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When the world had completed 33,550,337 full rotations, the Deliverer vowed to lay eternally across the vast fields of Aedes Elysiae, where reality stretches to the cusp of the universe. To nestle in golden rivers and sink the body of the little hero molded from oak wood and tied in thin, beige ropes. Splinters would prickle the tips of his calluses, and his nameless, marionette face, reflected the emptiness tearing his chest from the inside out. Vowed, for the last time, to return home before he was undone.
So why did the black cloak, the wings of an archangel destined to fall before reaching the heavens, drag over the apocalyptic immensity as if no other path existed beyond his ancient oath? Why did the cracked bones, chalk crumbling within each taken breath, march futilely through his home—a larger Aedes Elysiae called Amphoreus—if he no longer had a direction to course? If Phainon were to unsheathe Dawnmaker here and now, pointing it toward the false sky in an inspiring chant worthy of the promised tomorrow, the man would know where to lead. Okhemans and Kremnoans, safeguarded beneath the blue cloak dressing him, shimmering in the bitter sunlight, wouldn't think twice before tracing behind his steps on this land. But Phainon was no longer here. Not even to guide him.
Where was he?
The infernal soldier wandered the veiled corners of Janusopolis, not batting proper attention to the temple ruins that pleaded with familiar lullabies and prophetic whispers. A high-pitched voice, sweet as candy turned into three, prayed together.
"Don't let the flames of Destruction burn your tomorrow."
Downing the dull, vacant eyes, each step melted the pebbles underfoot, storing memories of a distant life; the Century Gates of the Janus demigoddesses, passage across worlds, now closed upon noticing his ominous presence. Abstracted, he no longer watched the darkness unfold.
The Traveler's village quaked with his arrival, home to an old companion whose speed was unrivaled to the infinite clock that spun and twisted in an abnormal pace, day and night merging into one in the sky as he too unraveled in chaos. The timer ran so hastily that it consequently turned centuries, decades, hours, minutes and seconds lethargic, reaching a limit. His numbness thrived in a torturous limbo where the end blended with the beginning, and vice versa. The clock hands began to fall apart after the hundred thousand mark, but he continued to count. He had to count.
"How can someone like you, a cold-blooded beast, yearn for the title of Deliverer? It's hilarious when you think about it."
A deceitful smile from the hooded woman rattled his nerves, for she was more than wrong. Again. The illusion of being a Deliverer was discouraging, far from being his wish if he ever got to have one. Much less of a role befitting of him now, when such a grandeur evoked more revulsion than prior, existing hope. Yes, it was repulsive how much he truly yearned to be anyone but who—or what—he was. Deep down, a hidden equation in the corrupted files. Time continued to grip the cat woman by the neck, the coin of Zagreus slipping from his grasp, and bringing it back to the sharp edge of his greatsword, cycle after cycle. He no longer watched the darkness unfold.
Okhema, his second home and unfinished mission, returned to haunt him in the image of a bloody sea above his hood, black tide lodging itself in everything he loved. Again. It shone and burned as intensely as the Coreflames within his guts. Millions and millions of times, hundreds of years watching the Dawn Device erase the horizon that used to mark the Chrysos Heir's routine—gathered in the healing baths encouraged by Hyacine, in Aglaea's business meetings in Dawncloud, in the deliveries of goods with the triplets, and in the banquets decorated with traditional dishes and ceramic plates, toasting victory with goblets of brew. Phainon would move past the crowds of the Marmoreal Market where the people most needed extra hands, and, in his free time, he’d visit the Garden of Life to check on the chimeras or spar with his equal. Equal… What was his name again?
“See you around.” Don’t go yet. I’m not finished.
He was aware it was important. Couldn’t forget, would not forget, no matter how many steps taken across the holy city abandoned his former self to decompose, goat heads and debris alike shattered by his blade. His heart pounded with fury, perhaps fear, even as the pumping beats withered and fragmented like a shattered glass vase. His consciousness collapsed, like all the times before when his eyelids would shut by force, no tears left to cry, sleeping and waking between the purgatory of zeros and ones and the nature of a living soul—one that truly breathes.
“Losses are a constant in the Flame-Chase Journey. Phainon, my humble student, Dawn will be born from your hands. Do not get lost along the way.” The weaver's touch tried to sew him back together in vain, snapping the golden threads one by one. The destination he had decided to reach was drawing near, so why would he remain trapped here? He no longer watched the darkness unfold.
Passing briefly through the Grove of Epiphany, he coughed up the remains of carnage metamorphosed into ashes, taste of molten iron, smell of burning, as he climbed the Cerces tree. It was so astounding and magical without the disorienting corruption he carried with him. The lectures and debates were back to put him in place, spoken in an unrecognizable language since they had been blurred by the waters of built-up indifference. Sentences proliferated regarding the so-called Truth of this world that none of the classmates, or those who would come after him, would find out about. Except for Professor Anaxa, who came so close and sometimes even managed to surpass it. The demigod’s codes were fascinating, and his genius echoed like a stunning hammer against his skull after the heated discussion they held in cycle 134.
“Maybe the road you’re walking is not one of salvation, but one that will simply drag the world into the flames.”
What an insufferable despise, for the truth to his Professor was always evident. He spat the last drop of golden blood onto the plant throne. What cold, weary wrath for the personification of blasphemy, for carefully pointing out the Destruction that, back in that cycle, was yet beginning to bitterly and irreversibly take root inside his mind and spirit. Now, as mountains of dismembered corpses pulled down his feet, the hissing mask reminded him not to surrender to the Destruction.
I will never submit to this idea of fate. He no longer watched the darkness unfold.
Two colossal moons skidded over the demolished domes of Styxia, a kingdom taken over by the dragon, terrified of lifting its head from the egg in order to face the stain of the past that would bring death even to Thanatos, owner of the revered flower bed swaying at the end of the west wind. Floating above the purple silhouettes, who wandered aimlessly around the memories of an oceanic paradise, the silvery eclipse hovered from rooftops to the cliff edges. Standing there, cursed by his one and only company, he questioned whether dawn should ever have existed. His neck ached from how frequently he searched beyond the stars, one eye peeling, almost blind. “Kephale too shall sleep in the embrace of his own creation. Please, rest in peace and heed the wishes of all who await you on the other side.”
The brine, spicy scent of the mermaid's sea entranced him, grains of foamy waves splashing against steel, listening to her melody in the distance. Cautiously, he dodged the radiant pearls sleeping in the corners of the kingdom's elegant, mosaic corridors and crashed harbors. What remained of the Deliverer would never wish to incinerate them whilst striding on his way, so he simply avoided his own cursed reflection mirrored in them. As long as this new appearance drove past unperceived, the memory of Phainon, noble warrior whom everyone approached with eloquence and charm, would not remain the default image in his head, replaced by this horror shell. One day, would he be able to revisit the prior if the longing feeling was as mighty as his steaming hatred?
"In the next life, you should come visit…" The next life would never come. Just a few more steps, and he could rest.
Don't turn your back on me. I have no other choice if you do.
Peaceful river currents, surrounded by butterflies and beetles, would never survive the turbulent waves of cold fire within him. He could almost tap the tunnel light at the end of the rainbow bridges, now turned desaturated and contaminated by virus, blocking passage in an attempt to prove to him that his destiny was not upwards, but to scour Amphoreus until his legs split. The first and, years later, the last family down in their graves, farmers and neighbors to Flame-Chasers… He no longer watched the darkness unfold.
Finally, the glory of the Kremnos festival radiated atop the Lance of Fury’s mythical metal like a solar burst, lightning and thunder stabbing the back of the great coliseum where all the war cries were remembered, one by one, by the loneliest soul. Membrane of Amphoreus, front defense against the black tide, and home of the prince — king, demigod, God — crowned in blood. If he hadn't preserved the last vestige of dignity that they both possessed, it would have been the most important day of his life, and perhaps the proposal would have been carried out. Maybe, in a dream, even accepted.
A forced, long hiss escaped the dry throat. Who was he trying to fool? They were too small to desire against fate. The world was, and continues to be, and will always be, absurdly larger and heavier on the Talanton scale. Even so, Phainon used to gaze at the dazzling face of the magnetic man belonging to his heart sleeping silently beside him. Brush on the cheek by the caress of his scratched fingers, rough but moving hesitantly, over the scarlet tattoo beneath the eye. To fall asleep after his frequent nightmares, the Deliverer always resorted to the memory of the lost prince's golden hue. Taking in those sunset eyes reminded him of the wrecked hometown during the harvest season, more than perfect. Memories of twirling the blond strands soaked in a vermillion gradient at the ends, and the braid that Phainon loved to redo when they bathed together, gave him an unforgettable limerence to hold onto.
"May I?" He would ask politely, despite knowing the answer, braiding his hair delicately and thinking of intertwining their bodies and their futures as one.
Longing—a persistence which allowed the fire of Deliverance to squeeze out all the hope he had of returning to the mornings that they would wake in the same bed, alternating between rooms depending on their routine. The rubbing of shoulders and knees on the chosen stone bench outside the Marmoreal Palace, the clash of iron when they opposed each other in training, and the protection of each other's backs when digging a larger road together on field missions was needed. Hope was a weapon forged to kill acceptance. Acceptance that these good moments would repeat themselves, programmed to do so, but he would never return to the prince as intended. It would always be Phainon, the hero bound to perform the miracle. The prince whose traits did not reappear in his consciousness as clearly now would definitely feel unparalleled frustration, since it would never be the Phainon the man knew, but him instead.
“Did you forget me?”
Mydei?
Turning around like thunderclap, nothing awaited him except for the resonance left in his eardrum, the timbre of soft, yet raspy voice that once served to calm an often unwelcomed mental spiral and put his jigsaw back in place, piece by piece. Mydeimos, the Undying Lion. A spectre of more than 33.5 million extrapolations who never grew tired of refusing a calm farewell. Who fought until his spine frayed in two. Accumulated desires and one unspeakable regret, from several previous versions of himself, penetrated his tenth thoracic vertebrae, again and again. “Don’t conjure up false thoughts as if they were mine. Aren’t you the one who best understands what I believe in?”
“... Mydei.”
“Deliverer.”
Ah… So he still saw him that way. This ache, unsalvageable, of not living up to it, he didn’t wish on anyone. “Not who I am.”
Do you still remember him, Khaslana? Mydeimos, the one who shouldn’t fall, but in his mouth, the sweet taste of freedom lingered. Mydei, his dream, transformed into a nightmare for the end of time. It was pointless questioning if he was real, for the Deliverer promised each life that he would remember this sensation.
“Are you coming or not?”
Bones rattled against each other, creaking as he attempted to reach the back of the one climbing the arena stairs. Remember Strife, who didn't check the giant shadow behind him and understood the silence, but still found the behavior of the swordsman that melted into the image of a lover… familiar. Both trailed beyond the murals painted in gold, red, and dark blue, figures of a past and a present. Nevermind, he couldn't distinguish anymore. Beyond the empty forge room, the rusty chain that remained from that competition, the broken bridges. Utter, yet comfortable silence, despite the shame omitted beneath his dark cloak.
Phainon had given his word that he would stab his weak spot if Mydei were to oppose Flame-Chase Journey, but Khaslana, having found his way again, itched to avoid repeating the act, just so that the hallucination—if it was one—would remain with him. He was being selfish, which brought on tremendous loathing at his craving to keep the blond man here for a few more minutes, just to imprint the face of his beloved, who never got to completely belong to him, more intensely. He wanted to forget that he had even forgotten Mydei, as the memories of the recurrences overlapped with one another, for it was already a great humiliation to fail at personal promises.
“Like I'd ever.” was one of those personal promises Phainon had made.
“It’s a date, Mydeimos.” Truly promised, a long, long time ago. But now, with Mydei's back before him, he contemplated. Am I still worthy of kissing it, even if I'm fighting against my own habit of not driving Dawnmaker into you?
And from there, galaxies of books and scrolls began Amphoreus' epics, yellowed pages that he had already turned in his lifetimes, recording the wishes of deceased colleagues in order to preserve the existence of each one. It wasn’t an option—allowing them to be sculpted as distant myths and mere names in this saga that lasted for cosmic ages. Annotations for himself, and whoever came before the fire he provoked.
“How is this…?” The Library of Garbaniphoro was always one of the last places he visited in Amphoreus, a scorching solitude that hammered his grief in cruel static, before passing on his responsibility to the next Phainon.
“What should I call you, then?” But he wasn't alone this time, and that was strange.
Mydeimos stared, straightforward as usual, rippled in serenity and determination, a facial expression that fathomed the unbound sorrows unmasked, and, at the same time, one that couldn't grasp every detail Khaslana reckoned with. How could they, when the junctures they met in while shouldering those crushing titles—including Flame Reaver, adopted after cycle 23,570,001—stood out as fatalistic encounters between gods?
“Whatever you see.”
“Well then, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.” Why? The idea that he looked the same flew above his cracked skull. He didn’t understand. “I shouldn’t be asking you anything, and I don’t wish to do this again. But just this once… Will you rest with me?”
The hymns and trumpets of Kremnos vibrated in his ruined mind. In other lifetimes, Khaslana would reach the point in the cycle where the Strife God became corrupted, hurling the spear bearing all wars and suffering of his people, and swinging his greatsword from side to side. He roared insanity and urged Khaslana to spread the angelic wings, frightening but marvelous, to fight him righteously. Titans, condemned to face opposing sides and invoke catastrophe upon the sacred lands of Amphoreus as the world was about to reset. Khaslana would gaze down deeply onto Mydei's divine form, so much so that his eyes would dry up, his throat close, and his hands tainted with overflowing gold. His expression would remain the same throughout the battle—utter ‘triviality’... Painful, but nothing he hadn’t experienced before. The permanent frown of disaster and anguish was like a scar, never to fade. When the Lance of Fury’s last shuddered breaths, forcibly spat out in an intimate smile, would fall upon his ears again, nothing else mattered but marching toward his next destination. Eternal victory, he would honor the wish as pledged. Mydeimos, now standing ahead of him in between shelves up to the skies and wooden tables, color returning to his eyes and face, longed for something Khaslana could never give… once again.
“... It’s not over yet.” Reluctantly, Khaslana squealed, limping shoulders. He wanted to cry with relief at seeing Mydei well and healthy, and to apologize for taking that away from him like it was nothing. In fact, it came with a guilt heavier than the world itself.
Mydei smiled halfway, almost not at all, but that already communicated everything, illuminated by a sun which had been extinguished long ago. His palm, uncovered by the golden claw, reached out so that Khaslana wouldn't let go once interlocked. Trapped in his gaze flinched the countless possibilities the prince could say, carefully navigating them like indecipherable poems, none sounding right.
“Before the world falls to flame,” Mydei had tested the waters, and from his reddened lips came precisely the right words, “deserved rest is not as unreachable as we initially believed it to be.”
“Is it right to embrace the time we have?” Although it wasn't the first time, or the thousandth, or millions that he had said this, it had become extremely important to point it out now. Since becoming the host of World-Bearing's Coreflame, his choices were reduced to a singularity he would not hesitate to tread, however demoralizing it might be, if it meant saving his family and the inhabitants of these forsaken elysian fields—codes that deserved to break through the walls of experiments and experience the sunrise the journey promised. Khaslana couldn't waste any more time here, or anywhere else.
“I can’t push duty aside.” A long, hissing pause before he lifted his head. Slow, and darkened. “I never disregarded my priorities. You know that.”
“If I told you your duty lies somewhere far away from here, would you come with me to see it done?” Mydei wanted to prove something to him.
A feeling that had been buried long ago had resurfaced and cemented the hole in his chest. He had taken slow, heavy steps forward, the world on his shoulders, leaving black footprints in his wake. It hurt so much. The right to cry for the losses that had occurred in his arms had never been his, let alone mourning his own diminished furnace. The ache of stripping himself bare in ruination was no longer as insignificant as he had thought halfway through the thousands of cycles, but rather was endured to be the meaning of his entire existence. Millions of torches were part of the necessary suffering, transformed into a beacon that cast this sun to the prison that contained them all. Nevertheless, here in the ‘next life’s dream’, Mydei made him stop running up the hill without envisioning its peak. Here, Khaslana allowed the other to drop the gauntlets to finally anchor the lightness of an awaited haven. His arduous, endless work… Seen as finished? If so, please don't wake him up.
“Won’t you spare me some mercy, Mydei?” He would laugh if he weren’t burning from the inside out, forced vocals reduced to ash. Therefore, a bitter ‘smile’ without essence, close to non-existence, was the maximum of his effort. “It’s not nice of you to give me this.”
Hope was the blade that never, ever, left his heart, wasn’t it? Khaslana, do you still remember? The deadly, bubbling blade, stained and brittle, ghost of a heroic motivation, used to tear apart the delicate flesh of his loved ones, and his own, and those of the ugly beasts that dared to stop its wielding. The sword that swung only forward and prevented him from looking back. He no longer watched the darkness unfold, only looking at what was now in front of him: a non-catastrophic way out, extending its graceful palm of peace. Did he have the right to accept it, after all?
“When did I ever back down?” Mydei arched an eyebrow, glinting with remembrance. The king wouldn’t give up here, or anywhere else in time. He would return the favor Phainon had done for them, in each individual cycle. “We’re all waiting for you on the other side. I’ll make you believe it, if that’s what it takes to bring you home.”
“Home.” Ah, how could he face them? “I can’t be receptive to such privileges anymore.” Khaslana would accidentally cremate everything around him. The Executioner was no longer a worthy receptacle for the care he dreamed of regaining, but how he longed to embrace someone again, to feel a human touch that wasn’t—
“Phainon.” Mydei caught him slipping, Strife's flame finally mirroring Khaslana's weariness, overcome by the determination of the lovers who saw themselves in each other in a tug-of-war. Come, and resist no longer. "The fruits of your labor are waiting to be collected out of here."
“Out?” Irontomb. He didn’t remember exactly, but something had awakened within him at that instant. Was it a final page turning, perhaps?
“Home.” Mydei penned down, and the hooded figure shuddered at the word, aware the man didn’t like to repeat himself. Even so, the patience and consideration Mydei possessed for others, overshadowed by his warlike nature that had never freed him to delve into delicacies far from prophecy, was an unquestionable virtue. Khaslana admired it to this day. According to the kremnoan, Amphoreus would witness a dawn that would include him just as much. So, if this was the only and last request—wish—to be fulfilled in this life, resting didn’t seem so bad as long as he wasn’t alone. As much as he believed to be deserving of the abyss, or had been born with the sole purpose of bearing chaos as his name suggested, the greed for a family reunion was irresistible.
“You aren't wary.” Khaslana concluded, distortion and melancholic rigidity escaping his mouth.
“I entrusted my back to you, and I’d turn around an infinite amount of times more if only you’d follow. Though I’d prefer it if you stuck by my side instead. Do you remember?”
Mydeimos. How could he forget him under any circumstance? The sacrificial soul didn’t know how to formulate an adequate answer, or a valid justification for why he should stay behind, accompanied by blood and destruction instead of a second chance for all that he had committed. What would he say? Mydeimos, don’t trust me so easily, however much my touch brings you comfort in the past and the future, and my words sweeten your nights like the wine we once toasted. Mydei, you don’t need to forgive me. I’d like that, still. Just don’t go where I can’t reach you.
Don't turn your back on Khaslana again, and pursue him to the end. Toward a vast wheat field, signaling another new beginning, or perhaps, at last, beyond the starry sky. Where Irontomb would shut down the gears of an irreversible apocalypse, falling into an infinite sleep.
"How do I know any of this is real?" He approached, voice steady, balancing his steps. Then, as the fog cleared, Khaslana remembered Hyacine asking him not to fall. Aglaea's farewell letter. Trinnon's encouragement before entering the Vortex of Genesis alone.
"You'll see for yourself."
Castorice's desire to approach him without fear. Cipher's confidence that he would fulfill his duty. Professor Anaxa's encouragement to discover the truth after his departure. Hysilens' and Cerydra's wills to explore worlds in the palm of their hands. Dan Heng and his partner's declaration that they would rewrite a resplendent dawn, far from the haunting evernight. Cyrene's eternal journey and the childhood promise. Mydeimos' serene silence that carved the path out for buried feelings to run through the air they shared.
"Then—" Khaslana let himself be carried away by the promise hidden in the pause. Whispered, so close that he barely heard his own words, or felt the lips move. "Give me the honor of resting with you, just this once?"
Afraid of this selfish request, face to face, he hesitated, slowly unveiling from beneath the black hood the misery of an omnipotent deity. Khaslana revealed his form, born from the dripping of his chest, nothing drastic or violent as before, but a sublime tranquility emitted during the transformation so as not to hurt his equal, or incinerate the dearest surroundings. After all, it was already an act of temporarily blinding his lover's gaze enough, and Mydei was not surprised by Khaslana's otherworldly magnificence. Phainon, in his mortal or celestial excellence, was more human in his love than all of them combined.
"I'd be glad to." That was all Khaslana needed to hear.
He would not submit to a future reserved for the path of Destruction, even if the wretched body howled and yearned for it. If there was a third path that wasn't A or B, chasing it would grant every wish an opportunity to shine. Without delay, he initiated physical contact by holding Mydei's palm, fingers warm and bearable thanks to the holy immortal body before him. It still definitely harmed Mydei, but the man wouldn’t show a sign of discomfort whatsoever. Instead, their light became one.
From there, reality deconstructed. Flashes of memories tore their consciousnesses into millions of fragments, quicksand sinking them into an ocean whose water basin was gigantic. A second sky without a horizon, both souls alternating between sinking and floating with the ride. The last sensation Khaslana allowed himself the luxury of receiving and propagating was the love that had impulsed him this far. Fury programmed to be unforgettable was no more sacred than the resistance that had kept him awake throughout his journey. He pulled Mydeimos—just as Mydeimos had pulled him—to gather in his arms and closed the windows of his soul, rich in tears that evaporated before sliding down his cheeks. The erroneous codes shrank the mutual embrace until nothing remained.
First, he believed it was his mother reciting the melodies of a familiar childhood song, the same ones from when he lay in her lap and she calmed him from unusual nightmares, fireflies flying near the windowsill, curtains swaying with the incoming breeze of dawn. Then, a higher-pitched, sweet, and warm voice grounded him onto her lap with the same symphony, the chirping of birds and the purring chimeras drawing ever closer. On one side, the caress atop his head and the faint aroma of sunlit gardens against his skin were immensely overwhelming, but also of dry ice, a winter lake, freezing the tips of his hair up to his forehead, lowering temperature as much as possible. On the other, footsteps of distinct origins resounded, easily recognizable as well as the murmurs of an eternal past swimming in the air alongside the refreshing water particles. He thought he heard a mellow fountain spilling its overflowing currents marked by eternal tranquility. His back was heavy, and, for a moment, the feathers bathed in gold and midnight blue flickered from the tickling of the rainbow flowers belonging to the prickly grass beneath him.
“Lord Mydei?”
“It’s alright, Castorice.”
“Snowy is strong! We believe in him.”
“Thank you for your aid, Mydeimos.”
“Now we just have to wait, right? It shouldn’t take long?”
“It won’t. He was there with me the entire time.”
Countless voices rushed him to encounter bodily sensations, circulating little by little, and they would disappear with the blink of his eyelashes. At the same time, he prayed hopelessly to the entire cosmos that this was indeed happening, and it was not just another reboot. For another eternity recorded in milliseconds, he remained motionless, porcelain face joined in crystalline gold, like the vases and other antiques he collected in his living room and bedroom. If his limbs didn't respond to the stimuli kissing skin around him, Khaslana didn't want to force it, and he didn't even want to think about making any effort. Just imagining the sunrise of Okhema invading the silk curtains that veiled his bed and scrolls, recalling the lives he led before falling into the deep hell of the system, calmed him. The way Phainon’s righteous voice addressed the citizens before melting into grains and hail, a radiant smile pulling at his eyes each time he waved to those who called out the title with enthusiasm in the streets, his palms washing and drying the past from his tired face, which still held stars in his eyes… He wasn't sure if it made any sense to mourn Phainon, because…
“Phainon?” There was still someone to resurrect him in an eternal page.
Cyrene's voice hovered, after the lullaby came to a halt, and whispered subtly. His sister—the exact image, at least—sounded more mature, with the same romantic charm she had always exuded since Aedes Elysiae. Gathering courage to return to life and open his eyes, Khaslana felt the weight of his body against the lap of the woman in pink, the shimmering white veil hanging down and the large crystalline heart outlined on her chest. The pink fringe flew with the natural fragrance of Garden of Life, tucked behind one of her ears to study his state in somewhat comical, surprised, and wide-eyed blinks. Cyrene had closed her lips and now smiled gently as she found him in his drowsiness, as if she knew he needed at least a bit of time before 'waking up' to his surroundings. Maybe she perfectly grasped that aspect of him since they understood themselves as people. In between wheat and flower fields, Khaslana hadn’t a reason to hide anymore—the call, finally answered.
In a circle, all the Chrysos Heirs gathered around the pink and violet petals of tomorrow. Perceiving the fragile silence, he could also point to the hope present in each heart, a rekindled candle coming to fruition in which ignited smiles with its warmth and pushed forth tears of relief. No one spoke, but it was enough. Hot tears and sworn smiles, tight hugs and accepting sighs. Mydeimos was beaming, waiting for him to rise, and that was enough.
“Dawn is here.” Cyrene spoke in a fairy whisper so only he would hear, almost as part of the previous song she dedicated to him in the beginning and end of the universe they had known. She raised her head to the spilling lavender, pink and yellow colors, where Kephale no longer shouldered the imprisoned sun. “All the heroes of this journey have ushered in the new world.”
An aimless journey through the world he knew, a repetitive and torturous dream, had come to an end. From Castrum Kremnos to Janusopolis, he wandered in the depths of his mind searching for an answer: a closer dawn to free him from his own weight. Here was Amphoreus, not of the gods or the programs, but of the family he had nurtured during the Flame-Chase Journey lasting millions of epochs to be remembered in this page. The land Khaslana had fought so hard to protect, to break in two, to be reborn. And from the remaining pieces, the sun rays shattered through the branches of the great tree above their heads, sunrise sky-colored leaves falling in their lap, wind chimes mimicking the newly born heartbeats. His divine form, not scalding but just… comfortable enough for others to sit beside him, managed to spark the vines’ allure. It shimmered with majestic gold reflected from his eyes, instead of being encapsulated within seals of eternal dormancy.
From watching the blond warrior of a million promises in the corner of his vision, he thought he saw Mydei’s lips move in silence. “Welcome home.”
Mydei, I want to formally tell you something. Can you take me to your library again?
The desires he carried with him had transformed into the first seeds of memorable sacrifices, and for that reason, Khaslana miraculously shed tears. He knew where to look, how to watch the darkness unfold into a brighter day. The more he faced the future ahead, the more he felt his own breath and the beating of a returned heart. Alive—he was alive, and this time truly alive.
Khaslana knew where he was.