Her fierce approval and love echo through the connection, carrying understanding that this is what we were all meant to be.

Healers.

Protectors.

Family.

The young beast’s transformation is different from the first. Where the adult’s was a restoration, this is more like... awakening. Its corrupted form shifts and flows until what standsbefore us is barely larger than a wolf pup, its shadows carrying hints of golden light like dawn breaking through storm clouds. Each movement is pure grace, uncorrupted by void-taint.

“It’s beautiful,” Dr. Sharma breathes, her hands still glowing with residual healing energy. “Leo, look at what your presence did. Your natural light—it gave it something to remember. Something to become.”

The beast-pup presses against my legs, its essence carrying that particular mix of shadow and sunshine that’s always been uniquely mine. Its form feels warm now, like summer shadows under ancient trees. Through our pack bonds, I feel Matteo’s love wrap around us both while Bishop and Dorian move to establish a protective perimeter, their powers ready to shield this newly healed being.

“You’ve always done this,” Matteo says softly, watching the pup nuzzle my hand with shadow-silk touch. “Found the light in shadows. Showed us how to be both.”

More beasts approach, drawn by the pup’s successful transformation. Their corrupted forms move with newfound purpose through the debris-strewn quad. But they don’t just come to Matteo and his mother now—some drift toward me, sensing perhaps that there are different kinds of healing. Different ways to remember what they were meant to be.

Bishop moves closer, Guardian marks pulsing brighter as he analyzes the growing crowd of restored beings. Their shadows now carry hints of starlight, moving with liquid grace instead of jagged corruption. “The energy patterns are stabilizing,” he notes, one hand still pressed to the ancient stones. “Each successful transformation seems to be affecting the others, like they’re...”

“Learning,” Dorian finishes. His frost patterns spread in intricate analysis, mapping each change. Beneath his usual academic distance, I catch rare wonder in his voice. “Orremembering. Look how the corruption recedes more easily with each one. They’re teaching each other.”

Through the distant bond, I catch another pulse from Frankie—stronger this time, carrying images I can barely comprehend. Light shifters frozen between moments, their forms crystallized in eternal sacrifice. Ancient choices made with desperate hope. A better way waiting to be found.

The pup at my feet suddenly lifts its head, responding to something only it can sense. Its form ripples with golden-edged shadows as it lets out a sound like bells in darkness. The noise echoes off broken pillars and crumbling walls, carrying frequencies that make the very air shimmer.

Other restored beasts answer, their voices creating harmonies that shouldn’t be possible. The sound reminds me of Lyra’s violin music—the way her shadows dance with sound itself, turning notes into living darkness. Each beast adds its own tone until the pre-dawn air thrums with shadow-song.

“They’re calling to each other,” Matteo realizes, his fangs flashing as he scents the air. New predator senses map the changes in their essence. “Telling the others it’s safe. That they can be helped.”

Another wave of beasts emerges from the rifts—at least fifty strong now. But there’s purpose to their movement, ancient dignity replacing desperate flight. They form lines among the ruins, waiting their turn for healing with patient grace. Some come to Matteo and his mother for restoration, corruption peeling away under their combined power. Others drift toward me, seeking the particular balance of shadow and light that’s always been my gift.

“You know what this means?” I ask softly, watching corruption transform to purpose again and again beneath my pack’s combined efforts. The quad has become a makeshifthealing ground, ancient stones humming with renewed power. “What Frankie and Finn might have found?”

“A way to heal it all,” Bishop says, understanding dawning in his voice. His Guardian marks pulse with possibilities as he traces energy patterns through the transformed beasts. “Not just individual beings, but the balance itself.”

“Willing transformation,” Dorian adds, his usual academic distance cracking with wonder. His frost patterns map each successful healing, tracking how the changes ripple through groups of waiting beasts. “Not forced sacrifice or corruption. But choice.”

The pup presses closer to my side as more of its kind approach through the rifts. Its shadow-silk form radiates contentment, golden light threading through darkness like stars coming home. Through our bond, I feel Matteo’s fierce pride, his mother’s healer’s joy, Bishop’s tactical mind already planning how to expand this healing, and Dorian’s frost patterns tracking every successful transformation.

Above us, dawn breaks over a changed world. The first rays catch the transformed beasts’ essence, making their shadows glimmer with remembered starlight. Around us, ancient beings remember what they were always meant to be.

And somewhere in the void, Frankie and Finn work toward the same truth:

Some shadows need light to heal.

Some light needs shadow to shine.

Some balance can only come through choice.

“Incoming!” Bishop’s warning rings out as the largest group yet emerges from the rifts. The tears in reality pulse wider, edges crystallizing with void-purple light. But these beasts move differently—more coordinated, almost ceremonial. Their corrupted forms part like a living river, creating a path through the ruins for something that makes my breath catch.

A beast larger than the others appears through the largest rift, its corruption deep but not complete. Ancient power radiates from its massive form, shadows moving with deliberate grace despite the void-taint eating at its edges. It approaches slowly, ancient eyes fixed on me. Through our pack bonds, I feel Matteo tense, ready to defend. But this doesn’t feel like danger.

It feels like recognition.

The beast stops before me, lowering its massive head until we’re eye to eye. Its form towers over us, large enough to swallow the remains of the library steps, yet its movements carry careful grace. In its gaze, I see something I understand in my bones—the capacity for shadows to be gentle, to protect, to nurture. The same truth I’ve always known, even when others saw only darkness.

Purple-black corruption still clings to its edges, but its core essence pulses with something older than the void’s hunger. Something that reminds me of summer storms and twilight gardens, of safe spaces made from gentle dark.

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