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Chapter Text

Caveat emptor is a Latin phrase that means ”let the buyer beware.” Like the phrase ”sold as is,” this term means that the buyer assumes the risk that a product may fail to meet expectations or have defects. The principle of caveat emptor serves as a warning: buyers have no recourse with the seller if the product doesn’t meet their expectations.​​​

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

.ETERNAL RECURRENCE #108,463.

Black metal gleams and whistles through the air as Khaslana’s twisted blade rips through a horde of flying Daythunder Titankin, disintegrating them on the spot. Other monsters leap at his unprotected back, but Khaslana apathetically side-steps to avoid the attacks by a hair, then uses his momentum to backhand a lunging Titankin priest with the flat of the blade.

The unfortunate monster flies back and slams into a crumbling pillar, bringing the whole section of wall down onto it and burying the Titankin under several tons of rubble.

Khaslana takes in a deep breath before letting the air out in a great whoosh of air. His tired, dull eyes wearily scan the horizon for any signs of life, but there’s nothing left. Only him.

Exhaustion seeps into the very marrow of his bones. It’s already been more than 100,000 cycles and he is breaking apart at the seams - both literally and figuratively.

I can’t do this, he thinks desperately. Cyrene, I’m sorry, I know I promised but I just can’t, it’s too much, I’m so lonely, I need help, please…someone please help me--!!

Unwillingly, his mind flashes back to the previous cycle, when he slaughtered Mydei yet again to steal his Core-Flame. And although he’s never had any true struggle against the Kremnoan prince, it never gets easier to kill him. In fact - it seems to get harder and harder, taking a devastating toll on his sanity.

Khaslana throws the blackened and twisted Dawnmaker to the ground, uncaring of how it clatters roughly against the stone. Just more scrapes and scuffs to add to his collection. His hands come up to press against his eyes, trying to block out the ugly reality of his situation, to no avail.

Every time he sets out on his journey, departing from Aedes Elysiae after talking to the metaphysical Hero in his mind, Khaslana searches desperately for anything he can change. Anything that might be different.

But there are some things he’s given up on.

He gave up trying to convince Cerydra and Hysilens to abandon the Flame-Chase journey after eight thousand cycles - they never even give him a chance to explain, and most of those eternal occurrences end with a one-sided slaughter.

He abandoned his attempts to persuade Aglaea to join him around the thirty thousand cycle mark. At that point, her teacher’s prophecies were too ingrained and she would stray from her chosen path, citing the sacrifices and bloodshed would not be in vain.

He stopped seeking out Cipher, even long after Khaslana learned of her noble sacrifice to keep Kephale’s Dawn Device shining across Okhema despite its expiration through her power of lies. Zagreus’s chosen would never trust him - Cipher would only come to know and confide in the Phainon of this cycle, not the nameless swordsman.

And finally, he gave up on trying to recruit Mydei to his side after only a few cycles. The Kremnoan’s steadfast principles and values would not be swayed by anything, or anyone.

Not even Khaslana.

It’s only when he registers sharp flint stabbing into his knees that Khaslana realizes he’s sunk to the ground. Despite himself, he cranes his head up towards the sky, one hand reaching out to the stars in a futile effort. Please. Someone. If there is anyone from beyond the stars…please.

Come save me.

An explosion suddenly lights up the sky, and Khaslana jerks his head around to the source. Within the shadowy clouds of the nighttime sky, he spots the tail end of Aquila, the Sky Titan, retreating after ruthlessly shooting something down. He can see a rapidly falling object, trailing smoke as it careens from its intended flight path.

He’s already on his feet, disbelieving eyes wide and shiny, tracking the object’s descent. WIthout blinking, he snatches up Dawnmaker and starts running towards where he estimates it will land. It looked like a ship, Khaslana thinks wildly, his pulse hammering in his throat. If it’s a ship, then it means people. And if there’s people…

Khaslana berates himself to not get his hopes up, but his traitorous heart keeps muttering, what if, what if, what if…?

Sweat trickles down his forehead and sticks to his shirt, but he ignores it. All of his focus is narrowed to the crash site and what he might find there. Half-formed prayers flash through his brain, but he’s too scared to verbalize them, because if they don’t come true he’ll be crushed by disappointment.

Please. Please, if there’s anyone out there…

As Khaslana gets closer, the acrid smoke makes him cough. Still, his cerulean eyes lock onto the mangled airship, scanning for any movement among the flaming metal.

The heat of the fire makes him recoil slightly, but it’s nothing compared to the burning of over a million Core-flames within his body. Anyone who is in the flaming wreck would not fare as well as him, so he walks closer.

Straining his ears, he almost misses a faint plea through the crackling flames.

“...Help me…please, someone…help me and my ▉̶̮͔͖̗͋ ̴̡̜̦̒▉̸̢̦͛ ̶̨̣̮͗̈▉̷̮̭̬͗̑̑͆ͅ ̵͇̩̤͠▉̶̭͂̎͊͝ ̶̛̭̈̅́▉̴̢̹̾̏̽ ̸͓͙̈́͛▉̵̛̟͕̏, he’s hurt really bad…!”

Khaslana is moving before he’s even aware of it, reversing his grip on Dawnmaker. “Stay back,” he calls out, holding his greatsword like an icepick. “Move away from the walls - I’m going to cut through them!” He waits for a few seconds, trusting that whoever’s inside the ship complied, then rams his sword into the heated metal with a wailing screech. Grimly, he saws through the walls in a ragged motion, going as fast as possible to make an exit.

With a creaking groan, the rough square piece of metal that Khaslana cut out falls outward, letting out even more grey, foul-smelling smoke. He ignores the stinging in his eyes as he leans forward, frantically scanning the interior for the source of the voice.

There - two blurry shapes near the back wall. Looks like his instructions were heeded.

“Come on!” Khaslana yells, before reaching in and grabbing one of the figure’s arms. There’s a high-pitched yelp, but the person just holds on tighter to the other figure so that Khaslana can drag both of them out of the wreckage.

It’s effortless for Khaslana to haul two people out of the airship, and he makes sure to retreat to a safe distance from the crash site before turning his attention to the passengers.

Both of them have dark hair - darker than anything he’s even seen in Amphoreus. Is it because you both are outsiders? Additionally, the one who he grabbed is a woman, wearing a light-colored jacket over plain dark clothes. She’s frantically patting down the other person, whose dark hair is streaked with lines of grey. He’s clearly older, but the two look sort of related.

He’s also not responding to the woman’s increasingly panicked shouting.

She turns wide, dark eyes toward Khaslana in a pleading gesture, and he immediately drops to his knees to place two fingers on the unconscious man’s neck. He presses more firmly when he doesn’t feel anything. Khaslana places the back of his other hand just above the man’s lips.

Nothing.

Slowly, Khaslana withdraws his hands and raises his gaze to look the woman in the eyes. It hurts to deliver the bad news, especially to someone who just went through a traumatizing experience - but she realizes what he’s going to say before he even utters a word.

Tears immediately well in her eyes and she sobs, clutching hard at the dead man’s clothes. One of her hands comes up to place a battered straw hat - something that Khaslana didn’t even notice she was holding until now - onto the man’s face, as if blocking out the light and letting him sleep. Giving him rest.

Then, she unexpectedly throws her arms around Khaslana’s middle, crying into his jacket. He freezes, unsure of what to do - it’s been so long since others have touched him willingly, his first instinct is to throw the stranger off of him and defend himself. But when no attacks come his way, Khaslana slowly relaxes his shoulders and remains still.

The two of them stay huddled close together for an indeterminate amount of time. The hiccuping sobs gradually quiet into sniffles, then into deep breaths. Khaslana hesitantly brings up one of his hands to rub at her back in what he hopes is a soothing gesture.

His ears perk up as she mumbles something. Tilting his head, he makes a questioning sound.

“...Thank you.” She fidgets, eyes downcast and embarrassed.

(It’s just a simple thanks. Something she probably says without even thinking, a throwaway line to hundreds of people a day. But to Khaslana - who has never once been met with any kind of gratitude in the hell that is his grueling, arduous journey - it means everything.)

Khaslana just sits there in quiet amazement, while the woman in his arms hastily wipes the last remnants of tears from her eyes before looking up at him. Her eyes are red-rimmed and still shiny-looking, but she gives him a tiny, sincere smile. His heart - once thought to be long-dead - stutters to life again.

“Thank you,” she says, again. Khaslana wants to carve those words into his heart forever. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

“I…I wouldn’t have made it if you hadn’t pulled me and…my ▉̶̮͔͖̗͋ ̴̡̜̦̒▉̸̢̦͛ ̶̨̣̮͗̈▉̷̮̭̬͗̑̑͆ͅ ̵͇̩̤͠▉̶̭͂̎͊͝ ̶̛̭̈̅́▉̴̢̹̾̏̽ ̸͓͙̈́͛▉̵̛̟͕̏ out of there. And although…it’s too late for him, I…I’m glad we got his body out of the fire. It wouldn't have been right to leave him to burn in there.”

Khaslana frowns slightly at the static that fills his ears when the woman mentions her companion’s…name? title? but he shakes it off quickly in favor of focusing on the outlander from the stars.

Said newcomer twists her fingers, a nervous gesture. After her short conversation, she falls silent before looking questioningly towards Khaslana. Perhaps she’s waiting for him to introduce himself, which is only fair. If he crash-landed on a foreign planet, he would want to know the name of his savior.

Instead, in the backdrop of the airship’s flaming wreckage, what comes out of his mouth is, “...so, do you come here often?”

A millisecond after, Khaslana realizes what he just said and wants to slap himself. Embarrassment blooms across his face as he diverts his eyes. Titans, what kind of opening was that? What is he doing? Flirting over someone’s dead body? Thoughts of the ground swallowing him up would be welcome after that verbal disaster.

However, contrary to Khaslana’s expectations, she doesn’t scream or push him away.

Instead, she laughs.

It’s a little hysterical, and a few tears leak out of her eyes, but he can tell she’s not angry. She seems mostly amused - probably a little blindsided from the unexpected humor after a dark day.

“Not really,” she hiccups with a smile. “Ha ha hah…what kind of line was that? Sorry, that just caught me really off guard…you must be quite the lady’s man and charmer, huh?”

Khaslana just stares at her blankly. He hasn’t even thought of being intimate or a relationship since…ever. And the very idea of him being a lady’s man breaks something in his brain.

(No one would want to be with an executioner, a monster who massacred his friends millions of times over. They would run away in horror and disgust - and rightfully so. He doesn’t deserve to be loved.)

On the other hand, he supposes that each cycle’s Phainon is very popular with both men and women wherever he goes. Phainon is effortlessly charismatic and draws people toward him like a magnet.

Khaslana realizes that the woman is still waiting for his answer. “...Not really,” he coughs awkwardly. He should really let go of her and give her some space, but she feels so right in his arms. She’s also shivering a little, clearly leaning into his elevated body temperature.

Abruptly, he asks her, “What’s your name?” In an absent-minded gesture, he tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

She blinks, then opens her mouth.

What follows is the name that Khaslana will hold onto forever, for the next cycle, and the next, and the next. He will never forget it. In his darkest moments, he clings to it like a panacea and like the stardust he vowed to hold in his hands when he was just a young boy - staring up from the wheat fields of Aedes Elysiae into the vast expanse of the sky.

“My name is [reader].”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Khaslana doesn’t carry too much on him at every given moment, but he’s able to find a sealed bottle of fresh water and a packet of rations in his travel bag. Obviously, fresh drink and food would be better, but you certainly don’t have any complaints as you wolf it all down. She offered some to him, but he politely declined. He hasn’t really needed to eat anything for a long time; his lifeforce sustained by the millions of Coreflames within his body.

The fire continues to burn, but after a few hours it mellows into a dull crackling. The light flickers in Khaslana’s eyes as he sits quietly and stares at you. His eyes roam over your face, your eyelashes, your hair, your clothes - everything is so unlike what he’s seen in the hundreds of thousands of cycles, he can’t help but take it all in.

The scrutiny makes you uncomfortable, but that’s not enough for Khaslana to take his eyes off you. He also gave you his name when you asked for his own, and you repeated it back slowly to make sure you got the pronunciation right.

In his mind, he does the same, running the flat of his tongue over his teeth as he mutters it silently to memorize the syllables. [Reader.] [Reader.] [Reader.]

Truthfully, when you told him you were no combatant and had no fighting background, he couldn’t help the sharp flare of disappointment in his gut. But still, the wretched hope that sparked in his chest when he first spotted Aquila attack your ship remained. In all 108,463 Eternal Recurrences thus far - this was the first time any outside variable was introduced.

Cyrene’s voice, long-faded but soothing, whispers suddenly in his mind. He recalls her words, back when the beginning of his endless journey was about to start.

"Of course, this will be a romantic story like none that has come before. You think so too, right?"

Khaslana doesn’t know. But for the first time in thousands of years, he finds that he can start to hope again.

After a long stretch of time, you finally shift from where you’ve been half-lying on Khaslana, clearing your throat. He twitches a little at your movement, hands partially clenching in an aborted movement to keep you close. One of your own hands comes up to rest on his shoulder, and then you move fully off him and take a seat to his right. He already misses your touch.

“Um…” Hesitant fingers reach over to pluck at his sleeve.

You let out a deep, rattling sigh as your gaze falls upon your deceased companion. “I’d like to…bury him properly. Leaving his body out in the wilderness…to the elements, and wild animals…I don’t want his final resting place to be exposed. Can…can you help me?”

Khaslana understands the pain that comes with the deaths of loved ones, so he simply nods. Standing up, he offers you a hand, which you accept without hesitation. And if he holds onto you for a few seconds longer than absolutely necessary, well, then that’s on him.

A sorrowful expression crosses your face, and already Khaslana wants to reach out and smooth it away with his hands. Or take up Dawnmaker and cut down everything that makes you sad. He hates seeing you cry, even though he only met you less than half a day ago. His heart stutters again, annoyingly. What is wrong with him?

Khaslana looks around the clearing. It’s mostly dirt, with a few scattered rocks and dead trees along the edges, but there’s a gigantic oak tree several hundred feet away. Its towering canopy provides shade over a wide stretch of ground.

He meets your eyes, and you both nod in an unspoken agreement. Boots crunch against the ground as the two of you approach the stiff body. Khaslana notes that you have a particularly unique way of walking, rolling your foot from heel to toes. It certainly makes your steps extremely quiet - almost silent. However, Khaslana has extraordinary hearing so he can make out your footsteps.

The tattered straw hat is still where you last put it, covering the man’s face. Khaslana can see the corner of his mouth peek out underneath the straw.

You hesitate, grief clear in your eyes but also a bit of confusion on how to transport the man’s body. He’s taller than you, and Khaslana doubts that you could even pick him up. Khaslana takes pity on you and offers, “I can carry him.”

Relief washes over you, and Khaslana dips his head, reaching down to hoist the deceased into his arms. The body is cold and stiff, the beginning of rigor mortis setting in. Khaslana keeps the straw hat over the man’s face, not wanting to look into a dead man’s eyes.

“Come on.” He starts walking toward the massive tree, keeping an eye out for any stray Titankin or monsters lurking in the shadows. You follow trustingly, not even looking around. Khaslana makes a mental note to discuss the various threats of Amphoreus - you have no idea what you’ve landed yourself into, after all.

There’s very little sound out here in the wilderness save for two sets of footsteps. After a short while, both of you reach the roots of the oak tree. Khaslana carefully lays the man down to rest against the trunk.

Scratching sounds make him turn, and he tilts his head when he sees you pawing at the loose dirt and scooping it into a pile. Fairly soon you have a decent-sized hole and enough dirt under your fingernails to turn them black. “What…what are you doing?” he asks with dull curiosity.

You pause to wipe sweat from your head with your forearm. “I’m…I’m making a grave. So I can bury my

▉̶̮͔͖̗͋ ̴̡̜̒a ̶̨̣̮͗̈▉̷̮̭̬͗̑̑͆ͅ ̵͇̩̤͠▉̶̭͂̎͊͝ ̶̛̭̈̅́▉̴̢̹̾̏̽ ̸͓͙̈́͛▉̵̛̟͕̏. It helps to protect the…the body…from getting eaten…” You sniffle, tearing up again. “I just…sorry. I didn’t think that when we came here, this would happen…it all went so fast. What was that, that monster that shot us down?”

Khaslana crouches down as well, using his larger hands to shovel out more dirt from the small hole. Fairly quickly, it becomes large enough to lie down in. “That…that was one of the Titans. Aquila, guardian of the skies.”

Sitting back on your haunches, you glance out into the distance with a far-away look in your eyes. “Aquila?” you mumble. It’s clear that you’re not familiar with that name. “Guardian of the sky? Huh? And what’s a Titan?”

Khalsana continues to work, uncaring of how sore his hands are getting. A little bit of pain helps sharpen his focus. “Titans…there’s no one on Amphoreus who doesn’t know what they are. You’re not really from here, are you? You came from…beyond the stars?”

Snapping out of it, looking guilty at how much Khaslana has dug compared to you, you quickly start working again. “Yeah, I’m not from here,” you reply, grunting as you pry up a chunk of rock before throwing it into the stance. “I was…well, on a journey before I crashed here. I was actually kind of…recruited. I still don’t really know why, because the group I joined are amazing fighters and I’m not, but…well, nevermind. That’s probably kind of boring to hear. My home planet is Zaum. Have you heard of it?”

“Zaum…” Khaslana tries the word out in his mouth. The syllables feel clunky and unfamiliar, nothing like the names and terms native to Amphoreus that roll off his tongue smoothly like glass. “No. I’m afraid I haven’t.”

The hole is now halfway finished. “Not much to say, really,” you say, mouth set in a tight line of concentration. “Honestly, by the time I was old enough to walk, I knew that it was a dying planet. It used to be a thriving, shining world, but civil war broke out and continued for decades. If there was any peace, I never saw it. My

▉̶̮͔͖̗͋ ̴̡̜̒a t ̵͇̩̤͠▉̶̭͂̎͊͝ ̶̛̭̈̅́▉̴̢̹̾̏̽ ̸͓͙̈́͛▉̵̛̟͕̏ kept telling me stories of how wonderful it used to be, though.”

“The Interastral Peace Corporation - oh, it’s this super scummy mega-organization that has monopoly on the entire economy - they really screwed us over. Turned Zaum’s people against each other and provided each side with weapons. To ‘support each side equally.’ If you ask me, the IPC was just speeding up Zaum’s implosion. Luckily, my ▉̶̮͔͖̗͋ ̴̡̜̒a t ̵͇̩̤͠▉̶̭͂̎͊͝ ̶̛̭̈̅́▉̴̢̹̾̏̽ ̸͓͙̈́͛r and I got out before it was too late.”

“I mean…growing up there was…okay, I guess? I never had to worry about food or shelter, we weren’t that bad off and I lived in one of the nicer cities…but there was always this sense of uncertainty. So when someone came to recruit me, specifically, I jumped at the opportunity. My ▉̶̮͔͖̗͋ ̴̡̜̒a t ̵͠h ̶̈̅▉̴̢̹̾̏̽ ̸͓͙̈́͛r refused to let me go alone, so he came with me. I’m glad he did, I was really scared to go alone! …But now…”

You both stop, the hole now large enough to serve its purpose. Khaslana jumps out easily, and turns to see you struggle to climb. He wordlessly reaches down and offers you a hand, which you accept only after a second’s hesitation. “Thank you,” you mumble shyly, cheeks flushing. Khaslana likes it. He likes being thanked.

Your companion’s body is laid carefully into the grave, and you take extra time to rush to a nearby stream to wash the dirt off your hands before coming back. Khaslana is confused, but then as he sees you use a wet cloth to clean the man’s face, he understands. You want to be respectful to the end.

Eventually, you climb out again and press your hands together close to your chest. With your eyes closed, you seem to be meditating. Or praying.

Khaslana stays quiet, not wanting to interrupt. Instead, he simply observes you again, noting the slope of your eyebrows, the curve of your eyelashes against your cheek, and the way your nose wrinkles slightly with deep breaths.

He wants to reach out and touch you again. He’s had more skin-to-skin contact with your hugs and holding hands with you in the past 24 hours than he’s had in the past thousand cycles.

(And even though he’s only known you for such a short time, yours is the first gentle touch he can remember in so long.)

A low sigh gets his attention again, and he watches as you nod with a sense of finality. Then, you start filling in the grave with the freshly turned dirt. “Rest in peace, ▉̶̮͔͖̗͋ ̴̡̜̒a t ̵͠h e ̸͓͙̈́͛r,” you say quietly. Khalsana helps you with the task in silence.

“I think…he would have liked it. Being buried here,” you remark solemnly, reaching out to rest your palm against the smooth tree bark. “This planet…Amphoreus…may be dangerous, but it’s also very beautiful. On Zaum, in the end, there were no gentle things like forests left. The civil war caused so much destruction of the world’s natural resources, and everything was eventually stripped down to form weapons. All in an attempt to come out the ultimate victor. But no one won in the end.”

A faint smile touches Khaslana’s lips, unbidden. “Your companion…I think he would have liked it, too. You both seem to be very similar.”

You turn towards him, eyes shimmering. “How so?”

He hums, planting Dawnmaker’s twisted blade into the ground and resting his hands on the pommel. “The two of you came from a dying, war-torn homeland in search of something better. And though you had every right, every reason to turn bitter and resentful…” like himself, “it seems that you both stayed gentle. Stayed kind.”

Silence meets his words, and you blink rapidly, looking stunned. Perhaps you have never thought of it that way before, but Khaslana can’t help but admire your warmth. The way you give your thanks so freely and sincerely. The care you took when ensuring the best final resting place for your traveling companion. The respect in your burial rites.

And…the way you look at him. Like he’s something deserving of kindness. Like he’s a person, not just lines of code trapped in an eternal time loop of destruction and suffering.

He wonders how you would react if you knew that Amphoreus is nothing but a simulation, and that he is a prisoner of fate trying to stop the birth of Lord Ravager Irontomb. Would you treat him differently if you knew he didn’t even exist? After all, what is NeiKos496 in comparison to a real, living person like yourself?

Would you abandon him? Would you run away?

(Khaslana hopes, hopes with the agonizing intensity of a million Core-Flames within his broken body that you would stay. He’s only known you for less than a day, but the very thought of you turning away in fear guts him.)

Gravel crunches under your shoes as you approach him. Your dark eyes, so wide and honest, stare into his own dull ones without hesitation. “If I’m kind,” you say quietly, reaching for his hand. He gives it freely, without resistance. “So are you. You may not believe this, but I…I see you as a true hero. How you helped us without a second thought. You gave me comfort when I thought I would go mad with grief after we crashed. You helped me give him a final burial. And even now…”

Your other hand comes up to cup his face. It’s gentle. Khaslana closes his eyes despite himself, leaning his cheek into your palm, seeking tenderness like an abused dog.

“You seem very sad,” you murmur, sympathetic. No doubt picking up on Khaslana’s self-loathing. “But you helped me. You didn’t have to do that, but you did. So, I wanted to say once again…thank you.”

Khaslana exhales sharply, feeling as shocked as if you had kicked him in the gut. He forces himself to breathe deeply - otherwise, he fears that he might start crying.

The two of you stay like that for a while, just soaking in each other’s warmth and presence.

“Hey, you know…” Khaslana raises his head at your voice. He tilts his head, silently encouraging you to go on. “I gave you my name, but you never gave me yours. May I know the name of my handsome savior?” You say the last bit with a small, yet teasing smile.

Handsome?

He knows his face is pleasing to look at, and his body is strong. But how can anyone look at him, the Executioner, and think he is desirable?

You’re just being nice. Khaslana is sure of it.

But, he still owes you this courtesy. His name, in exchange for yours.

“My name…” The executioner licks his suddenly dry lips.

“My name is Khaslana.”

Your answering smile is as bright as the sun. You don’t recoil in disgust. You don’t turn away.

“Well met, Khaslana.”

You’re very interested in Amphoreus, which makes sense because you’re essentially an outlander with absolutely no knowledge of this world at all, other than what Khaslana teaches you.

You pepper him with questions, rapid-fire and eager, and the mental image of a baby chick arises in his mind and makes him smile. It’s funny - he’s smiled more in your presence than he has in the past hundred cycles or so.

Idly, he thinks he has now taken on the role of teacher and you the student, making him think of his long-past days at the Grove. He was always bothering Professor Anaxa (“It’s Anaxagoras,” he can still hear his professor’s exasperated voice in his head) about a million different theories and stratagems.

However, unlike Professor Anaxa who would often chase away unruly students with his custom one-handed shotgun, Khaslana indulges you again and again. All questions, no matter how trivial or obscure, are answered with utmost sincerity.

The only topic that causes Khaslana to hesitate is that of the Chrysos Heirs. When you heard of Amphoreus’s Great Heroes of Prophecy (he can hear the enthusiastic capitalization in your words), your eyes shone with excitement and fervor. You begged him to tell more stories about them, about their feats, about their supernatural powers, and about their heroic deeds.

So Khaslana does - he talks about the legendary Goldweaver Aglaea, famous for her beauty and garments, the holder of Mnesta’s Core-Flame. He tells you about Tribios, the three little Fates wielding the power of Janus and passage. He speaks about Castorice, the Maiden of Death cursed with Thanotos’s touch, and how she grants eternal slumber to all who come close.

He describes Hyacine, one of the last remaining members of the Sky-Folk, the great pride of the Twilight Courtyard and medical backbone of the Chrysos Heirs.

He explains Anaxa’s cleverness and brilliance, prickly and arrogant, openly denouncing the Titans much to his students’ consternation.

He pauses before talking about Cipher, but details how none can outspeed her due her Core-Flame.

Hysilens. Imperator Cerydra. Two additional Chrysos Heirs, long gone by now, but the progenitors of the Flame-Chase journey that has lasted for a thousand years.

Terravox. The mysterious, long-dead Titan whose Core-Flame has not yet been claimed. There have only been speculations as to where it may be hidden. And Oronyx - the mysterious Titan of Time, unwilling to speak to anyone due to an ancient, unknown grudge.

After this, Khaslana pauses for such a long while you turn your inquisitive stare back to him. The grief in his face causes you to halt in your tracks.

Mydei, Khaslana grits out slowly. Or rather - Mydeimos. The crown prince of Castrum Kremnos. Immortal and terrifyingly unstoppable in battle. Destined to wield the Core-Flame of Strife. Yet he does what’s best for his people, who have been reduced to refugees following his city’s destruction.

More than anyone, Mydeimos understands the countless sacrifices that are necessary as a Chrysos Heir. Khaslana knows that even if he is the last man standing, Mydeimos will never back down from his principles.

(After all, wasn’t it evident in the Eternal Recurrence just before this one?)

And then Khaslana falls silent, mouth set in a bitter line.

Your excitement, which has been building steadily ever since Khaslana went into more detail about the Chrysos Heirs, suddenly wanes Khaslana’s bleak expression.

“...Khaslana,” you start, hesitant. “Didn’t you say there are twelve Titans - and as a result, twelve Chrysos Heirs destined to take up the Core-Flames? You only mentioned eleven. Who’s the last Chrysos Heir?”

Khaslana remains so still that he could be mistaken for a statue. You don’t even think he’s breathing.

“...The last Chrysos Heir is called the Deliverer. He is prophesied to lead Amphoreus to Era Nova, a rewriting of the world to a new, perfect future.” Khaslana’s white eyelashes tremble. “He is the perfect Chrysos Heir. While all of the others have a fatal weakness, he alone has no flaw. And he alone will witness Era Nova.”

You muse over this information. “And just who is this Heir, who carries the burden of the entire world on his shoulders?”

Khaslana exhales deeply, then turns dark cerulean eyes towards you. “...His name is Phainon.”

He searches your eyes and expression, but there is no recognition of that name. As expected. You have only met Khaslana, not Phainon. Despite himself, Khaslana feels a sudden cold wave of irrational relief wash over him. He thinks that if you met Phainon first, you would have never even glanced at him. Of course you would fall into the perfect Chrysos Heir’s orbit rather than the usurper lurking at the edges.

The Phainon of this cycle is perfect - untouched by corruption, betrayal, and decay.

With another sigh, Khaslana continues. “The Chrysos Heirs are the highest authority in Amphoreus, save for the Council who opposes them. They are based in Okhema, the city of Eternal Light.”

Your mouth shapes the city’s name. “Okhema…” you say, looking up to the sky. Khaslana notices you do that a lot, but he can’t say anything. He has been doing the same thing for so long as well.

A sudden painful thought occurs to him. You would probably be safest in Okhema. The city is generally welcoming of refugees, and surely you would have a better life within its protective walls rather than wandering the forests and mountains at his side.

(But I don’t want her to leave me, cries out a small, selfish voice within. I found her first, she met me first, it’s not FAIR!)

Khaslana ruthlessly suppresses it. He doesn’t deserve the right to want things. Not after everything he’s done.

“Khaslana.” He turns towards the sound of his name. But truthfully, he would have gravitated to you even if you didn’t.

He’s in trouble - he’s grown attached to you so quickly. Too quickly.

You bite your lip, and Khaslana gently reaches out to tug the skin out from your teeth. “Er…forgive me if I get this wrong, but it sounds like…the Chrysos Heirs aren’t exactly on the friendliest terms with you.”

He blinks, surprised. You continue, “The way you talked about them…and your expression…did you have a bad experience with them?”

He lets out a snort. Did he have a bad experience with them? Understatement of his whole damn life.

“Khaslana.” You tug at his sleeve, a small pout forming. “Did they do something to you?”

At that, his amusement fades. He averts his eyes. “More like, I did something to them.”

A pause. “So…they’re your enemies?” You ask, brows furrowed.

Khaslana’s hand comes up to rub at his neck, suddenly tired. “In a manner of speaking. Yes, if they see me - they’ll attack me on sight. I’ve fought with them countless times in the past.”

The movement of his arms causes his sleeve to draw up, and Khaslana hears you gasp as the shifting clothing reveals faded scars on his arm. He quickly yanks the sleeve back down, but it’s too late. You’ve already seen the wounds.

Khaslana refuses to look at you as he says, “Okhema is one of the last safe havens on Amphoreus. You’ve probably noticed, but everywhere outside the Holy City is a wasteland or actively falling into ruin. The Chrysos Heirs are strong enough to travel in the wilderness because they have extensive training. But you…you said it yourself, didn’t you? You’re not a fighter. [Reader], I’ll…escort you to the city. You’ll be safe there--”

Slim arms wrapped around his middle cut off his words. Baffled, he stares down at the crown of your head as you lock your arms behind his back, shaking your head.

This close, he can smell the faint traces of your floral shampoo. Khaslana brings up his own hands, intending to push you away, but they betray him and instead wrap around your shoulders and bring you even closer. (What am I doing?)

You press your face further into his jacket. The metal buckles and zippers must make it uncomfortable, but you don’t complain. Then you open your mouth and declare something that causes his brain to short-circuit.

“If…if the Chrysos Heirs are your enemies…then they’re MY enemies too!” you declare with a wobbly voice. Khaslana can feel your knees trembling and knock together with fear. He feels a burst of sudden affection for your bravery, as foolish as it is. You’re clearly terrified at the prospect of facing the famous warriors.

He points out your quivering and points out the obvious. “Like I said, you have no fighting experience. What makes you think you could last even one second before the Chrysos Heirs defeat you?”

The only answer is silence, but he can feel your mouth twisting into shapes as you try to come up with the right words. Khalsana sighs, patting your head before leaning forward slightly to rest his chin on top of your hair. “You’re a civilian,” he says, breathing in the smell of wildflowers and honey. “And civilians must be protected. The Chrysos Heirs and Okhema will not harm innocent people. But they’ll do everything in their power to kill me.”

“But--!” Khaslana hugs you a little tighter, his strong forearms crossing behind your back and hands resting on your opposite shoulders. This close, he gives into temptation and presses his forehead into your neck.

“The prophecy of the Flame-Chase asks too much of everyone in Amphoreus. As an outsider, it’s not fair for you to get tangled up in all this.”

Your fingers tighten in the back of his coat. “Khaslana…I don’t know what happened to you, or what kind of bad blood is between you and the Chrysos Heirs. And I get the feeling that if I asked you, you wouldn’t tell me. But…I like to pride myself on a few things, you know? One of them is recognizing kindness in people.”

“This whole world sounds like a nightmare, and you’re right. I’m scared. I’m lost. I don’t know what’s going to happen…but…you’re a kind person, Khaslana. Even when you didn’t have to be. I think that takes a lot of strength - to be kind in a cruel world. So, please…let me stay with you.”

And in the face of such absolute faith, Khaslana just tightens his grip around you and nods wordlessly.

(Please…I can endure anything in this world, but please…don’t reject me. I don’t think I can survive if you do.)

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Traveling through the wilderness is tedious at the best of times, but with you it goes by even slower. Khaslana knows that if he were to go alone, the distance he could cover would be far greater and take less time.

But Khaslana has to admit, traveling with someone else is…fun.

He’s been alone for so long, so single-minded in his never-ending quest to take all the Core-Flames and prevent the lie that is Era Nova. Allies have only been fleeting and temporary, and each cycle resets all of his progress. A trusted friend in one cycle might end up his backstabber in the next.

But with you, Khaslana finds himself slowing his pace and having less urgency. A little voice in the back of his mind tells him this is a bad thing, and to hurry up and to find the Chrysos Heirs, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Not now.

You constantly tug at his sleeve, point out sights and buildings that Khaslana has seen thousands of times before, and always, always trust him.

You tell him more about your home planet, your travels, the people you met along the way. It’s all small talk and not very memorable, but Khalsana listens closely to each word because they come from you.

In turn, you listen with rapture as Khaslana explains more about Amphoreus, the roads, the once-great cities, the ways to know when the seasons change and how to prepare for the harsh winters and scorching summers.

Mentioning the Chrysos Heirs and Okhema is inevitable, as their deeds are known far and wide, and their influence permeates the entire world. When you and Khaslana make the rare trips into towns, bartering for supplies, at least one of the villagers excitedly tells you about the latest news about them.

Phainon’s name comes up the most often. Khaslana imagines that he is making quite the name for himself. Not a day goes by without hearing of another of Phainon’s impossible feats, such as slaying hundreds of Titankin in a single battle, or rescuing an entire fleet of refugees.

Khaslana lets you do most of the talking, preferring to hover behind silently. The villagers have some idea of Phainon’s appearance, so Khalsana makes sure to keep his hood up to conceal his snowy-white hair. Being mistaken for the Deliverer would only invite trouble.

As you chatter politely with a gossipy shopkeeper, Khaslana lets his mind drift onto the next thing on the agenda. He’s heard of some vague rumors of the Core-Flame of Thanatos near Styxia, which is the most promising lead he’s had on that particular one so far. After you finish up, you both can head out.

“Thanks for your patronage!” the shopkeeper chirps, and you nod in thanks. The bags in your arms rustle slightly, and Khaslana steps forward immediately to take them from you. “Oh, thanks!” You beam at him. Khaslana gives you a tiny smile back.

“Oh, miss?” You turn back, puzzled. “Are you and your partner heading out now? It’s getting quite late, it’s past the Curtain-Fall Hour already, and the wilderness is a dangerous place for travelers. Our business also runs a small inn with the rooms upstairs - I can offer you one for the night! Just a handful of Balance Coins!”

Your eyes light up at the thought of a warm bed, instead of the cold shelters Khaslana sets up in the forests. Khaslana hesitates at the sight of your hopeful face. Maybe one night in the town wouldn’t hurt, if it makes you smile like that more.

“We’ll take it,” he cuts in smoothly, setting down a small pouch of coins on the counter. You look at him with a startled expression, and say “Are you sure? I know you really wanted to--”

“It’s fine,” Khaslana reassures you, accepting the room key. Behind the counter, the shopkeeper slides over some toiletries. “We should rest comfortably tonight. You’ve done well, traveling with me without any complaint.”

“Oh, well, you’ve been helping me all this time. I didn’t really do anything…honestly I’m not really sure why you tolerate me. I’m slowing you down so much,” you say sheepishly, but bump into him affectionately. “So, thank you, Khaslana. I really appreciate everything that you do.”

Khaslana turns away, resolutely ignoring the flushing in his cheeks. “It’s no problem,” he mumbled. “Come on.” He starts walking towards the stairs.

Soft footsteps pad towards him, and fingers intertwine with his. Despite being with you for months and learning about your affection through touch, it always startles him that you willingly initiate physical contact.

Your fingers give his own a little squeeze in reassurance, as if saying it’s okay, I’m here. Then you overtake him, tugging him forward. “Come on, then! Let’s check out the room!”

The trip is short, and inserting the key into the corresponding lock reveals a homey-looking room with a writing desk, a cramped bookcase stuffed with various fairy tales, and--

“There’s only one bed,” Khaslana states flatly.

It’s a very nice bed, to be fair. Comfortable-looking and topped with the softest quilt he’s ever seen. There are even a few fluffy pillows that would be heavenly to lie down on.

But…he thinks of lying next to you, breathing in your scent, wrapping his arms around your body, pressing his face into your neck and slipping a hand underneath--

Khaslana mentally slaps himself. Calm the fuck down, idiot. He drags out a chair from the desk. “You take the bed. I’ll sleep here.”

You whip around from where you’ve been arranging your travel packs, shooting him an offended look. “What?” you sputter. “Why the hell would you sleep in that dumb rickety chair when there’s a perfectly good bed right there? You’ve been out in the wilderness just as long as me. And you paid for this room - at least take advantage of it!”

Khaslana shakes his head. “It’ll make you uncomfortable,” he insists, stubbornly ignoring the wailing voice in his head whining at him to lie down right now and cuddle you immediately. “It’s fine.”

He watches you frown, eyes flicking to the side in thought. He’s willing to be stubborn about this - he wants you to be comfortable - but to his horror, he sees the beginnings of tears in your eyes. He lurches forward, reaching out. “[Reader]--”

You sniffle, looking at him with big, watery eyes. “K-Khaslana…” you whimper, tugging at his heartstrings. His fingers twitch. “Do…do you think it so awful to just…share a bed to sleep? I don’t want you to be in pain sleeping in the chair…you must think I’m disgusting…”

Khaslana nearly gives himself whiplash with how fast he rushes to envelop you in a hug. “No, no, of course not,” he babbles stupidly, just saying anything to stop your tears. “I didn’t mean it, of course I don’t think you’re awful, we can share the bed--”

Abruptly, he stops. His brain is catching up on a few things. Namely, that you immediately stopped crying after he said that last part. And he can feel you smiling deviously against his chest.

You little brat, he thinks. You were never crying at all. Despite his exasperation, there’s a fuzzy warmth blooming in his chest.

“Oh nooo,” you laugh into his jacket, shaking in mirth. “I guess we have no choice but to share, right? At least it’ll be nice and warm. No take-backs, by the way!”

Khaslana lets out an exasperated sigh, but for some reason there’s a grin stretching his lips. “Fine, fine. I see how it is. You’re a clever little thing, aren’t you?” He shifts so that he can rest his chin on the top of your head. “Let’s go wash up.”

He realizes his poor wording choice when you shift your head, tilting one wide dark eye up at his. There’s a faint blush on your cheeks, and you gape at him, open-mouthed. “NO!” he coughs out in embarrassment, hands flying up to wave around. “I mean-- let’s get ready for bed - like brushing our teeth and - taking a bath - separately - so we can be clean after a long day of travel!!”

You’re laughing so hard that you’re bent over at this point, and Khaslana just wants to crawl into a hole and never come out. Why does everything he say come out wrong in front of you?

“Oh my god, you’re so cute,” you gasp, punching him lightly in the arm. “I knew what you meant the first time, but it was hilarious to see you fumble- ha ha ha!”

Khaslana refuses to meet your eyes, staring holes into the shabby books on the shelves. He doesn’t even react to you poking him.

“It’s okay, you know.” One of your cool hands slides down to tangle with his, which are just short of burning warm. “You did well today, Khaslana. We traveled a lot. We deserve to rest tonight.” A tug brings his attention back to you.

Amused eyes meet his own. “Come on - let’s go wash up. Separately,” you tease.

Unbidden, Khaslana’s mouth moves before his brain catches up. “Well, we can do some things together…”

Your answering smile makes his traitorous heart beat even faster.

Later, when you’re both freshly scrubbed and smelling faintly of mint shampoo, Khaslana carefully moves the quilted blanket so that it’s tucked up to your chin. He reaches over to turn off the lamp. Then he lays down his head on the pillow facing you, and you follow suit.

Khaslana’s eyes can see just as well in the darkness as in broad daylight, so he’s able to see how your pupils dilate in the dimness. Outside, strong winds howl and rattle the trees, but the window is shut tight and the room is cozily warm. Underneath the covers, it’s even more toasty.

He thinks that it’ll be awkward - lying face-to-face with you in such close proximity - but surprisingly, it’s the opposite. Maybe it’s the exhaustion after a long day, but he finds himself relaxing into the sheets.

Minutes pass in companionable silence, and Khaslana continues to watch your face. Your long eyelashes brush against your cheeks, and your chest rises and falls steadily.

Khaslana thinks you’ve fallen asleep, and is just about to close his own eyes to do the same when he’s interrupted by your voice.

“Khaslana…?” you murmur.

“Yes, I’m here,” he replies softly.

Silence. Khaslana strains his ears, but he doesn’t hear anything. “[Reader]?” he calls.

“Mmm..” you murmur. “I was just…thinking.”

“Thinking of what?”

“Just…things. Like, how you are so tall. I mean, I would say I’m above average height for a woman, but you’re on another level. I bet you were a big, chubby baby when you were little. But you don’t really eat much these days. Aren’t you hungry?”

Khaslana pauses. Traveling and being alone for such a long time means that he rarely reflects on his earliest days in Aedes Elysiae, and he tries not to think of his late parents too much. The melancholy that accompanies the memories is overwhelming.

But he finds himself reminiscing, all the same. “I was a large baby when I was born. At least, that’s what my parents said. They made sure I was always well-fed and cared for. I was always eating something, whether it was a wheat cake or dried jerky.”

“Aww,” you say happily, eyes curving up into crescent moons. “You grew up so strong and big! Your parents sound wonderful…”

Khaslana lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “...Yeah, they were,” he sighs. You still, not missing his use of past tense. “I actually surpassed my father’s height long ago. I’m older than my parents were when they-- when they died. It’s funny…I knew these things in the back of my mind, but I guess I never really thought about it until now.”

Dark eyes blink open, and he sees a bit of regret and sympathy in them. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry or bring back bad memories, Khaslana,” you said. A cool hand comes up to cup his cheek. He leans into it, relishing the contact.

Despite this, Khaslana can glean that you want to ask more about his past and his parents, but he shakes his head gently. He sees you nod in response.

“I wanted to thank you again,” you say, moving a little so that your hair isn’t in your face. “Back then, when we first met, I could have never buried my ▉̶̮͔͖̗͋ ̴̡̜̒a t ̵͠h e ̸͓͙̈́͛r by myself. Or - I guess I could, but it would have taken me days longer. He…”

You pause, swallowing around a lump in your throat. “He was a humble pilot, you know? Back on Zaum, he started with small aircraft. For deliveries. But he was damn good at it, and he got really efficient, eventually his bosses trusted him to fly the larger and more advanced places. After a few years of that, he actually got to pilot a spaceship. A spaceship! Can you believe that? My eyes nearly fell out of my head when I first saw him behind the wheel of one.”

“He worked so hard to make sure I got a good education there, so much overtime and late shifts…I hated him a little for it when I was young and didn’t know better. I didn’t notice that there was always food on the table and nice clothes, instead I was angry that he was gone long before I woke up and never home for dinner. But…when I got a little older, I saw that he always had really dark bags under his eyes. And wrinkles from stress. And then I felt absolutely terrible.”

“I went around asking my neighbors and classmates if they knew of any type of part-time job I could work, because I wanted to give my ▉̶̮͔͖̗͋ ̴̡̜̒a t ̵͠h e ̸͓͙̈́͛r something in return. Eventually, a local fruit stand took pity on me. I didn’t get the chance to work too often, because I had to focus on my studies, but I finally saved enough money to buy him a gift.”

“Er…thinking back now, I’m embarrassed at how shabby the straw hat I bought him was. All I could think of was how bright the sun was during the day, and how he must have been so hot being even closer to it. But…Khaslana, you should have seen his face light up when I gave it to him. I’m sure he was lying a little, but he was always saying how it was his ‘greatest treasure.’ Because it was from me.”

“It’s always been just him and me growing up. I never knew my mother. I heard that she passed away shortly after I was born. Did he resent me for that? Did Phaeton…”

Khaslana, who has been quietly listening to your story, leans forward to gather you in his arms. He can feel you trembling slightly against his shirt as he tucks your face into the junction between his neck and shoulder. “It’s not your fault, [reader]. He loved you from the day you were born, I’m sure of it. And I’m certain that he never, ever blamed you for your mother’s death.”

A fist tightens in his shirt. “But how do you know?” you ask plaintively. “It’s not like I can ask him anymore, now.”

In response, he simply holds you. “I just know. Because you’re a kind person, who always thinks of others. Even if others get mad at you…they won’t stay that way for long. You told me something similar…so please, believe me when I say the same.”

You let out a shaky exhale, trembles finally ceasing. “Okay,” you whisper.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

“Khaslana…”

“Khaslana, look over there - wait, is that a Titankin?! Quick, let’s run away - oh - you’ve…already gotten rid of it…ha ha, wow that was so fast! Um, thank you…”

“Khaslana, where did you go just now? I was waiting for you…it’s okay! I’m just glad you’re back. I’ll always wait for you…huh? Are you crying? Oh, no, I’m sorry, please don’t cry!...huh? You say you’re actually happy? Um…okay, that’s good I guess…”

“Khaslana, did you sleep well? You seemed pretty tired yesterday…let me know if you need to rest…”

“Hee hee, look, Khaslana, that cloud looks like a fat little unicorn…”

“Khaslana, welcome back, I made dinner, I hope you like it, I tried out a new recipe…!”

“Khaslana, thank you for showing me around Janusopolis the other day, it was beautiful…I wish I could have seen it in its glory days, but spending time with you, it was almost…like a date, right? Ha ha…just kidding…”

“Khaslana, I…I want to tell you something…um…sorry, never mind. How was your day?”

“Khaslana, can you believe it’s been a whole year since we first met? Time really seems to fly…oh? Uh, you don’t have to, I know you’re busy…! …yes. Yes. Thank you…let’s go visit his grave together. No, I’m not crying! I just…got some dust in my eye…”

“Khaslana, where should we go next? Let’s go somewhere with a bath house, where we can relax for the whole day! We definitely deserve it!”

“Khaslana…!”

“...Khaslana, do you think…”

“Khaslana…”

“...Khaslana.”

“Hmm? Oh, it’s nothing…I just like saying it. ‘It’s a boring name’? Well, so what if it is? It’s yours, that’s why I like it!...Wait, are you blushing? Aww, that’s so cute!...Hey wait, come back! Don’t just run off like that! You’re too fast! Khaslanaaa!!”

“...”

“I…I want to tell you something. Please hear me out.”

“...”

“...Khaslana…”

“...I love you.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Khaslana turns to look at you, mouth half open at your confession. A partially-chewed bite of bread falls out, but he can’t bring himself to care about his slovenly appearance. He’s frozen in the middle of eating dinner when you dropped that bombshell on him.

You…love…him?

“Say…say that again,” he croaks out. Surely he must have heard wrong. Maybe you meant to say something else.

You stare at him nervously, but with a soft look in your eyes. “I love you.”

Khaslana shudders, heart hammering in his chest. “Again,” he demands. Pleads.

You indulge him. “I love you.”

He staggers to his feet, placing his warm hands on your shoulders. His bright cerulean eyes gaze into yours. “One more time. Please.”

A sweet smile graces your lips. You’re so beautiful, the most beautiful person he’s ever seen, he thinks. “I love you, Khalsana.”

It’s the most wonderful thing he's heard in his entire life.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Following your confession (and his immediate acceptance), Khaslana finds himself almost floating on air. You love him. Several times a day he has to stop and re-absorb the words that he vows to etch into his heart for all eternity.

The days that follow are some of the most loveliest he’s experienced, ever.

Because of this, Khaslana makes a mistake. One that he hasn’t made in over a million years, countless battles, and infinite skirmishes against his enemies.

Like an amateur, Khaslana lets his guard down.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

It happens on a perfectly ordinary day. You and Khalsana are chattering about nothing in particular - something about trying the newest delicacies from a remote village several hours away. Khaslana walks at a leisurely pace, while you slow down occasionally to observe a new flower or animal rustling through the bushes.

“Hey Khaslana, I keep seeing and hearing these birds everywhere. They kind of look like tiny gulls, don’t they? I think they live everywhere. They certainly are pretty loud, huh?”

Khaslana chuckles as he walks. “Yeah, they really do thrive no matter what. They’re scavengers, so they take any opportunity to feed on leftover scraps and trash. They don’t hunt at all, so they’re prey for a lot of other animals in Amphoreus.”

Dirt crunches under his boots as he continues to explain. One hand comes up to tug at his collar, sweat trickling down his neck. He thinks it might be time for a break soon, so the both of you can rest before continuing on.

As his fingers loosen his clothes, he becomes abruptly aware at the sudden quiet. Those blasted gulls that he was just talking about are now totally silent.

And why haven’t you said anything? You usually fill up the silence with mundane topics or questions. What’s going on?

Khaslana turns around.

(He sees his worst nightmare.)

Thousands of golden threads have blanketed the area, wrapping around all the trees, rocks, and stone pillars.

They’re also pulled tight around your neck - taut enough to dig into your skin so deep that bright red blood pours out from the cuts in rivulets. Tiny gasps escape your throat, as your bloodied hands grasp desperately at the golden wires bleeding you out. Your dark eyes bulge, filled with terror.

Khaslana staggers forward, summoning the twisted burnt blade of Dawnmaker before he even fully realizes what’s happening. Through the roaring in his ears, he dimly spots a flash of gold and white in his peripheral vision, slender hands twitching to manipulate the strings.

Aglaea.

In this cycle, she has been one of the biggest thorns in his side. By having the same face as this cycle’s Phainon, Aglaea has been hell-bent on eliminating him - the blasphemous false Deliverer.

It’s so ironic, isn’t it?

With blinding speed, Khaslana slashes the threads holding you up, eyes locked onto the wounds on your neck. Suddenly loose, the threads dissipate and you stagger, blood gushing out even faster. No, no, please, no--

He rips his arm in a wide circle, creating violent wind slashes to drive back the other Chrysos Heirs who have appeared out of the darkness. It’s a fucking ambush, Khaslana thinks coldly, darkened eyes flicking rapidly between them. They’re all here. Castorice. Mydei. Tribbios.

Phainon.

The Deliverer looks incensed, rage etched in his face as he hefts his own greatsword to cut down the false prophet. His mind has no doubt been filled with Aglaea’s persuasions, and Khalsana must look like the demon everybody claims he is.

Before they can press the attack, Khaslana quickly dispels Dawnmaker and grabs your body to hold it close. Then, reaching within himself, he forces open a rippling space portal and dives into it without hesitation. The outraged cries behind him cut off as the portal closes immediately.

He lies your body gently on the ground, before frantically applying pressure on the deep slashes. But no matter how hard he presses down, warm life-blood keeps spraying out, unending.

He’s babbling now, desperate in a way he’s never been before, frantic to keep you breathing and alive just for one more second. “Please,” he begs, tears running down his cheeks and splashing onto your face. “Please, please, PLEASE - keep your eyes open, please stay with me, I’ll get you to a healer, give me your hands - help me put pressure so I can get bandages--”

But his gut tells him what he knows already. Aglaea’s threads are ruthless, and more than that, they’re accurate. The wounds on your neck align perfectly to sever both of your carotid arteries.

The blood seeping through his fingers is so warm.

^{“K…Khas…lana…”}

Your voice is paper-thin, barely loud enough to be heard.

Khaslana leans closer, his watery eyes locked onto your face. The healthy golden color of your skin has turned ashen. Your dark hair stands out even more against the paleness.

“Don’t talk,” he pleads, pressing his forehead to your own. Your pulse stutters under his fingers. “It’ll be okay. I’ve got you.”

(He knows it’s a lie - but can’t he at least pretend?)

Even now, you smile at him weakly. A bloodied hand touches his face, tracing the curve of his cheek before wiping away a few tears. More leak out to replace them in a neverending stream, like his eyes have turned into broken faucets.

^{“Khaslana…I’m sorry, but…I’m going to go on, first. I wish…I got the chance to…spend more time with you…”}

^{“You…keep saying that you’re a monster…you talk in your sleep sometimes…but please…I want you to know that you’re not. No monster…would shed tears for another…no monster…would be so kind…”}

^{“So Khaslana, please…never lose…your kindness. I promise…that I’ll do…the…same…”}

He’s so desperate to hear your words that he’s bent almost double over you, his ear just a scant inch from your mouth. When you fall silent, he hesitates, before calling out tremulously. “[Reader]?”

“...”

“...”

“...[Reader]?”

“...”

“...[Reader]...”

“...”

In the end, Khaslana doesn’t have to look to confirm what he already knows. There’s an aching rawness in his chest, growing deeper and darker with each breath. Your body grows as cold as the dirt in his arms.

He’s crying. He can’t stop.

In the end, I still failed. Khaslana lets out an animal-like wail, clutching at your back. They ambushed us. They killed her.

A thought cuts through his grief like a lightning bolt. But I can still find [reader] in the next cycle. She’ll still be here. I can find her…

Slowly, he pulls back and sits down heavily. He gently moves your body so he’s cradling it against his chest. Reverently, he closes your sightless eyes, so that it looks like you’re just sleeping.

Softly, ever-so-softly, he presses a feather-light kiss onto your cold lips. “When people from Aedes Elysiae make a promise, they will never break it,” he breathes into your mouth. “They’re rarely given, like precious gemstones. So they’re always sealed with a kiss.”

Khaslana simply breathes, closing his eyes. Around him, the world starts breaking down into black and red corruption. The earth rumbles deafeningly, causing the nearby trees to split in half. Gulls frantically cry out as they’re forced to flee from calamity.

At the epicenter, Khaslana remains as still as stone. Anger and rage sizzle from his body, the searing onslaught of destruction emanating from every fiber of his being.

“[Reader]...I promise you…I will grant you a dawn…where all stars burn to ash.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

>>> Eternal Recurrence #108,643: Subject Khaslana's 108,612th attempt to breach the Scepter's core layer has failed. Lifecycles of the twelve Chrysos Heirs terminated in sequence. The extrapolation process regressed.

>>> Khaslana enters the cycle once more.

Chapter Text

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

If there’s one word that describes Phainon’s childhood, it is beloved.

He grows up safe and cherished by everyone in Aedes Elysiae. His mother and father, Audata and Hieronymus, have showered him with love ever since the day he was born. His teachers praise his intelligence and eagerness to learn. He has no shortage of friends to play with. The other boys in the village look up to him - only seven years old, and already so tall and strong. He’s never lost a wrestling match against any challenger, no matter how boastful the other is.

He is a bright, happy child. He wants for nothing, and has everything he needs provided by his family and friends. He loves everyone in his small village.

But above all, what Phainon treasures the most is his relationship with Cyrene.

Clever, charming, cunning Cyrene. Always smiling and mischievous, Cyrene regales him with fantastically inventive stories and tales of gallant knights, heroic journeys, and true love prevailing over evil. She teases him constantly at his doe-eyed look of wonder whenever she tells stories, but Phainon can’t help it. His older sister Cyrene, in spirit if not in blood, has opened his eyes to the vast cosmos that lies beyond tiny Aedes Elysiae - and he is entranced.

He’s fascinated by her tarot cards and her fortune-telling book, instantly recognizable by the golden sun and pink moon on its cover. He’s lost count of how many times he’s run his small fingers across the engravings - so much that Cyrene once asked him if he was planning on memorizing it based on touch alone.

(He doesn’t tell her that he already has.)

Despite this, when Phainon asked her which of the cards best suits him, an inexplicable cold shiver runs down his spine when Cyrene dexterously flips over one of them to reveal a faceless white-haired man. He’s clad in royal white and blue, holding a greatsword larger than Phainon is tall. “What’s this one?” he asks, silently mapping out the syllables written at the bottom.

Cyrene hesitates for a split second, a mournful look crossing her face, before it smooths out again. “Oh, what an interesting card. That’s the Deliverer, Phainon. Do you know it?”

Phainon shakes his head, fluffy hair whipping back and forth. Cyrene leans forward to pluck a stray piece of wheat out of his locks, giggling at his embarrassed look. “Did you fall asleep in the wheat fields again? Don’t lie to me, Phainon, your face gives you away every time.”

He huffs, cheeks flushing and the beginnings of a pout forming. “So what? I did all my chores and there wasn’t anything else to do. It’s not like there’s any monsters around here - the biggest animal in this place is Snowy, my dog. And he would only slobber all over you!”

His big sister laughs, bright and carefree. Soft pink hair spills across her thin shoulders, catching the fading daylight. “Oh, Snowy, that little troublemaker,” Cyrene exclaims, kicking her legs back and forth on her swing. The distant sound of wind chimes echoes in the background.

Phainon is stubborn to a fault, though, and he jumps to his feet. “Cy-ren-e,” he insists, dragging out the syllables petulantly. He stomps his foot on the ground. “You never answered me. What’s so great about being the Deliverer?”

Branches creak above them as Cyrene slows to a stop. She has that strange look on her face again. “...The Deliverer is unique among all the cards I have.” At Phainon’s confused look, she clarifies. “Unique means it’s special. The Deliverer is the only one without flaws. It means absolute harmony and perfection.”

She continues, “The Deliverer is destined to bear everyone’s wishes. He will be the one to save the entire world.” Cyrene kicks off the grass with her heels, pumping her legs to swing herself higher and higher. Phainon swears that she’ll touch the treetops eventually. “What do you think of it?”

The white-haired boy remains silent, troubled. Even though he is still young and naive to much of the world beyond the comforting borders of his hometown, Cyrene’s words strike a nerve deep within his heart. “It sounds really…heavy,” he mutters. “How can one person carry everything? One person against all the monsters and Titans and evil in Amphoreus? That’s impossible…right?”

Cyrene just gives him a knowing look. He huffs, feeling the back of his neck heat up. Cyrene always knows how to make him feel like he’s missing something important. When she looks at him like that, he gets a bad feeling in his gut, as if he made a misstep on what he previously thought was a solidly frozen lake, only to plunge through a deceptively thin layer of ice.

(Phainon has made that mistake only once, during a cold snap in last year’s brutal winter - it’s only through sheer luck that his father was close enough to hear his desperate cries while treading water. Hieronymus dragged him out immediately, shouting for Audata to kindle the fire in the hearth. What followed was a miserable stretch of endless lectures, sneezing from catching a cold, and sweating under a triple layer of blankets. He’s learned not to do that ever again.)

She hums a few notes of a half-forgotten melody. “Whoever the Deliverer is, I have no doubt that they’re an amazing person. Someone who can bear the weight of the world. Again, and again, and again…just like Kephale.”

Phainon shivers involuntarily, the evening breeze cooling the sweat on his forearms and causing goosebumps to form. “Kephale…the Worldbearing Titan. The Titan of Creation…”

“Then what about you? Which card is yours? I bet it’s not as cool as mine.”

Cyrene grips the ropes tightly, hands whitening as she continues swinging. From where Phainon is standing, he can only see the gentle curve of her cheek. He can’t be sure - but as the light rapidly fades, he thinks he sees her…crying?

(What…?)

Phainon opens his mouth to ask, “Cyrene--?”

Abruptly, at the very peak of her swing, Cyrene jumps off and lands lightly on her feet. Using her forward momentum, she takes off running and yells, “Race you! Last one home has to empty the chicken nests in the morning!”

Phainon is left gaping at her rapidly shrinking figure as she bolts. Then his brain catches up to her words, and he scrambles to chase after her. “You cheater!” he shrieks, crashing through the underbrush. Startled birds fly out of the grass, cawing wildly. “You had a head start! Cyrene!!”

He’s so focused on catching up to his cheater of an older sister that all thoughts of the Deliverer card slip from his mind.

In the end, he loses and has to wake up before dawn to clean out the chicken coops. And Cyrene wheedles him into getting their eggs, too. Phainon grumbles his way through the chores, but at least his mom rewards his efforts by making him a huge omelette with freshly baked bread. He also steals half of the food from Cyrene’s plate in revenge, smirking as she pouts.

His parents just sigh, used to his bottomless stomach. Phainon greedily devours pancakes drizzled in honey, fresh fruits, and pitchers of milk. Cyrene teases him that he’s going to get fat, but he insists that all of the food he eats will make him the tallest person in the village. Much taller than Cyrene. Phainon vows that one day he’ll grow so tall that she won’t be able to pat him on the head anymore.

Cyrene tells him he’ll be shorter than her forever. Phainon sticks his tongue out at her, purple with jam stains, and says pretty soon she’ll be the midget.

(His mother shares an amused look with his father, and they both hide their laughter behind their hands.)

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

“Phainon! You dare fall asleep in my class again?!”

Said person jerks his head up from his desk so fast his neck cracks. Phainon snaps his eyes open, blearily looking towards the front of the room, where teacher Pythias is glaring at him. One of her hands is cocked back, holding a piece of chalk.

“N-no,” Phainon stammers, hastily rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. A spot of wetness at the corner of his mouth reveals that he’s been drooling, much to his embarrassment. “Sorry, teacher…!” Around him, his classmates burst into laughter.

She huffs, lowering her hand and looking at him with concern. “Phainon, what has gotten into you these days? I understand that the harvest season is in full swing, so everyone is tired from working in the fields, but you’ve never been so distracted. Is everything okay?”

Next to him, Cyrene pokes him in the thigh with her pencil. Without looking at her, he swats it away. “Everything’s fine,” he reassures his teacher, swiping a bit of drool with his sleeve. “Just…had some weird dreams lately, but I promise I won’t do it again!”

Pythias tilts her head, crossing her arms before letting out a sigh. “Normally I would have you go out into the hallway so that you’re not disrupting the class, but in light of your stellar record, I’ll let you off with a warning. I know you’re a bright student and your behavior is exemplary, so behave. Alright?”

Phainon nods eagerly, the last of the sleep leaving his body. He’s relieved to see his teacher turn back to the chalkboard and continue her lesson.

Based on her neatly written notes, she was in the middle of lecturing on a type of philosophy. “Plato’s Allegory of the Cave” is penned at the top of the board.

Phainon takes the ribbing from his nearby classmates in stride as they tease him for falling asleep. He shakes out the fatigue from his arms before flipping several pages in his notebook to start taking notes again. Cyrene, his deskmate since they both started school, taps her pencil against her desk before writing something on her own piece of paper. She slides it over to Phainon’s desk for him to read.

Strange dreams?

Phainon glances up at Pythias to make sure she’s not paying him any attention, then scribbles his answer. Yeah, it’s really weird. I dreamt that I was pushing a huge boulder up a mountain for years, and then just when I reached the top - it fell all the way back down to the bottom. I had to do it all over again.

He draws a sad little frowny face with tears at the end.

Cyrene rests her small chin on her palm. Her eyes, usually clear and bright, are clouded over in deep contemplation. An impossible task, huh?

Here she draws a simple confused face, complete with a question mark over its head.

Yeah, Phainon writes back. And I was so tired but I felt that if I stopped, even for a moment, something terrible would happen.

Teacher Pythias’s voice cuts through the classroom. “--and so, the only things the prisoners in the cave understood as ‘real’ were in fact fake. What the prisoners thought were real objects - for example, a vase, a dog, or a piece of furniture - these were all just distorted and blurred shadows from a reflected flame.”

“Of course, if a prisoner were to one day break free of his chains, and see the outside world and reality for what it really is - what kind of advances and higher reasoning could result? The late philosopher Plato argued that these such enlightened individuals are the ones who will pave a bright future for humanity. It is only through breaking through your chains - either physical or mental - that will truly open your eyes.”

“But if there is a prisoner who chooses to break free - there are also those who refuse to see reason and choose to stay in the cave forever. For that is all they have ever experienced.”

Pythias then pauses, sweeping her keen gaze across her students. “Hmm…I wonder…” Her hazel eyes look around before stopping to meet Phainon’s blue ones. “Phainon…hypothetically, if you were in this situation…would you want to know and explore the outside world, even if it might cost you everything? Or would you choose to remain in the safety of what is known?”

Phainon straightens in his seat, thinking hard. This is something he’s never had to consider before. If this question was posed as a debate topic, he could see himself defending both sides without difficulty.

On one hand, there is safety and comfort in what’s familiar. Hadn’t Phainon himself said the other day to Cyrene that he wants to stay in Aedes Elysiae with his parents, friends, and dog Snowy? Maybe he’d make a few trips to Castrum Kremnos to learn more about swordfighting, or visit the Grove to take a few history lessons there. But ultimately he yearns to come back to his beloved village, to live out the rest of his life peacefully.

But…

On the other hand…would it be worth it to leave if there’s limitless opportunity and knowledge out there? To brave the vast and uncharted territory, without any guarantee of success?

(Briefly, for a fleeting moment Phainon thinks he smells something burning and unfamiliar - the scent of ozone right before a lightning storm.)

Teacher Pythias is still waiting for his answer, but she doesn’t look impatient. Rather, her stare feels heavy and weighted. Phainon swallows, throat suddenly dry. He feels as though he’s on the edge of a great precipice. And even though a simple answer in a village classroom shouldn’t be so important, Phainon wants to give an answer that is true for him.

“If I were in that scenario,” Phainon says carefully, “If I were a prisoner living in ignorance and had the chance to break free…then I would take it. No matter how much I’d have to fight or push, if the real world is out there and the cave is fake…then I have to leave.”

Pythias nods thoughtfully, a little bewildered at such a deep answer from a ten year-old. But she quickly calls on some other students who have raised their hands with questions regarding Plato.

(At Phainon’s side, Cyrene stares up at him with a melancholy expression, but she’s not surprised at all. It’s almost as if she expected his answer, before Pythias even asked or before he even opened his mouth.)

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The summer Phainon turns fifteen, he sneaks out of his quiet house around the Curtain-Fall hour to meet up with Cyrene in the wheat fields.

It’s unreasonably warm even after the sun sets, so Phainon is just wearing a light tunic, shorts, and sandals. Cyrene is dressed in her usual outfit, complete with her heavy sleeves and black-and-gold ribbons. Phainon feels hot just looking at her.

“Come on!” She grabs Phainon’s hand in hers (since when did his hand get so much larger? Her own is practically engulfed in his), and they both make their way to the very center of the meadow. Most of the wheat has been harvested already, leaving ample flat patches where they can lie down without getting poked by the grass.

Phainon lies on his back, and Cyrene settles her head onto his stomach. This far out from the village, the only light comes from the full moon and the stars twinkling in the distance. Cyrene points out specific constellations, insisting that several of the stars are connected in a pattern, but Phainon thinks they all look the same. She gives up after a while, huffing that he needs to learn the night sky better.

After that, a natural lull in conversation leads to them staring quietly up, occasionally seeing a shooting star. Cyrene hums softly, the melodic sound echoing in the night.

A particularly bright star catches Phainon’s attention. Before he knows it, one of his arms reaches out in an attempt to catch it in his hands.

He fails, of course. Even the closest star to Aedes Elysiase is millions and millions of miles away. He learned that in class. But the shifting of his limbs causes Cyrene to perk up and look at his face, laughing at his forlorn expression.

“Silly, even if you grew as large as Kephale and all the other Titans combined, you’d still be too far away to grab a star,” she laughs good-naturedly.

Still, Phainon keeps his hand extended and outstretched, watching as more shooting stars race by. “One day…” he says before trailing off. “Someday, Cyrene, I’ll show you…we’ll explore beyond the skies. We don’t have to be like the prisoners in the cave. We’ll get close enough to the stars and the moon to touch them. I don’t care if Aquila tries to stop me…by that time I’ll have gotten strong enough to defeat it. And anything else that gets in my way.”

Cyrene doesn’t say anything about how impossible it is to defeat a Titan, or that Phainon’s dreams are too far-fetched. She never has. Instead, she simply continues humming a soft tune, plucking at some of the grass stems with her fingers.

Then, Cyrene starts singing a familiar song.

“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight…”

It’s an old, comforting nursery rhyme, instantly recognizable to everyone in Aedes Elysiae. Phainon has heard his mother croon it softly into his hair countless times when he was on the verge of sleep. He joins Cyrene to finish the verses.

“I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.”

In the distance, Phainon hears a dog howling. Maybe it’s Snowy, but his dog usually barks more than anything. Briefly, Phainon entertains the thought that it might be a wolf, but he and several of his friends had built strong fences around the edges of the village. Any predator trying to get in would be met with fierce resistance.

And besides - there haven’t been any wolves spotted around Aedes Elysiae for years.

Phainon’s eyes drift closed, almost against his volition. It’s late enough that some of the bakers are no doubt getting out of bed in order to get fresh bread and pastries on their shelves for the day. The moon hangs full and bright overhead.

The humid summer air and Cyrene’s gentle breathing eventually lulls him into a dreamless slumber.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Aedes Elysiae is burning.

Phainon gasps, lungs protesting as he sprints through the village, desperately searching for his parents and Cyrene. When he saw the dark plumes of smoke in the distance, he dropped his basket of apples and ran as fast as he could back to the village. But by the time he reached the borders, all he could see was fire, black corruption and ichor, and dead bodies strewn everywhere.

(Please, please, no, why is this happening--)

Blood, thick and dark, coats the bottom of his sandals. The metallic stench of death and iron hangs in the air. Phainon grimly forces himself to keep moving and to ignore his gag reflex. His house is only a little further, if he can just reach it and find--

He skids to a stop, blood sloshing at his feet as he stares in disbelief. His home - where he eats, sleeps, and spends countless hours playing with Snowy - is gone.

There’s nothing left except for a few scattered bricks and scraps of rubble. His home has been reduced to nothing more than a great, blackened scorch on the ground.

The flames roar higher, scorching his clothes, but through the hazy air Phainon thinks he can make out two black lumps huddled in the far corner.

Wait. Those shapes…those are…bodies.

Before he’s aware of it, Phainon’s knees jolt against the ground, sending aftershocks racing up his legs. He doubles over, uncaring of the warm blood that splashes onto his clothes as he vomits at the realization that those charred husks are all that remain of his parents.

Tears fall from his eyes as he wretches over and over, the acidic sting of bile filling his mouth. Callused fingers scrabble at the dirt, and one of his nails catches on a rock and tears partially off, but Phainon doesn’t even feel it.

Mom…dad…why…?

He might have stayed there on the ground forever, but a sudden crash jerks him out of his stupor. Dazed, he gets to his feet and stumbles toward the noise, because noise means people and maybe there’s someone - anyone - that is still alive in this hell.

Smoke and grit blow into his eyes, making them water constantly. Phainon throws his arms out, feeling his way blindly out of the wreckage and calling out in a raspy voice for any survivors.

“Hey-- hey! If there’s anyone out there…say something…I’m, I’m still here, please…please, anyone…”

Phainon turns a corner and finds himself at the crossroads which leads to the fairy gardens. He spots a head of pink hair, and relief fills his heart. “Cyrene,” he exhales, lips upturning into a smile, reaching towards his sister.

She doesn’t turn to look at him. She’s facing away, and she stands on the dirt road, looking out to the sea. One of her hands holds her wrist, behind her back.

He slows, an odd feeling twisting in his stomach. “Cyrene…?” he asks timidly, suddenly afraid. Chills break out over his skin, despite the scorchingly hot air.

(Is she hurt? Is she in shock? Did something happen to her voice?)

(Why won’t she answer him? Why won’t she turn around?)

Phainon is only a few steps away when he calls out again. Maybe he was too far away to be heard. “Cyrene--”

This close, Phainon can see every last detail as a rippling black portal materializes in front of Cyrene. A terrifying figure cloaked in tattered black robes and rusted golden armor steps out. A golden mask covers any facial features. He (or she?) is holding a wickedly sharp, twisted blade in one hand.

The sword is absolutely drenched in fresh blood.

Before Phainon can scream or do anything, the masked person lunges forward and drives cold steel into Cyrene’s fragile body. It slips underneath her ribs and exits out her back, bursting into the air like a twisted silver wing.

Blood, bright and gold, splatters onto Phainon’s cheeks like rain.

For a moment, Phainon just stands there, a half-formed smile frozen on his face. Surely, that cannot be his sister, impaled on a stranger’s blade like an insect. Surely, this must all be a vivid dream. Surely, he will wake up any second to the sound of his mother calling out that breakfast is ready.

Surely…

Surely…

Surely…

…not.

“Ah…ah…no, please…no…”

Phainon’s distantly aware of someone moaning in agony, and then realizes that someone is him. He’s close enough to Cyrene that when the masked swordsman yanks out his weapon, Cyrene falls back into Phainon’s arms bonelessly.

“Cy…Cyrene…” he wails, collapsing to the ground as his knees give out. “Cyrene…CYRENE!!” He rocks back and forth, cradling his sister’s body. No matter how much he begs and cries, there’s no answer.

She’s already gone.

Gravel crunches under steel-toed boots as the masked stranger watches him. Phainon glares at the other with violent rage, the hatred boiling into his heart and lungs hotter than the flames surrounding them. His cerulean eyes blaze with his desire to kill.

“You bastard,” Phainon chokes out, spittle flying everywhere. “I’ll kill you, I’ll FUCKING KILL you!! You monstrous scum, you-- you goddamn coward!! How dare you come here and destroy Aedes Elysiae?! You killed everyone! You killed my PARENTS!! What did they ever do to you?!”

(It may just be Phainon’s imagination, but the other seems to flinch ever so slightly at that last sentence.)

“You killed Cyrene,” Phainon hisses, venom poisoning his words. “So I’ll make you a promise, executioner. One that I’ll never break for as long as I fucking live.”

Phainon straightens up as much as he can, still holding Cyrene’s dead body close. Though he’s not going to seal his vow with a traditional kiss - there’s no way he’s going to do that.

“I promise,” he snarls out, voice deepening with murderous rage. “I promise that I’ll survive and train until my guts fall out, until I puke blood, until I’m strong enough to become the Deliverer and to cut down anything in my path without mercy.”

“And then I’ll find you, and I’ll slaughter you like the vermin you are. I’ll erase your worthless name - whatever the hell that is - from Amphoreus’s history and grind your very bones into dust. That I swear on my very name, as Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.”

The other says nothing. Perhaps he thinks Phainon as a worthless little boy, all talk and no strength to back it up. Maybe he’ll pick up his sword and run Phainon through as well, ending his miserable existence.

But he doesn’t. Instead, the air distorts as the masked stranger opens another portal before stepping through it and vanishing.

Phainon continues to hold onto his rage until it consumes him from the inside out. Anger lights up every fiber of his being, causing him to shake furiously. But eventually, it becomes dormant and simmers like heated coals. His eyes droop as the adrenaline drains from his body.

Only then does he give into exhaustion and finally, mercifully, pass out.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

After that, time passes by in a haze.

Phainon carried Cyrene’s body to the wheat field that they spent so many nights looking up at the stars. He dug a shallow grave to bury her, and then covered it up carefully before placing the smoothest rock he could find as the gravestone. She would have liked that.

(In the end, no matter how much he called and shouted, he could never find Snowy. Perhaps he died from smoke inhalation, or got caught underneath rubble. Or maybe, Snowy met his end like all the other villagers - impaled on a twisted, black blade.)

Then he retraced his steps to the village to methodically search all the burnt and ruined buildings for supplies. He can’t stay here, so he has to leave. But in order to do that, he needs to prepare as much as he can.

He finds a large rucksack in one house, and spends an entire day filling it with everything he needs for a long journey.

Containers of water. Matches. A flint. A singular set of cutlery. His leather journal. Dried packages of food that will keep for weeks. Clothes. A bedroll.

Finally, he rummages through the local blacksmith’s workshop to find a weapon. He’s always been partial to swords, so he chooses one that’s decently crafted with its handle wrapped in leather. Phainon gives it a few test swings before putting it back into the sheath. He fastens the sword to his belt, then walks to the crossroads again.

Phainon takes one step across the border of Aedes Elysiae, then stops and looks back. Despite his best efforts, fires still smoulder across the village. He threw dirt and sand over most of them, but by then the Black Tide had spread so far that it was too dangerous to put the remaining flames out.

The white-haired teen secures the rucksack tightly to his back, then lets out a deep, heavy sigh. Then, he starts walking.

And this time, he doesn’t look back.

Over the next year, Phainon runs into various kinds of people on the road. Most of them are wary and skittish, much like himself, cautioning him to stay back. He meets a steady stream of refugees, some from distant fishing villages, others from more well-known larger cities. But all of them are escaping the Black Tide and heading to Okhema.

Sometimes he travels with a group for a short while, providing protection with his sword in exchange for food and drink. Other times, he declines to journey with them in favor of clearing out a horde of incoming Titankin. It helps cool his head when his rage threatens to overwhelm his thoughts.

(Those episodes seem to occur more and more frequently. Phainon tries not to think too hard about it.)

And periodically, such as right now, he runs into someone truly…reprehensible.

“Heh…heh heh…! Look at this little boy, all alone and lost,” sneers a middle-aged man with a balding hairline and the stench of alcohol clinging around his mouth. He’s taller than Phainon by a full head, and there’s solid muscle around his middle. But it’s padded with a layer of fat - proof that the man was once physically fit, but led a sedentary life for the past several years. “What’s wrong, brat - did you run away from your mommy and daddy?”

Phainon wrinkles his nose in distaste, staring at the drunkard with cold blue eyes. A spark of rage ignites in his chest at the man daring to speak ill of his late parents, but Phainon just grasps the hilt of his sword tighter. Drunk and mean-spirited as the man is, he hasn’t given Phainon a reason to defend himself. Yet.

“Back off,” Phainon says. He may be on the thinner side due to months on the road and lack of rations, but if there’s one thing he’s always been confident in, it’s his physicality. He’s never failed at any type of feat that requires strength. “This is your only warning.”

The other man clearly doesn’t like Phainon’s tone. He scowls before turning his head to spit a wad of phlegm on the dirt road. His large, rough hands tighten around the strap of a leather bag. Phainon eyes it with suspicion, but focuses most of his attention on the man’s hostile body language. “Little punk - you think you can tell me what to do? You should be running back to your mommy’s lap.”

Phainon bristles, irritation quickly overtaking his senses. “Shut up,” he growls, getting angrier and angrier at this— this piece of trash that has the audacity to speak to him like this. What does this man know? He’s probably lived a pampered, spoiled life and never spent a full day working in the fields. Now look at him - no doubt wasting his remaining years by getting drunk and belligerent.

“I don’t want any trouble, mister.” He spits out the title with barely hidden venom. “I suggest you go your own way, and I’ll go mine. We wouldn’t want anything…unfortunate to happen.” The implied threat hangs in the air. Anyone with a lick of common sense would take the hint and leave.

Unfortunately for the balding man, the alcohol in his system has lowered his inhibitions and danger sense. His red-rimmed eyes stare at Phainon with contempt. “Little snitch,” he slurs, wobbling on his feet. “Did she send you after me?” He clutches the bag closer to his unkempt shirt. “Well, I won’t give it back! I got it, fair and square! Not my fault that she just left it sitting out right in the open! In fact, serves her right for being such a— such a frigid bitch!!”

Phainon’s eyes snap back to the drunk man’s bag, appraising it more thoroughly this time. It really is a shabby thing, but even in the dim light he can see something glimmering inside. He quickly connects the dots in his head, and his lip curls even more. “So you’re not only a drunkard and a lout, but also a lowlife thief? Hah…truly pathetic, aren’t you?”

Oh, the other man really doesn’t like that. The man snarls and fumbles at his belt, struggling before unsheathing a cheap-looking dagger. He lunges drunkenly towards Phainon.

With all his training and honed reflexes, it would be no issue for Phainon to parry the sloppy attack, disarm the inebriated man, or simply knock him flat on his back with a leg sweep. Phainon doesn’t even bother drawing his sword. He shifts his balance so that his body weight is distributed equally on his feet, waiting for his opponent to come into striking distance.

Just as the other man is about to reach him, a cold voice in Phainon’s head speaks up. Look at him…pathetic. I bet no one would even miss such a waste of a human being. He probably cheats and lies and steals every chance he gets.

(You’d probably be doing the world a favor by putting him out of his misery.)

It’s an uncharacteristically vicious thought for him, but Phainon finds himself coldly agreeing with it. Ever since his village was so callously destroyed, he finds it harder to truly care about others. Why should he, when it’s been proven that strangers can waltz into his life and destroy everything on a whim? Better to strike first.

My heart is dead. My sister is dead.

It’s these thoughts and his recent but never-diminishing rage that compel him to side step at the last moment, pivot on his heel, then take advantage of his attacker’s stumbling momentum to grab the knife hand with both of his.

He watches with distant apathy as he tightens his grip around the man’s wrist bones, causing the other to curse wildly. Phainon holds the grip easily, ignoring the other man’s desperate attempts to wrench free. Steadily, he applies pressure in an unrelenting manner. He notes distantly that the man’s voice gets higher and higher pitched, not so full of bravado now, words changing from threats to spewing out frantic apologies and pleas, until—

Something cracks and gives way under Phainon’s hands. He has a second of confusion before the man’s screaming alerts him to the fact that - oh. He broke the man’s wrist clean in two.

And it was so…easy. Effortless.

The other man has collapsed to his knees, desperately clawing at Phainon’s hands to wrench his broken wrist away, but Phainon ignores him. The knife is still clenched in a death grip, so hard that blood seeps out from his fingers. Phainon stares into the man’s eyes, which have sobered up due to the immense agony of the fractured bone.

(He feels the edges of his vision turn red with bloodlust.)

So noisy. The man’s blubbering is starting to irritate him. This man isn’t even worth the knife he’s holding. At least the knife is useful for something…

Phainon presses forward, bending the sobbing man backwards until his knee crushes his sternum, pinning him in place.

He still hasn’t let go of the man’s wrist, which is starting to turn an alarming shade of purple.

“Pl-- please,” the balding man sobs, terrified eyes staring up at Phainon. Snot trickles out of his nostrils, running down his cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I was wrong-- just, please, let me ghhhurrrk--”

His pleas gurgle and die in his throat as Phainon yanks the man’s hand up to drag the sharp blade across his throat. The man’s other hand flies up to try to pry the weapon away from his neck, but Phainon is both stronger and has the positional advantage.

Phainon shifts his weight to press the other man into the ground more, watching with lidded eyes as bright crimson blood pours out of the slash erratically. The blood pulses, ferried by the man’s rapidly pounding heartbeat, no doubt pumping blood in a frantic attempt to stem the tide.

It’s just a shame that more and more of the man’s life-saving blood spills out onto the ground.

“Pl…….please…”

A callused hand twitches against Phainon’s tunic in an attempt to beg for mercy.

Phainon doesn’t give it to him. Instead, the white-haired teen simply watches the light leave the drunkard’s eyes.

It only takes half a minute, but all Phainon can think of when it’s over is good fucking riddance.

The sound of footsteps brings him out of his thoughts, and Phainon cocks his head to one side, angling his ear towards the noise. He’s calm, heartbeat slow and steady in his chest.

In his peripheral vision, he sees a pair of intricate golden heels. Those shoes are probably worth more than his entire village, based on the precious jewels that are woven into the straps.

Phainon doesn’t turn around. It’s only when the stranger lets out a contemplative hum that he raises his eyes to face this new threat.

There’s a tall, statuesque woman staring at him. Her hazy two-toned eyes are framed by soft golden curls. Based on her pupils, Phainon’s first impression is that this woman is blind. But she shifts her sightless gaze towards the dead body underneath him, and he re-evaluates.

The rucksack, previously abandoned and thrown to the ground, now seemingly comes to life as something inside it rustles. Phainon watches as hundreds of golden threads unravel from the bag and stretch across the clearing.

One of the strings brushes his cheek lightly. Phainon twitches, but doesn’t move. “Who are you?” he asks bluntly. He has yet to let go of the other man’s hand, now quickly becoming stiff with rigor mortis.

The blonde woman doesn’t answer right away. Her perfectly manicured hands touch several of the golden threads, which quiver slightly. Phainon narrows his eyes, sweeping his gaze across the field. They’re totally alone. And this woman has one of the most versatile and potentially deadly long-range weapons he’s ever seen.

His hand clutches his scabbard.

“You can call me Aglaea.” Phainon looks up at her. She looks at him indifferently, and although her eyes appear cloudy, Phainon feels distinctly scrutinized by this beautiful lady in ethereal gold and white. Several of her threads carry the rucksack over, and he can see that there are expensive-looking golden necklaces inside.

“So…I suppose I have you to thank for disposing of that burglar for me,” she remarks as she hands the jewelry to a…moving dress? Phainon shakes his head slightly, before focusing his attention back to her. “He certainly made a mess of things back in Okhema, when he escaped.”

“I left some of my threads in his bag to track him, of course. He’s a slippery little thief, isn’t he? Or…he was,” Aglaea corrects herself. A thin smile touches her lips, as if she’s amused. “One less criminal wandering the streets. Okhema has enough vermin to deal with as it is.”

Aglaea then tilts her head. “Dear me…we should really get rid of that before it starts to smell. Or before the wild animals come running - no telling how desperate they are these days. Shall we dispose of it?”

A tiny part of Phainon balks at the woman calling the dead body an it. Like it’s nothing more than a lump of meat.

But the more overwhelming part of him finds himself nodding, finally standing from his crouched position. The bloody knife drops to the ground with a clatter. Hundreds of golden threads slither around the corpse’s arms and legs to lift the body up into the air. The man’s neck dangles bonelessly, highlighting the slashed throat.

Aglaea twitches her fingers, and the threads carry the body over to a nearby lake, before they pull taut. The fine strings dig into the pudgy flesh like razor wire, meeting significant resistance before the bones, sinew, and muscle finally give way. With a snapping sound, the threads slice completely through and turn what was once a body into neat chunks of meat.

Plop-plop-plop. The remains fall gracelessly into the water, forming countless ripples. Only a few seconds later, the water’s surface becomes frenzied as hundreds of fish swarm upwards. Phainon can see their needle-like teeth tear into the meat.

(Poor things. They must have been starving.)

Phainon watches all this with a critical, detached eye. He stands next to Aglaea as they both watch the gory mess (evidence) disappear down the maws of the piranhas. Crimson blood blooms from the lake’s epicenter.

Almost imperceptibly, Aglaea murmurs, “You’ll do.” When Phainon turns toward her, a questioning look on his face, she simply nods. “What’s your name?”

A beat of silence. Then, “Phainon. Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.”

“Phainon,” Aglaea muses, tapping a nail to her cheek. Her eyes slide to the left in contemplation before focusing again.

“I won’t waste either of our time, so I’ll get straight to the point. I’m looking for a successor,” she declares bluntly. “Someone with unmatched strength, discernment, ambition, insight - and above all, ruthlessness.”

Phainon says nothing, meeting Aglaea’s opaque gaze with his own. He tilts his chin upward, as if to say, so? What does that have to do with me?

She continues. “I see a glimmer of potential in you. It’s rough and buried under layers of rock, but all diamonds and precious stones can be made with the right amount of pressure and force. If you come with me, I’ll forge you into the greatest warrior Amphoreus has ever seen. I’ll give you a purpose.”

“As the prophecy has foretold - the one who possesses white hair, sky-blue eyes, and the mark of the sun - I’ll grant you the title of Deliverer, chosen one of Kephale.”

Phainon’s mind stutters at that. He glances at Aglaea sharply, who stares back at him with a calculating look. As if she’s measuring his worth, how useful he can be to her, down to the very marrow of his bones.

Aglaea smiles. It’s as warm and inviting as a shard of winter ice.

“Tell me, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae…have you heard of the Chrysos Heirs and the Flame-Chase journey?”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Okhema is new and bright and crowded and different.

There are so many people in the city, easily thousands of times more than Aedes Elysiae. Some days he can barely cross the road without bumping into dozens of civilians.

Aglaea often reminds him that before the Black Tide spiralled out of control, Okhema was simply a prosperous city-state that specialized in trade. But an overwhelming number of refugees have come, fleeing destruction and war. As a result, the population has easily tripled in just the past century.

It’s not all sunshine and roses, though - a sharp increase in citizens means there’s an almost insatiable demand for housing and infrastructure. Not a day goes by where there’s not some new construction being planned and built.

When he first arrived in the city, Aglaea ushered him past the great public bath house and into a side corridor. She strides through the hallway and opens one of the many doors, seemingly at random. “You’ll stay here for now,” she told him. It’s not a request.

Fine by him. It’s not that he has much other choice. He dumps his travel bag onto the reclining kline and takes off his coat. There’s a small fountain and personal bath built into the ground for washing up. On the far wall, double doors open up into a fairly spacious balcony, letting sunlight spill into the area.

Aglaea observes all this with the impartiality of someone watching a new pet get used to an unfamiliar area. “You will rest now. I will give you a week to get used to Okhema’s environment, but then you will start intensive training.”

At that, Phainon looks up. “Training?” He’s had an inkling of what he would be doing once he got to the Holy City, but it’s only been vague promises so far.

The Goldweaver nods. “One week, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. I know that where you came from is vastly different from Okhema, so you will have to learn quickly. There are countless hidden rules here, and to stumble or misstep could spell disaster. Enemies hide in plain sight, greeting you with a smile but with a poisoned dagger behind their backs. If you are to be the Deliverer, I will not have you taken for a fool by the scheming Council members or struck down by their assassins.”

“Being a Chrysos Heir--” she taps at her inner wrist, signalling the golden blood that distinguishes them from the masses-- “means having a spotlight on you, which provides us with ample privileges and boons. But it also paints a target on our backs. You need to be constantly vigilant. Your enemies will not care that you are a teenager. They would not care if you were just a child. They will look down on you for your background and perceived ignorance, coming from a farming village.”

“They will take any advantage to kill you.”

She leans forward, towering over him. Her calm eyes stare deep into Phainon’s soul. “Do not give them that chance. Do you understand me?”

Phainon tilts his head forward, his silver-white bangs covering his eyes. Something cold settles in his heart, but also a sense of finality.

“Of course, Lady Goldweaver. I understand perfectly.”

(When his one week reprieve is over, Aglaea immediately throws him into what surely must be trial by fire. He wakes before dawn to run spartan-like exercise drills until he vomits to build up his endurance. Countless hours are spent at his desk, cramming information from thick volumes of history, politics, and war strategies into his brain. Evenings are spent reviewing the day’s lessons with the three Demigods of Janus - Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon. Though they are friendly and welcoming, they are unrelenting as teachers, demanding perfection.

Despite the harsh schedule and limited free time, Phainon thrives. He faces each new day with grim determination, forcing himself to rise up each time he’s beaten down.

He throws up every day for a month straight. Then every other day. Then every week. Eventually, he stops vomiting and is able to stomach the grueling physical demands. He gets stronger and faster and smarter.

After Aglaea notes his improvement, she mercilessly doubles the intensity.

He never complains.

Phainon made a promise, didn’t he? He vowed on his very name to destroy the man who destroyed everything he held dear. He’ll keep it to that wretched, masked executioner, even if it takes him an entire lifetime. Or the next. Or the next. Or the next.

Even if he has to burn down everything.)

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Phainon has been in Okhema for a little over a decade when he first meets Mydeimos, the last Chrysos Heir to join the Flame-Chase.

As far as first impressions go, even he can admit it’s a disaster.

The other man is immediately hostile and on guard, even when Phainon simply came out to greet the Kremnoan faction, which is very rude in his opinion.

Granted, Phainon may have taunted the Kremnoan in turn, but the prince had the audacity to accuse him of being some sort of low-life and going after innocent civilians! Honestly, he’s only here because Aglaea ordered him to resolve the situation with diplomacy. He’s studied enough on it and won ten debate championships in a row at the Grove - how hard could this be?

Very hard, it turns out.

Phainon lets out a quip about how Okhema receives hundreds of refugees every week and how preference is given to those with useful skills, such as fighting or essential trades. He can see Mydeimos track his every movement, golden eyes narrowed in consideration.

Then Phainon says, “When I beat you, will you promise to do the same, Prince Mydeimos?” Phainon throws on what he hopes is a confident smile.

(Aglaea is wary of the Kremnoan prince, but acknowledges his unparalleled fighting prowess. His famed immortality also grants him an incredible advantage - one that Aglaea wants firmly on her side.)

Mydeimos curls his lip in a smirk, revealing his sharp canines. “Careful, Deliverer,” he growls lowly. Phainon’s heart quickens as the other man’s voice rumbles through the air. The civilians behind him stare at the combatants nervously. “Carelessness will be your downfall.”

Then Mydeimos lunges.

It’s only through a decade’s worth of brutal training that Phainon reacts in time to Mydeimos’s insanely fast attack. Muscle memory takes over as one of the prince’s clawed gauntlets crashes into his raised greatsword with enough force to knock a dromas off its feet.

Phainon braces himself, tightening his core muscles and digging his boots into the ground to absorb the shock. Even still, the strength of the blow forces him backward, divots in the ground forming as he’s pushed back. Mydeimos grinds his fist into the tempered steel, eyes flashing with murderous intent.

Before his opponent can ready himself for another attack, Phainon heaves his sword forward with both hands. The resulting movement forces Mydeimos to stagger slightly, but he’s already regained his footing as Phainon slashes down. Mydeimos crosses his arms to guard, and the heavy steel smashes into his gauntlets.

Phainon can feel the golden metal give slightly under his sword, and he pushes further, emboldened by his advantage. But Mydeimos is already reacting, sliding his gauntlets to the side so that Phainon’s sword slides off and hits the ground. A clawed fist suddenly appears right in front of his face, and Phainon is forced to drop his weapon or risk getting his skull caved in.

(He - very manly, by the way - does not almost yelp in surprise. Nope. He would never do that. It would be embarrassing.)

Mydeimos kicks the greatsword away, sending it clattering across the stone. Phainon winces slightly at the nicks that will no doubt mar the blade, but then he has to focus all his attention on his opponent, who grabs his arm in a crushing grip. Cursing, Phainon automatically twists his elbow while dropping his center of gravity, using the angular momentum to break the hold. He skips backward, eyes narrow with concentration.

The other man is much more skilled at wrestling and close-quarters combat. And based on Mydeimos’s smirk, he knows it, too.

Phainon tries not to glance at his fallen sword too obviously, but Mydeimos takes a purposeful step to block it from view. Fuck. Of course Mydeimos would want to fight in a style he’s comfortable in. Phainon flexes his fingers. It’s been a while since he’s done legitimate hand-to-hand combat with such a skilled opponent, but Phainon has reach and flexibility.

He should be fine…right?

Phainon winces internally as Mydeimos slams a fist into the other with a deafening crash. He does not want to find out how painful a direct hit would be from those gauntlets.

(Phainon does find out, though. Multiple times. They fucking hurt like hell.)

…

…

…

Phainon does eventually get his sword back, but only after he’s been hurled to the ground three times, smacked into a tree face-first, and then caught in a bruising headlock that smashed his nose right into Mydeimos’s enormous chest. It’s only due to his pride that he refuses to look flustered, but by the time he’s back on the offensive, he can’t even meet the other’s eyes.

(It's kind of hard to look someone in the face when you’ve been shoved so deep into his armpit, sweat got up your nose. Mercifully, Mydeimos doesn’t seem to have noticed. Phainon doesn’t think he’d ever be able to live that down if he did.)

Thankfully, after the two of them fight for ten consecutive days which ends in a draw, Mydeimos has warmed up to Phainon considerably. The blonde prince clearly respects strength, and so do the rest of his people. By the time both of them collapsed into the dirt, the Kremnoan citizens have been watching them with unconcealed amazement.

“Truce?” Phainon croaks out, lying flat on his back.

“Hmph,” Mydeimos grunts with exhaustion, doing the same just a few feet away. His golden eyes slide over to meet Phainon’s own, and the corner of his mouth ticks up in the first genuine smile Phainon has seen on the man. “Fine, you HKS. Have your truce.”

Phainon smiles, and even that causes his whole body to hurt. He thinks that once he’s able to drag himself back to his room, he’ll sleep for a whole week. He’s never been this tired in his entire life, not even counting that hellish day where Aglaea forced him to run from sunup to sundown to build up his endurance. “Ha hah…now you have to join the Flame-Chase, Mydeimos. You promised, after all.”

Mydeimos lets out a snort, and Phainon bemoans internally that the other can make even that sound cool. How can the Kremnoan be so effortlessly charismatic? “Did you hit your head so hard that you forgot your own words? This is a tie, not your win. Is Okhema’s Deliverer truly so forgetful? What a pity.”

Before Phainon can blurt out a protest, he’s stunned to see the other throw his head back and laugh. The sunlight glints off the prince’s sunset-gold hair. His braid, now completely unraveled due to the intense fight, brushes softly over the red markings of his shoulder.

“Call me Mydei.” Phainon blinks, shaking his head slightly before meeting his eyes. The Kremnoan holds his gaze steadily. “If we’re going to be comrades, then that’s what I prefer to be called. None of that formal sycophantic peddling.”

“Very well, Deliverer. I’ll join your cause. Though I don’t fully believe in the end goal of the Flame-Chase journey, it must be something worthwhile if you are a part of it. And don’t think you can slack off on training after this fight - I fully expect you to get stronger each time we battle, otherwise I’ll beat you half to death.”

“So…don’t you dare disappoint me…Phainon.” Mydei flashes him a smug grin, showing off his canines in a challenge.

The two lie in companionable silence as the Kremnoan citizens and several Okheman healers rush over to bandage their wounds.

Then, of course, Phainon has to ruin it by saying, “So, are the rumors true that you can’t do any math? And can you even read?”

Despite being dead tired, Mydei still has enough energy to bring his leg up to slam the heel of his boot directly onto Phainon’s vulnerable, unprotected stomach. And - for the first time in years, the white-haired man vomits.

(More than anything, it’s his pride that’s wounded as everyone leans away from the mess in disgust.)

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Phainon has lived in Okhema for nearly half his life now, and he knows it like the back of his hand. Navigating the winding streets and roads is like second nature. He is familiar with every building, every shop, and every corner of the city. Even the rooftops and very edges of Okhema have been thoroughly explored, no stone left unturned.

But at the very heart of it all, Phainon - now fully embracing his title of Deliverer - is still so fucking livid at heart that his vision whites out with rage near constantly. He’s an expert in hiding his true feelings behind a perfect mask as a Chrysos Heir, but some days even the smallest thing sets him off.

A citizen asking him for a simple favor. Being forced to give yet another passionate speech in the market square the public’s continued support. Finding some child’s lost pet cat for the hundredth time this month.

Why can’t these people do anything themselves? Are they truly so incapable of lifting even a finger to improve their own situation? It seems that everyone in this goddamn city, from tiny children to elders, are always waiting for some kind of savior to solve all their problems.

These same people, who praise him one moment then cast doubts about him the next. Phainon has never been ashamed of being from Aedes Elysiae, but many of the city folk have poor opinions of those from rural areas.

How many times has Phainon overheard mutterings of doubt, that the great prophesied Deliverer is from a backwards village? Is the Deliverer of Okhema really just some country bumpkin?

Phainon wants to tear his hair out - or better yet, storm over to these gossiping nobodies and smash their worthless mouths in. As inadequate he still may be, these people are surely ten times worse. What have they been doing all these years, living comfortably in the city while he and the other Chrysos Heirs bleed and sacrifice their bodies against the relentless Black Tide and Titankin? They’ve just been sitting on their asses, having the audacity to complain about things that don’t even matter.

“Lord Phainon, the trade routes are being sabotaged by thieves! How can the Chrysos Heirs stand by while our very livelihoods are being threatened--?!”

“Why aren’t these roads cleared of debris yet?! The Council said it would only take three days, yet it’s been over two weeks and there’s still trash lying everywhere, how am I supposed to work like this--”

“My brother hasn’t come back from his expedition, please, I know he wasn’t supposed to leave Okhema without protection but can you go find him--?”

(Shut up. Shut up. Just SHUT UP, they’re all just so WORTHLESS -- why does he have to protect these two-faced hypocrites who only praise him when times are plentiful, but revile him when there’s even the slightest inconvenience to their dull little lives?)

Sometimes he’ll zone out while someone is talking and daydream about holding them underwater in the public bath houses. They wouldn’t be able to do anything but thrash about, before finally succumbing to drowning and going limp. Phainon can imagine their bulging eyes and gaping mouths, desperate for air but only succeeding in sucking water into their lungs.

He’s heard that drowning is an exquisitely painful way to die.

Phainon wonders if falling to one’s death would be more agonizing. It’s not the fall that kills you, but the landing, right? If he shoved that fool Damionis off from the city ledge where the man spends so much of his time, would he die upon impact? Or would he live for several agonizing minutes after his internal organ rupture, like rotten fruit that’s been left in the sun for too long?

(It would be so easy. Phainon is older, wiser, taller, and stronger than when he was a teenager. And even then - as a half-starved mercenary wandering the countryside - he easily overpowered that drunken man. What chance would an ordinary person have against him now?)

Most of the time, Phainon can suppress his destructive urges and people are none the wiser. No matter how tempted he is to summon his greatsword and start cutting down everyone in the Marmoreal Market, he’s well aware of Aglaea’s constant surveillance through her ubiquitous golden threads.

Public relations is a bitch, but Phainon is nothing if not a quick learner. And being the face of the Chrysos Heirs means he needs to show a certain amount of diplomacy.

Which means that stabbing people will be heavily frowned upon.

(Also, he’d instantly be arrested and put on trial, but Phainon secretly thinks it would be so worth it. Especially if said person who gets stabbed is Elder Caenis. Honestly, Aglaea would throw a fucking party if that two-faced bitch died. He’d be doing Okhema a favor, honestly.)

It’s after a particularly gruelling day of trivial errands and dealing with the public that causes Phainon to retreat up to the rooftops. He feels like his muscles and limbs are too tight underneath his skin. He’s overstimulated from people talking at him and demanding things ever since he woke up.

He needs a moment to himself.

Phainon settles into a far corner of the roof, leaning against the rough cobblestone wall and dangling one of his legs off the side. Unwillingly, his mind flashes over the unsettling events that occurred earlier.

He could feel his self-restraint thinning with each passing minute, and while he can usually hide his pessimistic nature without issue, today has been particularly trying.

Mydei had noticed, of course. He always does. The Kremnoan prince could be called many things, but unobservant is not one of them.

“What’s bothering you, Deliverer? You’re uncharacteristically short-tempered today.”

Phainon twitches, shoulders hunching up before he forces himself to relax. “Oh, Mydei,” he replies airily, not turning around to face his rival. At his side, Phainon’s hand curls into a loose fist. “Nothing’s bothering me, but thanks for asking. Say - do you think that Verax Leo has updated his riddles yet? I was thinking of visiting him shortly…”

Metal creaks as the blonde crosses his arms. “Deflecting doesn’t suit you, Deliverer. What kind of example are you setting with your rude attitude? This isn’t like you. Aren’t you supposed to be Amphoreus’s shining hero?”

There’s a faint teasing edge to Mydei’s words underneath his concern, and Phainon knows that his rival doesn’t mean to be accusatory. Mydei is blunt by nature, and usually Phainon appreciates how straight-forward the Kremnoan is, rather than beating around the bush.

But Phainon is in no mood to engage in his usual banter. He knows that people have been put off by his curt behavior and clipped responses, but it’s just been unbearable lately.

And it’s not really like Phainon can vent out his frustrations to just anyone. There are very few acquaintances that he’s even slightly close with, and they wouldn’t understand his true feelings. All they see (or want to see) is his perfect facade.

Briefly, Phainon considers talking to Aglaea but then he laughs inside at the very notion. She would just tell him to rid himself of unnecessary idiotic thoughts. Then she would probably make him run a hundred laps around Okhema.

Hyacine or Anaxa might be a better choice, but Phainon knows they would probe further by asking him invasive questions - either encouraging (Hyacine) or demanding (Anaxa) them.

So although Phainon doesn’t mean to, he viciously and thoughtlessly snaps at Mydei. “Oh, so what if I am? And what would YOU know about that, Mydei? It must be nice to not have to worry about what the public thinks of you. Not everyone can just punch holes through all their problems. Isn’t that the traditional Kremnoan way? Might makes right…didn’t Eurypon embrace that barbaric practice? And look how far the once mighty Castrum Kremnos has fallen…”

He instantly regrets it when he sees the crestfallen look on Mydei’s face, but the other is quick to hide it behind a fierce scowl. Still, hurt lingers in his rival’s golden eyes.

Mydei grits his teeth. “Fine then, you HKS,” he snarls. He uncrosses his arms and whirls around, stalking off. “Go ahead and continue sulking like a little brat. And don’t you dare show your face around me until you cool off. Otherwise I’ll show you how us ‘brutish’ Kremnoans REALLY resolve our disputes.”

Phainon sighs deeply, a headache pounding behind his temples. Fuck, why does he always have to say the wrong thing? He knows he has a sharp tongue and the ability to really hurt others with his words.

Why can’t he do anything right?

What kind of savior is he if he can’t even control his own emotions?

One of his hands grabs at the corner of the ledge, digging in until he breaks off a piece of mortar. It crumbles in his fist, showering dust all over his black pants. Phainon looks out into the distance, eyes blank in unhappiness.

He sits there for ages, uncaring of the artificial sunlight beating down his neck. Phainon continues to break off pieces of the roof, grinding the stones in between his fingers. It stings, but Phainon relishes the slight pain.

Phainon’s about to cut his losses and slink back to his living quarters when he catches something moving in his peripheral vision. Focusing, he spots a dark-haired woman below on the road, curiously out of place.

The way she’s angled, he can’t see her face clearly. But Phainon recalls seeing her around Okhema over the past few years, because that particular shade of hair is something he’s never seen on any other person. She must be a refugee from a remote place.

A very remote area.

Phainon doesn’t call out to her, instead observing her movements. She’s clearly seen him, but she hesitates, fiddling with her bags while lost in thought. Then, she seems to have come to a decision. She nods to herself slightly before heading to a side corridor.

He wonders what she’s doing, but then footsteps clue him into her location soon enough. The woman appears from a set of stairs onto the roof. The white-haired man takes the opportunity to observe her features more closely, tracing the curve of dark eyelashes against her cheeks. This close, Phainon can see a light dusting of freckles as well.

She stops a polite distance away, then sits down and draws one of her legs up, letting the other hang off like his. Her fingers grip the hem of her chiton. A faint hint of nervousness flashes across her face.

“So, uh…do you come here often?”

Phainon watches in fascination as her face instantly flames red in embarrassment. Clearly, he’s not the only one in Okhema who talks before thinking sometimes. Amusement bubbles in his chest as he lets out a surprised but genuine bark of laughter.

“Ha ha ha-- honestly, not really,” he replies while rubbing the back of his neck. “I just came up here to…gather my thoughts. It’s been a pretty long day for me.”

“Oh,” the woman says. “Yeah, I’ve seen you around. Uh, not in a stalker way, I swear - it’s just…you’re pretty popular, so of course everyone knows you. Hero of the people, and all that. I guess it can get pretty exhausting talking to so many citizens every day, huh? And I hear you go on a lot of missions…”

Phainon hums. Hero, huh? Well, he certainly tries. It’s nice to hear acknowledgement instead of scorn for once.

The dark-haired woman continues, seemingly reassured at Phainon not rebuffing her. “And I’ve seen you escort people to safety, help rebuild broken storefronts, even buy some sweets for kids. I’ve heard a lot about you of course, but I didn't want to have any preconceived notions. I’d rather form my own opinion after talking with you.”

Phainon feels his shoulders relax a fraction. He likes listening to her voice. It’s melodious and soft. After the day he’s had, it feels like music to his ears. “Is that right?” He swings his leg back and forth idly. “And what have you determined so far, if I may ask?”

The smile is evident in her voice when she answers. “You may. And my conclusions are…well, I think you’re a very kind person.”

(Him? A kind person? He doesn’t feel kind, not after the monstrous thoughts he keeps having. And that man he killed in the wilderness, long before Okhema knew him as the Deliverer. If you knew about that, would you still be saying this?)

“I guess…um…I just wanted to let you know that I admire you a lot for that. My mother once told me that there’s not a lot of kindness in this world, so it’s all the more precious when people have it.”

Lost in thought, he replies absent-mindedly. “Kind? Heh. That’s some high praise. Especially coming from someone like you.”

A comfortable silence falls. High up above, Phainon can hear the thin cries of the common Okheman gulls cawing as they search for food scraps.

He slides closer to the woman. He always feels more comfortable being closer to someone when having a meaningful conversation. Phainon moves so that his thigh almost touches hers. “Hey. Why’d you come up here, anyway?”

She whips her head up, dark hair flailing as she looks at him in surprise. There’s still a faint blush on her cheeks, and her mouth parts slightly. “Ah-- huh?” she stammers.

The words on Phainon’s lips die in his throat when his eyes meet hers. Static fills his ears, obscuring all the background noises, as something snaps in his mind.

Those eyes…that face…so familiar…how could he have ever forgotten?

Phainon’s eyes dilate until there’s only a thin slice of blue surrounding his blown-out pupils. As his gaze locks onto the woman with disturbing intensity, the thick and oppressive smell of ozone overwhelms all of his senses.

He remembers.

On an isolated rooftop in the back corner of Okhema, Phainon suddenly, abruptly remembers. A hundred thousand cycles’ worth of memories flood his mind, over a million years of knowledge lighting up his neurons like electricity.

The despair from killing his friends over and over, the sensation of burning alive with the heat of the Core-Flames, the endless recurrences, his mind nearly breaking from slaughtering Mydei in the last cycle--

(It’s just a simple thanks. Something she probably says without even thinking, a throwaway line to hundreds of people a day. But to Khaslana - who has never once been met with any kind of gratitude in the hell that is his grueling, arduous journey - it means everything.)

Khaslana just sits there in quiet amazement, while the woman in his arms hastily wipes the last remnants of tears from her eyes before looking up at him. Her eyes are red-rimmed and still shiny-looking, but she gives him a tiny, sincere smile. His heart - once thought to be long-dead - stutters to life again.

“Thank you,” she says, again. Khaslana wants to carve those words into his heart forever. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Ah. That’s right. The other him, Khaslana, is also in each cycle. He’s out there, somewhere. No doubt fulfilling his duties as Amphoreus’s World-Bearer in secret.

Does Khaslana know that this cycle’s Phainon now has all the knowledge he possesses? Did something happen to Amphoreus’s digital code? Was there a disruption in the simulation?

Phainon needs to find him. If the two of them (they’re really the same person, though, aren’t they?) work together, then the possibilities of breaking free of the scepter suddenly expand infinitely. After all - hasn’t Professor Anaxa always said two heads are better than one?

Phainon’s mind races with conviction and determination, but forces himself to halt as he refocuses on the woman next to him. The most important person in this entire world. The only other real person in Amphoreus.

[Reader].

He doesn’t know how or why he suddenly has all the knowledge of all the previous Eternal Recurrences when this has never, ever, ever happened before, and a small part of him is wary that this might be a trick by that wretched Antikytheran Lygus, to drag him into despair even more to birth Irontomb…but…

Phainon forces himself to look away as you suck in a breath. His hands twitch with the overwhelming urge to envelop you in a hug and never let you go, but he manages to refrain. Just barely.

[Reader] clears her throat while moving away slightly. Phainon bites his tongue to swallow down his protest at the distance created. Copper blooms in the back of his throat.

She coughs before answering Phainon’s question. “Well, to be honest, I wasn’t going to come up here. I saw you up on the rooftop and figured you must have been taking a lunch break or something. Or just wanted to be by yourself. I get that feeling too…as much as socializing is fun, too much and my energy level drains too fast…but…then I figured I’d see if you were feeling okay.”

Phainon says, “Me? Feeling okay?” He’s careful not to sound too eager, but as the memories settle in his head, he can’t help but think he’s feeling more than okay, now that he’s finally found her again. Who knows if the two would have ever crossed paths otherwise?

He chances a peak at her face again. It’s just as beautiful and radiant as he remembers from the very first cycle he (Khaslana) met her. “That’s a strange question…why do you ask?”

[Reader] shrugs with a confused expression. “You seemed…sorry if this seems pretty blunt, but…like you were missing something you didn’t know you lost in the first place.”

And at that, Phainon has to stop to catch his breath. Even though he hasn’t been doing anything strenuous, he suddenly feels winded in shock. Could you have remembered too…? Desperate, he tries to subtly ask for more information. “Ah, that’s - that’s quite specific. Care to explain?”

His heart swells with hope that she remembers too - over 4 million cycles of love and tenderness and intimacy - but one glance at her polite but distant expression snuffs that out. Still, Phainon feels buoyed with the fact that [reader] is whole and healthy and real, right in front of him.

Everything else - the buildings, the sky, the very air - appears glitched and devastated in comparison to her. Perfect, real, [reader].

A cold sense of clarity washes over him.

I can’t let [reader] go. No matter what. The entire world of Amphoreus is fake and we’re all prisoners in a cage, like in the allegory of the cave that Pythias taught us.

But [reader] came from beyond the stars. She found me in that very first cycle she landed here. She was made for me.

Just as how I…Phainon of Aedes Elysiae…Khalsana…was made for her.

Phainon listens with rapture as [reader] speaks about her hometown where the stars were so bright and beautiful, how she never quite got used to the eternal daylight from Kephale’s Dawn Device, and that adorable, fitting nickname your mother (fake, she is nothing more than a line of code made up by the scepter) gave her.

He laughs, and it’s raw and genuine. He teases her about the nickname and asks if he can call her that, too. He memorizes the way she purses her lips as she tells Phainon she doesn’t want to be called a child.

And although Phainon has long since engraved her name within his very mind, body, and soul, he barely remembers in time that she doesn’t know that.

So he very smoothly and confidently asks for her name. She gives it without protest, and something warm settles in Phainon’s chest.

“[Reader],” Phainon says carefully and slowly, holding the syllables like precious jewels in his mouth. No matter how many times he says it, he’ll never get tired of it.

He flicks his tongue against his teeth. The motion causes her to blush again, and Phainon grins widely. He knows he’s a handsome man, and while it does feed his ego, all he cares about is that [reader] finds him attractive. “[Reader],” Phainon repeats. “I’ll remember that.”

(Forever.)

“But as a nickname,” he says cheekily, laughter in his voice. “Stars certainly seem to suit you. They’re a light in the darkness, brilliant and warm - yet so far out of reach.” He gives into his impulse to reach out and tuck a silky lock of hair behind her ear.

“But if you reach out, and if you’re very, very lucky…one might come to you and fall into your hands. Like a shooting star.”

(My shooting star. You came for me, you were made for me. Mine, mine, mine.)

She gapes at him like a fish, before stammering out if he’s flirting with her. His affirmation only seems to fluster her more, and Phainon has to bite down on the inside of one cheek to keep from laughing.

(Cute, cute, cute. She’s so cute. Phainon wants to lean over and bite her cheek. Gently, of course.)

“How about Starlight?” She snaps to attention, focusing on Phainon again. “Huh?”

“As a new nickname, from me. It’s similar to your previous one, but I’ll respect your wishes. It’s been a long time since either of us were carefree kids, right? We were both forced to grow up far too soon.”

She seems to agree with that, but there’s still some hesitation. “Starlight, huh…I mean, it’s beautiful, but I don’t really know if it…suits me, to be honest.”

Phainon burns with anger as she points out the features that make her so unique are a prime target for bullying and exclusion. How could anyone find those ugly or undesirable? In his eyes, they make [reader] more beautiful than any of the so-called “Great Beauties” of Okhema.

He makes sure to tell her so.

Phainon almost loses himself to bliss, affection bursting in his chest. But at the very end, he reaches out to grab her hand in his own. Giving her a dazzling smile, he says, “I really like you, [reader]. Would you like to grab dinner with me sometime?”

Of course, she says yes.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Phainon feels like he’s floating on clouds since [reader] has slotted back in his life. It’s as if a missing puzzle piece has finally been found, making him whole.

He spends nearly every waking moment thinking of her and when he can see her again. Ever since that fateful meeting on the rooftop, Phainon has been relentlessly seeking her out. He doesn’t matter what they do, as long as it’s together - whether it’s dinner, walking through the market square, or hanging out at the library. He’s careful not to come on too strong lest he scares [reader] away, but to his absolute delight, she has warmed up to him tremendously.

Three months in, and she finally agreed to date him. Him! Phainon! Of Aedes Elysiae! The Deliverer!

He wanted to scream in joy when she said yes, and had his foot on the railing to yell it out across Okhema, but she hastily grabbed his sleeve and smacked him in embarrassment. Phainon laughed and gave her a quick peck on the lips, which flustered her even more, which of course compelled him to chase after her, cutely demanding kisses.

His latent rage has died down significantly, but still remains like simmering coals. Phainon finds that he doesn’t really care about the little things anymore, now that he has her again. Phainon can once again fulfill his Chrysos Heir duties without violently thinking of slicing people in half.

(Well, for the most part. Elder Caenis still makes him want to hurl his greatsword into her face, skewering her like a kebab if only to shut up her yapping.)

The thing is…ever since he met [reader]’s eyes and regained his memories, everyone and everything else keeps glitching out at random intervals. Phainon will be talking with Theodoros in his antique shop when suddenly, half of the other man’s body suddenly mutates into strings of zeros and ones. Theodoros continues to point out the differences between real and counterfeit Janusopolis vases, but the visual glitch only reinforces the truth that his whole identity is just a string of numbers and letters - only granted motion through electrical signals.

Although Phainon is fond of Theodoros, his chest feels hollow at the sight of him.

And it’s the same for the librarians, the dromas handlers, the shopkeepers, the cooks - every single person on Amphoreus is just…a simulation.

Even the Chrysos Heirs are not an exception - Castorice’s face glitched out into a terrifying display of black and red when discussing the recent immigrants. Aglaea’s voice dropped several octaves mid-sentence when he gave a report in her office a few weeks ago.

(Mydei…maybe it’s Phainon’s imagination, but Mydei seems to glitch the most frequently and the most severely. He doesn’t know what that means.)

He tries, he really tries to hang onto the fondness and camaraderie he remembers with his fellow Heirs, but seeing them as glitches in addition to his memories of killing them ruthlessly makes it so difficult to keep those emotional connections. Almost unwillingly, they are reduced to just…lines of code in his mind, ignorant to their own suffering, fated to repeat eternal doomed cycles without learning anything.

Stagnant. Oblivious. Prisoners.

(Deep down, Phainon knows it’s hypocritical of him to think this way - after all, he’s a line of code too. But he stubbornly hangs onto his pride of being the one person with knowledge of this hell. And, if he’s real, then that means he’s worthy of [reader], who is also real. Her face has never once glitched or warped - it remains perfect and clear.)

Although Phainon has settled back into his daily routine, he’s never stopped brainstorming and scheming of new ways to break out of the simulation. He knows that Khaslana has already tried millions of times and failed. What else can Phainon do? What hasn’t been tried?

Above all, Phainon knows he has to be extremely careful. The scepter’s administrator, Lygus, doesn’t seem to have noticed anything different about him - about NeiKos496 - but he is well aware that even the tiniest slip-up could ruin Phainon’s plans before he can even start.

While Phainon has been nursing an enormous grudge against his mentor Aglaea ever since he recalled [reader]’s gruesome death at the end of her very first cycle, he is reluctantly grateful for her stern warnings several years ago. Caution is imperative, she warned, a severe frown marring her otherwise perfect face. Do not give your enemies any advantage, no matter how small.

So he never lets on that he has previous knowledge in front of anyone. He resists writing down any hints on paper, and is always mindful of the golden threads permeating every corner of the city. Obscuring truths becomes second nature to him. And Phainon remains on constant vigilance around the Elders, especially when Lygus is around.

Phainon would love nothing more than to tear that bastard’s head off after everything that sniveling clanker has done, and to smash his metallic body into scrap metal. But Lygus has total control over the simulation - even if the Antithekyran choose not to interfere - and Phainon cannot let him find out that Phainon knows. This is the only trump card he has, and it took over 4 million cycles to get it.

He can’t let Lygus know. Otherwise everything Khaslana sacrificed will be for nothing.

Phainon rages in frustration and helplessness, but consoles himself that he has plenty of time to find something out. He can scour the city’s library, explore the ruins of extinct civilizations, and even travel back to the Grove. How many books and scrolls are out there that have yet to be discovered?

It’s completely by accident that Phainon learns that in this cycle, he can also exert some control over the environment.

He thinks if only I could move around freely without Lygus knowing, I could do so much more. I could seek out Khaslana and make so much progress…if only I could--!

Phainon keeps snapping his fingers in irritation as he leans against a weathered oak tree, when suddenly something dark and red and cold ripples around him.

He shouts in horror, leaping to his feet as he frantically watches something eerily similar to the Black Tide erupts from his body, warping the ground and the very air around him. Phainon races to the edge of the darkness, but he’s forced to halt when the glitching finishes forming a sphere around him, totally closing him off from the outside.

It’s dark, it’s fucking dark, but Phainon can still see through a faint amount of red light given off by the domain. Sweat drips down his neck as he gasps, whirling around in fear and dread to see if there’s any weak point he can break through. His greatsword is already in his hand; he must have summoned it instinctively sometime before.

“Help!!” he screams. Screw pride, this is a total unknown he’s dealing with, and if that means getting a reputation as cowardly, then he can deal with that.

He can’t deal with anything if he’s dead.

Phainon strains his ears, but the only sound comes from the slight rippling of the black-and-red barrier trapping him. He can’t stop his instinctive flinch at that, vividly remembering how the Black Tide decimated Aedes Elysiae, but as minutes tick by and nothing happens, Phainon inches closer to the edges.

His rapidly pounding heart has calmed slightly, but he’s still on edge as he warily pokes the darkness with the tip of his sword. His weapon simply passes through without resistance, and when Phainon jerks it back, there’s no damage at all. Either to his sword, or the blackness.

Something clicks in his brain, a spark of an idea. Although it’s incredibly foolish, Phainon sucks in a deep breath before whispering,

^{“Lygus…I know your plan for Irontomb…I know that Era Nova is really a lie.”}

He instantly claps a hand against his mouth, eyes darting around to check as he readies his sword. Every muscle is coiled like a spring, and his heart rate jacks up again in anticipation for Lygus or an enemy to appear. Blood drips down his lip from where he’s bitten clean through it.

Nothing happens.

Phainon slowly unlocks his fingers from his sword, dispelling it. He still hasn’t blinked, and his eyes are getting unbearably dry. Sweat continues to trickle down his back.

After a moment, he huffs out a weak chuckle, but then it evolves to delighted laughter and then howling. Phainon is nearly ecstatic, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. At the edge of his vision, he can see the domain starting to break down, allowing small peaks of Okhema to show through.

He covers his eyes with a broad palm, his mind racing. Is the universe finally giving him a break, after millions of years of suffering?

If so, he’ll gladly take advantage of it.

Phainon keeps his eyes closed until he feels the barrier dissipate completely. Soon he feels the familiar sunlight warming his clothes, and the slow breaths of the chimeras napping in the Garden.

Blue eyes slowly blink open, taking in the false sky of Amphoreus. Based on his internal clock, Phainon estimates that the barrier stayed up for a little less than five minutes. Experimentally, he concentrates and snaps his fingers again, but there’s no change. He can’t feel the pull in his chest that happened when the domain first appeared.

Huh. He supposes that the barrier requires some time to recharge. And there’s a time limit to it too. Phainon makes a mental note to find out exactly how long those are.

But anything that happens inside it is hidden from the system administrator. From Lygus.

Phainon smiles so widely his cheeks hurt. A boon, a blessing in disguise - even if the domain appears threatening, it’s actually the opposite. Now, his thoughts shift so that a new goal takes priority in his mind.

He has to find Khaslana, and convince him to work together.

Whistling, he dusts off his clothes and runs a hand through his hair to freshen up his appearance, then races down the stairs and back through the alleys. His sudden appearance startles the few civilians he passes, but they’re quickly reassured with a bright grin and wave. They smile back, encouraged at the sight of their beloved Deliverer.

Surely, all must be right if he’s here.

And it is. It will be. Phainon will make sure of it, no matter what the cost.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

How did it come to this, Phainon laments to himself, clamping his hand tighter against [reader]’s mouth. His large fingers dig into her cheeks, no doubt causing bruises to form on the skin underneath, like rotten flowers.

The chloroformed rag he prepared beforehand has proved useful, as her struggles weaken with each passing moment, but Phainon winces when he imagines how groggy his Starlight will be once she wakes up. And the chemical smells vile - he can’t imagine what it’s like to have it pressed against his nose or mouth.

Phainon frowns in genuine hurt as he remembers the harsh (and in his opinion, uncalled for) accusations that were hurled at him before all this. Okay, sure, he did go behind his lover’s back to sell her house. But he vetted everyone who expressed interest in buying it, and made sure to weed out all the dishonest people trying to short-change him. He even made a fat profit off the sales; [reader] will surely forgive him once she takes a look at her bank account, right?

Glass and broken shards of pottery crunch underneath his boots as he adjusts his tight grip on her, waiting out the time it takes for [reader]’s body to go completely limp. This has been…a fairly indisputable disaster, all things considering, but Phainon is nothing if not stubborn and adaptable. He can wait this out.

Glumly, Phainon kicks himself once again for being stupid enough to leave his journal in such an obvious place where she could find it. This would have all been so much easier if she never found out, but he can’t rewind time so Phainon will just have to deal with it. Already his mind is whirring with ideas to minimize the damage - they don’t call him the Chrysos Heir with the best publicity for nothing, after all.

“Guess the hard way it is, Starlight,” Phainon murmurs softly into that silky dark hair he adores. He runs his fingers through the soft strands and brings them up to his lips. A light floral scent fills his nose.

Carefully, gently, Phainon adjusts his grip so that he’s carrying his beloved princess-style so that he can see her face. The anger that burned so fiercely just moments ago has faded to a muted restlessness. Her chest rises and falls with steady breaths.

Suddenly he’s overwhelmed with the urge to make her a promise. One that will show his devotion to her and prove that despite the rockiness of the past few days, they will both come out the other side stronger than ever.

Phainon leans down and presses his burning lips onto his Starlight’s own, trying not to grimace at the bitter aftertaste of chloroform. “Let’s stay miserable, together, then.”

Soon, he’ll rise and carry his beloved back to his house on the outskirts of the city, far away from any pesky interlopers. Phainon will keep her safe; he has no shortage of enemies both monstrous and human. The closer he can keep her, the better he can protect her.

Even now, sitting on the dirty floor of his lover’s house, Phianon feels his heart burst with affection for his clever, beautiful, kind Starlight. He’ll weather the storm of her anger, and he’ll show her that everything he does is for her.

He just needs a little time, but thankfully that’s something he has in abundance. He vaguely remembers Hyacine saying that it takes an average of about two months to get used to a new situation. Phainon is sure that [reader] will adapt quickly.

And if she needs a little extra help - well, Phainon will be more than happy to provide that, too.

Phainon gently rocks the unconscious body back and forth, a dreamy smile on his lips. His eyes are clear and bright with determination. “Don’t worry, my love,” he says cheerfully into the silence. “We’ll be just fine, as long as we’re together. You don’t need to concern yourself with anyone else.”

He holds his fallen star even closer, making sure to cradle her head against the sun tattoo on his neck.

“After all…their existence is of no consequence.”

Chapter Text

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

.ETERNAL RECURRENCE #108,464.

The world reshapes itself from nothing, light and shapes forming from an endless dark abyss. Black and red glitches before transitioning seamlessly into the sky, grass, foliage, and mountains.

Before long, the sounds of cicadas and birds fill the air. A pleasant breeze rustles the verdant leaves on the trees.

A heartbeat later, a greatsword cleaves its way into the forest, felling multiple trees with a deafening crash. Splinters fly everywhere as Khaslana viciously hacks into everything within range, uncaring of the damage he’s leaving in his wake.

He screams up at the sky in animalistic rage, cursing everything and everyone as the image of [reader]’s lifeless body burns in the back of his eyes.

(Khaslana is no stranger to blood and death, but the fact that it was her lifeblood draining and extinguishing that heart, he wants to destroy everything in his path.)

He slams his blade up to the hilt into a tree, only stopping to catch his breath as his hands convulse around the handle. Leather creaks alarmingly as Khaslana hangs onto the handle for dear life, bowing his head so that white hair covers his eyes. Golden blood drips down his arms as splinters pierce his fingers.

The look in her eyes as she bled out haunts Khaslana’s scattered thoughts. At the very end, she was scared and trembling from the fear of death, but she still reached out to console him. Her last action on this cursed world was to give what small comfort she could to an executioner.

…Can he find her in this cycle? Surely it must be possible; she came as an outsider, but the scepter’s influence was initially rooted in Erudition. Surely it can incorporate new data and variables into the next cycles, isn’t that what the Path is all about - gaining knowledge by any means possible?

Khaslana holds onto that hope with a desperate, raw, but terrified fury. His breathing has slowed back to normal, but his heart rate continues to pound erratically. He doesn’t know what he’ll do - how he’ll react - if she’s gone forever. To have a brief taste of hope only to have it cruelly snatched away…Khaslana thinks that’s infinitely worse than never having any hope at all.

“I’ll find you,” he mutters hoarsely. His throat is raw from hours of screaming. He tastes blood sliding down his throat. He might have torn something - maybe a vocal cord or two - but he ignores it. “Wait for me, [reader]...I swear I’ll find you again. And this time, I won’t let anyone kill you.”

“I’ll slaughter them first.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The problem with living through each new cycle in full is that waiting for a specific person to be born takes ages. Each eternal recurrence is slightly different, but the core principles remain the same. There is always a Flame-Chase journey, Castrum Kremnos always falls to Nikador’s madness, and there are always twelve Chrysos Heirs.

And Khaslana always, always kills them and steals their Core-Flames.

Even now, the intense heat of over a million flames scorches his insides and invokes intense agony. Khaslana grimaces at the familiar agony, but grimly pushes through like he always has. He keeps a low profile this time, avoiding Okhema and therefore Imperator Cerydra’s attention, instead scouring the continent for any information about anyone with dark hair and dark eyes.

The very characteristics Khaslana cherishes is also quite a boon when he’s searching - if [reader] had had any other color hair or eyes, he would have had a much harder time finding her.

It still takes much longer than Khaslana would have liked, but one day in a small tavern he overhears a traveling merchant mention selling a bundle of clothes and trinkets to a woman with dark hair. Khaslana snaps to attention, making sure to carefully slide closer to hear better. The half-eaten plate of stew is pushed hastily to the side, forgotten.

“Oh, so what you say is true?” The merchant’s grey-haired companion laughs, his limbs loose with alcohol. A few empty tankards sit on the table before him. “Doing business on the road is always finicky, but at least you’ve made a sale. Unless she cheated you out of your wares and paid you in fake gold or something…” Another gulp of ale goes down his throat.

The merchant hiccups, then scowls. A callused hand runs through his sandy-colored hair. “Nah, her money was fine. Just…around these parts, my customers are usually from small, isolated towns that haven’t seen travelers in many years. They tend to stick together and be superstitious of anyone who’s different, you know?” He snags a handful of peanuts out of a small bowl before popping them in his mouth. “Even me, with the plainest face you could imagine, and normal hair color…they looked at me so suspiciously. I was lucky to earn any money on this trip!”

The merchant hesitates, glancing around the room with wary eyes before leaning in conspiratorily. “They say she’s a witch, bringing ill omens. That she was swallowed up by the Black Tide only to be spat out along with the other Titankin. Roaming the lands to spread corruption and devastation…”

His middle-aged companion gives him a skeptical look. “Oh come off it,” he grumbles, mood souring at the heaviness of the topic. He raises a hand to flag down a waitress to order more alcohol. “The Black Tide certainly doesn’t give anything back, you only have to see the countless villages that have been overtaken by it. And what’s this nonsense about one person being a walking calamity? It’s all a load of rubbish, if you ask me.”

Khaslana taps his fingers against the table, impatiently waiting for either of the men to mention where they met [reader]. He’s practically vibrating in his seat, ready to set out - if only he knew where to go. Hurry up, he thinks, mouth pressed into a thin line.

A fresh set of mugs is brought to their table, and the two nod to the barmaid in thanks. While the merchant immediately knocks back his drink in one gulp, the other man sips at the alcohol leisurely. He plucks at a tattered strip of fabric at his throat, which is attached to a rather battered-looking straw hat.

(Wait a minute…)

That hat draws Khaslana’s attention, an idea stirring at the back of his mind. Quickly, Khaslana scans the man’s appearance more closely.

Salt-and-pepper hair, wrinkles at the corners of dark eyes, a generous tan from hard days out in the sun. But Khaslana also recognizes the curve of those eyelids, and the strong angle of the nose.

He sits back, quietly stunned but also more sure than ever that [reader] has been reborn. Her data wasn’t erased. His spine goes liquid with relief, and tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

The merchant slams down his tankard before letting out a belch. “Well, even so, I’ll be glad to get on the road again and back in Okhema. Traveling is a young man’s game, and I’ve been lucky for the past decade, but age is catching up to me. I think I’ll set up a stall at the marketplace - that way I won’t have to risk getting robbed or attacked…”

Khaslana continues to listen, but much to his frustration neither of them say anything substantial. The waitress comes by and asks if he’s finished with his meal, and he nods absentmindedly, letting her take the bowl to the kitchen. He places a few coins on the table for payment.

Just then, the merchant slaps his friend on the shoulder and bids him goodnight before stumbling outside to the lodgings next door. A rush of cool wind blows in before the door closes shut.

Khaslana moves at the same time Phaeton does. The door swings open again, revealing a tranquil night sky speckled with distant stars. Overhead, the moon hangs bright and full.

“Sir?” Khaslana calls softly, watching as Phaeton turns around.

The other man squints, trying to make Khaslana out in the darkness. “Yes?” he responds politely, but guarded. “Can I help you with something, son?”

Khaslana holds up his hands to show he means no harm. “Ah, yes, I was hoping that you could, actually. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with your merchant friend. That woman he spoke of…where is she? I’m looking for someone with her description.”

Phaeton blinks, raising an eyebrow skeptically. His formerly pleasant expression has shifted into something more wary. “And why do you want to know?” Phaeton’s response is mild, but his body language becomes more closed-off. Despite having multiple drinks, he’s still sober enough to question Khaslana’s intentions.

“No offense, stranger, but if you’re looking to cause her any trouble, then you can just go on your merry way. She doesn’t need any more people with outdated superstitions to bother her.”

It’s Khaslana’s turn to blink this time, before shaking his head quickly. “No, no, of course not,” he says, his white hair glowing slightly under the moonlight. “I would never do anything to hurt her.” It comes out more solemn than he intends, but he means every word. Khaslana would sooner run himself through with his own blade before harming [reader] in any way.

Phaeton still remains tight-lipped, though. He waits for Khaslana to continue.

Khaslana blows out a deep sigh, before turning his face up to the moon. Faintly, he can see a handful of shooting stars racing across the skies. “I’m looking for her because…she helped me out of a really tough spot. She saved me.”

He brushes his hand against his mouth. “I’ve wanted to thank her for so long, but…she…she left before I could say it. I…I’ve been searching for her for a long time.”

Phaeton searches Khaslana’s face, considering. He must find what he’s looking for in Khaslana’s eyes, because the other man nods before relenting. “Saved you, huh? That girl…she sure loves getting into trouble. Little brat.” Though his words are harsh, Khaslana sees the fondness in his eyes.

Khaslana waits. He unconsciously straightens up to his full height, wanting to be seen as someone reliable and trustworthy.

(He’s standing in front of his future father-in-law, after all.)

Abruptly, Phaeton sighs and says, “Well, you seem like you wouldn’t fall prey to that superstitious nonsense anyways. Looks like you have a good head on your shoulders, but I’ve been wrong before. So if you do have unsavory intentions toward her, you better turn your ass around and never show your face here again. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve chased someone off.” His face hardens with protective anger.

Khaslana pauses. The other man’s threat is laughable; there’s nothing in the entirety of Amphoreus that poses any kind of threat to him with his millions of years of combat experience and countless Core-Flames. Yet, Khaslana’s heart warms at her being so loved in each cycle.

He smiles, and it’s something soft and tender. “I would never hurt her,” Khaslana promises, cerulean eyes misty with nostalgia. “Never. I’d protect her from everything rotten in this world.”

Phaeton eventually tells him that [reader] is living in a small cottage a few miles from the shoreline. Occasionally, she’ll make trips to the surrounding towns to trade for materials, but mostly she keeps to herself.

“And how do you know her, sir?” Khaslana asks while lacing up his boots. “I’m glad she has a good friend who looks after her, but did something happen that made her live so far away from other people? You mentioned rumors and superstitions. Would people really go after her?”

Phaeton gives Khaslana a weary look. “They already have.”

Khaslana purses his lips, troubled. It seems that even in the next life, trouble follows the outsider no matter where she goes. He calls out before the other man turns to leave. “Just one more thing. Your friend mentioned going back to Okhema - would you happen to know which Chrysos Heirs are there? I’ve heard a lot about them, you see, and might visit there one day.”

The other man scratches his temple. “Well, I haven’t really been there myself lately, so things might have changed. It’s a real pain to even get into Okhema, what with all the draconian restrictions the Imperator has put into place. Any grumbling or complaints are met with the end of that woman Hysilens’ sword and her army. It’s a damn dictatorship wrapped up in a shiny bow, if you ask me.”

“Oh, and there’s also that nice red-haired lady prophet, though I forget her name. The few times I talked to her, I wondered what the hell she’s doing with those other crazy Chrysos Heirs. She seems way too kind compared to them.” Phaeton’s lips quirk up into a sardonic smile. “You think she’s being coerced?”

Khaslana shrugs, mentally cataloging the new information. At least three Chrysos Heirs are in Okhema, but not the majority. It’s to be expected - this timeline is still in its beginning stages, so it might be another couple hundred years for the new bearers to be born.

“...her little protege, that blonde woman who runs the tailor shop…”

He stills. Khaslana’s fingers freeze from where he’s been dusting off his clothes.

Khaslana wasn’t planning on ever visiting Okhema in this cycle…but he may have to make an exception.

(You reap what you sow, Lady Goldweaver.)

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Grass rustles under Khaslana’s boots as he staggers forward unsteadily. Blood drips from various slashes on his chest, arms, and legs, splattering the ground with golden ichor. Grimacing, he presses a shaky hand against the worst of the wounds, cursing himself for his lack of foresight.

Sneaking into Okhema wasn’t a problem - Khaslana has over 100,000 cycles’ worth of knowledge on the ins and outs of the holy city, and slipping through the underground tunnels into the heart of the capital is child’s play. The rotating guard patrol is strictly enforced, but even if Khaslana were half-blind and brain damaged, he would be able to move without being spotted by them.

Finding Aglaea’s room and driving a dagger clean through the napping Chrysos Heir’s neck is also easy. Khaslana makes it quick rather than drawing it out like he wants to, but the visceral satisfaction he gets as Agalea chokes to death on her own blood is worth it. That’s for [reader], you murderer.

(Khaslana stubbornly ignores the fact that he is also guilty of the same thing, but scaled up exponentially. He’s not thinking very rationally at the moment.)

It’s leaving Okhema that causes Khaslana the most trouble. Unsurprisingly, Aglaea’s absence at her teacher’s side has raised concern, and messengers were quickly dispatched to all the areas where the woman usually visited.

Khaslana is halfway back to the tunnels when all of the soldiers assigned inside the public bath house start running and barking out orders for civilians to exit. Flattening himself behind a stone column, he listens as a gruff-looking man with a scar over his eye yells at everyone to be on the lookout for an intruder - and to prioritize capture. He must be a general, then, or at least higher in rank.

The rattled-looking soldiers give a hasty salute before running off in different directions. So they already found the body, Khaslana muses, pressing back into the shadows as footsteps rush past his hiding place. He brings the hood of his cloak up to obscure his face.

That was fast. Then again, this is Okhema under Cerydra’s rule. No doubt she would immediately take action when her precious city is threatened, if not for its people but for her own ruthless ambition. And the order to subdue…she must want to interrogate me before killing me. She probably has thoughts of hanging my lifeless body in the middle of Marmoreal Market as a warning. Heh…as if I’d let that ever happen.

Khaslana effortlessly dodges the patrols by mere seconds, utilizing his knowledge of the hidden passageways to steadily make his way back to the abandoned tunnels. As the minutes tick by, the soldiers’ movements become more frantic and Khaslana notices that many of them are sweating fiercely. They mutter to each other under their breaths, eyes desperately sweeping across the halls in search of him.

Perhaps they’re worried that if they fail a direct task from the Imperator, it’ll be THEIR heads rolling.

Nevertheless, Khaslana waits until the coast is clear before silently making his way down the maze-like back halls. Very few people even know these passageways exist, so Khaslana doesn’t bother with the stealth as he jogs back to the exit.

Like an amateur, Khaslana lets his guard down - again.

He really needs to stop doing that.

Instinct is the only thing that saves him from being beheaded on the spot. Khaslana suddenly lurches forward, his intuition screaming and blaring in his mind; he tucks his head into his chin as he almost falls onto his hands as a razor-sharp blade ripples through the air where his neck was located a millisecond before. He rolls onto his feet in a flash, whipping around and drawing his greatsword in the same motion. Khaslana can feel his heart racing in his throat. A sudden breakout of sweat drenches the back of his collar, which has been sliced open by wind pressure alone.

Straightening up from an attack stance, Hysilens lets out a noise of disappointment as she adjusts her grip on her twin blades. Her cold eyes pierce through Khaslana’s flesh, assessing. “Too slow.” Hysilens walks toward him in measured steps, weapons at half-guard.

Khaslana swallows dryly. Hysilens is probably the worst match-up for him out of all the Chrysos Heirs, solely because of her combat ability, and their current location.

There is water everywhere in the bath house. Millions of gallons flow through the public baths daily, and even more courses through the labyrinth of pipes buried in the walls and underground.

And Hysilens has command over every single drop of it. He’s fought her enough times in the past to know how terrifyingly fast she can summon the tides and drown everything in her path.

“You think you can just waltz into Okhema and do as you please, trespasser?” Hysilens accuses, sweeping her dominant hand up in a smooth arc, pointing a wicked-looking blade straight as Khaslana. Her slitted pupils glow menacingly. “Surrender now and I won’t cut off your legs. This is your only warning. The Imperator would like to have a discussion with you, murderer.”

Khaslana barks out a hoarse laugh, tightening his grip on his sword. “I wasn’t aware that the great Imperator extended the courtesy of diplomacy to others. Doesn’t she kill first, ask questions later?” He subtly shifts one leg further back.

Hysilens doesn’t react, only steadily closing the distance. A few more steps and she’ll be within striking range, but Khaslana does not want to attack her and risk getting instantly crushed with water - especially not so deep underground. On the surface, he might have a fighting chance to escape. Here? It’ll be an instant game over.

And if he dies here, everything Khaslana has done up to this point - everything he’s done to prevent Irontomb from awakening - will be for nothing. He won’t be able to stop Era Nova. The Chrysos Heirs will continue to believe the false prophecy and ultimately lead Amphoreus to its doom. A Lord Ravager will be born and wreak destruction across the entire universe.

And…if he dies…he would never meet [reader] again. Her life would be forever snuffed out, extinguished as fuel for Irontomb.

No. Khaslana tightens his grip on his sword, fresh determination coursing through his veins. He cannot let that happen, no matter what.

But in order to get out here alive, he needs to stall. He needs to catch Hysilens off-guard and incapacitate her.

He sucks in a deep breath into his lungs before expelling it slowly. Under Hysilens’ perceptive gaze, Khaslana’s shoulders droop and he dispels his weapon, letting it dissolve into fragments of light. Slowly, he raises his hands in surrender, putting on a resigned expression.

Hysilens stops a few paces away, considering his actions. Khaslana takes care not to make any sudden movements. Sweat trickles down his back and he wants to wipe it away, but he resists the temptation.

“Against the wall, intruder.” Her cold voice rings out in the dark hallway. “Hands behind your back where I can see them.” Hysilens obviously doesn’t trust a word he says, which is fair. He also wouldn’t, if he were in her position.

Khaslana moves toward the wall at a glacial pace, hyper aware of the woman standing behind him. He crosses his hands behind his back, clenching his fists.

Footsteps echo in the hall as Hysilens approaches. Khaslana can hear the rattling of chains as she sheathes one of her blades. He keeps his forehead pressed to the stone as he waits.

The instant her fingers close around one of his wrists, Khaslana whirls around at lightning speed. He manages to catch her surprised expression before he wraps a large hand around her throat, smashing Hysilens’ head against the wall hard.

The Chrysos Heir is knocked out cold instantly, but Khaslana grimaces in agony as numerous slashes burst open across his body from her last-ditch attacks. He drops Hysilens to the floor, where she slumps bonelessly, head lolling to one side.

Khaslana was fast enough to prevent Hysilens from summoning a torrent of water, but too slow to prevent the deep gashes on his arms and torso. He snarls as he realizes her sword is buried up to the hilt in his abdomen. Golden blood trickles out from his fingers.

By Kephale’s mercy, the blade doesn’t seem to have pierced through anything vital. But it still hurts like a motherfucking bitch.

Khaslana’s ears twitch as he hears muffled shouting and movement behind him. Guards. It sounds like a lot of them, and they’re headed his way fast. Better to leave now, before he has to deal with even more enemies.

His eyes dart towards the sword in his middle, and knows it’s a terrible idea, but he quickly grasps the handle and - after a brief moment of hesitation - yanks it out in one smooth movement.

“Fuck--!!” Khaslana hisses between his teeth, the tendons in his neck straining as he struggles not to scream at the pain. It’s not the first time he’s been stabbled, but he never gets used to how much it hurts. He wills himself to not pass out, and then let go of the sword that he’s been white-knuckling in a death grip. It drops to the floor with a clatter, barely missing Hysilens’ face. Gold blood splatters over the cobblestone.

Khaslana presses a hand against the wound in his side, stumbling from the blood loss. He tears off a long strip of cloth from his cloak before efficiently tying it around his abdomen. Blood pours out at a steady pace, but at least it’s stymied for now. He heals unnaturally fast, but even Khaslana needs to recover for a few days after such a deep cut.

Briefly, he considers driving his sword into Hysilens’ chest to finish her off, but decides not to risk it as the shouting behind him gets too close for comfort. With one last look back into the dark tunnels, Khaslana turns to flee, back to one of the many hidden underground entrances to Okhema.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

It takes much longer than Khaslana likes to make his way back to the cottage Phaeton told him about. Multiple times he’s been forced to rest and recover his strength. The makeshift bandage is almost entirely soaked through with blood, but Khaslana can already feel the internal damage slowly repair itself. He estimates that with some rest, it’ll probably heal up and only leave a faint scar.

He probably would have healed sooner if he actually sat down and didn’t move, but Khaslana wants to see her again so badly. It’s been hundreds of years since he last held her - his brain itches and screams at him to find her right now.

Eventually, finally, Khaslana breaks through a copse of trees and sees a humble wooden cottage, surrounded by patches of forget-me-nots and sunflowers. There’s the beginnings of a small vegetable garden off to the side.

He doesn’t see anyone here. Maybe [reader] is out on a trip to the nearby town for supplies. Khaslana has been gone for several days, after all. He would have sprinted here, but Khaslana took some extra time and did his best to cover his tracks after leaving Okhema. The last thing he wants is a repeat of what happened to [reader] in the previous cycle.

(He still sees the golden threads slash deeply into that vulnerable neck in his dreams.)

Khaslana blinks, suddenly aware that he’s slumped over on the doorstep. He must have stumbled and caught himself on the doorframe. His head spins alarmingly, and he closes his eyes. All of a sudden, he’s achingly tired from the long trek. Just for a moment, he thinks, summoning his greatsword and holding it loosely in front of him. In case anyone tries to attack. I’ll just rest my eyes for a minute. Thirty seconds. Then I’ll…get up…and see her…

He’s out within seconds, muscles loosening as exhaustion finally overtakes him.

Distantly, along with the faint sounds of waves crashing against the shore and cawing gulls, Khaslana thinks he hears the door open behind him.

Consciousness returns to Khaslana in increments. The first thing he becomes aware of is that he’s lying on something soft. There’s a faint floral scent in the air, and he hears the gentle crackling of a fire. Slowly, he flutters his eyes open, letting his vision focus in the dim light.

A thatched ceiling greets him, and Khaslana blinks to get the sleepiness out of his eyes. He feels very warm underneath the blanket. He reaches out to pull it off him, but stops when it meets resistance.

Suddenly, he’s quite aware of the sound of gentle breathing. It’s steady and calm. He would recognize it anywhere.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Khalsana turns his head with desperate hope pounding in his chest. He sees a bowl of water with a cloth on the bedside table. There’s a stack of well-worn books next to it. There’s a chair pulled right up to the bed as well.

And sitting on it with her head resting on crossed arms, halfway on top of the blankets - Khaslana sees you.

The fire crackles merrily in the background as Khaslana watches you sleep peacefully. There are some dark rings under your eyes and a slight wrinkle between your brows which he wants to reach out and smooth away. But he doesn’t want to break the fragile rest you’ve managed, and Khaslana is content to simply take in every little detail that he’s been deprived of for centuries.

Something inside him finally relaxes and the voices in his head quiet down. Finally. Finally, he’s back where he belongs.

Next to you.

Khalsana smiles for the first time since this cycle started, and settles back into the pillows. His eyes never leave you, not for a second.

Eventually, your eyelids tremble before you wake up slowly. Khaslana simply watches quietly as you rub the tiredness out of your eyes and arch your back to get the kinks out of it after sleeping in such an awkward position. You yawn, flashing a peek of your molars, before you abruptly realize that you have an audience.

Dark eyes snap open and lock onto Khaslana, who smiles faintly but remains silent. You let out an embarrassed cough as you look away. “Ahem…um, I guess you’re back to the land of the living now, huh?”

Khaslana tilts his head, letting soft white locks fall across his face. He knows how endearing it looks, so he’s not above taking advantage of it to make a more favorable impression. “I am,” he replies, voice scratchy from disuse. “I suppose I have you to thank for that, seeing how I’m all bandaged up and lying in such a nice bed. So…thank you.”

The blush that spreads across your cheeks is gratifying, and Khalana grins wider. He knows you’re a bit of a sucker for a pretty face.

You fumble slightly with the washcloth, wringing out excess water before placing it on Khaslana’s forehead. The cloth is tepid at best, but he doesn’t complain as he stares at your (beautiful, unscarred, healthy) face. “You’re welcome,” you stutter, still a little flustered. But after a moment, your hands still and a serious expression settles on your face.

“I was really surprised when a stranger came over to my place. Not too many people know I live here - and for good reason, too. I’m not the most popular person around here.” You raise an eyebrow at him. “Either you haven’t heard the rumors about me, or…you’re in some really deep shit and came here for help, of all places.”

Khaslana shifts to sit up, ignoring your panicked sounds. The bandages around his middle are fresh and clean. “Hm…I guess you could say that, but it’s nothing new,” he jokes, resting a palm on his stomach. “Who isn’t in deep shit these days?”

You puff out your cheeks before blowing out an exasperated breath. Khaslana suddenly has a fleeting, but overwhelming urge to lean over and bite that soft cheek, just a little. You’re just so cute.

“Look,” you say bluntly, reaching out to lay a hand on top of his. “You’re a really strange guy, you know that? Not only did you willingly come here, but you were basically spilling out blood like a leaky faucet on my doorstep. I thought you were really going to die, and then I’d be responsible for a dead body. I’d have to bury you, and probably everyone would call me a murderer who cursed you to death. Like I don’t have enough going wrong in my life…”

“I dragged your sorry ass inside and used up all my bandages to dress your wounds. You’re welcome for that, by the way. You were also burning up with fever, and I’m not even a doctor - I barely have enough medical knowledge to treat a sprain, for Kephale’s sake - but you started healing so damn fast. That wound should have been fatal, but here I am talking to you. And you bleed gold. That’s not normal, right?”

Khaslana looks down to the bedspread to gather his thoughts before replying. He wants to tell you the truth, but where would he even begin? He remembers everything, but you obviously don’t. It seems that with every new cycle, your memories are wiped clean, like everyone else.

He hears you sigh and adjust on the chair. “Yeah, you’re not normal.” Khaslsana can’t help but flinch, suddenly ashamed. He’s never been normal, and especially not now. Not like you.

Your fingers twitch, then pat his hand softly in apology. “Hey, I didn’t say that was a bad thing,” you say. “I know we all have our inner demons. You’re probably not ready to talk about them - and honestly, neither am I. But I do need to know one thing, while you’re under my roof.”

Khaslana turns to meet your eyes again. He marvels at how clear they look, so different to his own. “What is it?” he asks softly. He turns his palm over so he can intertwine his fingers with yours.

You hesitate slightly, but forge on. “I need to know if…if you mean me any harm,” you say carefully. Something in Khaslana’s heart breaks at your words. “I wasn’t kidding when I said earlier that pretty much no one comes to my side of the woods. Well, other than Phaeton but…ahem.”

“I met him,” Khaslana blurts out suddenly, causing you to recoil a bit. He tightens his grip on your hand, wanting to keep you close. “Phaeton. Your fa--” He bites his tongue to keep quiet, mentally reminding himself that you don’t know that. That you forgot all of your memories. “Phaeton. He’s really fond of you. I ran into him in the tavern, and he gave me directions to your place.”

He sees your shoulders relax slightly at the mention of Phaeton. Clearly you trust him and his judgment, but you still look wary. “Ah, that explains how you found me. But, why did he tell you where I was? Were you looking for me specifically?”

Khaslana wants to shout out YES, I was looking for you, I was always looking for you. I waited for you for centuries, I killed your murderer before she could even begin to imagine the humanity she’d lose a thousand years later. My Starlight, I missed you so much.

My heart beats for you.

But he doesn’t say that because despite his mortifying tendency to put his foot in his mouth, he’s self-aware enough that confessing all that would definitely come off as way too strong.

So instead, he explains, “I’ve…made a lot of enemies, and I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

Guilt floods through him at the thought of him being the cause of more trouble to you, but you slant your eyes to the left for a moment before nodding. Something strangely resigned passes through your face, but it disappears once you look at him again. “So you are in trouble,” you confirm, “and need to lie low. I should have guessed. No friend or ally would give you such a gruesome wound and leave you for dead.” You press the back of your hand against his forehead, measuring your temperature.

“Still a little high,” you mutter softly before slipping your other hand out of his to push Khaslana down by the shoulder. He burbles out a protest at the loss of contact, but quiets down as you press a finger to his lips.

“Rest now,” you order, eyes flashing stubbornly. “Even though you heal freakishly fast, you still need more time to recover. And you haven’t eaten anything for three whole days - aren’t you hungry? I’ll make some food so you should sleep. I’ll wake you up when it’s done.”

Khaslana nods automatically, but keeps his eyes open. Now that you’re here, he loathes to spend even a moment not being with you.

You spend a few minutes slicing up potatoes and vegetables before you realize Khaslana is still wide awake. After washing your hands in a small water basin, you move over back to the bed. Khaslana looks up at you eagerly, eyes wide with adoration.

A cool hand covers his eyes. Khaslana’s eyelashes tickle your palm. “Rest,” you say again, this time softer. “It’s okay. You’re safe here, I promise.”

And with that, Khaslana finally relaxes and falls into a peaceful sleep - the first he’s had in a very long time.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

“So, what’s your name anyways? I’ve already told you mine earlier, so it’s only fair. Your hair is very unique. I thought only really old people had white or silver hair.”

Khalsana chews another bite of the dinner you’ve made - some combination of rabbit meat and vegetables, slightly bland but palatable - before swallowing. “It’s Khaslana,” he responds. “And I’ve always had white hair, even when I was a kid.”

“And how old are you?” you continue on, popping a few bits of cheese into your mouth. Your bowl is already empty. “You don’t look that much older than me. Are you secretly like, a million years old or something?”

He has to bite down hard on his lip. Oh, you have no idea. “You wound me,” Khaslana teases, ducking his head and peering up at you through his bangs. He smiles as you blush. “No, I’m not a million years old.” I’m a lot older than that.

“Older than me, then,” you conclude with a nod. Fingers tap against the wooden table rhythmically. Khaslana waits for you to talk again, but you seem lost in thought once more.

One thing that’s different about you this cycle, Khalsana notes, is that you tend to trail off a lot more often. Before, you were the driving force in keeping up conversation with him. But now, that seems to have flipped.

Khaslana supposes that it’s a natural consequence of how different your life is in this eternal recurrence. All the rumors due to your uncommon hair and eye color kept others at a distance, so you didn’t feel the need to be very social.

You’re also more blunt and straightforward than he remembers. Again, likely due to growing up without routine or friends. But Khaslana doesn’t mind - at the end of the day, it’s still you. He’d adore and love any side of you, including the good and the bad.

Plus, it’s not like he has room to talk. Before he met you, Khaslana was on the brink of being a total recluse and only venturing out to get the Core-Flames. He winces as he flashes back to how socially awkward he was on your first meeting.

Khaslana tries to distract himself from the embarrassing thoughts by asking, “So what now?” You look up, questioning. He clears his throat. “I mean, we’re both basically outcasts. I’m pretty much a wanted criminal. The local towns think you’re a…witch or something. Are you okay with me staying here?”

Your shoulders move up and down in a careless shrug. “Sure, why not?” you ask sardonically, resting your chin on a palm. “I was lucky enough to find this house and move in, and no one really bothers me out here. Sometimes a group of villagers come by and yell their heads off outside, but I just bolt the doors and wait for them to leave. As long as I’m not in their village, they don’t really seem to care. Out of sight, out of mind, right?”

“And you’re the most interesting thing that’s been around here. Why not see where this goes? If we get bored of each other, you can just leave. I’m sure you have lots of important criminal stuff to do out in Amphoreus.”

Khaslana sits back, digesting this information. He feels a little hurt that you only seem to view him as entertainment, but your emotional walls are so high up. He feels like a knight looking up at a fortified castle, trying to get in but being stymied by its defenses.

He must have a pretty pathetic look on his face, because you suddenly look guilty and turn away.

“Look, I didn’t mean it like that…Khaslana, I’m…I’m not good at this. I’m always too straight-forward, too honest. My whole life, it’s been me looking out for myself, cause no one else was going to do it. I tried making friends with some of the kids in the village when I was younger, and it went okay for a while, but then their parents got into their heads. Pretty soon it just turned into them playing against me, so I stopped seeking them out.”

“Here I am, a reclusive little hermit in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woods and the sea and random birds and animals. Hell, for a while I thought I was going crazy from the isolation. You’re the first person I’ve talked to for more than two minutes in a row, other than Phaeton, in literal years. So I’m…probably going to offend you, a lot. It’s just…I really don’t mean to, Khaslana. And…I’m…I’m sorry for hurting your feelings just now.”

Your apology is awkward and clunky. The words tumble out like rocks, but Khaslana treasures them all the same because he recognizes your sincerity beneath it all.

(This world was really unkind to you this cycle, huh?)

Khaslana feels the corners of his mouth twitch up, ever so slightly. Ironically, he muses that your roles seem to have reversed from the previous cycle. Now, he’s chasing after you instead of the other way around.

He reaches out to tap at your wrist, only holding his hand in yours when you don’t pull away. “Don’t worry, Starlight,” Khaslana hums, relishing in the familiarity of his nickname for you. “I don’t mind if you offend me or hurt my feelings. I can’t promise you I won’t do the same accidentally, but I want you to know that I like you. I’m fond of you. And I’ll stay by your side. Forever, if you’ll let me.”

And with a long-forgotten charm that used to be second nature to him, Khaslana lifts your hand up to his lips, maintaining eye contact as he presses a deep kiss against your knuckles.

He smiles against the cool skin as your face turns scarlet.

Still got it, after all.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Seasons pass at a glacial pace. Despite your expectations, Khaslana stays at the small cottage with you for years. There’s no place he’d rather be.

(In the back of his mind, a small voice urges him to hunt down the Core-Flames in this cycle, but Khaslana waves it away. He will have thousands of years to find them - surely spending a chunk of it here won’t affect anything in the long run.)

With each passing month, Khaslana quietly delights in seeing you get more and more used to his presence, his reliability, and his contributions. He took notice of the sad excuse of a vegetable garden outside, and showed you how to rotate the crops to not exhaust the soil nutrients. He showed you how much to water the cabbages, the potatoes, the corn, and the tomatoes. Khaslana taught you how to sprinkle chili pepper flakes around the plants as a natural pesticide.

Soon, the barren plot of land is teeming with rich produce and life. You stare at it disbelievingly, then glance at Khaslana’s proud expression. Grudgingly, you acknowledge his superior farming skills.

And, sparking some mischievousness, Khaslana is gratified by his ability to charm his way into your bed. The only bed in the cottage, in fact.

(“What do you mean, ‘can I sleep in your bed’? You’ve slept in there for a whole week! Your time is over. Here, you can sleep on the couch.”

“But Starlight, that was when I was on death’s door! When I was sick and ill and bleeding out from that awful wound! You would make your patient sleep on a couch that’s too small, and would no doubt mess up my back? I daresay I would probably deteriorate…if only there was a comfortable bed where I could rest my aching body…”

“Khaslana, cut the crap. You and I both know that you healed up in days. Hell, you’re so strong that you can wipe out a whole group of Titankin with that gigantic sword of yours. You’re not dying.”

“But…but…”

“...Khaslana. Stop that. I mean it.”

“...”

“Khaslana--! Those puppy eyes won’t work on me again. How many times have you used it as a cheap, dirty trick--?!”

“...???”

“...Ugh!! Fine! Okay! You’re lucky that you’re so cute-- er, pathetic! I mean, pathetic!! Just looking at you all droopy makes me feel sorry for you…”

“So, can I sleep in your bed? With you? …Please? I promise I’ll be the best bed companion you’ve ever had. Or will ever have. I don’t snore, I don’t kick in my sleep, I’m super warm, I can protect you against the chilly drafts and if the roof leaks I won’t let any water get on you!”

“Fine, fine, fine…it seems that I always give into you at the end, Khaslana…hah…what am I even doing?”

“Yes!!”

“Did you just fist-pump? Seriously, what kind of grown-ass man does a fist-pump? Titans, you’re such a nerd…hey. Hey! What are you doing?! Get away from me-- ack!! Stop!! Ha ha hah-- stop tickling me!! I swear I’m gonna--- ahhh! Khaslana you-- you little jerk! Ahahaha!”)

Having a green thumb isn’t all that Khsalana does. With his keen senses and hunting experiences, he regularly ventures out in search of fresh meat. He doesn’t do it every day, but it’s relaxing to walk through the woods and watch the sunlight filtering through the leaves. Occasionally he’ll find a lone rabbit or pheasant to bring back. If he gets lucky, he finds a deer.

He skins the animal and prepares it, of course. Growing up in Aedes Elysiae has made him familiar with cleaning wild game - something you are wholly unprepared for. You always wrinkle your nose at the mess, but thank Khaslana each time for providing meat for dinner.

It’s nice. Peaceful.

Khalsana is content.

But he’s learned from his mistakes. Each night, he patrols the area in a wide circle to make sure no intruders are approaching. He keeps his greatsword polished and battle-ready.

Although he can be relaxed, Khaslana refuses to let his guard down again because he’s not only protecting himself - now he’s protecting you.

(If anyone tries to hurt you, he’ll pay it back a hundred-fold with a pre-emptive strike. He did it to Agalea in this cycle, after all. Khaslana is sick and tired of losing his precious people endlessly. And even though he’s only known you for a single cycle - he’s willing to raze Amphoreus to the ground if even one hair on your head is harmed.)

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Newspapers and scrolls rarely make it out further than the largest cities in Amphoreus, but every now and then a scrap of parchment finds its way to the rural corners of the planet.

You snag a handful of discarded papers that've been abandoned on your doorstep, fully intending to throw it into the fireplace for kindling, but the words and illustration give you pause. You smooth out the wrinkles and lay the newspaper flat on the kitchen table, carefully reading through the articles.

Khaslana finds you poring over the papers, lost in thought. “Hi, [reader],” he greets warmly, carrying a decent-sized peahen over his shoulders. He sets it down before the fireplace, mindful of not getting feathers everywhere. “What’s that?” he asks.

You hum slightly, tapping a finger against your lips. Then you pick up a certain page and show it to Khaslana. “This you?”

Khalsana glances at the sheet, eyes skimming over the article absentmindedly before something freezes him in his tracks. He drags his reluctant eyes back to the paper, a sinking feeling starting to form in his gut.

With shaky hands, he takes the paper from yours and holds it up to the window. It’s a short column of text, barely more than a few sentences.

Manhunt Still in Progress For Mysterious White-haired Assassin, Enemy of Imperator Cerydra and the Chrysos Heirs, Despite Years of Dead Ends.

50,000 balance coin reward still in effect for the murderer of the Demigod of Romance three years ago. Knight Commander Hysilens describes him as extremely dangerous and cunning, with silver hair, blue eyes, a tall stature, and right-handed. He wields a greatsword and has an inscribed sun tattoo on his neck. Any information about the assassin will be handsomely rewarded by the great and glorious Imperator Cerydra…

Next to the article is a painstakingly-drawn sketch of him. Khaslana guesses that Hysilens had an artist draw his likeness based on her description. And honestly, with how detailed the article is on his features, there’s no way that anyone would not connect the dots.

His first instinct is to deny it and brush it off with a laugh. To distance himself from the murderer he desperately doesn’t want to be, especially in front of you. Khaslana can feel the phantom sensation of blood dripping down his hands, soaked from a lifetime of killing.

But instead, what blurts out of his mouth is “No, no no. This is bad, this is very, very bad, this is really bad.” He slowly brings the paper closer to his face, squinting at the drawing before turning it around so it’s next to his face.

“They just can’t get my nose right.”

Silence falls in the cottage, the only sound coming from the fire crackling merrily away in the hearth. Khaslana watches your tense expression morph into sheer exasperation. You throw your hands up in the air. “Seriously? You’re on a freaking ‘wanted: dead or alive’ bounty poster and that’s how you react?!”

Khaslana laughs with a touch of hysteria, tears pricking the corner of his eyes. “Well, with that description there’s no one in Amphoreus that matches that description but me.” Except for this cycle’s Phainon, who won’t be born until around three thousand years from now. “So…yeah. That’s me.” He slowly peters off, growing somber. “Now you know what I’ve been running from.”

He hangs his head like a chastised dog, unable to meet your eyes. Khaslana trembles slightly, but forces himself to still. If you demand that he leave, if you throw him out and command him never to show his face again…then so be it. He’ll do it. For you.

Even though it would break him, all over again.

The tips of your shoes enter his vision as you walk forward, stopping in front of him. The paper is tugged easily from his hand. “Hmm,” you mutter, staring at the drawing. He feels the weight of your eyes fall on him, then back to the picture, then back to him.

The paper crumples in your hands as you deftly smush it into a ball, then toss it into the fire. Flames lick up at once, greedily devouring the kindling before it disintegrates into ashes within seconds.

Khaslana gapes, stunned. “Huh?” he says dumbly, staring at the hearth before turning to you again.

You’re already moving towards the kitchen cupboards, pulling out pots and pans. “What do you want for dinner?”

He’s still trying to catch up to what happened. “Uh, well, I--”

“Too late,” you cut him off, opening the small pantry to rummage through the produce bin. “I’ve already decided. We’re having skewers. Go skin that pheasant you caught earlier, I’m hungry.” You start chopping onions and peppers, the rhythmic cutting sounds echoing through the room.

Khaslana just stands there. After a moment, you turn around with a huff, annoyed at his lack of movement. “Okay, so I’m a little surprised. I’m not going to lie. It’s not every day you find out that the guy you’ve been sleeping with - don’t even try to make a joke right now, Khalsana, I swear to Cerces - is Okhema’s most wanted.”

Oil splashes into a pan, with a handful of chopped vegetables following soon after. “And an assassin, to boot. Boy, I wasn’t wrong about you being interesting, huh?”

Khaslana’s jaw clenches before he actively loosens it again. “[Reader], please. I’m serious.”

You move the pan on top of a makeshift stove, sprinkling dried herbs and spices over the food. Then you turn around. Staring Khaslana directly in the eyes, you reply with a deadpan, “Hi serious. I’m dad.”

A beat of silence passes before Khaslana lets out a pained groan. One of his hands presses against his face before dragging down. “Who’s making jokes now?” he sighs. Still, a bit of weight lifts off his shoulders at the lightened tension.

“Look at us, just two peas in a pod. Sharing the same brain cell. Truly, we’re a dumbass for dumbass couple,” you reply.

Khaslana feels like he’s having a stroke - what are you even saying?

Then you sober up, quickly reaching out to shake the pan so the vegetables don’t burn. Satisfied for the time being, you turn back to him again. “Khaslana, it’s fine. I’m not mad at you. Well, I am kind of pissed that you kept such a big secret from me, but that would make me a hypocrite.”

He blinks rapidly, as if clearing his eyes will help him make sense of all this. “You…you’re not mad at me? You’re not going to tell me to leave and never come back?” A thread of hope begins to form in his mind.

“No way are you leaving me alone after this long, stupid. Who’s going to make sure the tomatoes in the garden don’t die? Or chase off all the wolves in the forest? The leaky roof won’t fix itself, you know. Who’s going to stay by my side and keep me company?”

You bite your lip, hesitation radiating from your entire body before you break eye contact. You mutter the next words out so softly that he can barely hear them.

^{“Who am I going to love if not you, Khalsana?”}

Khalsana staggers back as if he’s been punched in the stomach. Hope fills him so suddenly he fears he might throw up on accident. “What-- what did you say?” he asks hoarsely, eyes wide with longing.

He sees your ears turn red as you hastily duck to busy yourself with the pan. “Nothing,” you mumble, shoulders hunched up to your ears. “Forget I said anything. This is almost done, why haven’t you cut up the meat already? God, I have to do everything around here--”

The next words are cut off with a yelp as Khaslana rushes forward to envelop you in a back hug, pressing so close he feels that he could melt into you in the next breath. “You love me,” he breathes. It’s not a question.

You struggle half-heartedly, but Khaslana keeps an iron grip around your waist. You don’t answer, stubbornly gripping the frying pan in both hands.

“You love me?” Khaslana puffs in your ear, watching it turn even redder. Adorable.

Finally, you break. “Yes, I love you! Though I don’t know why, you can be so stupid sometimes! So oblivious! And you never put your laundry in the right place, I’ve told you a thousand times to put it in the basket instead of tossing it everywhere! You also always track mud into the house with your boots, why can’t you just leave them at the door so we don’t have to sweep the floor everyday?! And--”

Wetness drops onto your shoulder, fizzling out your words like a sputtering flame. Alarmed, you crane your head backwards to see Khaslana crying.

“Oh, Titans,” you moan, rubbing a hand down your face. You let go of the pan and turn around in the circle of his arms. “I did it again…I keep making you sad, I even made you cry this time. I’m sorry, I know I’m not good at this, why can’t I just say the right thing the first time…”

Khaslana shudders, trying to stop his tears but they flow like water. “You love me,” he hiccups, burying his head into the crook of our neck. It gets damp instantly but you don’t push him away. “I’m so happy right now, but…you don’t know what else I’ve done…Starlight, I’ve done so much wrong in my life…killed so many people…I’m an executioner…”

He shakes, shivering like he’s ten years old again and fell into the icy river surrounding Aedes Elysiae in the winter. “I don’t even know if I deserve any of this. To be happy.”

An exasperated sigh blows across his hair, causing Khaslana to still. “Are you being serious right now?”

“...Huh?”

“Well, I’m glad you got your little pity party out of your system, Khaslana. Because you’re being particularly idiotic right now. Deserving of love? Who are you to decide?”

Arms come up to rest around his shoulders, pushing him further into your body. “Everyone is worthy to be loved. Yes, even the evilest bastards in the universe. All the dictators and the tyrants had people who loved them - maybe in a twisted way, but still affection in the end.”

“At the same time, no one is required to love you, but anyone can choose to do it. Like how I am doing right now.” Your chin digs in pointedly on top of his head, grinding down to convey your annoyance.

“So stop thinking so much about it! You think you can brush off my feelings so easily?!” And with that, your hands grasp at his arms to haul him up. Startled, Khaslana simply lets himself be moved, catching a brief glimpse of your determined face before something crashes against his lips.

“Mmfph--?!”

…Ah.

You’re kissing him. Rather violently, in fact. A drop of golden blood beads from where one of your teeth scraped against his lip.

Khaslana keeps still until you pull away, gasping for air. All of a sudden, your determination and passion seem to leech out of you, leaving you quiet again.

Gently, you tilt your forehead until it touches his. Strands of white hair tangle with black. “This is my first time too, you know,” you say hesitantly. “Maybe we’re both a little messed up in the head, but it’s nice in our own little world here. Okhema is the place where everyone wants to be, but…I’d prefer to stay out here in the countryside. I’ve had enough of the discrimination and hostility. I just want to stay here, with you.”

“I love you. I promise that I will continue loving you. Will I get annoyed with you? Of course, that’s just human nature…but we’ve fought before, haven’t we? I know we can get on each other’s nerves, even at the best of times. But as long as we’re together, Khaslana…never doubt that I love you.”

At that, fresh tears drip down his cheeks. Your look of exasperation returns, but it’s only a thin veneer over your underlying affection.

“You get worried about the silliest things sometimes,” you smirk, eyes half-lidded. Drawn into your gaze, Khaslana slowly leans forward and brings his face closer to yours. He ghosts a breath against your lips, watching as they part slightly. He moves even closer, until--

The sudden acrid smell of burnt herbs cuts through the air. “Ahh!!” you shriek, leaping out of Khaslana’s arms with a jerky motion. He blinks, arms still half-circled in mid-air as you dart back to the stove in despair. “Oh shit, damn it, fuck my life, the food is burning!!”

You scream in panic, flapping your hands wildly like a beheaded chicken. The smoke is beginning to fill the room. You frantically throw open the window, and in a bizarre fit of insanity, toss the entire pan out into the dirt.

Khaslana instantly bursts out laughing, keeling over as tears fill his eyes. He can’t stop, even as you whack him in the head with a dishtowel, yelling at him in embarrassment. His heart swells and swells in his chest, until he’s sure it will burst with fondness.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

“Hey, Starlight?”

“...yes?”

“Is there a reason why you set the kitchen on fire again?”

“What do you mean again--?! For your information, I didn’t do it on purpose. Maybe the recipe I’m making calls for a bit of smokiness. You shouldn't be so judgmental, Khalsana. You need to expand your horizons.”

“Sure, I’ll be happy to. But I really can’t think of any food that’s supposed to be burnt. What is it, anyway? Let me take a look--”

“No!! Ack-- don’t look!”

“...”

“...”

“...Starlight, it’s okay. Please don’t be upset…”

“I’m not! I mean…it just…I was hoping that it would turn out well. I worked so hard on it, and then it’s basically inedible now…”

“Hey, come here, don’t be sad. I’m sure you did your best, but sometimes recipes and things don’t turn out the way we expect, even if we did everything…right…um. Uh. Is this…supposed to be…”

“...”

“...[Reader], is this supposed to be bread?”

“...Maybe.”

“...Pft. Ha ha. Ha ha ha ha hah--!”

“Khaslana, you big, stupid jerk! I try to make the bread you keep talking about from your home town, and this is how you repay me? Well, forget it! I’m never going to make you anything else for as long as I live! Go eat rocks, for all I care!!”

“Ha ha ha, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I really am! It’s just-- I’ve never seen bread quite so…er, charred.”

“Yeah, ha ha, laugh it up, stupid! How was I supposed to know how to make ‘bread’ when all you mentioned was flour, water, yeast, and salt? And not even how much of each ingredient to put in…or how long to cook it…”

“...Hey. Hey, [reader]. Will you look at me? Please?”

“Hmph. What do you want?...Eek! Don’t hug me like that all of a sudden, you surprised me--”

“Thank you. It’s the best bread anyone has ever made for me.”

“...Khalsana, you don’t have to lie to spare my feelings. I know it’s terrible.”

“It’s not. That was my fault; bread is actually really tricky to make. There needs to be a precise amount of ingredients, and you have to knead it before it goes in the oven. Even though it seems simple, it’s not.”

“...Well, I suppose that it was an okay first attempt given that I had basically ten percent of the whole recipe. Sigh…let’s just toss it outside and air out the kitchen.”

“Actually, now I’m kind of curious how it tastes. What if I--”

“No!! Spit that out right now! Khaslana!!”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Autumn slowly fades into winter, and the weather turns brisk and frigid. Leaves on the surrounding trees turn red, then yellow, then to a dull, lifeless brown. Snow dusts the ground, enveloping the cottage and surrounding area in a soft cloud of white.

Inside the cottage, Khaslana rests his chin on top of your head, pulling the blanket up higher. His back rests against the wall from where the bed is pushed into a corner, and from his position he can see the snowflakes building up on the windowsill.

Khaslana estimates it’s a few hours after Curtain-Fall based on his internal clock. The only light in the room comes from the low embers of the hearth, which are always burning in winter. The cottage is cozy, but unfortunately not well insulated. As a result, nights are freezing cold.

Attached to his front like a barnacle, you have your face buried in Khaslana’s chest. He is always unnaturally warm, which can be highly annoying during the hotter months. But now, he’s your own personal space heater.

His eyes drift aimlessly across the room. After so many years living here, Khaslana is very familiar with every square inch of the house.

And you.

The furnace lets out an occasional pop as small flames lick up against the wood. Otherwise, the only sound he can hear is soft breathing.

Khalsana makes sure he stays still, because you’re very tired. The rapid snowfall had thrown your plans into disarray, and the two of you spent all day rushing to make the cabin winter-ready. Hours later, after a quick wash up, you collapsed face-first into the bed with Khaslana gently moving you in a more comfortable position. The bed really is too small for two people, but Khaslana has never complained nor suggested a bigger one.

Unfortunately, Khaslana is also feeling a little bored. It takes much more than a day’s hard work to make him tired, and since the hundredth cycle or so, he finds that his need for sleep has also greatly diminished. While it’s useful during times where he needs to travel great distances without stopping, it’s very annoying when the love of his life is resting.

Cheekily, Khaslana decides to bother you a bit. He pokes at your soft cheek. “Hey, Starlight?”

Silence. Undeterred, Khaslana keeps nudging you.

After a few moments, you dig your cold toes into his shins in annoyance. “What?” you grumble out, voice hoarse with sleep.

Khaslana adjusts his head on the pillows. “I need to ask you something, and it’s very important.”

You sigh, air puffing out against Khaslana’s bare chest. It makes him shiver slightly. “What?” you ask, this time a little softer.

Khaslana hums, acting as if he is thinking deeply. He smirks. “[Reader]...would you still love me if I was a worm?”

“...What,” you say for the third time, disbelief leaking into your tone. Though he can’t see your face, Khaslana can picture the wrinkle between your brows and the way your nose scrunches up when you get particularly annoyed. He persists, “Well? Would you love me?”

He’s met with another round of silence, probably because you don’t want to answer. But Khaslana wants to keep talking to you, at least for a little bit more. “If I was a worm, and could never change back, would you still love me?”

He winces slightly as you headbutt his chest. “If you turned into a worm,” you mutter, “I’d finally have more space in this damn bed - which was originally mine, by the way - and wouldn’t have to deal with your dirty laundry everywhere. I’d have peace and quiet. If you turned into a worm, I could use you as bait when I go fishing.”

Khaslana pouts, a little hurt. “Starlight…” he whines softly, nudging closer. Based on how your muscles are going lax, he can tell you’re on the tentative edge of falling back asleep again.

You stay quiet, your breathing evening out into measured intervals. Khaslana listens for a moment, then decides to close his eyes to try and sleep as well. It’s probably not going to take, but he can think of worse things than lying next to a warm, soft body.

^{“Yes, I would still love you. I promised, after all.”}

Khaslana’s eyes open again, glowing a soft cerulean in the darkness.

“Now shut up for real this time. I’m trying to sleep.”

“Okay, okay.”

“...”

Then, faintly, “I love you too, Starlight.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The seasons continue to turn in repetitive cycles, but Khaslana doesn’t mind. It’s peaceful and quiet. A far cry from the violence, misery, and despair that permeates all the previous loops.

Deep in his heart, Khaslana knows that the time he has with you is fleeting. Already, you are showing subtle signs of aging. A wrinkle at the corner of your eyes that wasn’t there before. A handful of silver hairs. Joints that were once painless now aching whenever rainstorms pass through the valley.

Khaslana’s appearance, on the other hand, remains the same as ever. He knows from experience that even a thousand years from now, he would not appear to age.

You grumble at the clear unfairness of it all. “I knew you weren’t normal, but how come you get to stay young forever while I get ugly? Some people get all the luck. Not to mention how much better you are at fighting, hunting, and making sure our garden doesn’t die.”

Khaslana laughs sadly at the irony. Lucky? Him? He’s never thought he was particularly blessed, especially not with the gargantuan task that still lies ahead of him. A childish part of him wants to quit and give up on waiting for salvation, but where would that leave everyone else on Amphoreus?

But he knows that if he never met you - if you never crash-landed on this hellish eternal land - Khaslana would have fallen into absolute despair. A pit where he would have never been able to crawl out of, despite his promise to Cyrene lifetimes ago.

“If I’m lucky, it’s only because I’ve been able to stay with you all this time.” Khaslana shifts on the couch where you’re both sitting so he can lay his head on your thighs. He nudges against your hand, encouraging you to run fingers through his tousled white locks. “When I’m with you, I feel like I’m home.”

(Home. Like Aedes Elysiae.)

He sighs as your fingers scratch his scalp just right, making him go boneless. Inexplicably, he thinks he can catch the faint and familiar smell of ripe wheat and sunlight.

“You’re as beautiful as the day I met you, Starlight.”

(And, as beautiful as the day I lost you.)

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Occasionally, the cottage is visited by a familiar face, one that’s welcomed by both of its inhabitants.

“That garden of yours finally seems to be producing more live vegetables than dead ones,” Phaeton grumbles out good-naturedly, setting down his rucksack.

You blush and give Phaeton a dirty look, but it’s mitigated by how you rush forward to take his cloak and straw hat. “Hey, I’ve gotten better!” The outerwear goes onto a wooden hook that Khaslana carved from a spare log and driven into the wall ages ago. “Besides, I would have learned it eventually. Are you staying for dinner?”

“Sure, I’ll have a meal. Thanks for your hospitality.”

Khaslana greets Phaeton warmly before heading to the backyard to finish raking the leaves. If he hurries, he can clear the whole clearing before nightfall.

The repetitive motions of sweeping lulls him into a comfortable routine. The smell of roast lamb wafts out lazily from the chimney, and his stomach growls. He sweeps faster.

Khaslana finishes up at the outer edges, then moves closer to the cottage to work on the fallen leaves there. As he does, his ears pick up on a quiet conversation inside the house.

“...You look like you’re doing well.” Phaeton’s voice, tinged with a bit of pride.

“I am. Is it that obvious?”

“Heh. You may be able to keep a straight face in front of strangers, but it may as well be an open book in front of me. How many years have I known you?”

A quick laugh. “Not long enough.”

“Hmm.” Chair legs scrape across the floor as Phaeton sits down at the table. “...Seems like that boy is also doing well. Isn’t that right, [reader]?”

“...Yeah. He is.” Your reply is quiet, but steady.

For a while, no more voices are heard. A kettle on the stove percolates gently, the sound of bubbles rising to the surface filling the air.

Then, abruptly: “Are you happy, [reader]?”

“Hmm? What kind of question is that?”

“Just humor this old man for a second, you little brat. Are you happy? Here? And with Khaslana? I’ve known you since you were a little girl, clutching at the ends of my coat after you came running back crying from the neighborhood kids insulting you…I’ve seen you grow up, and the way you closed yourself off. Can’t say that I blame you, given how superstitious the local folk are here.”

“...Yeah, I really was kind of a loner, huh? When I was younger…I was just so angry at being treated that way. People blaming me for all sorts of things I had no control over…like, me, a witch, seriously? If I had control over the weather like they claimed, I would totally make it rain every time they stepped out of their houses. Hah, that would show them.”

“But…even so…Phaeton, I’m still glad that I’m here. If I wasn’t, I never would have met Khaslana. He makes me feel…safe. Loved. Like…whenever I’m with him, I feel like I’m home. I would have never known how kind some people can still be in this world. So, yes. I am happy.”

Fingers tap against the table. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

Quietly, carefully, Khaslana sneaks away from the house. He makes it all the way to the forest edge before he realizes he’s smiling so widely his cheeks are starting to hurt.

That evening, the three of you polish off the last of the meat Khaslana gathered. He’ll have to go hunting again tomorrow, but the meal is delicious and twice as good, because it’s spent with great company.

As the Parting Hour approaches, Khaslana retrieves Phaeton’s coat and hat, handing them over to the other man along with a wrapped package of preserved fruit. The blueberries grew well this year, and you were able to turn a good chunk of them into jam.

Phaeton gives Khaslana a nod, before stopping at the door. Khaslana looks at him quizzically, tilting his head.

A hand suddenly reaches out, and Khaslana can only stare dumbly as Phaeton ruffles the snowy white locks, mussing it up into a frizzy mess. Wide blue eyes lock onto Phaeton’s dark ones.

“You’re alright after all,” Phaeton laughs fondly, the wrinkles near his temples mirroring your own. “Guess I wasn’t wrong about you, all those years ago. Keep looking after [reader] for me, Khaslana. I’m counting on you.”

Khaslana’s tongue unsticks from the roof of his mouth. From behind him, you squeak out “Phaeton!” with an embarrassed tone.

(Approval from his father-in-law…!)

A faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I will,” he promises yet again. “I’ll always look after her.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The 50th summer after Khaslana meets you in this cycle, he knows it’s finally time.

Age has taken its inexorable toll on you, manifesting in chronic pains and fatigue where there was once just youthful energy. You can no longer go on the long walks you’ve previously enjoyed, marveling at the colorful leaves and tall mountains. Even the smallest tasks leave you fatigued these days.

Khaslana bears your foul moods and grumbles with infinite patience. When you subtly wince after a particularly bad step, he crouches down and corrals you onto his back to give you a piggyback ride home, despite your protests. Stormy weather makes your aches worse, so on those days he insists you remain inside while he takes care of the chores.

And, on the very worst days, when your body refuses to move the way you want it to, when your back and hips light up in agony, Khaslana gently carries you in his arms down the winding road to the sea.

Settling into the chilled water is a familiar ritual, and Khaslana tightens his grip as both of you relax into the gentle waves. Floating in the water alleviates the hellish pressure off your joints, and lately Khaslana has been making this trip with increasing frequency.

This time, it’s late at night. You tilt your head up to look at the clear sky, so wide and vast. In the ocean, you feel very small and insignificant, but never cold. The blazing heat radiating from Khaslana’s body envelops you in comfortable warmth.

Khaslana looks up with you, quietly watching as the sky fills up with rare shooting stars. They only appear every once in a while, but he supposes it’s a lucky night. The light reflecting off the full moon glints off two sets of white hair - two spots of light in the dark ocean.

You hum, the reverberation echoing in Khaslana’s chest. “I think…it’ll be tonight,” you murmur. Khaslana nods, swallowing around a lump in his throat. “I think so, too,” he replies.

The stars above seem to quiver with your laughter. “We had a good run of it, didn’t we? Khaslana.”

Khaslana braces the two of you against a large wave, keeping his balance on the soft sand beneath his feet. “We did.”

“You’ve made me the happiest woman in the world. I didn’t even know that was possible. Did you know that?”

“...I did.”

As much as you want to stay awake, you drift off into a peaceful slumber in Khaslana’s secure arms. The gentle currents wash over you, and Khalsana carefully places your head in the crook of his left shoulder, where his sun tattoo is. Hours pass as he rocks you gently, singing bits and pieces of old melodies he only half-remembers.

He knows the instant it happens. Khaslana hears you take in a steady breath, but it never comes out.

His lip trembles, subtly at first but then uncontrollably. A loud sob escapes his mouth, but he’s infinitely gentle as he presses it against yours.

“Thank you, Starlight. For loving me, for accepting me, and for giving me this time with you. “I’ll find you in the next life, and the next, and the next. And I’ll love you, again and again and again. No matter what.”

He stays there with you until the sun rises hours later.

In the gentle sea, he almost feels like you two are sharing one last, intimate dance together.

Khaslana lays your still body down on the bed, brushing the fine hairs back from your face. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were just sleeping given your peaceful expression. Just a heartbeat away from waking up and lightly scolding him for tracking mud in the house again.

He goes outside, slinging a worn shovel over his shoulder as he carefully marks an outline in the ground, right underneath the biggest oak tree in the clearing. Once he’s satisfied at the dimensions, he starts digging. Large scoops of earth are shoveled out, and soon there’s a rectangular hole gaping up at him.

Khaslana rests the shovel against the tree, heading to a nearby stream to wash off the dust from his hands. His next destination is the meadow that you used to frequent every week due to its flowers. When he gets there, he sits down in the center of the clearing and starts painstakingly weaving forget-me-nots and scarlet chrysanthemums together.

It’s slow going and he has to start over several times due to his inexperience, but he persists. Eventually, there’s a vibrant flower crown in his hands.

Satisfied, he heads back to the cottage and places it delicately on your head. Khaslana makes sure to brush your hair back so it doesn’t get tangled in the stems.

For the last time, Khaslana gathers your pliant body into his arms. He walks back over to the freshly-dug grave and places you gently into the earth. It seems wrong to see you so quiet and still, but Khaslana’s heart is consoled by the fact that when you passed, it was painless.

Under the scorching summer sun, Khaslana buries you both in your grave and in his heart.

Red and orange bleeds across the sky as Khaslana exits the house, one last time. On his back is a traveler’s bag, filled with provisions for the journey ahead. In his hands he holds a familiar greatsword - something that had simply been leaning against the far wall of the cottage for decades, a decorative weapon that needed no use in decades of peaceful co-habitation.

Khaslana takes it up once more. For he must continue on as Amphoreus’ executioner.

At the edge of the clearing, Khalsana takes one last, poignant look back at his home for the past half-century, eyes lingering on the freshly turned earth by the trees.

And then he goes after the Core-Flames, and the Chrysos Heirs who hold them.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

>>> Eternal Recurrence #108,464: Subject Khaslana's 108,613th attempt to breach the Scepter's core layer has failed. Lifecycles of the twelve Chrysos Heirs terminated in sequence. The extrapolation process regressed.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

(As always, Khalsana enters a liminal space after the destruction of each cycle, where Lygus awaits. He’s long since stopped talking to the Antithykerian, tired of Lygus’ words filled with poisonous honey. Weary of Lygus’ attempts to persuade him to lay down his sword and rest, to give into eternal slumber, and to let the birth of Destruction take hold.

Khaslana ignores the other, stepping forward resolutely with dull eyes. Just before he reaches the portal to start the loops anew, Lygus speaks up.

“My, my…you finally resumed your…fruitless endeavors after a period of stagnation,” Lygus’ sibilant words slither uncomfortably across Khalsana’s skin. He fights the overwhelming instinct to shudder. “NeiKos496, what is it about that simple little cottage that drew your attention for fifty years?”

Khaslana pauses from where he’s been telling Lygus to fuck off in his mind to digest his words. Something screams at him to stay quiet and not respond. He waits as Lygus continues talking (he swears, that robot clanker must love the sound of his own voice more than anything), but the Antithekyran fails to mention any hint of you.

He jolts and suddenly realizes that - for some unknown reason - Lygus cannot see or detect you.

Is it because you’re an outsider? Maybe, but Khaslana has no way of testing that theory. You are the first person (along with your father Phaeton) to breach the firewall that is Amphoreus’ scepter.

Speaking up would likely jeopardize your existence and presence in the next cycles, so in the end Khaslana says nothing. All he gives Lygus is a chilling, hateful glare, which only seems to amuse the other. Gripping his sword in a death grip, Khaslana walks forward to start another loop.)

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

>>> Khaslana enters the cycle once more.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

.ETERNAL RECURRENCE #109,XXX.

Khaslana enters many, many more cycles after that.

In most of them, he does all he can to find you as quickly as he can, going off word-of-mouth about the only dark-haired, dark-eyed person for miles around. In some timelines, he succeeds and finds you first before any of the Chrysos Heirs. In some of them, Khaslana spends weeks-months-years-decades falling in love with you all over again, and delights as you do the same.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

.ETERNAL RECURRENCE #239,XXX.

In some cycles he’s too late, and he’s forced to watch from the sidelines as you fall in love with Phainon. A bolt of agony rips through his chest as he sees Phainon brush his knuckles against your cheek, and you in turn lean in eagerly.

Khaslana wants to hate the Phainon of this cycle, to rip that naive man away from your side and run him through with his greatsword, but he doesn’t. Beneath the crushing pain, there is a very small sliver of pride as he watches you stay at the Deliverer’s side, never straying.

Because you never, ever fall in love with anyone else other than Khaslana or Phainon.

And Phainon - oh, how he’s smitten with you, charmed by you and how you always treat him as a person first rather than the exalted hero that everyone burdens with their hopes and dreams. Khaslana observes as Phainon’s eyes light up with pure happiness as the two of you fall deeper into each other’s orbit.

In those cycles, Khaslana buries his feelings underneath the hellfire of the ever-increasing Core-Flames wreaking havoc on his body. He forces himself to continue, to forge on his eternal quest of stopping Era Nova, killing, betraying, and destroying until the world disintegrates anew.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

.ETERNAL RECURRENCE #403,XXX.

In some cycles you didn’t have the benefits of having Phaeton or others protecting you, so after being shunned by society you turned to the only way to keep food on the table and a roof over your head - petty crime.

Khaslana hears whispers of a black-haired thief trailing after the legendary Demigod of Trickery, and instantly knows that Cipher has taken you under her wing.

He tries, once, to approach you and alleviate the desperate longing in his chest. But the terrified look on your face along with Cipher’s snarled warning halts him in his tracks. In the blink of an eye, she flicks a trick coin into the air and spirits you away, leaving Khaslana in the dust.

He doesn’t try again that cycle.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

.ETERNAL RECURRENCE #799,XXX.

In one cycle you had the mixed fortune to be born in Castrum Kremnos. Born as the youngest child to Perdikkas’ parents, you traveled with your brother and crown prince under the Kremnoan detachment, desperate to find a better life.

By the time Khaslana realizes where you are, you’ve already died alongside Mydei’s five companions.

The cycle resets soon after that.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

.ETERNAL RECURRENCE #1,427,XXX.

In one cycle you were born in Castrum Kremnos once more, this time as a low-born servant. With the fall of the city to Nikador, you were once again swept up in Mydei’s faction, but this time as a retainer.

Miraculously, this time you ended up as the only other survivor as Mydei’s friends all perished in a great battle. As a result, the crown prince becomes extremely protective over you as the Kremnoan civilians reach Okhema’s front gates, where Phainon is waiting to meet them.

From the shadows, Khaslana watches idly as the Deliverer flies back from a bone-crushing uppercut after Phainon flirts with you.

The rest, as you can say, is history.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

.ETERNAL RECURRENCE #2,845,XXX.

In one cycle you live in Okhema during Imperator Cerydra’s rule, as a nondescript citizen earning her keep by working in the libraries.

Khaslana can only watch from afar again, as his appearance is too distinctive and well-known. Ever since that time he almost got beheaded by Hysilens’ blades, he has remained incredibly wary of the sea siren’s presence.

Though he cannot physically be with you, Khaslana makes sure that no harm comes to you from superstitious coworkers or enemies.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

.ETERNAL RECURRENCE #4,281,610.

Khaslana steps through the portal after yet another failed attempt. Lygus’ words mean nothing to him, so he ignores them.

He has to find you. No matter what.

In this life, and the next. And the next. And the next.

“I won't give up, no matter how long I must wait.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───