But then he feels it—a tremor in the quiet, so subtle he isn’t sure it’s real. It feels like a faint hum inside his bones. He lifts his head. Above, the stars are pulsing in unison. If he strains, he can almost hear it—a distant, ethereal chorus of voices that aren’t voices at all.
The realisation sends a chill of awe through him. He gazes up at the sky, heart pounding. The soundless music swells and the stars grow brighter. Constellations twist and shift, points of light rearranging themselves. He blinks hard, but it’s real: the stars are moving, gathering into a new shape. He watches, breathless, as thousands of glowing pinpricks coalesce into luminous lines and curves high above. He can barely fathom its scale—spanning the sky like a living constellation. A soft white luminescence grows at the heart of the shape, intensifying until it outshines the surrounding stars. Hunter squints against the brilliance. The glow resolves into a vast, living form with sweeping curves like a giant manta ray made of light. Long tendrils unfurl from its body like flowing ribbons. It shines pure white, tinged with faint blue, and intricate patterns flicker across its surface, hinting at eyes or markings. Every edge shimmers, as if stars dance along its outline.
...
In response, one of the shining hands reaches toward him with impossible grace. Hunter stands rigid as it approaches. He half-expects it to burn—this being is made of pure light—but when it touches his forehead, just between his brows, there is no pain. Instead, a warmth blooms at the point of contact. A warmth sinks into his skin, radiating through his skull, down his spine, into every nerve. It’s the warmth of sunlight after a long winter; the warmth of a hearth on a lonely night.
He knows this feeling. He’s felt it before. On the wind, in the earth.
When he touches Omega.
