My Shard Bearer System - Elias's Legacy-Chapter 240: Swimming with Sharks

Elara blinked.

The memory peeled away slow, like frost melting from glass.

He was like my own father, she thought. The ache beneath her ribs came back full force.

"Your dad..." she started. Her voice caught. She forced it steady. "He was amazing."

She didn’t look at Elias right away.

"I remember him fixing my comm once. Like it was nothing. I thought it was fried—he got it working with some half-bent tool and a gum wrapper, I swear."

Her fingers curled against her thigh. The words stuck for a second.

"Said I’d do big things. And it sounded real when he said it. Like I would. He had this way... he made you believe in yourself."

Elias sat still. His breath shallow.

The name Dorian hadn’t echoed in years. Not like this. But now it came back sharp—carved with weight.

The shard pulsed. Colder.

"Do you think he’s still alive?" he asked, voice low, almost hoarse.

Elara hesitated.

Her brow furrowed, gaze drifting to the floor. "I... don’t know. Cradle Planet’s a wasteland now. The Federation stopped sending missions a while ago."

But something in her voice cracked.

He was tough, she thought. Tougher than anyone else she’d known. Tougher than she’d ever admit out loud.

Elias leaned forward.

His hands gripped the cot frame tight. The shard hummed louder beneath his skin, vibrating against the metal.

"Then why’s there a mission to Cradle Planet in a few months?"

Her eyes shot to his.

The room felt smaller. The light harsher.

"The crucifix said he’s alive," Elias said. The words came sharp now. Certain. "What’s the Federation hiding?"

Elara snapped her fingers, the motion sharp, sudden—like tugging on a thread that had been buried beneath everything else.

"Right," she said, eyes narrowing as the memory surfaced. "The Chairwoman mentioned Cradle Planet. Said she might be sending me."

Her voice slowed. The words sat heavier now.

"No details. Just... said my name was on the list. That was right before the shards hit. Before everything changed."

Her hand lifted to her chest, palm brushing the front of her uniform. A phantom ache lingered where the impact had landed.

"They came out of the ground," she said. "Just—exploded. Like the world split open. I didn’t even have time to run. It hit center-mass. Felt like someone cracked the sky and shoved it into my ribs."

Elias straightened, a cold prick spreading behind his eyes.

"Exploded?"

The word echoed, sharper than he’d intended.

The crucifix’s words filtered back through memory: A network of soul energy. Buried, tangled, waiting. His mind ticked through fragments—systems bleeding through dimensions, energy rooted in stone and blood. If the shards erupted at multiple points—

It’s the same.

Elara nodded once, slow. "Yeah. At Reno Galade. Out in the flats. Command post near the ridge line. I don’t know why it mattered—maybe they were just doing recon. I assumed it was a routine check."

She hesitated.

Then looked at him closer.

Why’s he so focused on this?

The question clawed up her chest, pulling her breath tighter. Her grip on the bedpost tightened. Cubes floated slightly lower, its light dimming. freeωebnovēl.c૦m

Elias tapped a finger against his chin. The motion felt performative—like he’d seen someone else do it once and borrowed the shape.

Is this how I looked before?

Naïve?

The crucifix’s voice threaded through Elara’s doubt, not silencing it, but sharpening the edge.

"You don’t think it’s odd," Elias said, tone lower now, deliberate. "That they’d send you—a command-ranked Valkyrie, decorated and still in her prime—to a backwater like Cradle Planet, with no details, while aliens are circling back?"

His eyes locked with hers. No accusation. Just weight.

"You don’t find that strange?"

Elara exhaled through her nose. Slow. She didn’t flinch, but her expression shifted—something behind it pulled inward.

"I figured it was rotation," she said. "They cycle people through. Keep us moving so we don’t start asking the wrong questions."

Her voice dropped a note, eyes tracing a line on the floor that wasn’t there.

"But no, I didn’t think about it that way."

Cubes hovered closer. A wisp of frost trailed over the cot, dissipating against the heat from Elias’s skin.

She caught herself—almost said more. Almost leaned in.

Instead, she offered a faint shrug.

"Still," she added, quieter. "It didn’t go far. Nothing official came through. And right now, you need to recover."

Her fingers brushed his hand—barely a touch, but it stayed.

"The others are going to lose it when they see you awake."

But her hand didn’t move. And her eyes didn’t quite settle.

He’s chasing ghosts, she thought. But if I pull away now... he’ll disappear into them.

Elias dropped his gaze. The hum of the ward filled the space between them. Monitors ticked. The shard in his shoulder vibrated low, in sync with the walls.

His thoughts scattered—then pulled in tight.

The Announcer’s voice. The crystal’s formation. Giselsin’s skyline fractured in memory. None of it felt separate anymore.

It’s all connected.

He took a breath.

"I’ve been too trusting," he said, voice low. Not regret. Just clarity.

I can’t tell her everything. Not yet.

Not until the crucifix’s truths stopped sounding like prophecy.

"I think..." He let the sentence breathe. "Some things I saw—they mean my father’s alive. And Cradle Planet isn’t what they say it is."

His hand curled into the sheet.

"If you hear anything—anything—about a mission there, I need to know."

"Of course," Elara said, her voice low but steady. Her fingers curled around his hand—not hesitant, not forceful. Just there.

Then she leaned in.

The kiss came without warning. Soft. Brief. Her lips barely brushed his, but the warmth of it cracked something in his chest.

The shard reacted instantly—its pulse lurching, cold spiking through his nerves like frost down a wire.

Elara pulled back just as the door clicked open.

The sound hit like a trigger.

A guard stepped into the room, the metal of his boots sharp against tile. His armor shifted with every step, matte black plates clicking into place with practiced weight. The rifle on his back glinted under the overhead lights—slung low, but not casual.

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