Dawn came.
Not loudly.
Not in fanfare or thunder.
But as a hush,
a breath,
a golden whisper brushing against the face of the world.
The Ivory Tower floated silently above Bastion,
a spire of moonstone and memory, casting shadows far and soft.
Below, the city stirred.
And above—
within a chamber wrapped in stillness and sleep—
a god of shadows rested.
He was not armored now.
Not wreathed in dread, or forged in fury.
Just Sunny.
The shape of him lay quiet on the wide bed,
limbs slightly curled, one arm over his chest.
Porcelain skin untouched by time or scar,
hair like woven night, spilled loosely across the silk pillow.
Eyes closed, but beneath the lids—
memories moved.
Curled around him,
a shadow made soul,
a Serpent ink-black and ancient, lay slumbering too.
But not carelessly.
It was coiled with quiet devotion,
its form draped across his torso, under his arm, around his thigh—
as if to anchor each fragment of him in place.
As if the warmth of its master's chest was the last fire in a world grown cold.
Outside,
the sun—or whatever celestial flame lingered in the sky of Bastion—
rose over the horizon,
spilling light like mercy through the crystal panes of the tower.
Golden beams cut through the room like soft blades.
And then—
The Serpent stirred.
Not abruptly.
Not sharply.
Its head slid slowly along Sunny's chest,
rising just slightly as its inky body slithered upward.
A soundless hiss.
A touch—just beneath the chin.
A brushing nudge to the cheek.
And still, Sunny did not wake.
So the Serpent did what it always had—
what it always would.
It shielded.
Its body lifted just enough, stretching over his head,
casting its master in shadow again.
A blanket of loyalty.
A vow without words.
The light kissed the Serpent's back—
but would not touch Sunny's face.
A beat passed.
Another.
Then—
The faintest shift.
A twitch of the fingers.
A subtle breath, slower than the others.
The flutter of lashes.
Then, at last—
Eyes opened.
Eyes darker than shadows.
With power.
With depth.
…
With life.
He blinked once.
Twice.
The world came into focus—hazy, bright at the edges.
The first thing he saw was the Serpent, staring back at him.
Still hovering above.
Still shielding.
Still there.
For a moment,
he said nothing.
He simply stared into that eyeless gaze—
and felt warmth radiate from it.
The kind of warmth only found after eternal cold.
The kind earned through loss, and stitched into being by something older than love.
He didn't smile.
Not fully.
But his eyes softened.
And the Serpent, sensing something ancient and quiet awaken in him—
rested its head on his shoulder, curling gently along his neck,
Sunny exhaled.
Slow.
Instinctive.
No battle.
No blade.
No burden.
Just dawn.
And the shadow that loved him—
Like a son loves their father.
Like a limb.
The tower hummed with soft silence.
Outside, life resumed.
But in that room—
in that moment—
Sunny lay still beneath the shade of his Serpent.
Eyes open.
Breathing steady.
Alive.
And for now…
that was enough.
---
Sunny descended the spiraling steps of the Ivory Tower.
Each footfall was light, soundless —
as though his presence had long forgotten how to echo.
He moved not with purpose, but with rhythm.
A rhythm worn into his being by the passage of eons.
One step. Then another.
Not an entrance. Not a return.
Just a continuation.
Below, the lounge waited.
Wreathed in soft morning hues, bleeding through the slanted panes like half-remembered dreams.
A room where the cohort gathered.
Where time curled up beside warmth.
Where the world pretended, just briefly, to be kind.
But today, someone new.
A woman.
Gray-skinned.
Still.
Beautiful like a statue made of dusk and reverence.
Not unfamiliar.
No—
Something older. Faded.
A scent carried on wind from eons ago.
A Saint.
Seishan.
Jet, Kai, and Effie were gone — scattered by the duties government Saints must uphold.
Only Nephis and Cassie remained.
Nephis sat quietly on the sun-drenched couch, her white robes catching the light like drifting ash.
She clutched a ceramic cup between both hands.
Not for the warmth.
But for the ritual.
She had always understood the weight of moments.
Cassie lingered alone, further off, by the great pane that framed Bastion's broken skyline.
Her face unreadable. Her thoughts unspoken.
Sunny entered,
shadow trailing like a second skin,
the Serpent draped over his shoulder —
a quiet companion of ink and loyalty.
Always there.
His gaze swept the room.
Measured. Silent. Heavy.
He moved across the floor.
Not fast. Not slow.
Just present.
And then—
he sat.
Beside Nephis.
Not out of affection.
Not even comfort.
But perhaps, just perhaps… to remember what it felt like to sit beside someone.
To belong.
The Serpent slipped down and coiled along the armrest.
Its form relaxed, yet vigilant.
Like a child wary of strangers in its parent's home.
Across from them, Seishan shifted in her seat.
A flicker of uncertainty crossing her face.
"Sovereign Sunless," she greeted, her tone carefully measured.
Sunny did not answer.
Not immediately.
His gaze dropped.
To the center table, where a pot of coffee steamed gently—
its scent warm and bitter.
Anchoring.
Alive.
He lifted a hand.
A cup emerged from the shadows, blooming into existence like a memory recalled.
He poured the coffee with quiet precision.
Then, finally—
He spoke.
"What do you want."
His voice was even.
Flat, but not devoid.
Cold, but not dead.
Like stone kissed by morning frost.
Across from him, Seishan hesitated.
Her eyes flicked—once to Nephis, once to the Serpent.
Then back to Sunny.
She had seen Supremes.
Fought beside Saints.
But never this.
Not quite a man.
Not quite a god.
Something else.
The Serpent hissed softly.
Not aggressive—
just enough to remind the room that its master was not to be gauged by posture alone.
Seishan blinked, as though surfacing from deep water.
"I have been sent," she said, careful now,
"as an emissary of the Song Clan. To discuss terms of cooperation."
Sunny said nothing.
The shadows around his fingertips danced slightly—
not agitated.
Merely alive.
"No."
The word came like dusk.
Soft.
Absolute.
He lifted the cup to his lips, took a sip.
Steam curled past the sharp angle of his cheekbone.
"Your Queen…" he said, voice calm as still oceans,
"will be allowed to keep her Sovereignty for as long as I see fit."
He didn't look at her.
His eyes traced the edges of the room.
The worn wood. The silken cushions.
The soft sound of Nephis breathing beside him.
"And as all things," he murmured,
"it too… will end."
No venom. No threat.
Just truth.
Carved in silence.
Seishan's fingers trembled around her cup.
But to her credit, only once.
"You are a Supreme…" she said, as if reminding herself.
"But so is my mother."
Sunny tilted his head slightly.
Not sharply.
More like he was curious what the wind sounded like through cracked glass.
Then he looked at her.
And the world tilted.
"So was Anvil."
The words dropped, still as falling ash.
He turned his gaze to the window.
To the scars of Bastion.
To where cracked towers leaned like tired sentinels,
Nephis took a long sip from her cup.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
Cassie sat still, her back to them,
but listening.
And Sunny?
He leaned back just slightly into the cushions.
Close enough to Nephis that their shoulders nearly touched.
Not quite.
But nearly.
Close enough that when she shifted slightly—absently—her robe brushed his arm.
He didn't move away.
He just sat there.
Silent.
Sipping coffee.
Letting the warmth seep into something long-frozen.
Seishan studied them both.
The Sovereign and the Saint.
Silent, shadow-wrapped and white-cloaked,
seated like myths carved into morning.
She rose slowly,
hands wrapped tightly around her cooling cup.
"Then I'll deliver your answer,"
she said.
Not bowed—
but dipped her head.
Just enough to show she understood where she stood.
And then—
She left.
No rustle.
No goodbye.
Just the soft hush of the door sealing behind her.
A breath passed.
Then two.
The weight in the room did not lift—
it shifted.
Relieved of one burden,
it braced under another.
More personal.
More delicate.
Sunny leaned slightly back, the shadows around him folding inward.
Not defense.
Just breath.
His gaze lowered again, toward the cup in his hand.
Still half-full.
Still warm.
"…It's good," he said softly.
Nephis tilted her head.
Only slightly.
Her lips parted, just a fraction.
And for the first time in what felt like centuries,
he looked her in the eyes.
Not through memory.
Not through survival.
But presently.
Her voice, low. Barely above the hum of the tower.
"Better with you here."
A beat.
Then—
The Serpent rose between them,
tail swaying like a child caught in a secret it didn't understand—
And wrapped gently around them both.