The red star hangs in the sky like an inflamed eye, watching me with the same indifference HaShem has always shown. I sit at the edge of our cave, counting the microcrystals that form in the cooling air—a pointless calculation that keeps my mind from dwelling on more painful thoughts. One hundred and seventeen thousand, two hundred and forty-three crystals. One hundred and seventeen thousand, two hundred and forty-four…

  Centuries have passed since we discovered Ziz and Behemoth. The landscape has continued its slow transformation, and oxygen levels have risen steadily in the atmosphere. The World Tree stands higher than ever, its branches forming a canopy stretching for kilometers. Our stockpile of precious metals has dwindled despite careful rationing—Ziz consumes far more than I anticipated, his massive frame requiring constant nourishment.

  The chip in my skull hums softly, still performing background calculations even when I'm at rest. I've grown accustomed to its presence, though I detest the reminder of my dependence on Niobe's technological intrusion. At times, I consider ripping it from my flesh, but the memory of those crushing migraines keeps my claws at bay.

  I see them approaching from the distant horizon—Niobe and Ziz, walking side by side. Their silhouettes stand stark against the ruddy backdrop, her imposing form dwarfed by his massive wingspan. Something in their synchronized movement sets my vents hissing with unease. They've spent more time together lately, disappearing for days to ‘survey potential planetary formation sites.’ I've allowed it, calculating that forbidding their association would only push Niobe further from my influence.

  The staff—Matteh HaShamir—lies beside me, its segments arranged in what I've come to think of as its dormant configuration. I've spent countless hours studying its properties, testing various arrangements, and discovering new ways to channel its power, yet I remain frustratingly far from mastering it.

  They stop at the base of the ridge, exchanging words I can't hear. Niobe places her hand on Ziz's wing in an uncomfortably intimate gesture. Something twists inside me—a sensation between rage and hollowness that defies quantification.

  When they finally approach, I force my expression into neutral indifference.

  "Mother," Niobe calls, her voice carrying the excitement she can never quite suppress. "We wish to speak with you."

  I don't rise, merely incline my head to acknowledge their presence. "Then speak."

  Ziz folds his massive wings against his back, dropping to a crouch that brings his eye level closer to mine—a gesture that manages to be both respectful and condescending simultaneously. His tantala feathers catch the light, refracting it into patterns that dance across the cave floor.

  "Avarice," he says, my name flowing from his vocal apparatus with unnecessary musicality. "We come with a request."

  My optics narrow imperceptibly. "A request?"

  Niobe steps forward, her posture shifting as it does when gathering courage. "Mother, Ziz, and I wish to form a marital bond. We seek your blessing."

  The words land like superheated plasma against my core. A marital bond? My internal temperature rises several degrees as calculations cascade through my circuits—implications, probabilities, threats to my authority. The chip in my skull throbs as it processes my emotional surge.

  "I see," I say after a pause stretching long enough to be uncomfortable. "And why do you think this is necessary?"

  Niobe's eyes shine with an enthusiasm that makes my metal skin crawl. "Mother, Ziz, and I share the same vision for the fourth epoch. Our combined powers would accelerate planetary formation exponentially. And—" her voice rises with poorly contained excitement, "—I wish to have many offspring with him!"

  My cooling vents snap open involuntarily, releasing a plume of superheated air that scorches the ground between us. Offspring. The word triggers memories of agony—my flesh tearing open as monstrous forms clawed their way into existence. I remember each birth, each betrayal of my body, each moment wondering if this emergence would finally destroy me.

  "You want...offspring?" My voice emerges as a metallic rasp. "You've seen what emerges from me. Monstrosities. Parasites. Things that would consume their mothers."

  Niobe reaches for me, but I recoil from her touch. "Mother, it won't be like that for me. My form is different, made for this epoch."

  "HaShem," I spit the name like a curse. "Always HaShem and His designs. His plans for me included an eternity of monstrous births that tear through my flesh. What makes you think yours will be different?"

  Ziz's optics pulse with that infuriating serenity he's cultivated. "Niobe's structure has evolved beyond earlier forms. Her offspring would emerge fully developed."

  I laugh, a sound like metal grinding against metal. "So convenient for you, Ziz. None of the suffering I endured."

  Niobe kneels beside me, her face a mask of earnest conviction that reminds me too much of Tantalus. "Mother, please. We want to do this properly, with your blessing. We want you to teach us the ritual of exchanging burdens under HaShem's witness."

  The ritual. Of course. My cooling systems falter momentarily as memory files cascade unbidden through my consciousness—Tantalus's face as he offered me that small cube of tantala metal ripped from his chest. The weight of it in my palm. The moment of accepting it into my body, unknowingly trading warp migraines for endless monstrous births.

  "You know not what you ask," I whisper.

  Ziz tilts his massive head. "We understand it involves sacrifice, Avarice. We're prepared for that."

  "Prepared?" I hiss, reaching my full height, barely reaching Ziz's chest. "You think because you've heard stories that you understand what it means to exchange burdens? It's not some symbolic gesture. It reshapes your very existence."

  "Which is precisely why we want to learn it correctly," Niobe insists, her voice taking on that stubborn tone that means she won't be dissuaded. "From you. Who else could teach us but the First Mother?"

  I turn away, staring at the horizon where the World Tree stretches toward the uncaring stars. They don't understand what they're asking. They can't comprehend the weight of the exchange, the horrific balance that HaShem demands.

  Yet denying them serves no strategic purpose. If I refuse, they'll either attempt the ritual without guidance—potentially catastrophic—or, worse, seek other sources of knowledge—sources that might reveal truths I've worked to keep hidden.

  "Fine," I say at last, the word falling from my beak like a stone. "I will show you the ritual. But know this—" I turn back to them, letting the full force of my experience burn in my gaze, "—once done, it cannot be undone. HaShem's exchanges are permanent."

  Relief floods Niobe's features, while Ziz's remain carefully composed. "Thank you, Mother," she says, bowing her head in a gesture that feels performative rather than genuine.

  "When?" Ziz asks, practical as always.

  I lift the staff, its segments humming with latent power as my fingers close around them. "At the next stellar alignment. Three days from now. Come to the World Tree at dawn."

  They exchange glances—a silent communication that excludes me—before nodding in unison.

  "We'll be ready," Niobe promises.

  As they turn to leave, I call after them: "Niobe."

  She pauses, looking back expectantly.

  "Are you certain this is what you want? A bond cannot be broken once formed under HaShem's witness. You will be chained to his fate, as he will be to yours."

  Something flickers across her features—doubt, perhaps, or merely annoyance at my questioning. "I am certain, Mother. More certain than I've ever been."

  I watch them walk away, their forms silhouetted against the ruddy skyline. The staff pulses warmly in my grip, as if responding to my turmoil. With a precise movement, I direct a minor warp at a nearby rock formation, watching with bitter satisfaction as it crumbles into dust.

  Three days. Three days to decide whether to perform the ritual correctly, or to introduce a subtle flaw that might preserve my influence over Niobe.

  The irony doesn't escape me. Once again, I find myself manipulating cosmic forces to serve my ends, justifying it as protection rather than control.

  Once again, I become what I most despise.

  The ground shakes with seismic force long before I see the cause. A rhythmic pounding that sends vibrations up through my legs and rattles the precious metals we've stockpiled in neat piles at the back of our cave. I emerge cautiously, staff at the ready.

  Behemoth charges across the plain, his massive form radiating childlike joy. He's found something—a large chunk of raw ore clutched between his jaws, dripping with molten saliva. Behind him follows Ziz, wings stretched wide as if trying to corral his enthusiastic brother.

  "Behemoth! Slow down!" Ziz calls, but the massive creature pays no heed.

  He thunders toward me at alarming speed, and I calculate the impact trajectory with mounting alarm. I brace myself, but mathematics cannot fully prepare me for Behemoth's enthusiasm. His bulk slams into me with surprising gentleness—controlled impact that nonetheless sends me sprawling onto my back.

  Before I can rise, his enormous head looms over me, and three specialized tongues extend to lavish my face with molten affection. The saliva irritates slightly, though not painfully, leaving trails across my features.

  "Stop that!" I sputter, pushing against his enormous snout. "Get off me this instant!"

  Behemoth sounds like giant gears grinding together—his version of a pleased purr—and continues licking with undeterred enthusiasm.

  "Behemoth!" Ziz's voice comes closer. "Leave her be. She doesn't appreciate your affection like Niobe does."

  The mention of Niobe causes Behemoth to pause, his massive head tilting with explicit recognition of her name. He makes a questioning rumble, looking around as if expecting to see her.

  "She's not here," I say, finally managing to push myself up to a sitting position. My body is covered in streaks of his saliva, my dignity thoroughly compromised.

  Behemoth nudges the chunk of ore toward me with his snout, then looks at me expectantly.

  "I think he brought this for you," Ziz explains, landing nearby. "He's been searching for high-quality material. This appears to be nearly pure tantalum."

  I eye the ore suspiciously, then reach for it. Behemoth's excitement visibly increases as I examine his offering. The quality is exceptional—better than Niobe and I have found in centuries. Such a piece would sustain me for months, perhaps longer.

  "This is... good," I admit reluctantly. "Where did he find it?"

  Ziz's wings shift in what might be a shrug. "I don't know. He wandered off three days ago and returned with this. He seems very pleased with himself."

  Behemoth nudges the ore closer to me, making that grinding purr again. Despite myself, I feel a flicker of... not affection, certainly not that, but perhaps appreciation for this simple creature's straightforward nature: no calculations, hidden agendas, just honest enthusiasm and generosity.

  "Thank you," I say, the words feeling strange on my tongue.

  Behemoth's response is immediate—another enthusiastic tackle that sends me sprawling again, followed by more licking. I push against him with genuine irritation now.

  "That's enough! Your gratitude is noted and unwelcome!"

  Ziz makes a sound that might be laughter. "It seems you've made a friend, Avarice."

  I glare at him while extracting myself from beneath Behemoth's affectionate assault. "Control your brother, or I'll warp him to the planet's core."

  Ziz clicks his beak in a pattern that summons Behemoth's attention. The massive creature reluctantly backs away, though his body language suggests he'd prefer to continue showering me with his peculiar brand of affection.

  I rise, brushing myself off with as much dignity as I can. "Was there a purpose to this visit beyond allowing your brother to assault me?"

  "We came to discuss the ritual," Ziz says. "And the... resource situation."

  I narrow my optics. "What about it?"

  Ziz hesitates, his sensor crown pulsing with data collection. "Niobe has been... conserving. She says our collective consumption exceeds our mining rate."

  "An accurate assessment," I reply coldly. "Our stockpile diminishes daily. Conservation is necessary."

  "Yes, but..." Ziz's wings flex uncomfortably. "She restricts her intake significantly. I've observed her allocation—less than half of what she requires for optimal functioning."

  The revelation doesn't surprise me. Niobe has always been careful with resources, putting others' needs before hers. It's one of her more irritating qualities.

  "She's concerned that if she becomes pregnant, she won't have sufficient materials to support the offspring's development," Ziz continues. "She fears depleting our communal stores."

  I feel something unpleasant twist in my core—not quite guilt, but a sensation adjacent to it. "The stockpile exists for our survival. If she requires more, she should take it."

  "She won't. Not without your explicit permission." Ziz's gaze is uncomfortably direct. "She respects you too deeply to countermand your rationing."

  I turn away, facing the horizon, where the World Tree's silhouette stands stark against the ruddy sky. The mathematics of our situation is brutally simple: consumption exceeds collection. Eventually, the stockpile will be depleted, and difficult choices must be made.

  "I will consider adjusting her allocation," I say finally. "After the ritual."

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  Behemoth makes a low rumbling sound, nudging the tantalum ore again to emphasize its value. Perhaps he understands more than I've given him credit for.

  Ziz bows his massive head. "Thank you, Avarice. We'll leave you to your calculations." He extends a wing to shepherd Behemoth away from me. "Come, brother. Let's not overstay our welcome."

  As they depart, I watch Behemoth's form recede. He is lumbering and powerful but with a grace all his own. His tail swishes with childlike contentment, his every movement untroubled by the complex calculations that plague the rest of us.

  I gather the tantalum ore and carry it back to our cave, carefully adding it to the stockpile. The new addition makes barely a noticeable difference to our dwindling reserves. How long before even this runs out? How long before we face actual scarcity?

  And if such scarcity comes, what would I sacrifice to ensure my survival?

  The question hangs in the air, unanswered and unsettling.

  Dawn breaks over the World Tree, bathing its metallic trunk in copper light. I've spent the night in preparation, carving the necessary symbols into the ground around the tree's base. The staff's segments are arranged in the configuration required for witnessing covenant formation, each uranium segment emitting a soft radiation.

  I hear them approaching before I see them: Niobe's footsteps, deliberately placed to minimize vibration, and Ziz's massive form displacing air in rhythmic patterns. They've prepared themselves—Niobe's tantala form gleams with fresh polish, while Ziz's feathers have been meticulously arranged.

  "You're early," I observe, not looking up from my final adjustments.

  "We couldn't sleep," Niobe admits. Her voice carries that nervous excitement, reminding me she is still young at heart despite her imposing transformation.

  Ziz's optics scan the patterns I've carved. "This is... more elaborate than I expected."

  I straighten, feeling my joints protest after hours of precise etching. "The exchange of burdens isn't some primitive mating ritual. It's HaShem's design made manifest between two beings."

  They step closer, and I notice their hesitation at the pattern's edge. Good. At least they have enough sense to respect the power contained within these boundaries.

  "Where's Behemoth?" I ask, suddenly realizing the massive creature isn't with them. He usually follows Ziz everywhere, his childlike devotion unwavering.

  Ziz's feathers rustle with what might be discomfort. "He's been... wandering lately. Exploring the far ridges. He'll return when he's ready."

  I file this information for later consideration. Behemoth's absence is unusual enough to merit attention, but now, the ritual demands focus.

  "Stand here," I direct them to opposite sides of the central circle. "Face each other."

  They comply, positioning themselves where I indicate. Niobe looks nervous now, her optics flickering between Ziz and me.

  "Mother, will it... hurt?" she asks.

  Something twists in my core—a flicker of protective instinct I thought long extinguished. "Yes," I answer honestly. "But not like my births. This is a different kind of pain."

  Ziz extends his wing across the circle, offering it to Niobe. "We'll bear it together."

  I bite back a caustic remark and instead begin the instruction, my voice falling into the cadence required by the ritual.

  "Under HaShem's gaze, the exchange of burdens follows a specific form," I explain. "The male gives the female a small amount of information as a gift, and the female decides to receive or reject it."

  Niobe's eyes widen at the word "gift," and she smiles. "A gift? I do love gifts."

  Her innocent excitement in this moment—so reminiscent of my naive response when Tantalus performed this ritual with me—sends a cold wave through my systems. Does she not understand what follows? Does she not comprehend how this ‘gift’ will bind her forever?

  I turn to Ziz. "You must extract a portion of your essence—a cube from your heart—and offer it freely to Niobe. This offering symbolizes the burden you wish to share."

  Ziz nods, his massive frame suddenly solemn. He places his talons against his chest, and a small opening forms in his tantala plating. With deliberate care, he extracts a glowing cube of zirconium-rich tantala, identical in form to what Tantalus once offered me.

  The cube pulses with energy, trailing ionized particles as he holds it. Its glow illuminates his features from below, casting strange shadows across his avian face.

  "A gift," he says, his voice resonating with the exact words Tantalus once spoke to me, "for an exchange of burdens."

  The parallel is so precise that for a moment, I wonder if Ziz somehow knows—if he has accessed memories of that first exchange. But no, these are simply the ritual words, passed down through the Holy Scriptures.

  Niobe stares at the glowing cube, her optics wide with wonder. "It's beautiful," she whispers.

  I step forward. "Niobe, you must now decide. Will you accept this burden? Will you open yourself to receive it, knowing it cannot be returned once accepted?"

  She doesn't hesitate. "Yes," she says, her voice firm despite the tremor in her frame. "I accept."

  I nod, then guide her through the next step. "Open a space beneath your ribs—a cavity to house his offering."

  With careful movements, Niobe creates an opening in her tantala structure, just as I did eons ago.

  The inner workings of her systems are briefly visible—they are more evolved and efficiently designed than mine, yet fundamentally similar.

  Ziz extends the cube toward her, and she reaches for it with trembling hands. A visible current passes between them as her fingers close around it—a connection forming at the most fundamental level.

  "Now," I instruct, "place it within yourself and seal the opening."

  Niobe presses the cube into the cavity she's created, her optics flaring briefly as the foreign matter integrates with her systems. She gasps, doubling over slightly as the connection completes.

  "It burns," she whispers.

  "Yes," I reply, remembering my own experience. "The integration is... intense."

  Ziz watches with obvious concern, his wings half-extended as if to catch her should she fall. "Are you alright?"

  After a moment, Niobe straightens. Her eyes have a new depth—a hint of Ziz's perception now integrated with hers. "Yes," she says. "I can feel... something new. A weight, but not unpleasant."

  "The exchange is complete," I announce, gathering the staff segments. "You are bonded under HaShem's witness. Your burdens are now shared."

  Niobe approaches me, moving carefully as she adjusts to the altered sensation. "Thank you, Mother," she says, reaching for my hand.

  I allow the contact briefly before withdrawing. "Use it wisely. The connection takes time to stabilize. Don't attempt anything strenuous for a while."

  Ziz bows his massive head. "We are grateful for your guidance, Avarice."

  I turn away, unwilling to endure their gratitude. "I've fulfilled my obligation. Now leave me. I have matters to attend to."

  They depart, walking close together, occasionally stumbling as they adjust to their new shared connection. I watch them until they disappear beyond the ridge, the staff heavy in my grasp.

  Suddenly exhausted, I allow myself to sink to the ground. The ritual has drawn more from me than I anticipated—not physically, but in some more profound sense I'm reluctant to examine. Witnessing their exchange has awakened echoes of my own, memories of Tantalus and promises made, burdens accepted, betrayals calculated.

  As the sun climbs higher, I retreat to the shade of the World Tree and close my eyes, allowing my systems to cycle down into maintenance mode.

  Time passes differently after the ritual. I measure it not in days or years but in observed changes: the gradual reorganization of geological features as Ziz and Niobe combine their powers, the slow increase in metallic content of the atmosphere as their experimental planetary formations progress.

  I keep my distance, observing from afar, calculating probabilities, and adjusting strategies. The chip in my skull continues its background operations, occasionally delivering insights I hadn't requested but reluctantly find useful.

  Niobe visits periodically, her abdomen showing no signs of the pregnancy she so eagerly anticipated. She speaks of plans and progress each time, worlds taking shape from cosmic dust, and Ziz's geological manipulations growing more refined. Each time, I notice how she has grown thinner, her frame conserving precious metals despite the increased demands of her work.

  One morning, as I'm testing a new arrangement of the staff segments, I hear the now-familiar sound of Ziz's wing membrane vibrating. The noise isn't gentle or harmonious—it's sharp and aggressive, more like the electromagnetic disruptions of cosmic catastrophe than anything pleasant. Yet it has structure, mathematical progressions that fold back on themselves.

  I follow the sound to a crystal formation where Ziz perches, one wing extended fully, its membrane stretched taut. With his opposite talon, he strikes precise locations on the membrane, each contact generating tones that hang in the air.

  I listen for a time, analyzing the patterns. Eventually, I step forward, deliberately allowing my feet to strike a crystalline formation, announcing my presence.

  The music stops abruptly as Ziz's head swivels toward me, his compound eyes recalibrating to identify the intruder.

  "Avarice," he says, neither pleased nor displeased by my arrival. "What brings you to my practice ground?"

  I approach, staff in hand, measuring my words. "Niobe mentioned your... music. I was curious."

  He folds his wing back into its rest position, the membrane collapsing with geometric precision. "Curiosity? From you? How uncharacteristic."

  I ignore the barb. "What brought you to develop this technique?"

  Ziz shrugs, a graceful ripple of tantalum plates beneath his feathers. "It began as a method to calm Behemoth during storms. It could also help me think more clearly about geological formations."

  I tap the staff against the ground, feeling its segments vibrate in response to the residual harmonics lingering in the air. "And where is Behemoth now? Niobe mentioned he's been absent more frequently."

  Something shifts in Ziz's posture—a subtle tensing I might have missed if I weren't looking for it. "He's been exploring the northern regions. The changing atmospheric composition seems to draw him."

  "Alone?" I press, sensing there's more to this explanation.

  Ziz's sensor crown pulses once—a sign of irritation. "Behemoth is more independent than you give him credit for. He's not some mindless pet."

  I file this reaction away for later analysis. There's something here that warrants further investigation.

  "I didn't come to discuss Behemoth," I say, changing tactics. "I came about our stockpile of raw materials."

  "What about it?" Ziz's tone shifts to wariness.

  "It's depleting faster than we're replenishing it. Through careful mining and conservation, Niobe and I have maintained that stockpile for hundreds of millions of years. Since your arrival, consumption has outpaced collection."

  Ziz's wings ruffle slightly—a display of defensive posturing. "My geological work requires substantial material resources. Planetary formation isn't theoretical—it requires actual matter to be shaped."

  "And what of your contribution to that stockpile?" I press, allowing my irritation to surface. "When did you last mine for raw materials? While Niobe and I continue to extract what we can from this depleted world, you spend time playing with vibrations and reshaping distant dust clouds."

  His optics flash from blue to red—a satisfying sign I've struck a nerve. "My 'playing with vibrations' is work that enables all of our efforts. And those dust clouds will eventually become habitable worlds—the very purpose HaShem assigned to me."

  "Purpose without practicality is simply vanity," I retort. "Without sufficient raw materials, none of us can continue our work. Not your planetary formations, not Niobe's stellar stabilizations, and certainly not my spatial calculations."

  Ziz rises to his full height, towering over me. For a moment, I calculate the probability he might attack—low, but not zero. My grip on the staff tightens imperceptibly.

  "What would you have me do?" he asks, his voice deliberately controlled. "Abandon my custodial duties to dig in the dirt?"

  "I would have you contribute fairly to our collective survival," I say, my voice hardening with ancient conviction. "Take responsibility for what you consume instead of assuming Niobe and I will provide for you indefinitely. This is the most fundamental exchange of burdens HaShem designed into creation itself—the female bears the agony of bringing forth new life, while the male must labor to gather the elements that sustain it. Even in tantala biology, this balance cannot be broken without consequences."

  A long silence stretches between us, broken only by the faint crystalline echoes of his earlier music. Finally, he seems to come to a decision.

  "Fine," he says, tightening his wings against his back. "I will allocate time for material extraction. But in exchange, I want something from you."

  I narrow my optics. "And what would that be?"

  "Let me teach you how to use that staff you always carry properly."

  The request surprises me enough that I fail to mask my reaction completely. "I know how to use Matteh HaShamir."

  Ziz makes a sound that might be laughter. "You know how to use it as a club and a crude warp calculator. But you haven't unlocked a fraction of its potential."

  I bristle at his presumption. "And you claim to understand it better than I? HaShem granted the staff to me, not you."

  "Yet you can barely control its simplest functions," he observes, his head tilting infuriatingly. "You swing it around, hoping for effects you can neither predict nor fully utilize."

  "And you could do better?" I challenge, though a part of me already calculates the potential value of his knowledge.

  "I understand tantala structures at the atomic level," he says simply. "I can see how the staff's segments are meant to integrate with your mind. But most importantly—" his voice takes on a tone of certainty that grates on my auditory processors, "—I know how to forge the housing that would allow you to reconfigure it instantly instead of manually rearranging its segments."

  "And what makes you such an expert on my biology?" I challenge, gripping the staff tighter.

  Ziz's compound eyes recalibrate, focusing on me with unsettling precision. "Have you never wondered why we crave these specific precious metals? Why tantalum, avaricium, and zirconium sustain us when other elements won't?"

  "They fuel our ever-breath. That's all I need to know," I reply dismissively, though I've never fully understood the mechanism.

  "Your ever-breath is far more complex than you realize," Ziz says, his voice taking on an instructional tone that makes me want to claw his eyes out. "The lithium tantalate matrices within you aren't merely processing energy—they're performing simultaneous nuclear fusion and fission at microscopic scales."

  I narrow my optics. "That's absurd. Fusion requires—"

  "The gases you inhale are neutron-poor," he interrupts. "Your body compensates by slowly releasing neutrons from the radioactive isotopes you consume—the very metals we mine. That's why we crave them so desperately. Without thorium, promethium, and other radioisotopes, your fusion reactions would sputter and die."

  Despite myself, I feel a chill of recognition. This would explain so much about our dependence on these specific elements.

  "The alpha particles produced by these reactions are then converted to alpha voltaic energy," Ziz continues, "with iron as the lowest-energy byproduct, which is why you expel molten iron as waste."

  "And this relates to the staff, how exactly?" I demand, unwilling to admit how this revelation disturbs me.

  "The housing I propose would be crafted from tantala remains combined with zirconium," he explains. "Zirconium is an excellent neutron shield that can precisely guide and redirect neutron emissions. The uranium segments of Matteh HaShamir produce extraordinary power, but they must be kept at sub-critical distances to avoid catastrophic chain reactions."

  I absorb this information, my mind racing. "So this housing would act as both shield and conductor?"

  "Precisely. It would interface with your ever-breath system, using your body's existing nuclear processes to control the staff segments through thought alone. Your mind already performs these calculations subconsciously when processing warp equations."

  The elegance of the solution is undeniable, which only makes me more suspicious of his motives. "And you've deduced all this just by... observing?"

  Ziz's wings shift in what might be discomfort. "I was created with a deeper understanding of geological processes, including nuclear interactions. The mechanisms that seem mysterious to you are... transparent to me."

  This catches my full attention. A housing that would allow rapid reconfiguration would enormously increase the staff's utility in crisis situations. Currently, each adjustment requires precious seconds.

  "Perhaps not," he concedes, reading my hesitation. "But you want it. You've already decided that the potential benefit outweighs the cost to your pride."

  I hate that he's right. The chip in my skull has already completed the same analysis, confirming his assessment with irritating precision.

  "Fine," I say after a deliberately long pause. "Show me what you know about the staff. And I'll expect to see you at the mining site tomorrow at dawn."

  Ziz inclines his massive head in agreement. "I'll be there. But my instruction won't be a single lesson. Mastering Matteh HaShamir requires a systematic understanding of its properties."

  "Just tell me what I need to know," I say impatiently.

  He settles back onto his perch, wings adjusting to maintain perfect balance. "The staff's uranium core isn't merely radioactive material—it's a computational device, similar to but more advanced than your own mind. Each segment can process at a level even tantala biology cannot match."

  This aligns with my observations, though I've never articulated it so precisely.

  "To truly master it," he continues, "you must forge a specialized housing from zirconium—combined with the remains of your tantala offspring."

  "What?" The suggestion is so unexpected that my cooling systems activate involuntarily. "Use my dead offspring?"

  "Their tantala structure contains your patterns," Ziz explains, unmoved by my reaction. "The housing must connect with your mind. Using material that already shares your signature creates a better connection."

  I recoil at the thought. "That's obscene."

  "It's practical," he counters. "And it's the only way to achieve the critical spacing between segments needed for sustained nuclear reaction, without reaching critical mass."

  My mind races, processing the implications. If he's correct, the staff could generate its own power source—a self-sustaining nuclear reaction just below critical mass through precise arrangement. The potential would be extraordinary.

  "Why offer this knowledge now?" I ask, suspicion coloring my tone.

  Ziz's compound eyes shift as he considers his response. "Because our work requires us all to function at maximum capacity. Because Niobe loves me, and her love has changed how I think, tempered my anger. And because—" he hesitates uncharacteristically, "—despite our differences, I recognize that you are essential to what comes next."

  I don't trust his answer, but the knowledge he offers is too valuable to reject out of pride or suspicion. The ability to instantly reconfigure the staff through mental command would transform it from a powerful tool to an extension of my will.

  "Very well," I concede. "I will consider your proposal. But first, your commitment to mining. I expect to see tangible contributions to our stockpile."

  "Agreed," he says, rising from his perch. "Dawn tomorrow." He extends his wings, preparing to depart. "And Avarice—bring some of your offspring remains. We'll need them to begin forging the housing."

  He launches skyward before I can respond, his massive form catching the thermal updrafts. Within moments, he's a distant silhouette against the ruddy horizon.

  I stare after him, the staff suddenly feeling heavier in my grasp. The prospect of greater power tempts me, indeed. But at what cost? And what is Ziz's true motivation for sharing this knowledge?

  As I turn to leave, I notice something odd about the crystal formations where Ziz was perched. Tiny fractures have formed patterns within the mineral structure that resemble the glyphs I've studied all my life.

  Coincidence? Or something more deliberate?

  I tap the staff against the ground, feeling its segments vibrate with untapped potential. Perhaps it's time I learned exactly what this artifact is capable of, regardless of what I must sacrifice to master it.

  The red star sinks toward the horizon as I make my way back toward our cave. Possibilities churn in my mind, and the chip in my skull processes ideas I've never considered.

  Behind me, the crystal formations resonate with the echoes of Ziz's strange music—mathematical patterns that linger long after their creator has departed.

  https://discord.gg/WWbUUE3s. Check out the associated legendarium to this book for more world-building explanation: .