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Staying in the past, keeping the gap of the loop forever closed by her own hands—Cyrene wandered endlessly through the past Amphoreus. At the end of each cycle, she poured the remainder of her power into crafting the Eternal Page, a home for every seed she planted with the Trailblaze’s help. Yet, every time, she discovered a few stray seeds the world had forgotten along the way.
She tried to send them back one by one, but a seed sprouting needed an anchor—someone to tether it to the Eternal Page. Cyrene had to discern which of the existing seeds resonated with this lost memory, or it could not belong.
She no longer counted the loops. There was no need. She only knew that at the end of it all, there would be something beautiful—tragic, perhaps, but hopeful nonetheless.
Today, walking beside her counterpart, the smaller, ever-curious PhiLia093—Peach—Cyrene noticed another drifting memory. A tall, middle-aged woman sat beneath a pink tree, frail and defeated, her hands clutched around something small. She seemed suspended between worlds, as if Amphoreus itself could not decide where she belonged.
Cyrene’s chest tightened.
Peach, always the sharper observer, crouched slightly and squinted at the woman’s hands. Her eyes gleamed with that teasing, little detective curiosity. “Hm… what’s that you’ve got?” she asked softly, leaning closer. Then her lips curled in amusement. “A chess piece? Could you possibly know Lady Cerydra?”
The woman’s face flickered with recognition. A faint light sparked in her eyes, the kind that only memory could awaken. “The little princess… is she here too?” she whispered.
Cyrene and Peach exchanged glances, then shook their heads. “Not quite,” Cyrene said softly, though her heart thudded. “We’re not exactly close—but my tall, beautiful self here,” she gestured to Peach, “is Cerydra’s companion during a certain… Flame-Chase.”
The woman’s gaze drifted upward to the pink canopy, serene yet laced with melancholy. “What did your friend, Cerydra, become? And what is this Flame-Chase you speak of?”
Cyrene’s lips pressed together. She could feel the weight of the question, the way this lost memory yearned for something unattainable yet familiar.
“The leader of the Flame-Chase,” Cyrene said firmly. “Amphoreus’s first—and only—Imperator. Cerydra.”
She remembered every detail—the fire in Cerydra’s eyes, the way she had declared, “I’d rather be forgotten than be defined.” Cyrene had recorded that phrase long ago, a seed of truth she still clutched. It was a philosophy both liberating and heavy: Cerydra wanted to act without labels, to live without judgment. Tyrant, hero, tragic human—such definitions were a cage.
Cyrene’s mind wrestled. Could she, the keeper of memories, truly tether this one? How could she define the Imperator’s life, when the very core of Cerydra had resisted definition? Yet she had always known what to do in these moments. She needed to let Cerydra anchor her memory to this woman—so she too could live within the Eternal Page.
The teacher’s trembling hands gripped the chess piece tighter, grounding her in the present. Peach’s grin softened into a gentle nod, having already understood the significance of what lay between them.
Cyrene extended her hands, steady and warm. “It’s alright,” she said softly, the words carrying both certainty and compassion. “I’ll help you find her.”
The woman blinked, fragile hope flickering in her eyes—the smallest crack in a heart long abandoned. She leaned forward, taking Cyrene’s hands, and in that silent clasp, the world shifted just enough. The first thread pulled tight toward a reunion that would change Cerydra’s fate—and perhaps redefine what it meant to be a hero, a tyrant, or simply human.
It was supposed to be a normal day in the Eternal Page—this new world where Okhema City had become the heart of Amphoreus reborn. Life thrived gently here. Citizens set up shops, tended early crops, and carved out daily rhythms of survival and joy.
And somewhere on the quiet edge of the city lived the retired Imperator.
Cerydra spent her days inventing variations of chess. Not because the world needed them, but because it was the first thing in her long life that belonged solely to her. Her loyal subjects still trailed after her, insisting on offering meals, trinkets, and unnecessary help. She rejected all of it—politely, sharply, repeatedly.
Though some, like the ever-stubborn Dux Gladiorum, seemed immune to refusal entirely.
Today she sat outside a small tea stall, engaged in a match with a bewildered citizen. The board between them was scattered with mismatched pieces—some classic, others hand-carved prototypes from her late-night experiments.
“This,” Cerydra declared as she moved a knight with unnecessary flourish, “is the future of Amphorean entertainment. Mixed Chess!”
Her opponent blinked. “Imperator, this game is… confusing.”
“Confusing?” Cerydra leaned forward, delighted. “My dear subject, unpredictability is the spice of intellect! Isn’t it fun that you can move my piece each turn as well?”
“That may be true,” the woman groaned, rubbing her forehead, “but when you ruin my plans, it’s just a losing game!”
Cerydra laughed—an earnest, warm sound that still startled the citizens who remembered her as a divine strategist. “Write your critiques anyway. Your frustrations will help finalize the rules before the tournament.”
The woman stood, scribbling notes onto a parchment as instructed. “It’s not that it isn’t fun…” she began, hesitating.
“Speak freely.”
“You’re simply… impossible to beat. You always were. Imperator, you win battles of the mind the way others breathe.”
Cerydra paused, just for a second. Praise was a familiar thing, but it carried a different weight now—one she wasn’t sure she wanted anymore.
When the sun dipped below the shimmering horizon of the Eternal Page, she walked alone back to her home. A small, quiet house—far too small for someone who once commanded nations, but exactly right for someone who wished to forget she ever had.
She collapsed onto her bed, staring at the ceiling beams. Her thoughts spun—not around conquest, not around tactics of war, but around what her opponent could’ve done differently. She replayed each move, each potential branch, searching for the path where she would have lost.
Because she understood the truth the citizen was too kind to say:
No one wanted to fight her honestly. Not yet. Not after everything.
Cerydra rolled onto her side.
Maybe she could challenge Dux Goldweaver tomorrow?
No—Aglaea had duties overseeing the Month of Harvest celebrations. Dux Gladiorum and Dux Celeripes were assisting with preparations. Dux Lucens would be busy managing the newly restored sectors.
Dux Solaris? The King of Kremnos? Both buried in rebuilding efforts.
Everyone had someone. Something.
Some place to belong.
Everyone except the former Imperator sleeping in a small, quiet house.
Cerydra shifted again, exhaling slowly.
She had rejected leadership.
Rejected conquest.
Rejected every attempt to draw her back into ruling.
She had fought for peace for thirty-three million cycles.
So why did peace feel so… silent?
Her fingers twitched, imagining a rook sliding across a polished board. Maybe she needed a new game tomorrow. Or a new opponent. Or—perhaps—someone who knew her beyond titles, beyond battles, beyond definition.
Someone who could understand the person left behind after the end of the world.
But that was wishful thinking.
The light-blue-haired woman closed her eyes, letting darkness settle over her. Chess would greet her again in the morning.
And loneliness—soft, familiar, almost polite—would sit at her bedside like an old friend.
Familiar soft voices tugged her from dreams.
“Cerydra… Lady Cerydra!
“Little Princess… Wake up.”
For a moment, Cerydra thought she might still be asleep, caught between cycles. Then the garden of the Eternal Page appeared around her, soft pink petals drifting lazily on the wind. Three figures stood before her: two Cyrenes, familiar and steady, and the one person who had taught her the art of thinking, the woman who had made her into the chessmaster she had become.
She sat up slowly, brushing grass from her clothes. “Wh-what… wh-?” Her voice trembled, though her composure returned quickly.
“Teacher..” she said simply, the word carrying decades of unspoken history.
The teacher smiled, a teasing warmth in her eyes as she extended a hand to help Cerydra rise. “Little princess, snoozing as usual, I see.” Her gaze flicked to the Cyrenes.
The taller Cyrene stepped forward, a faint blush warming her expression. “My dear Imperator, welcome to my Eternal Loop—my past, my present, and hopefully not my future, Amphoreus.”
Cerydra’s eyes softened at the sight of her companion. Pain tugged at her chest, the weight of memory at the same time, the relief of reunion. “Little companion…”
From behind, the smaller Cyrene—Peach—waved shyly. “Hello, dear Imperator! We finally met! “You must be… the original PhiLia.” The retired Imperator quickly caught on.
“You’re sharp, as Cyrene told me,” Peach said, letting a small smile tug at her lips.
“Yet not sharp enough to understand the situation fully,” Cerydra admitted, an honest tilt to her head.
“Don’t fret,” the taller Cyrene said, stepping closer and offering a hand. “I’ll explain as we walk.”
Cerydra and Cyrene walked together, leaving Peach and the chess teacher behind for a while. Cyrene’s voice was soft, measured, as she explained, “Some seeds of memories… People which Amphoreus chose to forget… They drift through the memoria. If no one remembers them, they can manifest here, in my end garden, as lost memories—wandering alone in the sea of what once was.”
She paused, looking up at Cerydra, her pink hair catching the sunlight. “I have to ask you something, Imperator. A decision falls to you alone. If you choose to remember your teacher… She can anchor herself in the Eternal Page and grow with Amphoreus. But if you choose to forget… I will have to tell her, a heartbreaking news.”
Cerydra’s chest tightened under the warm sunlight, petals drifting around them like soft confessions. “That’s… like asking me if I want to kill my teacher, isn’t it?” Her voice was quiet, heavy with the weight of a past she had always tried to leave behind.
As the Imperator, she had long believed looking back was dangerous. Even at present, in the Eternal Page, she hesitated to consider letting past companions remain close.
But her teacher was not just any companion—she was the one who had taught her, shaped her, forged her mind into what it had become. She was Chessmaster Cerydra because of her.
Cyrene stepped closer, her hand brushing against Cerydra’s as she reached out. “Cery… I’ve spoken to her already,” she said, pausing, as if weighing each word. “I was surprised, honestly… she said she deserved to be forgotten, ashamed of her past.” Her hands clasped Cerydra’s gently, holding them with both of hers. “She only wants to talk to you.. after that, you can choose to forget her, if you wish.”
Cerydra felt a pang of recognition—the same selfless humility that had defined her teacher. She exhaled softly. “That… sounds exactly like her.” She let go of Cyrene’s hands and turned her gaze away, collecting herself. “May I… speak to her now?”
Cyrene nodded, a faint smile touching her lips, though a flicker of concern remained. “You won’t have all the time you might wish for,” she reminded gently, but her hand lingered just a moment in the space Cerydra had left, as if reluctant to let go.
Cerydra’s mind raced, imagining the conversation she would have with her teacher. Yet her heart… it couldn’t find the words just yet.
Something about Cyrene walking beside her—the way her presence eased the weight of this impossible choice—was quietly, insistently grounding. And for a moment, she allowed herself to notice it, to feel it, before the world of responsibilities and memory tugged her focus back.
“Teacher.” Cerydra murmured, taking a seat on one of the stone slabs beneath the pink tree, her gaze steady but distant.
The older woman followed, settling across from her. “Our little princess,” she began, her voice gentle but probing, “has gained quite a reputation. The Leader of this… so-called Flame-Chase journey, was it?”
Cerydra let out a low, almost ironic chuckle. “Is that how the little companion defined me?” Her lips curved, amused but tinged with thoughtfulness. She understood now—it wasn’t how the world would label her, but how Cyrene, her ever-watchful friend, perceived her. Optimistic, perhaps naïve, but sincere. It was a perspective Cerydra almost envied.
The levity fell away. Her voice dropped, firm and unflinching. “Teacher… I burned Hyperborea to the ground. After that… your nation as well.”
She studied her teacher’s expression, searching for anger, disappointment, or fear. There was none. Just measured observation—the calm that could unsettle anyone. Normally, Cerydra would not have cared how someone saw her. But this… mattered. Deeply.
“As both our nations deserved,” her teacher said, a faint shadow of satisfaction in her eyes. “I was a princess, but the circumstances of war forced me to become something else. I had to learn to kill, to survive.” She spoke quietly, the weight of her own history mirrored in her tone.
“And you,” the teacher continued, leaning slightly forward, “a princess of Hyperborea… were you merely made to conquer everything for them?”
Petals drifted down, brushing Cerydra’s face, and she flicked them away without hesitation. “I chose that path, teacher. My elders… they bear no blame. I saw a beautiful empire, cold as ice, yet burning with an ambition that would consume everything if left unchecked. I chose to destroy it all.” Her tone carried no regret—only resolve, the certainty of a person who had seen the world’s decay and refused to falter.
She rose, moving one of the stone slabs to face her teacher more directly. “I crowned myself with this burning crown—the Sovereign of the fallen empire Hyperborea.” With a subtle gesture, she conjured a chessboard between them, the black and white squares shimmering with ethereal light, each piece a weighty symbol of her past.
Her eyes met her teacher’s, unwavering. “Now, teacher… I speak these truths with discomfort, but perhaps it will ease me… one chess piece at a time. For the Great Imperator Cerydra never truly spoke to anyone at this length.”
The board lay between them, more than just a game—it was confession, challenge, and a bridge across years of war, ambition, and understanding. Every move, every piece taken, would mark the intersection of truth and choice, the silent dialogue of two lives forged in fire.
One by one, the chess pieces found their places. Black to Cerydra, white to her teacher, the board set under the pink blossoms drifting lazily from the trees above.
“Two chess masters can hardly speak sentimentally, can they?” her teacher said, her voice calm but not without expectation. She had waited for this—the culmination of decades, the final conversation with the pupil who had grown to eclipse even her own cunning.
The teacher remembered the day she was born, the 14th princess in the lineage of the Kadon. But she wasn't a full-blooded royalty. Hence despite royal blood, she was trained to be a sent assassin for neighboring kingdoms.
She was then sent on a mission, a mission to kill Hyperborea's lost princess that had returned so miraculously. The princess didn't want to fail, she wanted the recognition of the king that she was his child. She tried to lure this target with a simple game of chess, as children are drawn to brightly colored stones.
However later on, she grew fond of this princess. She can see scars and even hear the obvious starving stomach at times - this princess was treated badly by Hyperborea. It was a question that lingered in her mind yet the teacher never tried to pry.
But the princess they called Cerydra had eyes that burned brighter than anything she ever laid eyes on.
“You lose again,” the teacher observed.
“Alright, I’ll try again,” Cerydra replied, her tone steady.
“You lose again.”
“Losses will let me win. One day.”
“You lose again.”
“I’ll get my chance, teacher.”
It was taking too much time. Her elders were telling her it's time to kill Hyperborea’s growing princess. But on the day Cerydra finally won against her, she decided to betray her own nation..
Because she believed that the small fragile princess with such eyes will one day be the one to send them all to ruin.
She exposed her own assassination plan to random guards and like wildfire it spread through the empire of snow. Because of this exposed plans, her nation was also plunged into an all out war against Hyperborea. She sacrificed herself as she couldn’t bear to betray Cerydra after all.
When her execution came to be beheaded in front of the public she smiled, as a chessmaster she knew this would not be a simple ripple to fate. Yet in her dying seconds, she realized the little princess wasn't around. How can she be anyway? She was the heir to that burning crown.
She closed her eyes and can only hope for that same flame to burn her whole body and soul.
The young Cerydra heard of the news, how her chess teacher planned everything. From their meeting, to getting her comfortable through teaching her chess, to even a supposed assassination attempt. Yet the princess has grown more mature, has learned the art of chess by heart - sacrifices are essential to win. Her burning eyes shouldn’t just be a piece of sight, Cerydra finally decided it is time to be the flame itself.
She wore the empire’s signature blue royal mantle, her giant golden crown and finally her spear-like pointed scepter.. She went to command her maids and butlers to make a grave for her teacher, and place a white rose on top of it.
This is the moment she declared - the princess named Cerydra bearer of the royal crown, heir to Law commands you all.
She then visited the grave of her chess teacher, and replaced a stone with a carved word "teacher" in it.
When she came back to the castle they told her she owns, the elders questioned her actions. Condemning that the princess was close to committing a treason by allowing the public to see the heir of Hyperborea with such emotional attachment towards the enemy. They couldn't allow her to mourn for someone like that, a half-blooded disposable of Kadon, they added.
However the princess, the puppet they built, has finally cut her own strings and fangs are starting to sprout. "Don't worry my dear elder, if you ever burn alive I promise to place a stone that will honor your position, the grand Duke of Hyperborea that took in children forced to become fake royalty." The elder was furious with this declaration, he wanted to jump and stab a knife to the princess’s head but her showing up to the public means they already know she truly exists. It would jeopardize his plan to take over the crown of the king.
He couldn’t see that the princess had become a chessmaster.
“You never lost your wit, teacher,” Cerydra said, as her rook slid across the board, sacrificed deliberately.
Her teacher laughed softly, a smile that carried decades of both pride and resignation. “The little princess has grown, your moves have changed. I can’t even read why you’d give up that rook.”
“I learned from you,” Cerydra said quietly. “Sacrifices are part of the game.”
“Indeed… but that rook—questionable. It opens a path to your king.”
Cerydra met her teacher’s gaze, steady and unflinching. “Are you going to take it, teacher?”
The older woman’s lips curved knowingly. This was the trap she had expected. Yet she did not move. She waited. This was not just chess—it was truth unfolding in measured steps, a dialogue between souls forged in strategy and fire.
“As we discussed,” her teacher said, finally taking the rook, “tell me—after my death, after the fall of our empires… where did you go? Did you create this… Flame-Chase?”
Cerydra’s hands hovered over the board, her heart heavy with the knowledge of how much she wanted to prolong the match, to savor the conversation through each piece and movement. But time had its own demands. She moved carefully, deliberately, each piece revealing another truth of her life, another confession of choice, sacrifice, and inevitability.
The rook had been taken. One truth laid bare. And in that moment, the retired Imperator understood: this match would end, not from eagerness, but from necessity. She had to let her teacher see everything she had become—and, perhaps, the fire she had carried for so long, fueled by lessons learned under that same hand.
“After holding the burning crown of Hyperborea, Loukas became my target—for the evil that had taken root among the grasslands and summer fields,” she murmured, sliding a piece forward. Instinctively, she captured a pawn from her teacher’s side.
“I marched down from the Epos Mountains with two choices,” Cerydra continued, voice steady, precise, as if each word was a calculated move on the board. “Either gather rebels or infiltrate a smaller kingdom from within, and take root there.” She pushed her pawn forward again, seizing the teacher’s bishop. “The path was clear… I rallied Loukas’s rebels under my banner, and I raged upon the snow against their empire.” Her next move claimed the teacher’s knight.
“What a gamble…” Her teacher’s lips curved, more impressed than shaken. She had known this pupil would risk everything, always daring, always seeking the decisive play.
“I freed the Heir of Passage from captivity while the Chrysos War dragged her to Loukas’s hands.” Cerydra moved her queen boldly, placing it in front of her teacher’s king. “I made Loukas bow before me, repelled the Chrysos War, and when I took root in Okhema… I declared the beginning of the Flame-Chase.”
Checkmate.
Her teacher’s eyes softened, recalling the fire she had first seen decades ago in this small, defiant girl. That fire had never faded—it blazed now across the chessboard, across time itself, relentless and unwavering.
“Of course, not everything bent easily,” Cerydra continued, shifting a bishop to secure her queen’s path. “Many states refused to bow. Cities full of greed, ignorance, and rulers who cared only for hubris. I brought order where there was chaos, even if it meant tearing down the old world to plant a new one.” Her voice softened slightly, almost intimate, yet firm—a ruler recounting the uncompromising truths of her reign.
Her teacher extended a hand, a quiet acknowledgment. “You won.”
Cerydra froze, caught in the weight of the moment. The game was over, and yet the stakes were far higher than victory or defeat. It was a reckoning of past and present, of choices made and lives lost.
“You truly became the ruler I imagined… No, the king I hoped you would be,” her teacher said, eyes shimmering with sunlight, serene yet unflinching.
The words pierced Cerydra more sharply than any blade or battlefield ever had. She, who had always refused to look back, who had pressed forward through ruin and fire, felt a tremor of vulnerability. “I became a tyrant, my dear teacher,” she whispered, voice raw. “I burned my enemies, razed cities, sacrificed countless lives for this cause… Do you still… view me as a king?”
Her teacher lifted her hand, bringing it closer to Cerydra’s face. “In the game of chess, you won fair and square. Now… a handshake. Show me that even a tyrant can have a heart to respect her teacher.”
Cerydra’s eyes widened, a wave of unspoken longing washing over her. How long had she waited for this—someone to see her, understand her, without condemnation? Through countless cycles, countless lives, she had borne the solitude of the crown alone. Yet in this moment, under pink petals drifting lazily in the wind, the peace she had long sought finally brushed against her heart.
“Thank you, teacher,” she said, voice soft, reverent. She shook her teacher’s hand, the gesture simple yet monumental. They stood, two chessmasters bound by strategy, sacrifice, and years of history, sharing a quiet acknowledgment of mutual understanding.
Petals swirled, catching the sun’s soft glow. Cyrene and Peach watched quietly from the edges of the garden, silent guardians of this fragile moment. Strategy became dialogue; chess became a language of trust, respect, and unspoken connection.
The final game had ended—but the echoes of fire, sacrifice, and loyalty lingered between them, unbroken, eternal.
The Flame-Chase is a journey of constant loss, whereas life itself holds no value. Therefore we cast ourselves to the flame, only to scribe the poem of creation.
The leader of the Flame-Chase—the tyrant, the Imperator named Cerydra—had faced the weight of all things, standing against corrupted Titans and the collapsing order of empires. She had lived, ruled, and sacrificed alone, her presence both fearsome and fleeting.
And yet, even at the peak of her power, the Demigod of Law declared that even a king is but a sacrifice, she remained steadfast, never faltering. A true king.
“Have you decided?” Cyrene asked softly as she approached, Peach standing just behind her like a quiet witness to the fading moment.
The woman—once Cerydra’s teacher, now only a drifting memory—lifted her gaze with calm resolve. “Yes, Lady Cyrene. I wish to be forgotten.” Her voice didn’t waver. “I was the Imperator’s chess teacher… and that is all I wish to remain. Nothing more.”
Cyrene inhaled slowly, respectful of the choice. She turned to Cerydra, light blue hair catching the falling petals. “Little companion… her wish is to let go. To pass on without being written into the Eternal Page.”
Cerydra’s fingers curled slightly at her side. The truth hurt—more than she had expected.
But Cerydra wasn’t finished.
Her voice softened, carrying a gentle uncertainty. “Yet… I think there is more to life than chess. More than the past she clings to. If she ever chose to live again, I would gladly share new games with her. Stories beyond the board.”
The former student looked at her teacher, truly looked—past the roles they once held, past the old cycles of doom. The woman had defined herself by one skill, one era, one war-torn world. A piece carved only for strategy, never for living.
“Teacher,” Cerydra said quietly, “you taught me how to win. But life is not fully a garden of paraadise—and it is not a chessboard either.” She stepped closer, not touching, but offering something far deeper. “If you choose to go… then go without regret. But if you ever return, don’t come back only to play chess.” Her voice lowered, steady and warm. “Learn how to live. Truly.”
Her teacher’s eyes widened—softly, almost imperceptibly—surprised that her student, once a weapon forged for conquest, now spoke with the clarity of someone who understood life in its quiet forms.
Cyrene watched them both, the faint curve of a bittersweet smile on her lips. She understood exactly what Cerydra was offering. Not a plea. Not a demand.
A gift.
As the teacher stepped back, ready to fade into the drifting petals, Cerydra felt the warmth of something rare threading through her grief—an understanding that she could shape life not only through fire and war, but through gentleness too.
Through letting go. Through guiding someone she once followed.
And in that moment, beneath the soft dusk light, she realized that even forgotten memories could be blessed with a path forward… if someone showed them where it began.
By anchoring herself as her teacher’s memory within the Eternal Page, the woman would endure—not merely as a fragment of the past, but as a companion in the living memory of the world they both nurtured. Given a new chance in her life.
And in that understanding, Cerydra felt a subtle warmth, a small but enduring thread connecting her to the lives she had shaped, the sacrifices she had made all for the world she loves.
As this small chapter of Cyrene’s cycle closed, Peach noticed the way her friend lingered—
that faint, pained softness in her eyes as she watched the lost chess teacher and the Imperator walk away towards a so-called future, the Eternal Page.
So Peach nudged her taller counterpart.
“It won’t take a whole cycle. Go. Say what you want to say.”
Cyrene flushed, shy but determined, and stepped forward.
Cerydra noticed her approach immediately. She paused mid-stride, letting her teacher continue ahead. A silent promise: I’ll join you in a moment.
“Thank you,” Cerydra said first, voice gentler than usual. “I am unsure how I could ever repay you.” She lifted her chin slightly to meet Cyrene’s gaze. The height difference wasn’t new—Cyrene had long grown used to bending down for Peach—but the way Cerydra spoke made the distance feel smaller.
“I just wanted to tell you…” Cyrene’s voice trembled, not from fear but from sincerity.
“I’m glad you had this moment with her. And I… well…”
She paused, drawing a slow breath to steady herself.
“I know you hate being defined, but I just—”
Her words vanished as a sudden warmth pressed against her.
Cerydra had stepped into her space and wrapped both arms around her.
It was a tight, earnest embrace—clumsy only in how high it reached, her forehead resting just against Cyrene’s chest.
“It’s fine, Cyrene.” Cerydra murmured. “That little pink subject with the fluffy unicorn told me hugs are sometimes… more comforting than words.”
For a heartbeat, Cyrene didn’t move.
Then she melted into the embrace, arms folding around Cerydra with equal strength.
They held each other as if gravity had softened, as if their bodies might float away if they loosened their grip even slightly.
Warmth.
Tenderness.
A moment too fragile for time to hold.
Cyrene wished—desperately—that the world would slow, even for a breath.
But she knew she could not freeze this cycle, not now.
When Cerydra finally stepped back, she lifted her face—determined, confident, impossibly radiant.
“I promise you,” she said, “in time, we will meet again under the stars you once showed me.”
Cyrene’s smile bloomed so bright her eyes nearly disappeared.
Her heart gave a wild, helpless flutter.
She remembered that train ride, under the false cosmos she had shared with Cerydra—the first time the Imperator and Cyrene looked up and seen something beyond the loop.
A memory she would repeat a million more times as the cycles of her memories would never falter.
When will I see you again? she wondered.
I know when, she answered herself.
It will be the moment we see the worlds beyond and the beauty of our Amphoreus—together.
“See you soon, dear Imperator. Chessmaster, Cerydra.”