They threw rocks first.
Then glass.
Then words.
"Monster."
"Curse."
"Thing."
The boy didn't cry.
He didn't run.
He only stood at the edge of the square—eyes wide, hands limp—watching the children who once waved at him now hurl mud and spit. Mothers clutched their daughters. Fathers reached for blades.
He had only wanted to belong.
A bottle struck his cheek and shattered. Blood spilled—not red, but silver-blue. Another curse. Another reason.
He turned. Walked.
No one stopped him.
Deep into the woods. Past the rivers. Beyond the reach of beasts.
There, he found a hollow tree, old and vast.
He crawled inside. Drew his knees to his chest.
And listened.
No heartbeat.
No tears.
Just stillness.
He closed his eyes—
And slept for a thousand years.
---
The sky burned.
Light twisted above the battlefield in the wake of a vanished scream. Where the Demon Lord once stood, now there was only scorched wind and fragile sigils shivering in the air—sharp as glass, bright as fire.
At the center: Caelus.
Slumped forward. Barely conscious.
His banner still raised, but trembling. Light no longer poured from it—only thin threads of turquoise crawled across the cloth like dying veins.
Alaris reached him first, boots crunching over wilted petals.
"Caelus—hey—Caelus—"
Kairos landed beside him, silver spear dropped. "He's not responding. What was that spell?"
Alaris touched his cheek and flinched. "He's freezing. His eye—gods—it's cracked."
The iris ticked like a broken clock.
Opal. Fractured. Time unraveling.
"He overcast," Kairos muttered. "That wasn't Pneuma. That was… something older."
---
The air shook.
They turned.
The realm itself was breaking.
Where the Demon Lord had fallen, the sky split in jagged fractures—darkness showing through the cracks. Floating lands began to tilt and fall. Flowers withered mid-bloom, crumbling into dust before they touched the ground.
"We need to get him out," Alaris snapped.
Kairos hesitated. Then lifted Caelus into his arms. The three of them rushed toward a faint sigil in the air—a return glyph Caelus had left behind.
The world split—
And they vanished.
They reappeared in a flash of pale light—into chaos.
A knight screamed. Steel struck bone. A Varn'Kai fell. Dirt flew in streaks of blood and ash.
The war hadn't ended.
Not yet.
Mimi turned fast. "Caelus?!"
Kairos laid him down gently. "He's alive. Barely."
She dropped beside him, hands already glowing. Her magic flickered—drained, desperate—but she pushed it into his chest, into the cracked eye, into the frayed threads of his banner-touched cloak.
Alaris stepped past them, knife drawn. One throw—clean and brutal—ended a charging demon.
"No one touches him," he growled.
From the cliffs, horns sounded.
Royal banners crested the ridge.
The King had arrived.
Caeron rode at the front, sword raised. Knights surged behind him—shields, banners, and borrowed time.
The King shouted, "What happened?!"
Mimi turned, eyes glassy. "We won."
And then—light fell.
Not flame. Not rain.
But something gentler.
Motes descended like drifting stars—each one weightless, warm. They passed through armor, cloth, skin.
And where they touched, something healed—not wounds, but weariness.
They didn't scorch.
They remembered.
The sky wept Caelus' light.
And no one knew what it meant.
A circle formed around him—knights, mages, allies.
Hoon stood beside Mimi, blades drawn.
Kairos stood over him, quiet.
Alaris crouched low again, muttering something only Caelus could hear.
The Bleak no longer screamed.
It pulsed—slow. Gentle.
"Shouldn't we do something?" Hoon asked.
Kairos didn't look away. "He already did."
The ground near the Bleak shimmered. From the cracks, wildflowers bloomed—small, cautious, impossibly alive.
The air shifted. Sigils dulled from crimson to blue.
"He's sealing it," Alaris said, low. "Even unconscious. Of course he is."
Then Caelus stirred.
Only slightly.
His breathing trembled. His eye opened—dim. The ticking slowed.
And he whispered:
"...Don't call me a monster…"
No one had.
But the wound in him still remembered.
Mimi's hand trembled over his.
"You're not," she whispered. "You're not."
The Bleak exhaled.
And sealed.
From the ridge above, the King arrived last—sword lowered, eyes wide.
He looked down at the boy beneath the banner.
And dropped to one knee.
Not in worship.
But in apology.
He did not wake.
But he wasn't gone.
He was elsewhere.
Kalthem.
Silence folded over itself in layers.
Time slowed, reshaped, stilled.
The sky was layered in overlapping dimensions, like reflections in a shattered mirror. The air shimmered—not with heat, but with rhythm.
Ticking.
A long, pale hall stretched before him—empty, endless.
Caelus stood at the threshold.
Barely.
His knees wavered. His hands trembled with residual ache. But his spine stayed straight.
He always stood like that—here.
Footsteps echoed.
From the far end, a figure emerged—robes trailing like reverse ink. Every step calculated, smooth, inhuman. Their presence was not loud—but inevitable.
Aurelius.
The Time Arcanist.
Caelus lowered his head. "Aurelius."
"You are late," came the reply—measured, even.
"I was dying."
Aurelius raised a brow. "And yet you are here."
They stood in long silence. Here, moments stretched like centuries. Neither spoke, until Aurelius stepped closer—eyes scanning the cracks in Caelus' aura.
"You used Pneuma."
"Yes."
"That was reckless."
Caelus's fists clenched. "The Demon Lord—"
"—Was defeated," Aurelius finished. "But at cost."
"I protected them."
"I did not say you failed."
Aurelius was never cruel. Never warm. Constant. Inevitable. Like a pendulum that did not pause for grief.
He nodded toward Caelus' right eye. "Your sight is fractured."
"I know."
"Your foresight will falter."
"I know."
"Your memories may loosen."
Caelus's voice barely held. "I know."
"Then why did you still cast it?"
Caelus closed his eyes.
"…Because I remembered the first time I wasn't saved."
The battlefield still smoldered.
Mimi knelt beside Caelus, hands pressed to his chest. Her magic glowed faintly—less a spell, more a plea. Her cheeks were wet, her voice cracked.
"He's still not waking—!"
Hoon crouched beside her, blood on his arms, his sword stuck into the soil like a flag. "You're doing fine. Keep going."
"But his eye—" Her breath hitched. "It's cracked—I don't know how to fix that!"
"You don't have to." Hoon's voice softened. "Just hold him together."
Alaris sat back, coat streaked in soot. "Reckless bastard," he muttered. "Didn't even wait for us."
Kairos leaned on his spear, gaze distant. "He never did. Always wanted to finish the story alone."
But none of them moved closer.
They kept watch.
Their silence—guarding him too.
Back in Kalthem, Aurelius turned slightly, shadows catching on the folds of his sleeves.
"You've changed."
"I'm trying not to," Caelus murmured.
"You're letting them in."
Caelus didn't reply.
Aurelius regarded him for a long, still moment. Then he raised a hand. Between his fingers, a small gold key flickered into existence—its form simple, but humming with impossible age.
"Your time here wanes. Kalthem will reject you soon."
"I know."
"I offer this once more." The key floated toward him. "Take it if you wish to return."
Caelus stared at it. "…Did I choose wrong?"
"Do you mean the spell?" Aurelius asked. "Or the people?"
Caelus's breath shook. "Both."
Aurelius did not smile. "You won't know. Not yet."
The key dissolved into light.
Caelus opened his eyes.
The world came rushing in.
Pain.
Cold.
Soot in his lungs.
The scent of scorched soil and magic lingering like smoke after a funeral.
Caelus gasped—shallow, sharp—and Mimi nearly screamed.
She collapsed into him, arms wrapping tight, sobs caught between laughter and fury. "You're awake—gods—you're awake—don't ever do that again!"
Hoon exhaled for the first time in minutes, his shoulders finally relaxing. "Welcome back."
Caelus blinked slowly. His voice was dust. "…How long?"
"Only a few minutes," Mimi whispered, brushing his silver hair back. "But it felt like forever."
Kairos stood above them, one hand on his spear, a smile tugging faintly at his mouth. "A lifetime, maybe."
Alaris turned away, wiping something from his cheek without comment.
Caelus let his eyes fall closed again.
His cracked iris ticked once… then stopped.
He whispered, "It's over."
But none of them believed him.
Not really.
Because behind them, the Bleak no longer bled.
It breathed.
Softly.
As if sleeping again.
The winds over Drevaloth had changed.
Where once there was death in the air, now there was breath. Not peace—no, not yet—but something like it. The sigils around the Bleak dimmed, their glow folding inward as if lulled into rest.
The knights who remained sheathed their weapons in silence.
Caeron approached, expression unreadable, his gaze fixed on Caelus. "He stabilized it."
The King, now dismounted, stepped through the smoke, his sword lowered. He looked older than before. Not by age—but by weight.
He knelt.
One knee to ash-stained earth.
Not in worship.
But in apology.
Mimi looked up, startled. "Your Majesty—?"
The King did not speak at first. He only bowed his head toward Caelus, whose body still trembled faintly in Mimi's arms. "When I was a child," the King said, voice rough, "you carried my father from fire. He never forgot. Neither did I."
Caelus opened one eye—dim, unfocused—but heard him.
"I wasn't trying to be remembered," he murmured.
"And yet," the King said, rising slowly, "here you are. Saving us again."
Kairos chuckled faintly. "Some things don't change."
"No," Caelus said, sitting up with effort. "Some things do."
He turned toward the Bleak. The sigils were still fading.
Not broken.
Not healed.
But bound.
For now.
He stood, albeit shaky, and looked to the horizon—eastward.
There were more.
He could feel them.
More Bleaks.
More chances to fall.
But for now—he had bought them time.
And in the silence, the land exhaled.
As the mist finally cleared and the last of the Varn'Kai husks burned to ash, the camp returned to quiet. Caelus sat under a broken arch, sharpening his breath more than his blade, while Alaris and Kairos exchanged muttered thoughts over cracked rations.
The King, having stayed longer than expected, finally approached the trio. He paused before Caelus—no guards, no pomp. Just the weight of realization and the hesitance of a man who once saw a god as a ghost story.
"You're leaving," the King said.
Caelus didn't answer right away. His gaze was distant, his cracked eye faintly pulsing. "You've rebuilt enough to last a few seasons. That's more than most."
The King gave a slight nod. "Still. If ever Drevaloth falls again…"
Kairos stepped between them, grinning. "We'll send you a postcard."
Alaris sighed. "We won't."
The King managed a tired chuckle and turned to leave. "Then I'll just pray."
As the King disappeared into the thinning crowd, Caelus adjusted the strap of his cloak. "Time to go."
"Back to Kalthem?" Alaris asked.
"Back to silence," Caelus corrected.
They gathered their things—runes, supplies, folded maps, a small wrapped jar of Mimi's tea she insisted they bring. Then, as Kairos activated the return sigil with a flare of his palm—
"Wait!"
A shout cut through the air. A group of adventurers rushed forward, weapons clattering, bags hastily strapped.
One with a crooked scarf and mismatched boots held up a parchment. "You're Caelus, right? The one who—uh, blew up the sky?"
Another chimed in. "We need an escort to Deladolpheous. Just for a bit! Please—we'll pay! There's something strange with the southern gates and no one wants to go through unless you're with us."
Kairos blinked. "Deladolpheous?"
The one with the scarf nodded. "Yes! The storm city. Norkenheim, the path to Deladolpheos is much more dangerous and—"
Caelus already started walking past them.
Kairos turned to Alaris. "Well then, off to Deladolpheous we go!"
Alaris dragged a hand down his face. "I guess more stuff to do!"
Caelus didn't say a word.
The King and his people looked at them. Signaling his people to return to the city, waiting for them if they return one day. Mimi and Hoon went with the King. Hoping that one day, Caelus will return.