She was as Nyxara remembered her from childhood, before the wasting silence that had claimed her final years: tall and graceful, her form not quite solid, seeming woven from the heart's own starlight and shadow. She wore the simple, elegant robes of a Vega lyricist, not the royal regalia of a queen consort. Her hair, the same shifting silver as Nyxara's own, fell like a cascade of captured moonlight around a face that was both serene and immeasurably sorrowful. Her eyes, soft and star flecked, held a love so profound and unconditional it was a physical force, a warmth that pushed back against the biting cold of the night.

She did not glow with the fierce, demanding light of Polaris or the hungry fire of Algol. Hers was a softer luminescence, the gentle, persistent radiance of Vega, a song given form. She was a memory given breath; a ghost made from longing and the heart's ancient magic.

Nyxara's mind, so recently scoured clean by grief, could not process it. Logic, strategy, the cold calculus of reality, they were ashes. All that remained was the raw, desperate need of a child who had been lost for a very, very long time.

A broken sound, half gasp, half sob, escaped her. "Mother…?"

The figure did not speak. She simply smiled, a gesture that held the warmth of a forgotten sun and opened her arms.

It was an invitation Nyxara could not refuse. She did not run; she stumbled, her legs weak and uncoordinated, collapsing into the space that should have been empty. She expected to fall through cold mist, to shatter the illusion against the hard, unforgiving ground.

Instead, she was caught.

There was no solid impact, no physical warmth. It was like stepping into a beam of sunlight on a frigid day or being enveloped by the resonant note of a perfectly struck harp. A sensation of pure, ethereal acceptance flowed through her, a comfort that sank not into her skin, but directly into her shattered soul. She felt her mother's arms around her, a whisper of starlight and memory, holding her together as she threatened to fly apart into a million glittering pieces.

The dam broke for the second time that night. But these were not the tears of solitary despair she had shed at her father's pillar. These were the tears of a child finally coming home.

"Mother," she wept, her voice a ragged, broken thing against the non existent fabric of her mother's shoulder. "How could you leave me? How could you both leave me? I am too weak. I am not… I am not what you were. I cannot do this alone."

The words poured out of her, a torrent of confession she had never been able to make. "I have failed you. I have failed father. I tried to carry his dream, I tried to be the light, but it was too heavy. I stumbled. I fell. And now… now everything is broken. The trust I placed, the alliances I forged… they were all built on sand. I am a queen who cannot see truth from lies. I led us to the brink of ruin. They see it now. They all see the failure that I am."

She expected a rebuttal, a denial. She expected her mother to tell her she was wrong, that she was strong, that she was a true heir.

Kerykethel did none of those things. She simply held her, her ghostly form a steady, silent anchor in the storm of Nyxara's grief. Her hand, a shimmering outline, stroked Nyxara's hair with a touch that felt like a breeze. When she finally spoke, her voice was not a sound that travelled through the air, but a resonance that bloomed directly within Nyxara's mind, soft as a forgotten lullaby and as steady as a heartbeat.

"I never left you, my little nova. I am in the silver of your hair. I am in the song of your heart, even when you forget the tune. I am here."

Nyxara shook her head violently, clinging tighter to the apparition. "But you are gone. He is gone. And I am here… failing."

"You are not failing," Kerykethel's voice murmured. "You are learning the weight of the crown. Not its glitter, but it's true, terrible mass. Your father learned this. As did I."

"He never felt like this," Nyxara insisted, the image of her infallible father towering in her mind. "He never trusted a viper. He never let his people turn on each other in fear."

A ripple of gentle, sorrowful amusement flowed from her mother. "Oh, my dear little nova. He fell a dozen times. The treaty with the Southern Plexus that collapsed and cost us a generation of miners. The misjudgement that led to the Great Frost Quake. He bore the weight of those failures. He did not hide from them. He stood before the people, and he said, 'I was wrong. I will learn. We will adapt.' That is why they followed him. Not because he was perfect. Because he was resolute in his humanity."

The echo of Lucifera's words, now coming from her mother's spirit, gave them a weight that finally, finally began to penetrate the fortress of her despair. It wasn't a revelation of her father's weakness, but of his profound strength. A strength she had misunderstood entirely.

"My humanity feels like a flaw," Nyxara whispered. "It is the part of me that trusted. That hoped. That believed in a dream. And it is the part that is now broken."

Her voice hitched, and a new, more profound anguish surfaced, the core of all her pain. "His dream, Mother… Shojiki's dream. It was so beautiful. A world not of master and slave, but of roots and branches. One tree. I held it in my hands. I carried it with me into that… that void of a throne room. I offered it to Ryo like a precious jewel, and he looked at it as if it were dirt. He ground it under his heel. And now… now I can't even hold onto it myself. The dream feels like ash in my mouth. How can I make a reality of something I can no longer even feel? How can I build a world from a blueprint I've forgotten how to read? I am the last keeper of the covenant, and I have let the light go out."

She looked up, her multi hued eyes pleading with the shimmering form. "The dream was my compass. My North Star. And now I am blind. How do I lead them to a shore I can no longer see?"

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"You are asking the wrong question, my love," Kerykethel's voice resonated, not with criticism, but with infinite patience. "You speak of the dream as a thing to be held. A finished object polished and complete. It was never that. For Shojiki, for Eltanar, it was never a destination. It was a direction. A choice made anew every single day."

The ghostly form seemed to gather the starlight around them.

"You think you have lost the dream because you cannot manifest it perfectly in a world of violence and betrayal. But the dream is not negated by the violence; it is defined by it. The choice to seek peace in the face of war, that my little nova is the dream. The act of trusting when it is easier to suspect, that is the dream. The refusal to become the monster you fight, even when it is the most efficient path, that is the dream. You have not failed to hold onto it. You have been living it in the most difficult way possible. You are not its curator; you are its current, living expression."

Nyxara fell silent, the words washing over her. She had always seen the dream as a magnificent, fragile relic she had to protect and present to the world. Her mother reframed it as a verb. An action. A continuous, often failing, effort.

"But the cost," Nyxara whispered, the memory of the Conclave's hatred a fresh wound. "It feels like the dream asks me to sacrifice my people's trust on an altar of naivety. To choose a beautiful idea over their harsh, hungry reality."

"No," her mother's thought was firm, a clear bell in the mist. "The dream is not naivety. It is the deepest form of strategy. Ryo rules through fear and division. It is a powerful, simple weapon. The dream is a more complex, more resilient weapon. It forges bonds he cannot break because he does not understand their nature. He can shatter a sword, but how does one shatter a song? How does one break a root system that runs deep beneath the surface? Your error was not in believing the dream, but in believing it could be given like a treaty. It cannot be given. It must be grown, patiently, in the hearts of others. And that begins with you. Not as a queen delivering an edict, but as a gardener tending the soil. You must make your own heart fertile ground for it again, before you can ask it of anyone else."

"A stone is not weak because it is struck by a river," Kerykethel continued, weaving the lesson together. "It is made smooth. It is made sure. It endures frost, flood, and fire. It is patient. It is sure of what it is. It does not try to be a star. You have spent your life trying to be the star of Shojiki's dream, the brilliant, finished light. But you are its soil. You are its vessel. You must be the stone that provides the foundation for the dream to take root in others. You cannot single handedly manifest it. You can only create the conditions where it can grow. You must be patient. You must endure. You cannot shortcut your way to that strength. You must walk the path, and you must take it with each step."

For a long time, they sat in the communion of silence. Nyxara felt the monumental shift within her. The dream was no longer a weight she had to carry alone; it was a seed she had to nurture, a direction in which she had to consistently point her people. The burden was not lighter, but it was different. It was shared, distributed across every choice, every day.

As this new resolve, fragile but real, began to take hold, a change stirred within her. The faint, moonlit glow that had clung to her skin flickered, then steadied. Then, it began to shift. It was not a conscious act; it was an autonomic response, a reflection of the integration happening within.

The steady, calm blue of Polaris glowed at her core, not the blinding beacon of before, but the sure, deep light of the true north, a direction, not a destination. Across her skin, the angry, cracked lightning of Algol flashed, but it was no longer a chaotic supernova; it was the passionate, hungry fire of a will to survive, to protect what was hers. The sorrowful, beautiful silver of Vega traced the paths of her tears, acknowledging the loss and the love that caused it, transforming grief into a song rather than a scream. The stubborn, enduring ember glow of Betelgeuse pulsed in her hands, the will to stand her ground and fight.

Her form did not settle into one clan's aspect. It held them all in a slow, deliberate, and beautiful rotation. Each hue was distinct, each a part of her legacy, each a part of the fracture. She was not a unified whole, but a living constellation. A record. A stone.

"I am so afraid I will fail again," Nyxara confessed, her voice still small, but now clear, the hysteria gone from it.

"You will," her mother's spirit replied, her tone gentle yet absolute. "Failure is not the opposite of success, my daughter. It is the currency of it. Every misstep is a lesson etched into your being. Every betrayal teaches you to see more clearly. The goal is not to avoid falling. The goal is to learn how to fall, and then how to rise from it, each time with a stronger foundation."

Nyxara looked at her mother's shimmering, beloved face, and for the first time, she saw not just a ghost, but a woman. A queen. A person who had undoubtably felt this same weight, who had known her own failures and fears. The idealized idol was replaced by a real, resilient ancestor. The love she felt was no longer the worship of a distant star, but the fierce, proud love of a daughter for a mother who had endured.

Her mother's form began to soften, to become more transparent, blending with the mist of the heart. The visitation was ending.

"Do not go," Nyxara pleaded, though she knew it was futile.

"I am always here," the voice echoed in her mind, fainter now. "In the stones. In the starlight. In you. Remember. Be the stone. Endure. The light you seek is not out there. It is the light you make by enduring."

And then, she was gone. The space where she had stood was empty, filled only with mist and memory.

Nyxara knelt alone on the cold ground, but the crushing loneliness was gone. In its place was a profound, aching solitude that was filled with presence. She felt the truth of her mother's words. They were not gone. They were part of the heart. Part of her.

She looked toward her father's pillar, and her breath caught in her throat.

He was there.

Not as a solid form, but as a shimmer in the air, a warmth in the light falling on the obsidian. The impression of his smile, the echo of his hand on her head. He was there, standing beside the memory of her mother, not as a king and queen, but as her parents. Their love was not a demand for perfection; it was an endowment of strength. A belief not in the queen she was supposed to be, but in the woman she was.

The final wall around her heart crumbled. Not in a storm of anguish, but in a sunrise of understanding. A sob wracked her frame, but this one was different. It was not of despair, but of release. Of joy. Of a happiness so profound it could only be expressed through tears. She was not alone. She had never been alone. Their legacy was not a crown to be worn, but a strength to be uncovered, one patient, enduring moment at a time.

She did not know how to fix the truce. She did not know the truth about Corvin. She did not know how to unite her people. The path ahead was still shrouded in fog.

But she knew, with a certainty that felt as solid and real as the river stone still clutched in her hand, that she would take the next step. And then the one after that.

She rose to her feet, her body feeling both heavier and lighter than it ever had. The shifting colours of her essence settled into a low, steady hum, a symphony of resolved fragments.

The ghostly reunion was over. The work of a queen remained. But the woman who would do that work was forever changed. She was broken, yes.

But she was a stone. And she would endure.

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