Della & Bolt

Even now, when she hears sirens tear through the night, she bolts upright, ready to throw on her clothes in a rush—before remembering she no longer has to. She lets out a long breath, trying as best she can to calm the surge of adrenaline. But she doesn’t go back to sleep. She always takes a moment to make sure Ira is all right, gently cracking open his bedroom door before heading into the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee. With the steaming mug in her hands, she walks to the window and gazes out into the dark. Only now, it is no longer the rooftops of Arkaster she sees beyond the glass, but a strange and foreign city, unlike anything she has ever known. Without fail, Bolt joins her, roused from sleep as well.

Before they were bound by the Musubi, he would simply twitch his ears. Lately, he has taken to settling across from her, scratching the fur on his belly before placing his spectacles on his nose to observe the city in turn. There is always something unsettling in knowing she will never understand her son’s soul as well as she understands that of this little ball of fur—but she has to accept it: Bolt has become her Alter Ego and, as such, a part of herself. Most nights they stand there in silence until one of them yawns and the other follows. Then they both return to bed without a word, often wondering which dream will gain the upper hand over the other’s—unless it is a shared dream, as happens more and more often.

Before Ira was born, Della and Bolt both worked for the Stata Mater, and even before they were united through the Musubi, they functioned remarkably well together. She was responsible for securing intervention sites, excavating and stabilizing rubble when necessary. He accompanied rescue workers and EMTs when rapid care was needed, his small size allowing him to squeeze into spaces humans couldn’t reach. Vernand, for his part, was a distinguished firefighter—and a far better Alterer than Della. He knew the soul of fire and how to soothe it, preventing it from devouring everything in its path. Until the Pachamama Mart incident.

A fire had broken out at the construction site, and their division was called in to support the third brigade. When they arrived, black smoke was rising into the capital’s sky, and the injured were already being evacuated. Bolt followed the rescue teams to treat those suffering from smoke inhalation. Vern asked Della to stay back, not to expose the child growing inside her to unnecessary risks. Then he and the other firefighters moved toward the blaze, toward the hoses already sending torrents of water into the flames. She barely had time to turn before a shockwave sent her tumbling into the smoking debris.

She woke much later to the sound of ventilators. Still dazed, she realized she was lying in a hospital bed at the Asklepian. She placed a hand on her stomach and found it flat and aching. Confusion gave way to a cold, dull terror as a strangled whimper caught in her throat. Bolt climbed onto the bed as if trying to comfort her. He curled against her and drew her attention to the incubator beside the bed. Della struggled upright to look, for the first time, at her son. He had been born premature, but he was holding on to life. When she was finally strong enough to hear it, they told her that few firefighters had survived the blast. Vernand was not among them. Though they had pulled him from the rubble, his injuries were too severe to treat, and he passed away in his sleep.

Della clenched her teeth. She set everything aside—grief, pain—and focused on her son, born far too soon. Only when she was told he was out of the woods did she allow herself to break, to give in to the sorrow and anguish. She received care and decided to leave the Stata Mater. She could no longer afford to brave danger. She could not risk her life. Only Ira mattered now. Him—and no one else. She later took a position as a rescue instructor, sharing best practices, teaching safety protocols and proper procedures. For several years, that routine was exactly what she needed to rebuild herself.

She could rely on her family, and on Baptiste—Vernand’s father—who remained present for them, perhaps all the more because his son no longer could be. He was a loving, devoted grandfather to Ira and told him who his father had been and what he had believed in. It became a frequent source of tension between Della and Baptiste. She did not want Ira to grow into a daredevil like his father, even in the service of others. After a heated argument, Della hurled accusations at him, calling him a bad influence and claiming he was putting Ira in danger. The shock cut deep. In response, Baptiste enlisted in the Expeditionary Corps as a farmer. He had nothing left to lose and no longer seemed wanted among his own family.

Ira grew into a curious and enthusiastic boy. His mother took a new position within the Caduceus, teaching people with disabilities how to operate their Grafts. Bolt was also brought in as a laboratory specialist in infectious agents. Recruiters from the Parallax came many times, offering them a position as Exalt, but Della refused categorically each time, much to her son’s frustration. Ira could not understand. Becoming an Exalt meant helping the population, serving the common good. Refusing meant turning away from those in need. But each time the offer came, Della felt her throat tighten and her stomach knot. She knew what dangers awaited them beyond Asgartha if they chose that path.

When news spread that more and more explorers were falling ill after excessive exposure to the Sap, Bolt was selected to join the medical team. And when Della learned that Baptiste was among the afflicted, guilt overwhelmed her. In a flash of clarity, she understood her decision had never truly been for her son’s sake—it had been for her own. She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to lose anyone ever again. Her choice had been driven by fear—and that fear was suffocating the man Ira might become. When her son looked at her with pleading eyes, Della knew she could no longer refuse. Failing to help Baptiste would mean betraying the love she still bore Vernand. She took her son’s hand, nodded, and called the Parallax recruiters.

Today, she and Bolt are an Exalt. Fortunately, they have so far been assigned only to diplomatic missions with the Reka. They hold no political role, but they have been invited to study the Sap of the Reka’s new world-tree, along with its unusual fruit. The Reka have shared their knowledge and provided laboratories and equipment so the Asgarthans can conduct in-depth analyses. According to preliminary reports, only a few individuals—less than one in a thousand—react strangely to consuming Sap… Her badger, clad in a white lab coat, climbs onto his stool holding a wooden tongue depressor and gestures for the Lyra puppeteer to open his mouth. The sight might have been comical if not for the worried expression of the metal-legged Axiom Alterer. ‘Aaaaah,’ says the man with wild hair and golden hands as he sticks out his tongue, while Bolt peers down his throat through thick lenses.