The war drums of Dravarn had fallen silent.
No more marching.
No more banners.
Just smoke curling from the eastern camps, where tents had been shredded and war beasts left without masters.
Because the Warlord was dead.
His bones—if they could be found—were buried beneath ten thousand tons of snow and frozen stone.
There had been no funeral.
No mourning rites.
Just a muttered phrase passed between hushed lips:
"The mountain rejected him."
⸻
Now, in the heart of the Dravarn fortress, Tharoc the Butcher sat on Dravarn's iron throne, flanked by the other surviving commanders.
They hadn't voted.
They hadn't asked.
They simply walked into the command hall, found his cloak and crown empty, and decided to move on.
The Iron Legions were leaderless.
So the vultures moved fast.
⸻
"We march again," Tharoc growled. "Veldenhar will not stand."
"We march blindly," snapped General Vessa. "You think this was normal? You think the storm just chose to strike only us?"
The room quieted.
Because even the most hardened killers had felt something before the avalanche.
A pressure.
A weight.
A presence.
⸻
"You want to chase ghosts?" Tharoc sneered.
"No," Vessa said slowly. "I want to know what buried a warlord and spared a queen."
⸻
"We lost our war," Vessa said coldly. "And if you don't start planning for peace, you'll end up just like Dravarn."
Tharoc rose. Slammed a fist into the iron map table.
"Dravarn wasn't a god!"
"Exactly," she said.
*
The Dustpetal Inn was quiet.
The kind of quiet only found in the moments just before true sleep—
fire burned low in the hearth,
a dog barked three streets away,
a candle guttered as if finally giving up.
And Aether?
He slept.
Curled on a too-short cot, arm slung over his face, dreaming of something oddly gentle—
perhaps a hill, a breeze, a time before all of this.
⸻
Until the world stopped.
⸻
Not dramatically.
Not with thunder or screams.
Just… stilled.
The flames in the hearth froze mid-flicker.
The clock on the wall hung between ticks.
A moth paused on the edge of the windowpane, wings mid-beat.
Time.
Was.
Done.
For now.
⸻
And through the front door—though it had not opened—
he stepped in.
Boots scorched the floor with each step.
His coat swayed as if moved by wind from another plane.
And his presence—oh, it howled behind a smirk.
Tom Lucifer.
The Supreme Deity of Destruction.
Not cloaked in fire or screams.
Just dressed in perfect calm.
Hair tousled.
Eyes shining with affection wrapped in catastrophe.
He walked past the frozen barmaid. Past the paused raindrops outside the window.
And stopped before Aether's room.
⸻
He didn't knock.
Didn't need to.
The door unlatched itself out of respect.
Inside, Aether stirred.
Not from noise.
Not from fear.
But from recognition.
Eyes opened slowly. Calm. Bored. Ancient.
"It's too early for this," he mumbled into his pillow.
Tom chuckled, voice rich like thunder that wanted to flirt.
"It's almost noon in the Ninth Collapse. You're sleeping in."
Aether rolled onto his back.
"What do you want, Tom?"
"Can't an old friend visit?"
"Not without time freezing. That's usually a hint."
Tom leaned against the wall, arms folded.
"You made a mountain fall."
"I let it trip."
"You made a warlord disappear."
"He buried himself. I just helped him find the right hill."
⸻
Tom's smile thinned.
"Eclipse… you're walking the line again."
"And?"
"You said you wouldn't interfere. That you wanted to live."
"I do."
"Mortal lives don't tilt fate. You're not walking through a story—you're editing it."
Aether sat up, hair sticking up wildly, voice flat.
"You didn't come here to lecture."
"No," Tom admitted, straightening. "I came because the others are talking."
"Aurora?"
"Worried."
"Alain?"
"Pacing."
"Star?"
"Watching."
Aether's eyes narrowed slightly.
"And you?"
Tom grinned wider.
"I missed you."
⸻
The room pulsed once. Quietly.
Two gods in mortal skin.
One trying to live.
One reminding him what he left behind.
⸻
"You know," Tom added, walking toward the window,
"I think you're getting sentimental."
Aether looked away.
Tom let the silence linger.
Then:
"We'll be watching you, Eclipse."
"You already are."
"And when it's time?"
Aether laid back down.
"I'll choose."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Tom whispered.
⸻
He stepped through the wall, leaving behind scorched floorboards and the faint scent of ash and memory.
Time snapped back.
The fire resumed.
The rain fell.
And Aether?
He sighed…
"I really hate surprises."
*
The sun rose late and lazy, as if embarrassed by recent events.
Veldenhar's streets were finally starting to feel like a city again—not a battlefield.
Children ran between bread stalls.
Smiths hammered away like war had never kissed their gates.
And merchants shouted louder than their wares deserved.
At the edge of the marketplace walked a boy in a plain cloak.
Aether.
Expression mildly bored.
Boots slightly muddy.
Pouch jingling with exactly 19 silver coins he definitely didn't manifest from thin air this morning. (Probably.)
⸻
He stopped at a fabric stall, eyes scanning bolts of cloth like he was choosing which one would least embarrass him if he got stabbed in it later.
"That one," he pointed.
The vendor blinked. "The midnight grey?"
"Looks like judgment."
"…Right. Five silvers."
"Three."
"You're negotiating?"
"No," Aether replied, handing her three and walking off before she could argue.
⸻
Next: bread.
The baker, a sunburnt man with one eye and two daughters, handed him a thick loaf filled with raisins and something probably edible.
"You always come quiet," the man said. "But the day that avalanche hit, you disappeared."
Aether shrugged.
"Weather was bad."
"Damn right it was. Whole army gone like dust in soup."
"Soup dust is underrated."
The baker stared. "You're a weird kid."
"And you're still charging me extra for crust."
Fair.
⸻
Next: knives.
Aether paused outside a cutlery stall where polished steel shimmered in the light.
He didn't need a blade. Not really.
But he ran his fingers along the spine of one. Balanced it in his hand.
Felt… mortal.
"Buying or admiring?"
"Both. Neither."
"That's not an answer."
"That's not a real mustache."
The shopkeeper blinked. "Fair."
⸻
As he walked on, cloak filled with cloth, bread, and a pair of very questionable gloves, someone behind him whispered:
"That's the one. The boy. From the inn."
He didn't stop walking.
Didn't flinch.
Just kept moving with the crowd.
"Not yet," he thought.
"Let them wonder."
He bought a sweetstick from a child vendor. Bit into it. Winced.
"Too much lemon."
"That's licorice," the kid said.
"…Even worse."
⸻
By midafternoon, Aether sat on a bench at the edge of the market.
Feet up.
New tunic on.
Bread beside him.
Crumbs in his sleeve.
And across the square?
A palace spy watched him.
Terrified.
Because he'd just seen a boy buy raisins, complain about gloves…
And then accidentally make a dying dog walk again by patting its head once and saying:
"Get up, old timer."
⸻
The spy ran.
Fast.
Aether didn't chase.
He just chewed the last of his bread, brushed crumbs off his cloak, and sighed.
"Mortals are so dramatic."
*
The Queen's council chamber echoed with the rustle of maps, the clink of goblets, and the low mutter of arguments no one truly meant to win.
Saela sat quietly at the head of the table, gloved fingers tracing circles on the rim of her wine cup.
She wasn't listening to Vos' latest tactical report.
She was thinking of him.
⸻
Then the doors slammed open.
Spy Gerren, cloak tangled and panic in his boots, barreled into the room like his soul was on fire.
"Your Majesty!"
A dozen nobles rose half-out of their seats.
Saela did not flinch.
"Speak," she said calmly.
"It's the boy. Aether."
"What about him?" she asked, her tone suddenly too level.
"He brought a dog back to life."
Silence.
Then:
"…What?" said the Minister of Trade.
"I saw it," Gerren said, pacing now. "Dead dog. Curled up in the road. Aether walks by, pats its head, says something—and the thing stands up and walks off like nothing happened."
Laughter rippled through the table.
General Vos leaned forward, deadpan.
"So the mop-boy's a necromancer now?"
"He didn't even try anything!" Gerren shouted. "It just—happened!"
"Are you sure it wasn't just… napping?" the Minister of Grain offered.
"No," Gerren snapped. "Its leg was broken. Its chest wasn't moving. I know death when I see it."
"And we're supposed to believe he… what? Whispered the dog back into existence?" one noble muttered, barely suppressing a grin.
A few chuckles followed.
But Saela did not laugh.
She watched Gerren closely. Too closely.
Her eyes were unreadable. But they flickered—just once—at the name Aether.
⸻
"Enough," she said softly.
The room went quiet.
"You will speak of this to no one."
Gerren blinked. "Your Majesty?"
"Not the guard. Not the priesthood. Not even the kitchen help. Do I make myself clear?"
"But—"
"Do I make myself clear?"
Her voice wasn't cold.
It was final.
He bowed stiffly.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Good. Then return to your post. And forget the dog."
He turned, visibly shaken, and left in silence.
⸻
Behind him, the nobles murmured.
"That was ridiculous."
"Completely unhinged."
"Maybe we should reassign him—"
"Or his brain."
They chuckled.
But Saela wasn't smiling.
She stared into her wine.
And thought of the night she saw Aether on the rooftop, under a moon that bent just slightly around him.
"Get up, old timer," she murmured under her breath.
⸻
Meanwhile, at the Dustpetal Inn:
Aether ate jam-soaked bread while drawing a completely incorrect map of Veldenhar with a child who thought north was wherever bread came from.
"I feel like someone's making noise about me," he said idly.
The dog barked outside.
He gave it a thumbs-up.
*
It was a quiet morning in Veldenhar.
The kind of morning that felt borrowed—
Like the city had been granted a brief pause before remembering it was still at war with itself.
Vendors opened their stalls slowly.
The bells rang late.
The sky held a softness, grey and gold like something undecided.
And through it all, Aether walked.
Not fast.
Not deliberately.
Just… wandering.
Hands tucked into loose sleeves.
Hair slightly tousled by the breeze.
Eyes half-lidded, as if sleep and eternity had a wager going on who would claim him first.
⸻
Unseen, from across the street, a woman trailed him.
Young. Cloaked. Plain.
Not a spy by trade—a scholar, actually.
Pulled from the Royal Archive by order of Queen Saela herself.
Because Saela didn't want a sword following Aether.
She wanted a mind.
⸻
The woman's name was Elyne.
She knew seventeen languages.
Had read every celestial reference scroll in the old tower vault.
And right now?
She was watching a boy buy fruit and talk to pigeons.
She scribbled in her journal quietly:
"Subject: Aether. Behavior: Inconspicuous. Bought honeyed figs. Shared one with an alley cat."
She paused.
"…Cat appears grateful."
⸻
Aether turned a corner.
Elyne followed.
Not too close.
Not too far.
But just enough to notice something strange:
The street he turned into… was suddenly quiet.
No barking dogs.
No wind.
Not even her own footsteps echoed.
She blinked.
The air felt thick.
Heavy.
Like memory and fog had entwined.
⸻
Then she turned the corner—
And Aether was just sitting there.
On a broken crate.
Eating a fig.
Looking straight at her.
Not surprised. Not annoyed.
Just… calm.
"You should be careful," he said gently.
"Spying is bad for posture."
Elyne stiffened.
"I'm not—"
"Of course you're not."
He offered her a fig.
She hesitated.
Took it.
Bit into it.
…Delicious. Annoyingly so.
⸻
"You're not afraid?" she asked.
"Should I be?"
"Of being watched."
Aether smiled.
"If they weren't watching, I'd wonder what I did wrong."
⸻
She didn't know what to say.
She didn't know what she had expected.
But it hadn't been this.
Not kindness.
Not figs.
Not the feeling of standing across from something vast and ancient and soft-spoken.
She left before the silence wrapped too tightly around her.
⸻
Later, when she returned to the palace, she delivered only three words to Queen Saela:
"I saw nothing."
But in her private journal, under a fig-stained page, she wrote:
"He is not what they think."
"But he is not what I feared."
"He is… waiting."
*