Beyond Divine Will
The Price of Time
The clinking of glassware faded into the background as the five heroes seated themselves around the worn wooden table, opposite a centuries-old entity who looked like he barely hit adolescence. Morgan, draped in a pale blue robe with celestial embroidery and the faintest stain of strawberry syrup near his collar, rested his chin on his hand and surveyed them like a cat watching mice wander into his garden.
“Let me guess,” he said, tone syrupy sweet. “You want the boy who breaks time to patch your world together. For free.”
Beatrice, serene even in the presence of ancient chaos, folded her hands over one another. “Not for free,” she said gently. “But in the name of humanity. The demon gate seal is weakening. It must be restored.”
Morgan tilted his head. “Humanity’s name has gotten a lot of people killed, Saint. What if I asked for something divine in exchange? Would you bleed grace for me, or bargain a miracle?”
Beatrice didn’t blink. “If you must.”
Morgan’s smile sharpened.
Lucien leaned forward, voice cool. “You owe me a favor.”
“Do I?” Morgan blinked innocently. “I gave you power. You gave me amusement. That sounds like an even trade.”
“You told me I’d get one wish.”
“And you used it,” Morgan replied with a cheerful shrug. “You wished to become powerful. I made you powerful. Very Faustian of us both. Next time, wish for a receipt.”
Lucien narrowed his eyes.
Sol placed a calming hand on Lucien’s thigh. A silent reminder: not everything needed fire.
Morgan watched the gesture, then looked at Valorion and Diamant. He regarded them with vague amusement.
“And what about you two? The knight and the hammer. Willing to bleed for this cause? What would you trade for a world that may never thank you?”
Valorion nodded once. “My oath stands, always. If this is the battle that saves lives, I fight it.”
Diamant, ever the fortress, simply said, “Whatever it takes.”
Morgan tapped a spoon against his glass, letting the rhythm fill the silence.
“Very poetic,” he said. “But I don’t want your blood or your grace. I want two things. First, let me hear your truths.”
Beatrice arched a brow. “Meaning?”
“Well, for my first requirement, I want one truth from each of you. No lies. No avoidance. Give me something real. Something vulnerable. Something human. As I’m sure you’ve heard from Lucien, I only move for things that could give me amusement. Let your truths entertain me.”
Silence rippled through the group.
Lucien was the first to speak. “I used to want the world to burn just so Sol would look at me.”
Morgan’s eyes glittered. “Delicious.”
Sol exhaled, then followed. “I once considered letting myself die, just so I wouldn’t have to choose between the world and the man I love.”
Morgan blinked. His smile, for once, softened.
Beatrice looked up toward the heavens.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I wish God had chosen someone else. Anyone else.”
Morgan leaned back, a slow nod of approval passing over his youthful face.
Valorion spoke next. “I don’t know who I am without someone to serve. And I’m afraid to learn.”
And then Diamant. Quietly, but without hesitation.
“I’m terrified of being happy. Because happiness feels like something you only get before it’s taken away.”
The dessert parlor was utterly silent now, as if the building itself were holding its breath.
Morgan clapped once.
“Lovely. Heartbreaking. Absolutely tragic.” He stood, stretching like a cat. “You guys sure are an entertaining lot. So let’s move to the actual thing I need to inspect. You see, what you’re asking is for me to break my wandering and meddle in the affairs of this Earth. You want me to use my power to seal a demon gate, when I could just… step into another world without the hassle.”
Lucien didn’t flinch. “You’re not the type to run from a challenge. Or are you really that bored of this Earth?”
Morgan grinned, sharp. “Bored? Perhaps. But I’m also curious.”
He turned, pacing like a cat now. “So, here’s how this works. You want help from something immortal, you must prove that your world is worth the effort. For my final requirement, convince me your cause is just. Convince me your hearts are true. And most importantly—”
He snapped his fingers. In an instant, the world shimmered.
The parlor vanished.
The five heroes stood now in a strange arena—an endless stretch of mirrored sand beneath a purple twilight sky. In the distance, stars fell like droplets into an unseen sea. Morgan floated above them, the hourglass atop his staff now aglow.
“This is the test,” he said, voice echoing across the plane. “Each of you must face what time has not forgiven. Not the past, no—your convictions.”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed. This wasn’t a fight of strength or magic.
This was about soul.
“Pass my test,” Morgan said with a glint of mischief, “and I’ll consider your world worthy of my time.”
Then with a flick of his fingers, they were separated—each cast into their own illusions, tailored to the core of who they were.
And in the silence of the dream-sand, time waited.
The Trial of the Sun
There was no warning when the shift happened.
One moment Sol was walking beside his comrades. The next, he stood alone.
No horizon. No sky. Just a vast, golden plain beneath his feet, stretching endlessly in every direction. The ground shimmered like molten sunlight, warm but weightless. Above him, no sun hung—but he still cast a glow.
A glow that was dimming.
Sol took a step forward, and the silence fractured.
“You never save them all.”
“You let him hurt you—again and again.”
“Do you think kneeling made you strong?”
“You are loved because you’re useful. Powerful. Shining. What happens when the light fades?”
The voices didn’t echo. They cut. Familiar and faceless, they clawed from deep within. Old doubts, buried blame. Hurts long hidden under smiles.
The light around Sol dimmed further.
He clenched his jaw. He knew this place. Not a battlefield, but a reckoning.
Before him, the golden ground rippled—and from it, a mirror rose. Smooth and tall. The reflection that stared back was still Sol—but not the Sol he wore in public.
This version of him looked hollowed out. Dark circles under his eyes. A tight, strained smile that tried to mask the exhaustion and pain carved deep into his face. Blood on his knuckles. Grief in his stance.
The mirror-Sol tilted his head.
“Why do you love him?” the reflection asked softly.
Sol said nothing.
“Was it always love?” the voice continued. “Or did you mistake need for affection? Obsession for devotion? You forgave everything—because you were lonely.”
The words struck deeper than any villain’s blow.
“You always give. The world, your body, your power. You smile while bleeding. Because that’s what the world expects from Sol Invictus, isn’t it?”
Sol’s hands curled into fists.
“Maybe,” he murmured. “Maybe I did want to be loved so badly that I let myself fall… again and again.”
His reflection blinked. Surprised.
“But I chose to love him,” Sol said, louder now. “Even after what he did. I looked him in the eyes and saw someone still trying. Still fighting. And I chose to stay.”
The mirror cracked down the middle.
“I don’t kneel because I’m broken,” he said. “I kneel because I trust. Because I know who I am. Even without my light.”
Another crack. The reflection flinched.
“I’m tired,” Sol whispered. “But I’m not lost. I’m allowed to want someone to hold me. I’m allowed to give and still want more in return.”
He stepped forward—and struck the mirror with his bare hand.
It shattered, golden shards dissolving into air.
Light surged around him again—not the blinding brilliance of a god, but the warm, steady glow of a man who had made peace with his truth.
From the silence, Morgan’s voice came—playful, ancient, and echoing.
“To burn without bitterness, to love without pride… That is the truest test of the sun.”
And with that, the world reformed.
The trial had ended.
Trial of the Mind
Lucien didn’t flinch when the world shifted.
He had known the second Morgan’s voice receded and Sol disappeared that it would come to this. A test. A trial. Of course Morgan would twist it into something personal.
So when Lucien opened his eyes and found himself alone—surrounded by mirrors floating in a circular arc around him—he exhaled once, slowly.
Each mirror shimmered, not with his reflection, but with versions of himself at different stages of life.
One showed a younger Lucien, love starved and small, curled on the floor of his locked room, hands over his ears.
Another showed him at seventeen, trembling with power for the first time as he forced a man’s thoughts into stillness.
Another—more recent—was bloodied, feral-eyed, standing over the bound form of a hero whose will he had shattered. One hand raised, telekinetic tendrils still pulsing, his mouth twisted in something that was almost glee.
Lucien’s throat dried.
He turned in a slow circle, watching the memories play. His darkest moments. His victories. His monstrosities. All of them frozen in time, suspended in glass. One wrong breath, and they would shatter.
“You’ve always wanted to be seen,” Morgan’s voice murmured in the air around him. “Feared. Desired. Worshipped. Loved. In that order. And you got it, didn’t you? You were feared. Desired. And now, someone actually loves you. Tell me, Lucien… do you think you deserve it?”
A pulse of static surged behind Lucien’s ribs.
“You wanted to make the world kneel. And now you kneel willingly for him. Do you think that absolves you? Do you think that makes you clean?”
Lucien’s voice was calm, but tight. “No.”
The mirrors began to vibrate.
“I don’t think it erases anything,” Lucien said. “I still remember every mind I pushed. Every will I broke.”
He walked to one of the mirrors—the one with his seventeen-year-old self, eyes wide and drunk on the taste of control. He touched it, and the image flickered.
“I thought if I had enough power, I could make the world love me. Or at least him. That maybe, if I was undeniable enough, I’d never be left behind again.”
Lucien turned to the center of the room. “I don’t regret wanting him. But I regret what I became chasing him.”
“So,” Morgan whispered, amused. “If you had the chance to go back… would you choose differently?”
Lucien was quiet.
Then, with something like defiance, he smiled faintly.
“No,” he said. “Because this version of me—the one who crawled back, who begged forgiveness, who chooses to love and not control—that version wouldn’t exist if I hadn’t fallen first.”
The air crackled.
“I’m not here to forget who I was,” Lucien finished. “I’m here to prove who I’ve become.”
The mirrors didn’t shatter—they dissolved. Light streamed through the space they’d once filled. Morgan’s voice returned, almost fond.
“A sharpened blade tempered in guilt. A tyrant turned disciple for love. Good. Good. That is the mind I shaped.”
And then Lucien was standing once again on solid ground, the trial finished. The weight of it still lingered—but so did the clarity.
The Mirror of Chains
Valorion stepped forward, and the world shifted.
The air was no longer dry desert, no longer warm with the pulse of earth or the closeness of his companions. Instead, cold stone met his boots—wet, echoing, endless.
He knew this place.
The old citadel dungeon.
Not the real one—this was too quiet, too clean. A dream’s memory of where he once knelt, humiliated, a champion of justice dragged through darkness by his own sins.
He swallowed.
The clank of metal behind him made him turn.
Chains, heavy and gleaming, hovered in the air. And standing at the center of the cell was a phantom—one he knew intimately. Himself, wrapped in Silver-Blue Superhero uniform, immaculate and untouchable, lips pressed into judgment.
“Tell me,” the phantom said. “Which of us is the real Valorion?”
He didn’t answer. He looked between the Silver-blue hero and the familiar chains—already feeling the tension in his shoulders, the flutter in his gut.
“You talk of growth,” the hero hissed. “Of loving someone again. But are you not simply trading one master for another? Are you here because you love, or because you crave surrender?”
The question burned. Because Valorion didn’t know.
Diamant had never demanded. He had never once used Valorion’s past against him. But still, Valorion wanted it. The firm hand. The voice that left no room for doubt. The freedom of being someone else’s to hold.
He had offered his submission freely—but was it love or was it escape?
“You begged,” the knight continued. “You crawled. You offered yourself like a weapon to be used. What happens when the man you love grows tired of a broken blade?”
“I’m not broken,” Valorion whispered, but it came out too soft.
The chains responded, slithering across the floor toward him.
He backed up. Then stopped.
Let them come.
Let them curl around his wrists, cold and unyielding. Let the phantom stare.
“I’m not broken,” he said louder, breathing through the rising panic. “I am… choosing. To kneel is not to fall. To surrender is not to be weak.”
He dropped to one knee—not in fear, but in challenge.
“I know what I need. And I’m not afraid anymore.”
The chains shattered. The phantom flickered.
And Morgan’s voice returned, distant but clear.
“Good,” he murmured, sounding almost amused. “It takes courage to serve without losing yourself.”
Valorion rose, the weight gone, but his heartbeat still racing.
He had not denied his cravings. He had embraced them. And in doing so, reclaimed his power.
Not only as the Lightning Spear Hero the world has come to know him for.
But as the man he had become, free at last.
The Measure of Command
When Morgan turned his gaze toward Diamant, the air warped once again.
The ground shifted beneath his boots. The sun-scorched world blinked away, replaced by dim torchlight and marble pillars, tall and grand. He recognized the place immediately: the great Hall of Commanders—a sacred space once reserved for war leaders and tacticians of old, where honor was measured by victories, and failure carved into legacy.
Diamant stood at the center.
But unlike the statues of heroes that once flanked this hall, this one was filled with shadows—echoes of himself in different forms. All of them wore his face. All of them his voice.
“You pretend to lead, but you’re ruled by desire,” one version hissed, clad in ornate armor, draped in medals.
“You dominate to hide your fear,” said another, eyes colder, mouth curled in scorn. “You control others because you can’t control what you feel.”
Diamant stood still, heart beating hard, fists at his side.
“You fell for a broken knight,” another version sneered. “One who kneels. One who would willingly break for you. What happens when you tire of his worship?”
“Stop,” Diamant muttered.
“What happens when you lose him?” came a quieter voice—one shaped like his own doubt.
That was the one that pierced.
Because beneath the discipline, the command, and the years of solitude… Diamant feared that very thing. That his love was a selfish thing. That Valorion deserved a gentler man, a warmer one. Not someone who was trained to be cold, forged in steel and silence.
But then another voice rose. Not from the hall—but from within.
“He chose me,” Diamant whispered, eyes burning.
His gaze cut across the illusions like a blade. “And I choose him.”
He took a step forward. The echoing footsteps of his doppelgängers faltered.
“I may never be soft. I may never be sweet. But I will be true. And I will never break what kneels for me. Not when I would burn the world to protect him.”
A warm light flared at the far end of the hall.
The illusions shattered like glass.
The hall faded.
And Diamant was left in silence, breath steady, heart uncovered.
He had never needed to prove his strength. Not when he now knew how to wield his love like a sword—sharp, deliberate, unwavering.
Morgan’s voice echoed again, wry and thoughtful.
“To command without cruelty. To love without softness. You surprise me.”
Diamant exhaled, quietly.
He did not need to reply.
He was already walking back—with the quiet resolve of a man who knew exactly what he was willing to fight for.
The Crown that Watches
Light bled through the fabric of reality.
One moment, Beatrice stood in the desert with her companions. The next, she found herself in a place beyond time—a sanctum of stillness, where light stretched out endlessly, where there was no wind, no ground, no sound.
Only sky.
And in its center, a solitary throne—massive, unmoving, and cold stone set beneath golden light. It was ancient. And it was empty.
She did not approach it.
Around her, shadows formed. Not monstrous, but familiar.
Versions of herself.
Beatrice in every age. In every mask. The smiling Saintess in white. The diplomat in deep robes. The battlefield healer. The cool strategist. The sorrowed woman who stood by coffins. The iron-willed figure who stood between gods and men.
They stared at her. Unblinking.
“You’ve been the sanctuary for everyone else,” came a voice—neither male nor female. Eternal. “But where do you go when you need saving?”
Beatrice exhaled, steady. She did not answer.
One of the shadows—young, radiant, untouched by bloodshed or grief—stepped forward. The Beatrice who once said yes to the gods’ call, thinking she was being chosen for glory.
“Do you remember when sainthood felt like a blessing?” the younger one asked softly. “Before you realized it was a burden disguised in reverence?”
The stillness pressed inward, like breath held too long.
Beatrice looked at her younger self. “Yes,” she said. “I remember. But I would still choose it.”
The girl smiled sadly, fading back into the light.
Another voice followed—a whisper through the golden wind.
“You’ve tied the fates of others. Sol. Lucien. Valorion. Diamant. You brought them home. You gave them purpose again.”
The air shifted.
“But what if they fall? What if they break again? What if you aren’t enough to keep the world from ending?”
Beatrice’s hands clenched softly at her sides.
“Then I will break with them,” she said. “But not before I’ve tried to carry them one more step.”
A silence fell like snow.
The throne before her trembled faintly, as if acknowledging her answer.
And then she spoke again—quiet, resolute.
“I do not lead them to save the world. I guide them because I love them. That is my power. That is what remains when prophecy ends and gods are silent.”
Suddenly, the echoes were gone.
The light dimmed.
And she was back—sand beneath her boots, heat brushing her cheeks, and five pairs of eyes fixed on her. Four of them from her companions, the fifth belonging to a nearly-immortal man with an empty sundae glass and a curious tilt to his smile.
Morgan licked a bit of ice cream from his thumb.
“You really are divine, aren’t you?” he said, his eyes gleaming. “How fascinating. Most people just beg for miracles.”
Beatrice inclined her head, lips curving faintly. “And most people forget the cost of them.”
The desert wind stirred once more, carrying with it a strange, heavy stillness—as though something had shifted, deep and unseen.
She returned to her companions wordlessly.
She didn’t need to speak. They understood. They had seen her trial.
And she had not faltered.
The Golden Hourglass
Each of them—Sol, Lucien, Valorion, Diamant, and Beatrice—had returned from their individual trials changed in ways not easily named. No marks. No spells. Just the weight of reflection in their eyes and the unmistakable shift in their presence.
They stood in a half-circle before Morgan.
He had not moved from his little table, though now there were six empty sundae cups piled on the tray beside him, spoons clinking lazily in the breeze. He hadn’t spoken once since Beatrice’s return—only watched with the languid patience of one who had lived many centuries longer than patience itself.
But now, he stirred.
Morgan stood.
He brushed his hands together, as if shaking off sand—or centuries.
And then, he addressed them. No longer with the playful irreverence of a man feasting on sweets, but with a clarity edged in time itself.
“You’ve all danced in your own mirrors,” Morgan said, his voice carrying that strange, double-timbre that echoed like it passed through ages. “You stood before your shadows. Some of you with guilt. Some with longing. All of you with hunger. For purpose. For power. For love.”
Lucien’s eyes flickered at that last word. Sol glanced toward him.
Morgan’s expression softened—not with kindness, but with something more ancient. An understanding that even gods might envy.
“You came here to beg time to kneel. To save your world from a gate it cannot hold back alone. But time doesn’t bow. It moves. And you—five souls whose threads have tangled so tightly—you have moved me.”
Sol blinked, stunned. Valorion tilted his head, unsure if they were being praised or mocked. Beatrice, ever perceptive, saw something else: the faintest shimmer of melancholy in Morgan’s far-off eyes.
Diamant finally broke the silence. “So will you help us or not?”
Morgan grinned. “Yes.”
Just like that.
“I’ll lend my power to reseal your demon gate. Not because you asked, but because you proved that you would carry the weight that comes after the saving is done.”
Lucien stepped forward, cautious. “There’s a cost, isn’t there?”
Morgan’s smile deepened. “Of course. There always is. You of all people should know that.”
Beatrice’s fingers twitched at her side. “What is the price?”
Morgan turned from them and lifted his hand. A golden hourglass appeared in his palm—its sand frozen mid-fall.
“The seal I will create will last only as long as this hourglass remains whole. Time’s magic is not eternal. It resists permanence. The hourglass will sit hidden deep in the gate’s inner sanctum, guarded. Once cracked, the demons will rise again.”
Beatrice’s heart sank. “And what happens when the sand runs out?”
Morgan’s eyes sharpened. “Then the world must choose a new path—or burn.”
Lucien narrowed his eyes. “And you? Where will you be?”
Morgan gave a wry, distant smile. “Gone. Perhaps to another world. Perhaps just a step into silence.”
“My part ends once the seal is set. After that… it’s your story.”
He stepped closer, reaching into a ripple in space beside him, pulling out a scroll inscribed in spiraling golden runes, pulsing faintly with time’s magic. He handed it to Beatrice.
“This will guide you to the gate’s core. The magic must be cast there. When the ritual begins, I will appear one final time to bind the seal myself. Until then—gather your strength. Make your peace.”
He met Lucien’s eyes one last time.
“You’ve grown, Little Flame. Don’t let the fire eat you now.”
Lucien dipped his head slightly, not as a bow—but in recognition.
The sun crested higher over the dunes. The wind returned. The moment passed.
Morgan turned from them, stepping back into the folds of space itself. He gave one final look—half farewell, half challenge.
“Run along now, Saints and Monsters. You’ve earned your fate.”
And with that, he vanished.
The Quiet before the Fire
Returning to the Hero Association brought no sense of comfort—only the weight of what was to come.
In the Council Hall, flanked by polished pillars and watchful elders, Beatrice stood tall with her team: Sol, Lucien, Valorion, and Diamant. Behind her, the stained-glass window depicting saints and heroes glinted with morning light, as though daring them to be remembered.
She addressed the room with conviction.
“We found the Chronomancer. His name is Morgan, and he has agreed to help seal the demon gate. But the ritual requires action: my team will carry the magical hourglass to the heart of the gate’s sanctum. Morgan will begin the spell. That is the only way to halt the demon invasion.”
Murmurs rippled through the council, but none interrupted.
“The rest of the Hero Association’s forces should reinforce the front lines and protect the surrounding region. Demons have already begun slipping through the fractures. We hold the line. And we close the gate.”
Permission was granted without question. Beatrice’s party would spearhead the final mission. Every hand would be raised to support them.
Camp was quiet as the heroes made their final preparations to head south.
In his quarters, Lucien stood alone before a window, eyes distant. The air behind him shimmered subtly—and there, as if summoned by memory or fate, Morgan appeared again.
He was mid-bite in what looked like a triple-scoop ice cream sundae.
“Don’t look so sour,” Morgan said, licking a spoon. “It’s your last night of peace, you should try some sugar.”
Lucien didn’t move. “You came to gloat?”
Morgan chuckled. “No, darling. I came to warn.”
With a flick of his wrist, a floating illusion of the hourglass manifested between them—glowing softly, ancient, beautiful, cruel.
“The spell to seal the gate won’t work on time magic alone,” Morgan said quietly. “It requires… payment. A soul, Lucien. A life. That’s the curse demons laid into the gate when they first opened it, to ensure it could never be shut easily. A blood toll—always.”
Lucien’s jaw tensed. “You didn’t tell Beatrice.”
“No. I told you. Because you’re the only one I respect enough to hear the truth first.”
Lucien stared at the hourglass. “And whose life is meant to be given?”
Morgan didn’t answer immediately. He waved his fingers, and the illusion shifted—showing the blinding gold of Sol Invictus.
“In every timeline I’ve seen, he steps forward. He always chooses to die for the world. Every single thread ends in fire and martyrdom… except one.”
Lucien’s hands clenched at his sides.
“Only one version ends differently. One where you choose. Where he lives. And you die.”
The words hit like cold iron.
Lucien looked away, the silence thick.
“Why me?”
“Because once, you wished for Sol’s gaze so desperately you scorched the world,” Morgan said softly. “Now you have it. Now you love him. And now you understand what it means to deserve him. This is your choice.”
Lucien swallowed hard.
He thought of Sol’s laugh, his warmth, his kindness—the light he once coveted and now cherished. The life they could still build. The one Sol would never reach if he paid the toll.
He looked at Morgan, voice low but steady.
“You don’t need to tell the others. I’ll do it.”
Morgan watched him. No smile. Just the quiet weight of time.
“You’ve changed,” Morgan said. “You might’ve become something real after all.”
And then he vanished, taking the hourglass illusion with him.
Lucien remained.
He stood in the darkness of his room, heart loud in his chest.
“Let him live,” he whispered to the empty space. “Let him live, even if I don’t.”
He had spent a lifetime chasing the light.
Now he would become the shadow that let it shine.
The Road South
The march to the southern continent began at first light.
Hundreds of heroes moved together like a living wave—steel flashing in the sun, magic humming between fingers, the thunder of boots pounding into cracked earth. Scouts rode ahead to report on the seal’s condition. The crumbling gate lay still distant, but the scent of ash and something other already tainted the air.
At the center of it all rode five.
Beatrice, Sol, Lucien, Valorion, and Diamant—the heart of the spear. Their path was clear: reach the sanctum embedded deep within the demon gate and deliver the hourglass. Defend it until Morgan could be summoned for the ritual.
But for Lucien, every step forward felt like a quiet countdown.
Sol was radiant on horseback, golden hair glinting, voice rising above the din when he directed support teams. His aura was confidence incarnate—until his eyes settled too long on Lucien.
“You’re quieter than usual,” he said one evening, their camp surrounded by a perimeter of light wards and watchful mages.
Lucien smiled tightly. “Just tired.”
Sol narrowed his gaze. “Liar.”
Lucien turned away. “It’s a long journey. That’s all.”
It wasn’t.
In the days that followed, Lucien began sleeping less. Wandering further during night watch. He kept notes. Whispered things to Morgan’s hourglass beneath his breath. Any time Sol neared, he folded his composure around himself like armor. Sol would reach for him, and Lucien would lean in just enough to be convincing.
Sol noticed everything. But he said nothing—yet.
Beatrice watched from behind her veil of serenity. She rode beside Lucien during the quieter hours of travel.
“You know,” she said softly, not looking at him, “you can’t fool people who love you forever. Eventually the mask cracks.”
Lucien didn’t answer.
“You’re planning something.” She glanced at him, eyes sharp. “Don’t make me pry, Lucien. I would rather you speak first.”
Lucien met her gaze with weary fondness. “I’m trying to protect him.”
“At what cost?”
He didn’t answer. And that silence was its own confession.
Beatrice said no more. But her knuckles tightened on the reins.
Even Valorion noticed.
One evening, around the fire, he leaned toward Diamant and whispered low:
“He’s planning something reckless, isn’t he?”
Diamant, never one for tact, simply nodded. “He’s decided already. You can see it.”
“Sol will break if Lucien—” Valorion stopped himself. “We should be ready.”
Diamant didn’t argue.
Lucien felt the weight of it constantly.
Morgan’s enchanted hourglass—cold, pulsing, vibrating with the burden of the seal. The thing craved resolution. The closer they drew to the demon gate, the more it responded. Morgan’s magic stirred like breath on Lucien’s neck.
“One life for a thousand more,” Morgan’s words echoed in his mind.
Lucien had made peace with that.
What he hadn’t prepared for was the ache—how deeply it hurt to walk beside Sol, to hear his laughter, to feel his warmth at night when he held Lucien close in their tent.
“When this is over,” Sol whispered one night, half-asleep, “let’s disappear for a little while. Just us.”
Lucien swallowed the scream that tried to rise. He kissed Sol’s forehead, pulled him tighter.
And said nothing.
Lucien walked onward in silence—shouldering love, duty, and inevitability in equal measure.
And as the demon gate drew closer, so too did the moment his secret would finally break open.
March of the Brave
The sky above the southern continent churned with unnatural fury.
Dark clouds twisted like coiling serpents, their undersides crackling with red lightning. The wind carried ash and something fouler—corruption, thick and ancient. The world knew what was coming. The Demon Gate, long sealed, pulsed now with malevolent hunger.
And it was breaking.
The Gate itself rose like a jagged wound from the cracked earth, its obsidian arch alive with shifting glyphs. At its heart: a swirling storm of darkness and flame, its seal flickering, fractured. Already, smaller demons had begun to slither through, testing the seams. The outer perimeter was a warzone—white-cloaked clerics chanting from elevated platforms, elementalists holding the line with fire and force, scouts weaving messages back to command.
Beatrice’s party arrived on the ridge—a force of five.
Their presence parted the gathered defenders with reverent awe. These weren’t just high-ranking heroes. They were legends now—names that even the youngest recruits knew by heart.
Beatrice stood at the head, her holy staff in hand, divine sigils dancing around her like slow-burning stars. Behind her strode Sol and Lucien, twin eclipses of light and shadow. Valorion moved like a storm barely contained, while Diamant hovered silently at the rear, glowing blue shield constructs orbiting him like a moving constellation.
Beatrice raised Morgan’s scroll.
“The path has been revealed,” she said, her voice cutting through the battle-thick air. “To reach the Sanctum of Binding, we follow its call. The rest of you—hold the line. We will finish this.”
Lucien stepped forward, the ancient hourglass in his hand. It pulsed with magic, its sands whispering across time. It was hungry. It was ready.
“Then let’s give it what it needs,” he said quietly.
The Descent
Passing through the threshold was like stepping into another reality.
The gate’s interior was a labyrinth of dimension-warped ruin. Stairs wound sideways through void, floating islands drifted weightless in the gloom, and the air shimmered like stretched glass. Echoes of screams and forgotten prayers lingered with every step.
Morgan’s scroll unraveled in Beatrice’s grip, glowing lines guiding them deeper into the sanctum. Demons emerged as they crossed thresholds—some shrieking, others twisted with ritual branding. But the heroes met them without falter.
Sol’s light flared in brilliant bursts, burning back shadow like a second sun.
Lucien’s psychic force sliced through minds before bodies even hit the ground.
Diamant’s shield constructs blinked into place with blinding precision, forming domes, ramps, or walls to block infernal fire and claws from reaching Beatrice. He moved like a guardian machine, his voice calm through every command.
Valorion, by contrast, was thunder unleashed.
Each punch cracked the air, lightning dancing along his fists as he hurled enemies from bridges and platforms with godlike strength. His roars echoed like tempests—part battle cry, part catharsis.
Together, they were an unstoppable storm. And the storm moved toward its eye.
The Heart of the Sanctum
A final gate split open, revealing the Sanctum’s core: a floating platform encircled by unbroken chains, hanging suspended in a yawning abyss. At its center, a pedestal glowed with shifting glyphs, ready for the hourglass.
Lucien stepped forward.
The weight in his hand grew heavier.
“This is it,” he said.
The scroll burned away in Beatrice’s hand, its purpose fulfilled.
She turned to them. “Once placed, the ritual begins. Morgan will come. And with him, the final seal.”
Lucien gave a soft nod. “Then let’s end it.”
Sol watched him closely. The hesitation in Lucien’s movements. The silence in his eyes. Something wasn’t right—but now wasn’t the moment to press.
Lucien walked to the pedestal and raised the hourglass.
Magic surged.
Chains trembled.
And the world began to shake.
The Moment before the Hourglass Falls
They stood in the center of the Sanctum of Binding—its walls carved from obsidian stone and runes glowing like stars across the dark. The air was thick with old magic, restless and waiting.
At the heart of it all stood the pedestal: the cradle for the hourglass of Morgan, forged with temporal gold and engraved with markings no one but the Chronomancer himself could understand.
Lucien approached with purpose. The hourglass hovered in his hand, suspended by a soft psychic glow, ready to be placed.
But just before his fingers could release it—
“Lucien. Stop.”
The command wasn’t sharp, but firm. Sol’s voice echoed through the sanctum like a warm light cutting through fog.
Lucien froze.
The hum of magic still thrummed in the floor, expectant. But Lucien, for now, obeyed Sol Invictus.
Lucien turned slowly, his gaze guarded. “Sol… we’re running out of time. Once it’s placed, Morgan will come. We need him to seal the gate.”
Sol stepped forward, hand outstretched—not to take the hourglass, but to anchor Lucien in place. “That’s exactly why I need you to look at me now. Not as the psychic. Not as the plan. But as my partner.”
Lucien’s lips parted slightly. He looked as though he wanted to lie, but couldn’t find the strength to pull it off.
“You’ve been distant ever since we left the capital,” Sol continued, stepping closer. “Not cold—but quiet. That kind of quiet that comes from trying to carry something alone.”
Lucien remained still, the hourglass trembling slightly in his grip.
“Tell me,” Sol said gently. “Tell me the truth before we summon Morgan. Please.”
Lucien shut his eyes. For a moment, he didn’t breathe.
“…The hourglass requires a life,” he said, voice low. “A soul to close the gate. That’s the true cost of sealing it.”
Sol’s breath hitched. But he already knew. He’d suspected since they left Morgan’s side.
“And you were going to do it,” Sol said softly, the words aching in his throat. “You were going to give your life and not tell anyone.”
Lucien opened his eyes, guilt swimming in the blue depths. “I saw it, Sol. Morgan did too. Every future, every branch… in all of them, you offer your life. Always you. Over and over again. The only one that changes is the one where I do it instead.”
He took a shaky breath. “So I made the decision. I couldn’t—won’t—let that be you.”
Sol stepped forward until they stood nearly chest to chest. “You don’t get to take that choice from me.”
“This isn’t about choice,” Lucien whispered, “It’s about love.”
Sol’s eyes welled up. “Exactly. And I’m done watching the people I love die for the world just because they think their life weighs less than their sins.”
Lucien’s voice faltered. “But my life does—”
“No,” Sol cut in. “You don’t get to say that. Not after everything. Not after choosing love, again and again.”
Lucien turned his face, unable to meet his gaze. But Sol caught his chin, holding it steady.
“I love you,” Sol said, fiercely. “And we’re going to get through this together. If there’s a cost, we’ll face it. Together.”
Lucien swallowed hard. The hourglass in his hand shimmered faintly, as though reacting to their words.
“But if I lose you—”
“You won’t,” Sol whispered, forehead pressed to his. “Not this time. I’m not letting you be the one who disappears.”
They stayed like that for a heartbeat, wrapped in truth and defiance against fate.
Behind them, the runes on the pedestal began to pulse brighter. The hourglass shimmered, sensing its place near the seal.
Lucien slowly nodded. And with trembling fingers, he handed the hourglass to Sol.
Sol smiled faintly—sadly—but full of warmth. He stepped forward and placed the hourglass onto the pedestal.
Immediately, light burst from the runes. The sanctum roared to life.
And in a ripple of golden time-magic, Morgan began to appear.
The final moment had come.
And Sol and Lucien stood together—united.
No more silence.
No more secrets.
Just truth, love, and the fight to rewrite fate.
The Final Hourglass
The sanctum trembled as ancient magic surged through its bones, runes lighting along the walls in radiant arcs of gold and violet. Dust drifted upward in shimmering spirals. The pedestal pulsed like a heartbeat.
And from the air itself—Morgan appeared.
He emerged from between the folds of space, robes gleaming, hourglass staff shimmering in hand, hair tousled as if he’d only just roused from sleep. His eyes, ageless and sharp, took in the scene before him with a slow, maddening calm.
Sol and Lucien stood before the pedestal, both their hands gripping the enchanted hourglass—Sol’s warm golden light flaring faintly, Lucien’s aura flickering like shadows beneath a flame.
Morgan’s lips curled in a smirk.
“You two. Together. Of course.”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “You already knew we would be.”
Morgan gave a grand shrug. “I saw the possibilities. Some versions of you fought over it. Some betrayed each other. But this… this version had promise.” He stepped forward, gaze lingering on the hourglass. “And here we are.”
The world trembled again.
Outside, the clash of battle resounded—thunder, steel, and fire. Beatrice’s divine light flared as she struck through a wave of demons. Diamant’s shield constructs rippled outward, protecting their flanks. Valorion was a storm of fury and lightning, fists crackling as demons fell by the dozens.
But they were holding the line—for now.
Morgan turned his attention back to the center. “You understand the cost, don’t you? The hourglass doesn’t close the gate without its toll. One life. Given freely.”
Lucien looked to Sol.
Sol gave a solemn nod. “We know.”
“And you still chose to do it together?” Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Touching. Moronic. But touching.”
Neither moved.
Morgan sighed. “Very well, then. A dual offering. Strange, but not impossible. I’ll begin the rite.”
He raised his staff.
Light burst from the pedestal, and the hourglass began to float. Runes blazed around it in orbiting rings, ancient and divine. The ground cracked beneath their feet, magic boiling into the air like a coming storm.
Lucien’s eyes flicked to Sol.
Sol, despite the radiant power dancing around him, looked calm. Ready. He tightened his grip on Lucien’s hand.
“If we’re doing this,” Sol murmured, “we do it together. That was always the point.”
Lucien’s breath caught. His heart surged with everything—love, grief, guilt, clarity.
And resolve.
He whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Then, in a single breath of psychic force, Lucien struck.
A shockwave of telekinetic power blasted outward with devastating precision. Sol was thrown backward, air torn from his lungs as he slammed into the sanctum wall, golden aura sputtering in stunned protest.
Lucien stepped forward, alone now, toward the pedestal.
“Luci—”
Sol’s voice was hoarse, desperate—but too far, too late.
Lucien turned his head to him, his eyes already glassy with the surge of divine magic overtaking the hourglass. He smiled.
“You were always the light. You can’t go out.”
Morgan’s voice was quiet as he lifted the final phrase of the incantation. He didn’t smile, didn’t smirk. Only watched.
And then—
The hourglass turned.
Light erupted. Blinding, sacred, final.
Lucien didn’t scream.
He only looked at Sol as the light started to swallow him whole.
We Burn Together
Sol hit the sanctum wall with a violent crack, his body shuddering from the impact. Dust and fractured stone exploded around him—but he gritted his teeth, grounding himself before he could collapse.
He knew this would happen. Knew Lucien would try something desperate, something final. That’s how Lucien loved: with fire, with teeth, with the need to burn himself to save the one he loved.
But Sol wasn’t the naïve hero he once was.
He had seen it in Lucien’s silence, in the quiet tension of every step they took toward the hourglass. It was written in his stillness, his soft glances, the way his hands lingered a second too long on Sol’s own. A man preparing to say goodbye.
Sol had braced. And now—he moved.
He leapt from the shattered wall, launching himself with all the speed his body could muster. His heart roared in his chest. The pedestal was already glowing, light surging upward in ribbons of white and violet. Lucien stood alone at the center, hand upon the hourglass, body illuminated in the rising arcane brilliance.
“Lucien!” Sol’s voice tore through the sanctum.
Lucien turned—just in time to see Sol’s hand slam down beside his own on the hourglass, the pedestal flaring between them with blinding light.
Lucien’s eyes widened in horror. “No—what are you doing?!”
“Making sure we finish this together,” Sol said, golden eyes glowing, fierce and steady.
“The ritual only needs one, Sol,” Lucien choked, fingers tightening. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” Sol cut in, voice unwavering. “Because I won’t let it take you without me. You think I’d survive knowing you gave your life alone? That I’d just go on, knowing you died trying to spare me?”
Lucien’s breath trembled, and for a heartbeat, all the power in him faltered.
Sol leaned in, resting his forehead against Lucien’s. “If this is the cost to save the world, then let it be ours. Not yours. Not mine. Ours.”
Lucien’s voice broke. “I just wanted to protect you.”
Sol smiled—tender, aching. “And I’m here to protect you from yourself.”
Then the light took them.
A radiant explosion of gold and amethyst surged upward from the pedestal, curling skyward like twin flames rising into eternity. The light enveloped them—two souls fused in love, sacrifice, and unrelenting devotion.
Beatrice, Diamant, and Valorion fought on outside the sanctum, holding the breach as demons screeched in fury. But they felt the pulse—the shift in the world—as something ancient locked into place.
The demon gate—sealed.
The black void of its mouth cracked, then sealed with a thunderous finality that echoed across the continent. Symbols etched into stone by divine and psychic magic locked the gate in place. A prison eternal. Unbreakable.
The sanctum fell quiet.
And at the base of the pedestal, where the light had once danced—
Lay two lifeless bodies.
Sol Invictus, still glowing faintly gold. Lucien, his hand curled beside Sol’s.
No screams. No agony. Just peace.
Their sacrifice burned into the foundation of the seal itself. The unshakable bond between two flawed, wounded souls who loved each other so fiercely that they gave their lives to save the world—and one another.
Their names would be remembered. Their story, whispered like scripture.
And above the sanctum, the first sunrise broke the clouds.
Ashes of Light
The light had faded.
What remained was silence—deep and unnatural, like the world itself had forgotten how to breathe.
The scorched ground of the inner sanctum was still warm, etched with the remnants of holy magic, glowing faintly where Sol and Lucien had stood. Now, there was only absence. No figures. No voices. Just a quiet, aching stillness, too loud to bear.
Beatrice stood at the edge of the pedestal where the magic hourglass had turned—where love had turned to light, and light into sacrifice. Her hands trembled at her sides, her white robes ash-streaked and clinging to her knees.
“They’re really gone,” she whispered. Not to anyone. Just to the space.
Diamant didn’t speak. He leaned on his shield, teeth clenched, shoulders tight. His calm had fractured.
Valorion stood still as stone, his fists sparking once, then dying. The thunder inside him no longer had a place to strike. It was grief he couldn’t name, only feel—too raw to express, too vast to hide.
Beatrice wanted to scream. But what use would it be?
She looked up, as if the sky might offer her a reason. It didn’t.
“Why them?” she said again, this time louder. “Why is it always them?”
Sol had spent his whole life giving. Offering pieces of himself to everyone—his power, his heart, his future. And Lucien… Lucien clawed his way out of darkness, broke himself apart to change, to love, to protect. He finally found peace in Sol. And Sol, in him.
Why couldn’t they have been spared? Why couldn’t they stay?
Beatrice sank to her knees, fists buried in the dirt. The tears were quiet, but they came in waves.
Her voice broke on the question that weighed most heavily on her soul.
“Was it not enough, God? Had they not given you enough?”
She had always believed in divine will. In purpose. That suffering had meaning, that trials revealed the beauty of a greater plan. But now, she saw a different kind of truth—one that didn’t come with answers. Only choices.
And Sol and Lucien had chosen. Together.
She stared into the earth. The shape of their sacrifice burned into it, not in symbols or scripture, but in the echo of love freely given. No command. No prophecy. Just choice.
That, Beatrice realized, was their shape of happiness. It was never about being spared.
It was about doing what they believed in. Together. On their own terms.
Her breath steadied. She bowed her head.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For doubting. I just… I wanted more time.”
Valorion moved beside her, crouching quietly. His fingers curled over her shoulder in a wordless gesture of solidarity. Diamant knelt opposite, setting his shield down between them.
They didn’t need to speak. In their silence was understanding.
They had all lost something. But they had also witnessed something beautiful: a love strong enough to burn through fate itself.
Later, they placed a torch on the pedestal where the hourglass once stood. Not a holy fire. Not an artifact. Just a flame, steady and warm.
A reminder.
Not of death—but of what was given.
Of two men who met each other, chose each other, and gave everything to leave the world a little brighter.
Beatrice watched it flicker and murmured her prayer:
“To the light you gave. And the love that remains.”
The Eternal Flame
The Grand Hall of the Hero Association had never been this quiet.
High above the dais, two banners hung side by side—Sol’s radiant sun emblem, golden threads still catching light as if they carried a breath of his power, and Lucien’s once-feared black sigil, now softened into silver, reworked to symbolize redemption, resistance, and love reclaimed. Beneath them stood a new monument of marble and crystal—an eternal flame encased in a sphere of psychic glass. It pulsed softly with light and memory.
The entire hall had been redesigned for this day.
Thousands of heroes—veterans, trainees, retired legends, and young hopefuls—stood in reverent silence. White flowers were worn over uniforms. Speeches had already been delivered by world leaders and the heads of the Association. But now, it was time for those closest to them.
Beatrice stood at the center of the altar, the marble beneath her glowing faintly with sacred sigils.
Her voice rang through the quiet, unwavering.
“I once thought my path as Saintess was to shield others from darkness. I didn’t realize that two of my closest friends would teach me that sometimes, the greatest light shines when you walk through the dark together.”
She turned slightly toward the twin banners.
“Sol taught me that strength isn’t just the power to lift mountains—but the courage to forgive, to believe, to love, even when it hurts. And Lucien… he taught me that redemption isn’t a straight path. It’s jagged, steep, and full of the shadows we’d rather forget. But he walked it. For us. For himself. For Sol.”
Beatrice paused. Her throat tightened.
“They deserved a future. But they gave it to us instead.”
She stepped down and placed her hand over the crystal sphere. The flame inside flared for a heartbeat in response. From somewhere near the back, a choked sob echoed. The entire room breathed in silence.
Valorion approached next. No superhero armor today, only ceremonial robes in deep blue, clasped at the shoulder with Sol’s insignia.
“Sol was my rival once,” he began quietly, lips twitching with bittersweet memory. “I thought I could match him, even surpass him. But I was wrong. Not because I lacked power—but because I never realized his strength was never just about power. It was the way he carried people, how he never wavered when others fell.”
He looked to the crowd.
“Lucien was once my enemy. But he proved himself more than most ever do. He fought his own nature and came out… not perfect, but true.”
Valorion’s voice broke slightly.
“I was proud to stand beside them in the end.”
Next was Diamant. His steps were precise, the same discipline he carried into battle. But there was a softness in his eyes now—one only those who’d known him in these final months would recognize.
“I never had many friends. But Sol and Lucien… they didn’t care how long it took for me to speak. They waited. They listened.” His jaw clenched. “They teased. Gods, they teased.”
A small ripple of restrained laughter moved through the crowd.
“They taught me that bonds forged in fire are the ones that don’t burn away. They taught me how to hope.”
He stepped away, placing a single violet flame lily—Sol’s favorite—at the base of the monument.
Around the room, silence returned as all rose for a moment of unified respect. Heads bowed. Banners dipped. And then—
A final recording began to play. Footage gathered from missions, from moments in between. Sol laughing as he taught younger heroes to fly. Lucien standing at his side, arms crossed but smiling with rare softness. A flash of them mid-battle, back to back. Sol’s sunlight flaring in sync with Lucien’s violet psychic pulse. A moment where their hands clasped in the aftermath of victory.
Then: silence. And a single inscription glowed across the crystal monument’s base.
“In love, they found power. In power, they chose love.”
Outside, the sun broke through the clouds. A quiet wind swept through the capital.
And inside the Grand Hall of the Hero Association, two legends were laid to rest—together, eternal.
The Day the Sky Stood Still
The world grieved.
Across the continents, heroes held vigils. The Hero Association declared a month of mourning. Cities dimmed their lights in synchronized tribute. Children lit lanterns, floating them skyward in honor of two souls who had fought through darkness—and found light in each other.
But no grief was sharper, more unrelenting, than the quiet devastation of Sol’s family.
His parents had watched the broadcast in stunned silence. It wasn’t just the world that had lost a hero. It was their son. Their only boy. The child who once ran barefoot through meadows, glowing even back then, too bright for the fields he grew up in.
And they hadn’t parted on good terms.
When Sol and Lucien visited a month prior to their journey south, the meeting had been strained. His parents had tried better than their lost visit—awkward words, apologies still forming on their lips—but their pride, their confusion, the years of silence had gotten in the way. They hadn’t known how to make peace entirely with the new shape their son’s life had taken. With the man Sol had chosen to love, and the pain they’d caused by hesitating to understand.
They still needed time to process. Time to gather the words. Time to say, let’s move forward, son.
But time, cruel and untamable, had run out.
When the Hero Association envoy brought them Sol’s tattered cape and the news of his death, Sol’s mother crumpled to the ground, weeping so violently her voice broke into silence. His father, stoic as stone, only stood and stared at the altar they had kept for years, hand trembling as he placed the cape upon it.
“We should’ve said more,” his mother whispered. “We should’ve said we were proud. That we saw the light in him. That we loved him exactly as he was.”
Her voice cracked.
“I didn’t even tell him I forgave him. That I forgave myself for not understanding sooner.”
His father bowed his head.
“I thought I’d have time.”
They lit candles beneath the cape. Laid out an offering of his favorite meals. Touched the worn edges of the fabric he once flew in. But nothing could bridge the ache of a final goodbye left unsaid. Nothing could ease the cruel reversal of nature—a parent outliving their child.
Elsewhere, villages near Lucien’s old hometown held its own quiet vigil. The lake where he once trained shimmered with lanterns. A gathering of psychics stood hand-in-hand in silence, honoring the boy who once sought power to be loved. Who had, against all odds, become someone worthy of it.
In the capital, Beatrice stood before the golden seal.
“They chose love,” she told the world. “Not as a distraction. Not as weakness. But as the reason to keep fighting. The reason to give everything.”
Behind her, the unbreakable seal glowed with their final act of devotion.
“They didn’t die for duty. They died for hope. For the belief that even in the darkest of places, something good—something bright—can take root.”
In the years to come, children would learn of Sol and Lucien not as perfect men, but as people who fought for a better world. Lovers who broke and healed. Who gave the world everything when it mattered most.
The anniversary of their sacrifice became a day of love and remembrance. Couples offered prayers beside the seal. Parents told stories of a hero who glowed like the sun, and the man who once walked in shadow but learned how to love.
And in the quiet places of the world, two grieving parents lit candles every year. Not just in mourning, but in apology. In gratitude. In memory of the boy they had once held in their arms—and the man he had become.
Finale: A Thread Beyond Time
Morgan watched the world grieve.
The demon gate was sealed—forever this time, no threads left loose, no future collapses waiting to unfold. Humanity had been spared from annihilation. The price had been paid, and like all worthwhile things, it had been steep.
Two lives. Two lights.
Gone.
Candles burned across every continent. Children carried flowers to shrines. Priests and rebels alike whispered the names of Sol Invictus and Lucien in the same breath: savior and sinner, martyr and miracle. One had flown toward the light with grace. The other had clawed his way through darkness toward redemption.
And both, in the end, had chosen to love more than they feared death.
Morgan, from his place outside time, ate ice cream.
Strawberry cheesecake, of course.
As the world mourned, he sat cross-legged on a floating stone in the in-between, licking his spoon with that maddening patience only the eternally damned could cultivate. He wasn’t mourning. Not quite. Nor did he celebrate. Feelings like that had long since dulled beneath the grindstone of centuries. What Morgan had left was something more erratic. More ancient.
Whimsy.
That’s all this was.
Because what Lucien had done—blasting Sol away with a surge of psychic force, trying to shoulder the ritual’s cost alone—was so stupid, so predictable, Morgan had seen it play out in dozens of timelines the moment Lucien decided to change fate, even at the cost of lying to Sol in their last moments. But every time, Sol found his way back. Every damn time.
And in the end, it wasn’t fate or prophecy that saved the world.
It was love.
“You stubborn idiot,” Morgan murmured aloud, voice oddly fond. “I warned you about sentimentality. You did it anyway.”
He sighed through his nose, set down his spoon, and stood.
It wasn’t kindness that stirred him. It certainly wasn’t pity. Morgan did not believe in mercy. But he believed in possibilities. In the chaos between divine law and mortal madness. And in that fragile seam between death and time… he could make something new.
A gesture. A footnote. A crooked smile in the face of inevitability.
He stepped back through time.
Through burning sanctum and broken stone. Through the instant before their souls slipped past the veil. And there—caught between the last breath of life and the first whisper of the afterlife—he reached.
Lucien’s soul formed first. A dark gleam like obsidian glass, sharp at the edges and shimmering with regrets unspoken. Sol’s followed, warm gold and pulsing like a heartbeat made of light. They hovered, stunned, as they watched their own bodies lying peacefully below, still holding hands even in death.
Lucien scowled. “So. We’re dead.”
Sol only looked down and smiled. “We did it.”
Morgan approached, his usual sardonic mask strangely still. “Yes. You did. The seal will never break again. The world will remember you both.”
Lucien narrowed his eyes. “And what are you doing here?”
Morgan rolled his eyes. “Offering you something. Don’t get smug about it. It’s not resurrection.”
Sol turned, concern flickering in his soul. “Then what is it?”
Morgan lifted a hand. Threads of alternate realities rippled through space, each a glowing cord of what could’ve been. He gestured toward one.
“A parallel world,” he said. “One where I never interfered in Lucien’s life. No teaching. No power trip. Just a quiet boy with dull psychic gifts and a hero he admired from afar.”
Lucien frowned. “That sounds… pathetic.”
Morgan shrugged. “That’s kind of the point.”
Sol tilted his head. “So what—are you giving us a second chance?”
“Of sorts,” Morgan said. “You can’t go back. Divine will is divine will. I may be powerful enough to walk across time, but not enough to rewrite the decree of the One Above. Your deaths were necessary—a price written into the fabric of the world before you were ever born.”
Lucien’s voice went quiet. “Even you can’t change it.”
“No,” Morgan said. “But I can… bend the ending.”
He held up his hands. “I can place your souls into your counterparts in that world. No memories—you’d overwhelm the host. But the essence of your love, the weight of it, will remain. The moment you see each other, your souls will know, even if your minds don’t.”
Lucien hesitated. “And if we never meet?”
“Then the story ends here. Neatly. Tragically. Forever.”
Sol reached out to Lucien, gold reaching for shadow. “I want to try.”
Lucien stared at him. “Even if we’re strangers?”
Sol smiled. “You’ll still be you. I’ll find you again. I believe in us.”
Morgan scoffed, shaking his head. “Disgusting.”
Lucien looked down, then up. “Alright. Fine. Let’s do it. I’d rather lose the memory than the chance.”
And so, Morgan moved.
With a wave, he plucked the golden thread of Sol’s essence and the obsidian pulse of Lucien’s. He spun them through the weave of a quieter world, and watched as the soul of light and the soul of shadow began to descend.
Not reborn.
But returned.
Another life. Another path. Another chance.
Morgan stood alone in the aftermath, watching two stars disappear into the arms of a world that had not yet learned to miss them.
He muttered to himself, licking the last drop of ice cream from his spoon.
“You’d better make this ending worth the trouble.”
And somewhere, deep within time’s fold, two hearts began to beat again.
Epilogue: When Obsidian Meets Gold
In another world—parallel, peaceful, untouched by demon gates or cursed seals—the wheel of fate turned once more.
Eli was twenty-four when he rose into the skies, hailed as the golden savior of Earth. Once again, the world called him Sol Invictus—the Unconquered Sun. The name suited him. Radiant, noble, unwavering. With every heroic deed, he stirred hearts and inspired hope. Humanity adored him, and he bore their love with quiet humility.
Far below him, in a far smaller life, Lucien watched from behind cold windows and colder silences.
Seventeen. Withdrawn. Love-starved. Lucien hid his psychic talents—telepathy, telekinesis—from his family, from the world. He learned early that power made people afraid. Especially when that power came from someone like him. His parents didn’t beat him, but the fear in their eyes when he slipped up, when he let a thought stray or a spoon lift from the table, stung far more.
Then came Sol Invictus. The first time Lucien saw him in a televised rescue, something bloomed in his chest. A man like Sol—beloved, bright, fearless—he was everything Lucien was not. Admiration turned to envy. Envy to curiosity. And slowly, painfully, curiosity became something deeper. Something that throbbed when he lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering what it might feel like to be seen. To be wanted.
Lucien knew it was foolish. The world’s brightest hero would never look twice at someone like him. Sol was surrounded by the stunning, the powerful, the righteous. But Lucien refused to extinguish the small flame of hope inside him. He began to train again—quietly, secretly—sharpening the edge of his gift.
He wasn’t special, but he could be strong.
At eighteen, he left home and traveled to Sol Invictus’ city.
He told himself he just wanted to see the hero in person. Just once.
He wandered without direction until the path led him to a quiet city park, where sunlight filtered through green leaves and laughter echoed faintly in the breeze.
And then—
A flash of gold tore across the sky.
Sol Invictus descended like fire from heaven, his form streaking past towers, scanning for danger, radiant with purpose. His gaze swept the city below.
And locked onto him.
Lucien froze.
The moment their eyes met, something ancient stirred.
Within both their chests, something deeper than memory twisted and pulled taut.
Lucien’s breath caught. His body thrummed with energy. His psychic powers surged—uncontrolled, impossibly strong—and without meaning to, he reached.
Sol Invictus—mid-flight—jerked in the air.
And fell.
Wings of sunlight trembled. Gravity seized him. In a blur, he crashed onto the grass at Lucien’s feet, his knees hitting the ground with a thud that echoed through both of their bones.
Lucien gasped. “I—I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to—I’ve never—!”
Sol lifted his head, stunned. He wasn’t angry. No—the heat that bloomed in his chest wasn’t rage at all. It was warm. Sweet. And dangerous.
His mouth had nearly parted in a moan when the psychic touch first hit. His pulse still raced with something he didn’t yet have words for. Something that felt like recognition. Like relief.
He stood slowly, staring at the silver-haired boy with too-wide eyes and flushed cheeks.
“You’re strong,” he said finally, smiling crookedly. “I’ve never knelt for anyone before. That’s a first.”
Lucien’s blush deepened. “It was an accident. I’m really sorry, I just—I’ve admired you for a long time, and I never thought I’d—”
Sol chuckled, offering a hand. “Don’t apologize. You ever thought about becoming a hero? You’ve got the power for it. I’m Sol, by the way. Sol Invictus. What’s your name?”
“Lucien,” he replied, quietly, stunned that this was really happening. “Just Lucien.”
Sol held his gaze. “Well, Lucien… it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Something deep within them hummed. A resonance. A buried chord striking true. Neither remembered what had come before—not in words or thought. But their souls remembered. Their hearts leaned toward each other like magnets too long held apart.
And somewhere, far beyond their sight, in the quiet of the stars, an ancient man chuckled into his melting ice cream.
Morgan reclined in a chair that didn’t belong to this world, watching the scene unfold with amusement.
“Same damn story, different world,” he muttered, licking strawberry cheesecake from his spoon. “Still stupid. Still perfect.”
He let the spoon fall into the bowl and watched the two figures in the park continue to talk. He’d given them no memories. No unfair advantages. Just the chance to begin again.
It wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t mercy.
Just a whim.
A thank-you.
And maybe—if such a thing still mattered to an old, cursed god of time—a little hope, too.
Lucien couldn’t forget the way Sol Invictus had fallen.
It played in his mind on a loop—how the hero’s golden body had dropped from the sky like a meteor, dragged down by Lucien’s accidental psychic surge. How his knees hit the ground in front of him, how his breath had caught like he’d felt something. And how, for one electric moment, Lucien had felt powerful—not just as a metahuman, but as someone who could command.
Even now, days later, he could still see it. The hero, kneeling. And Lucien’s name on his lips, stunned, breathless.
Lucien sat on the edge of his bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, sweat on his brow. His tea had gone cold. He hadn’t slept well—flashes of that moment haunted his dreams. Not because he regretted it. No. Because he wanted it again.
For once, his power hadn’t made someone flinch or call him a monster.
It had made a god kneel.
High above the city, Eli—Sol—paced the rooftop of his tower.
Something inside him wouldn’t settle. His body, honed for battle and trained to resist every form of psychic or magical attack, had crumbled beneath that boy’s untrained power.
That boy.
Lucien.
Eli inhaled deeply, but the air felt too thin. His memory was saturated with the moment he hit his knees, the feel of the psychic grip around his body, the sudden loss of control.
He should’ve fought it. He tried to fight it.
But it felt… good.
His cheeks burned as he sat heavily against the balcony railing, dragging a hand over his face. There was no denying it: something inside him liked it. The powerlessness. The eyes watching him fall. The soft, disbelieving apology that followed.
Eli groaned, dragging his fingers through his hair. “What the hell is wrong with me…”
The whisper of submission hummed in his blood now, faint but inescapable. That brief surrender had cracked something inside him—not with shame, but with an aching need to feel it again. Not in battle, not in war—but in connection.
And that boy—Lucien—had stirred it awake.
It didn’t take much searching to find him.
Lucien was easy to locate once Eli truly tried. He found him on a quiet side street, exiting a bookstore with a paper bag of novels and a wary look in his eyes. That soft silver hair shimmered in the afternoon light, and the moment their eyes met across the pavement, it all came rushing back.
Lucien froze.
And Sol descended.
The hero landed just in front of him, a little too fast, a little too eager.
“Hey,” Eli said, his voice softer than Lucien expected. His cape fluttered and settled, golden armor gleaming in the light. “Lucien, right?”
Lucien swallowed. “Y-Yes.” His heart was racing. Up close, Sol looked even more impossible. Radiant. Tall. Strong. Kind.
The boy who used to watch this man soar across screens now stood face to face with him.
And he remembered how it felt to pull him down.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Sol said, shifting nervously. “After what happened at the park… I just—I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Lucien tilted his head. “You’re asking me if I’m okay? I practically slammed you into the ground.”
“Yeah,” Sol said, rubbing the back of his neck. “That was… new.” His voice dropped slightly, curious. “You’re powerful. Scary powerful.”
Lucien’s lips curled faintly. “You liked it?”
Sol stiffened.
Lucien hadn’t meant to say it. Not exactly. But watching the way Eli’s breath caught, the way color bloomed across his cheeks—
It made something purr inside Lucien’s chest.
“I didn’t mean—” Lucien started.
“I don’t know,” Eli interrupted. “It was intense. You pulled me down like I weighed nothing. And I—I didn’t want to get up right away.”
Lucien blinked.
Sol looked down. “Weird, right?”
Lucien shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “Not weird.”
Something passed between them then—wordless and heated. Recognition not of the mind, but of something deeper. A shared pull. Lucien didn’t understand it. But he wanted it.
Sol lifted his head again. “Wanna talk more? I know this great ice cream place. Strawberry cheesecake’s the best.”
Lucien laughed under his breath. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I have good taste,” Sol grinned.
Lucien smiled back, his pulse racing. “Okay. I’ll go.”
As they began to walk side by side, a quiet awareness settled between them. Lucien’s power simmered beneath his skin, still remembering the taste of domination. Sol walked a half step behind, unaware that his fingers twitched every time Lucien’s shoulder brushed his.
They didn’t know what this was.
But they felt it. The shape of something old, returning as something new.
A boy who once made a god kneel.
And a god who secretly wanted to.
Epilogue 2: What Lies Beyond Divine Will
Morgan sat at the edge of all timelines, legs crossed atop a crumbling clocktower that no longer belonged to any single reality. Around him, moments fluttered like pages in the wind—some whispering joy, others burdened by sorrow. His gaze, however, was fixed on just one moment: a silver-haired youth nervously staring up at a golden figure descending from the sky.
He watched them—Lucien and Sol, reborn as strangers in a world without prophecy, pain, or the history of blood and fire that once bound them together.
He tilted his head as Sol smiled without recognition, and Lucien stammered an apology for a power he didn’t understand. Their souls shimmered faintly—gold and obsidian still—and in that tremor of a heartbeat, they leaned ever so slightly toward one another, drawn by a resonance older than this world.
Morgan let out a soft sigh.
“Still fools,” he muttered, affection in his voice. “And still made for each other.”
Time had eroded most of his empathy long ago. Gods, mortals, civilizations—they bloomed and crumbled, while he drifted like dust between the stars. But Lucien… Lucien had amused him. Had moved him. Had made him feel.
And so, Morgan had done what he should not have done.
He had not defied divine will. No one—not even the timeless—could undo what God Himself had written.
The sacrifice was always destined. The seal needed blood, and love strong enough to be bled.
But he had found a crack in the script. A forgotten margin. And in that space, Morgan, cursed and eternal, had scribbled a new sentence—a second beginning.
“They still paid your price,” he murmured to the skies. “But I gave them back the one thing you never offer freely.”
A pause. A smile curved his lips.
“Another chance.”
And then, Morgan vanished, letting time roll forward.
Miles and worlds away, Beatrice woke with a cry caught in her throat.
She sat bolt upright in bed, drenched in moonlight and cold sweat, her hands trembling against her chest.
She’d seen them—Sol and Lucien—not as the warriors she had buried, not as the sacrifices honored in monuments, but as something else entirely.
Alive.
Elsewhere.
Unburdened.
She saw Sol smiling without knowing why his heart ached. She saw Lucien blushing under a hero’s attention, unaware that his soul had once scorched the sky with power and love.
And more than anything—she saw peace. Not as a divine promise. But as a gift.
She covered her mouth, tears silently falling down her cheeks.
It hurt—God, it hurt—to know they were gone from her life forever. That they wouldn’t remember her. That she would never see them laugh again, never call Lucien a menace, never roll her eyes at Sol’s relentless optimism.
But for the first time in what felt like eternity, her grief didn’t crush her.
Because the tapestry wasn’t cruel. Not entirely.
The Divine hadn’t undone their sacrifice.
But somehow, by the mercy woven into fate’s quiet threads… He had allowed love to find them again.
And in that, Beatrice found something stronger than comfort.
She found faith.
She pressed her forehead to her knees, whispering through her tears:
“Thank You.”
For letting them go.
And letting them begin again.
Epilogue 3: Threads Reborn
The sun had set gently over the city, casting long golden shadows through the stained glass halls of the Hero Association’s Grand Spire. The demon gate was no more, sealed beyond time and magic. The world slept more soundly now, unaware of the full weight of what had been sacrificed.
But the three left behind remembered.
In a quiet meeting room, once used for strategy and wartime briefings, Beatrice sat in silence. Her knuckles were white against the armrests of her chair, the last shivers of divine vision still echoing behind her eyes.
She had seen them—Sol and Lucien—alive, in another world. Souls reborn and set adrift, fated to meet again not in war or sacrifice, but in peace. And love.
She stood and looked to the two men who had stood by her all this time.
“Valorion. Diamant.” Her voice was steady, but low, as if reverence restrained it. “I had another vision. Just before dawn.”
They both turned, alert.
Beatrice hesitated. Then: “They’re alive. Not here. But… somewhere else. I saw a world untouched by fate’s cruel design. A world where Sol and Lucien met without pain. Without prophecy. Just… as people.”
Valorion’s eyes widened faintly, disbelief flickering into hope. “You’re certain?”
“I felt it in my bones,” she whispered. “Their souls—unchained. Still drawn together. Their love… it found another way.”
Diamant turned away for a moment, struggling to gather himself. “Of course it did. Stubborn bastards.”
Beatrice managed a small, broken smile.
“They didn’t die for nothing,” she said. “They gave us more than peace. They gave us the chance to move forward. And even in another life, they chose each other again.”
Valorion stepped forward, setting a hand on the glass window that overlooked the training courtyard, where new recruits now trained in the absence of legends.
“Then we make sure the world they left behind is worth it,” he said. “We honor their memory not just by grieving… but by building something better.”
Diamant joined him, his expression sober. “We keep the gates closed. We protect this world. We raise the next heroes with more than power—we raise them with purpose.”
Beatrice nodded, wiping away the tear that had finally slipped free. “We tell their story. We don’t let people forget that two men gave everything—not because the world asked, but because love demanded it.”
She reached out, and her friends took her hands.
They stood, the last of the Five who faced the end and lived.
And as they left that chamber together, the Hero Association moved with them—reshaped not just by victory, but by the memory of two men whose love had defied fate itself.
In quiet moments, Beatrice still felt it. The faint ripple in the weave of divine tapestry. A thread that hadn’t unraveled, just re-woven itself into a softer story somewhere beyond their reach.
And that was enough.
The sky above Sol’s childhood home was cloudless, stretched wide and blue—a mirror of a time long past, when a boy with sunlight in his name used to chase dreams across its fields.
Beatrice stood on the front step for a while, listening to the breeze. It carried with it the hum of distant birdsong and the rustle of branches, but also something heavier: memory, left behind like an unfinished letter.
She knocked gently. The door opened moments later to reveal Sol’s mother, her silvering hair pulled back, her face pale with exhaustion from sorrow that never truly faded. Behind her, Sol’s father stood tall but hollow-eyed, as though aging had finally caught up with his unspoken grief.
Beatrice gave them a soft smile. “I’m sorry for coming unannounced.”
“You’re welcome here,” Sol’s mother said, her voice thin but kind. “Always.”
They led her inside. The house was simple, quiet—too quiet. A place missing its heart. There were no photographs of Sol in costume, no heroic portraits. Only a single framed image of a young boy with tousled hair, smiling shyly at the camera.
The three of them sat at the table, where the light poured in from the window, dust catching gold in the air.
“I wanted to tell you something,” Beatrice began. “Something I saw.”
Sol’s father looked up sharply. His mother froze.
“I received a divine vision,” Beatrice said softly. “Not long ago. I saw them—Sol and Lucien. Together.”
Sol’s mother reached for her husband’s hand, her breath catching.
“They weren’t here—not in our world. It was somewhere else… another life, another thread in the tapestry of creation. But it was them. Their souls, whole and unburdened. Walking beneath a sky of light. No pain. No duty. No sacrifice.”
She paused, letting the words settle. “They were happy.”
A silence fell over the room. Then Sol’s mother trembled, pressing her hand over her mouth as tears welled in her eyes.
“We didn’t get to say goodbye,” she whispered. “Not properly. The last time he visited, we were still… trying to make peace.”
Sol’s father clenched his jaw, voice rough. “He forgave us. But we weren’t ready to forgive ourselves.”
Beatrice shook her head gently. “He didn’t hold it against you. Neither of them did. That’s the kind of love they gave—to each other, to the world, even to those who hurt them.”
“I saw him,” she continued. “Saw them, bathed in a light not meant for this world. And I realized… the ending we witnessed wasn’t the end at all. The divine will took their sacrifice and turned it into something eternal. But it also gave them something new: a life untouched by fate or pain. A beginning without tragedy.”
Sol’s mother cried quietly now, not with the raw grief of loss—but with the ache of something deeper. “He was born with so much light,” she whispered. “And I— I didn’t always know how to love him for it.”
“You did your best,” Beatrice said, reaching for her hand. “And he knew. That was enough for him.”
The room warmed as the sun shifted. Light touched every corner, as if affirming the truth in Beatrice’s words.
As she stood to leave, Sol’s father met her gaze. “Do you truly believe this vision? That he’s… happy now?”
Beatrice didn’t hesitate. “I do. With all my heart. And if you ever close your eyes and feel a peace come over you, that’s him. That’s them. Reaching out to you in the warmth of another dawn.”
Sol’s mother followed her to the door. Before Beatrice stepped outside, she placed a kiss on the older woman’s forehead and whispered, “They’re walking in the sun, hand in hand. Not as heroes. Just as themselves.”
And then Beatrice left, the wind at her back, the sky above impossibly bright.
Author’s note:
If you’ve reached here, thanks so much for reading till the end! I would very much like to hear your thoughts, or what you would’ve wanted to see. Was there a loose end I failed to close? Did you want something specific to happen? Feel free to tell me things in the comments below.
Now that things have concluded, I’d like to express how fun writing this last arc was. I still maintained a character driven narrative and continued to give voice to all major characters that I introduced. But the important revelation in this chapter is how interconnected everything was. Maybe it was a detail that flew past your attention, but a Saint’s presence was always described to be purposeful, a walking representation of God’s Mercy, but also she walks in the world to eventually herald world-ending catastrophe and is destined to help stop it. Narrative-wise, Beatrice really was the breakout character that brings the cast tightly together. This is all to say that in a world free from world ending disasters, saints wouldn’t exist.
With that said, it really allowed the story to elevate itself when every arc of what happened gets framed in a world saving set of events that God weaved in his Divine Will for humanity to have the chance to save their world, and uses the saint as a mouthpiece. And in this particular story, it was Sol and Lucien chosen to bear that burden. From Lucien’s obsession, to Sol’s Fall, their eventual relationship to steer Lucien into the light, all of it was being framed as destiny has a romantic ring to it, but it’s also to make sure Morgan would be located and assist humanity… Sol really had to bear a lot, but heroism was always shaped from sacrifice.
Overall, I hope you guys enjoyed how this story mutated into this adventure.