The feeling of wrongness deep within the World-Tree was like finding a single, dead, gray leaf on a perfectly healthy, vibrant plant. It was small, but it was deeply unsettling. Ryan's mind, which was now spread throughout the entire Forge, focused on that one cold, silent spot.

As he zoomed in with his consciousness, the cold spot began to stir. It was like he had accidentally poked a sleeping snake. The silent, dormant presence uncoiled itself from the deepest roots of his soul-tree, and he finally saw it for what it was.

A figure began to form in his mind's eye, a woman made of calm, gray energy. She had a serene, elegant face and wore robes that seemed to absorb the light around them.

It was a face he recognized. It was the Silent Minister, the powerful Herald from the Veiled Nebula. The one whose weird, no-consequences power had been broken by Scarlett's pure, stubborn instinct.

"Well, this is awkward," a small, human part of Ryan's mind thought. "Finding an ex-villain living in your soul-basement is never a good sign."

He had assumed she was destroyed when her relays exploded. But she had survived. She had escaped as a being of pure thought and had found the one place in the universe that was brimming with new, untamed life: the Forge, right after he had been reborn as the World-Tree.

She had latched onto his deepest roots like a psychic tick, hiding, sleeping, and slowly, quietly drinking from the well of his power.

Now, she was awake. And she looked very pleased with herself.

Thank you for the wake-up call, Genesis Lord, her voice echoed in his mind, calm and cool as a winter morning. I have been resting. And growing. Your life force is quite… delicious.

Before Ryan could react, she made her move.

He was just about to open the channel to Vorlag, to begin the ritual of mending the prison. He had the immense, raw power of the Forge gathered, ready to be sent down the cosmic pipe.

The Silent Minister, from her position deep within his roots, hijacked the flow.

It was like she had secretly installed her own valve on his main power line. The river of golden-green, creative energy that Ryan was about to send to the god Core was suddenly diverted. The Minister didn't try to stop it. She began to change it.

She poured her own cold, silent philosophy into the stream of life. The vibrant, chaotic energy of creation began to turn a sickly, pale gray. The beautiful, living song of the Forge became a quiet, monotonous hum.

She was turning his greatest weapon into her own. She was creating a wave of "silent life."

It was a terrifying, brilliant idea. It wasn't an energy of death and destruction. It was an energy of perfect, motionless peace. If this energy wave hit a planet, the people wouldn't die screaming. They would just… stop.

They would sit down, a faint, placid smile on their faces, and lose the will to do anything at all. They would stop eating, stop talking, stop thinking, stop living, all while being perfectly, peacefully alive.

And she was about to send this conceptual plague right through Vorlag's perfectly focused channel, straight into the heart of the god Core, to the Primary Weaver itself. From there, it would spread to every corner of the galaxy in a single, silent, unstoppable wave.

She was planning to put the entire universe to sleep.

Ryan was trapped. He was in a battle for control inside his own soul. He pushed back with his will, trying to regain control of the energy flow. It was like a psychic arm-wrestling match with the fate of the universe on the line.

He could feel his own life-giving power fighting against her pacifying, silent influence.

He was fighting on two fronts. On one hand, he had to keep the immense power of the Forge from exploding and destroying everything. On the other, he had to fight this psychic parasite for control of his own soul-space.

And he was losing.

She was too entrenched. She had been living in his roots for months, her influence woven deep into his being. He was stronger overall, but in this specific place, in the control room of his own soul, she had the home-field advantage.

The river of energy was turning grayer and grayer. He could feel her cold, calm influence starting to overwhelm his own warm, chaotic will.

He couldn't break the connection to the tree. If he did, she would win instantly. The plague would be unleashed. He couldn't fight her off. He was pinned down, his will stretched to its breaking point.

He was overwhelmed. He needed help.

But who could help him in a battle being fought inside his own mind? There was only one person. The one person whose mind was now permanently, unbreakable linked to his own. The person who had helped build this soul in the first place.

He gathered a tiny sliver of his remaining strength. He didn't have enough power to send a full message, to explain the complex, terrifying situation. He could only send out a single, desperate, psychic flare of pure feeling.

It was a cry for help. A silent, desperate scream sent across the bond that connected their souls.

Scarlett.

Back on the crystalline plains outside the tree, Scarlett was standing with the others, watching Ryan's still form. His hand was pressed against the tree, and a faint, golden light was pulsing around him. To everyone else, it looked like the ritual was beginning.

But Scarlett felt it.

One moment, she was watching him with a worried but hopeful expression. The next, a feeling of pure, desperate panic slammed into her mind. It was his panic. It was his fear. It was his silent scream, echoing directly in her soul.

Her eyes went wide. She knew, with an instinct that went deeper than thought, that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

She looked at Ryan's body, then back at the ship where Zara had left the Soul Weaver interface set up.

She knew what she had to do.

She didn't have time to explain the complex feeling that had just washed over her. The others would think she was crazy. They would try to stop her.

So she just acted.

She turned to the other Matriarchs, her face a mask of fierce determination.

"Guard our bodies," she said, her voice a low, urgent command that left no room for argument.

And then, before anyone could ask what she meant, she turned and sprinted back towards the "Odyssey."

She burst into the empty medbay where the Soul Weaver still sat, a strange and beautiful chair of crystals and light. She knew this machine. She knew the danger. Last time, it had almost unmade her.

This time, she was going in willingly. But not as a builder. This time, she was going in as a soldier.

She didn't project her whole consciousness. She didn't have time for that. She just needed to send a part of herself. The most important part.

She strapped herself into the chair, her hands flying across the controls, activating the sequence. She was projecting her will. Her stubborn, fiery, unbreakable will. She was projecting her fierce, protective, possessive love.

She was sending reinforcements. She was entering the fight for his soul.

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