Velarians were known across the galaxy for one thing above all else.
Movement.
They were tall but light, built lean from birth, every muscle long and flexible instead of bulky. Their limbs were slightly longer than most humanoid races, giving them a natural reach and balance that made their movements look unreal. When they ran, it felt less like running and more like flowing, as if the ground itself was helping them move.
Their joints bent smoother than normal, shoulders rotating wider, spines more flexible, hips built for sudden turns. A Velarian could change direction mid-step without losing speed. That was why they made perfect scouts. Perfect assassins.
Their faces were sharp but calm, eyes slightly larger than human, pupils adapted for both darkness and bright light. Their skin tones differed by tribe. Some were deep blue, some silver, some ash-grey, others greenish or pale gold. It marked lineage, not rank. Their hair followed the same pattern, ranging from white to black to shades that looked almost metallic under light.
They aged slowly. A Velarian who looked middle-aged could already be centuries old.
Bolt was Velarian, but he was different. He wore a mask. Not ceremonial. Not tribal. Something he chose after awakening. A reminder. A burden.
Now his people waited.
Celci tugged at Gar's sleeve and looked up at him with wide eyes.
"Is Bolt really going to find help, grandpa?"
Gar looked down at her. He looked no older than a man in his forties, but his eyes carried centuries. Wars. Migrations. Loss.
"We don't know yet," Gar said calmly. "But Bolt has never failed us before."
Celci frowned. "But the herald sounded scary."
Gar followed her gaze to the countdown hovering above the settlement. The mark left behind by the Lumen Veil. Numbers slowly ticking down, silent and merciless.
He felt the weight of it press against his chest.
"Yes," Gar said softly. "They are scary."
He turned away from the countdown and looked at the Velarians gathered around him.
Families stood close together. Warriors with blades strapped to their backs. Scouts resting low on their heels. Elders leaning on staffs that looked decorative but were anything but. Children clung to parents. Some tried to act brave. Others didn't bother.
Gar saw everything.
His sons. His daughters. His grandkids. His wives. His kin. His friends.
This was everything he had lived for.
"If Bolt fails…" someone whispered nearby.
Gar raised a hand.
"Listen."
The murmurs faded.
"We were born running," Gar said. "Before we could even walk, we learned how to move. Our ancestors crossed dying worlds on foot when ships failed them. We survived because we adapted faster than anyone else."
He took a step forward.
"They call us assassins. They call us scouts. They forget something important."
He pointed to his chest.
"We are survivors."
Some heads lifted.
"We don't break when fear shows up," Gar continued. "We bend. We move. We endure."
Celci watched him closely.
"Bolt went out there not because he wanted to," Gar said. "But because he had to. Because someone had to carry our hope beyond this world."
He clenched his fist.
"And until he returns, we don't collapse. We don't panic. We don't beg."
He looked at the countdown again.
"We live. We protect our own. We stand ready."
Gar turned back to his people.
"If the end comes," he said, voice steady, "it will not find us crying. It will find us moving."
Silence followed.
Not fear.
Resolve.
Celci squeezed his hand.
"You think Bolt will come back?" she asked quietly.
Gar looked up at the sky, far beyond where Bolt had vanished.
"Yes," he said. "And if he doesn't…"
He smiled gently.
"Then we'll make sure this world remembers us."
The countdown continued to fall.
The Field Of Motion
Bolt sat alone in his field.
He had created it without thinking. He always did. When his thoughts spiraled, motion answered. This place existed because he existed. Because speed needed space to breathe.
He lowered his head and laughed once. It came out empty.
"So this is it," he muttered. "Fastest thing alive and still too slow."
Images of his world kept pushing into his mind. The countdown. The kids running. Gar trying to look strong. Celci's eyes when she asked about him.
He clenched his fists.
"I saved them once," he said quietly. "I awakened. I ran faster than light. I drove invaders off."
He shook his head.
"And now?"
Nothing.
He was a concept. Motion. Speed. Escape. Chase. Momentum.
But none of that mattered when the enemy didn't care how fast you were.
"The Night Regalia feared the Lumen Veil," Bolt said to himself. "That alone should have been enough to tell me how bad this is."
He lay back and stared upward.
"If they won't face them head-on, then what chance do I have?"
He pressed a hand to his chest.
"I can run forever. I can't protect forever."
The worst part wasn't fear.
It was knowing why Adam looked at him the way he did.
Snitch.
Bolt swallowed.
"I didn't want to hunt them," he said. "I didn't want to sell anyone out."
But excuses didn't save worlds.
He rolled onto his side and sat up again.
"If I look for other concepts…" he whispered.
He already knew the answer.
They would see him and run.
Or worse.
They would kill him.
"Who would trust me?" he asked. "Who would stand beside someone who helped the Regalia track them?"
Silence answered.
Bolt exhaled slowly.
"There is only one being who didn't care," he said. "One who didn't even see me as worth killing."
His jaw tightened.
"And that scares me more than anything."
That Stranger.
The one who froze motion itself without effort. The one who looked at Bolt like a mistake that hadn't been erased yet.
Bolt stood.
"I don't have the luxury of pride," he said. "Or shame."
He straightened his back.
"If I go back to him, he might kill me."
He paused.
"If I don't, my people die."
Bolt nodded once.
"Easy choice."
Lightning snapped around his legs as he took a step.
The field trembled.
"That guy," he said, not shouting, not pleading. "You hate snitches. I get that."
He closed his eyes.
"But I'm done running from what I did."
He took another step.
"If I die, at least it will be moving toward something."
The field collapsed.
Bolt vanished.