(Marvel, DC, images, manhuas, and every anime that will be mentioned and used in this story are not mine. They all belong to their respective owners. The main character "Karito/Adriel Josue Valdez" and the story are mine)
The next day rose over Ixtal quietly.
Life moved on through the city as if the past year had been nothing more than a bad dream. People walked the streets, opened shops, spoke with neighbors, laughed. The distant memory of a ruined Ixtal—of chains, fear, and occupation—had begun to fade from collective thought.
No one would have believed this land had once been completely enslaved.
No one would have believed that Artoria Pendragon—once ruler by conquest, commander of the Knights of the Round Table—had stood at the center of that nightmare. And fewer still would have believed that the same woman had rejected her place among the Darks, turned against them, and joined the Guardians of Fiction.
Weeks had passed. Then months. And now, the war that had consumed Runeterra teetered on the edge of its end.
Adriel woke slowly.
He hadn't slept well. Not really.
His body was rested—godly stamina ensured that—but his mind was anything but. Anxiety clung to him like a second skin, a lingering echo from the meeting the night before. The revelation of the dark dome surrounding Piltover refused to leave his thoughts.
He'd analyzed it with every trick he had. Hacking reality itself, bypassing narrative loss, shaking data loose where it shouldn't have existed. The Darks had cropped the internet's data aggressively—intentionally—but even so, he'd seen enough.
Half the truth.
Not the half he wanted.
He'd slept lightly, hovering between consciousness and rest all night, his heartbeat refusing to slow. His eyes felt heavy now, drooping despite the fact that exhaustion wasn't truly an obstacle for him anymore.
Still... he liked sleep.
He liked the feeling of soft pillows cradling his head. The weight of blankets. The illusion of normalcy.
Adriel stayed cocooned in bed, unmoving—partly because he wanted to, and partly because there was a warm weight pressed against his side.
White hair spilled across his chest.
Qiyana.
She must have slipped in sometime after midnight. He'd noticed it vaguely—felt the mattress dip, the warmth settle beside him—but hadn't had the energy to object. Now she slept soundly, her breathing slow and steady, rising and falling against him. One arm draped possessively across his chest, fingers curled as if anchoring him in place.
Like she was afraid he might disappear.
It didn't feel bad. Not at all.
Who wouldn't enjoy waking up beside a beautiful woman?
He couldn't deny her looks. Or her persistence. Or the fact that her constant flirting—her relentless attempts to worm her way closer, physically and emotionally—were wearing him down.
There was only so much restraint a man could maintain when someone chased him this openly.
Still... he didn't mind it.
If anything, he preferred this to the alternative. One person's attention was manageable. An entire flock was exhausting.
At least Neeko hadn't been on his case lately.
...He paused.
He really hoped he hadn't just jinxed himself by thinking that.
But the thought passed quickly. His mind was already elsewhere—back to yesterday. Back to the meeting. Back to Anansi.
One more day.
Just one more day before everything went to hell again.
And he had no idea what he was supposed to do with it.
If he tried to have fun, he knew he'd just spend the entire time overthinking. The war. Anansi's intentions. The plan to overload the video game omniverse—specifically the entire gaming section of the internet. Crossovers. Cosmologies. Connections stacking on top of connections until everything collapsed under its own weight.
What the hell was Anansi thinking?
Adriel sighed quietly.
He couldn't relax. He couldn't switch off. Even now, barely awake, his mind refused to slow.
Qiyana showed no signs of waking anytime soon. He considered slipping out of bed—but dismissed the idea immediately. Too much effort. Too early. Too tired.
So he stayed.
Staring at the ceiling. Letting time crawl.
Another sigh escaped him. He was doing that a lot lately. Sounding like an old man.
Then again... with his experience, who could blame him?
A small, humorless laugh left him.
Maybe he'd spend the day with the others. A few champions. A mixed group. Maybe Peter, Ace, Artoria.
He didn't know.
It wasn't like he could get drunk—one of his skills purged toxins instantly. Alcohol didn't stand a chance. How boring.
Video games wouldn't help either.
What he really wanted was time. Time with people. Time before the Guardians of Fiction had to go back to work. Before they marched into Piltover. Before they faced the last Dark remaining in Runeterra.
Piltover.
The first place he'd ever stepped into in this verse.
Back when he'd been colder. Detached. Treating everyone as characters instead of people. Back when he'd believed efficiency mattered more than empathy.
He winced internally at the memory.
Vi.
He'd treated her terribly. Dismissed her pain. Reduced her to a narrative checkpoint instead of a person.
Just a job.
God, what an asshole.
The destruction he'd caused during that arc... the way he'd justified it to himself because of what he'd gone through during Infinity War...
He exhaled slowly.
He didn't think like that anymore. At least, he tried not to.
Still... Piltover waited. The dome waited. The reckoning waited.
Adriel shifted carefully, adjusting Qiyana into a more comfortable position without waking her. Her grip tightened slightly in her sleep, then relaxed.
He closed his eyes.
He wouldn't fall into deep sleep. He knew that. But rest—real rest—wasn't the goal right now.
He'd wait.
Wait until she woke up.
Wait until the day moved forward.
Just... wait.
God, he was tired.
Ace POV
Ace woke up uneasy.
The meeting from yesterday still clung to him, heavy in the back of his mind. He didn't need to imagine much to know the others were feeling it too—Artoria, Peter, Adriel. Ever since the discovery Adriel and Peter had made, everyone had been on edge in their own quiet way.
He sat up slowly, feet dangling at the edge of the bed.
"One more day," he muttered to himself.
Just one more day before they went back to the battlefield.
What was he even supposed to do with that?
He didn't have an answer. Thankfully, his stomach did.
It growled loudly, insistent, impatient.
Ace looked down at it and snorted softly. "Yeah, yeah. I hear you."
Food was usually a good way to stop thinking. Or at least dull the stress enough to function. Though he hoped—really hoped—he wouldn't start stress-eating now, of all times. Especially with tomorrow looming over him.
He stood, pulled on casual clothes—nothing armored, nothing heroic. Just comfortable. Something meant for walking castle halls, not surviving wars.
Once dressed, he stepped out of his room.
The halls of the castle were quiet this early. Ace stretched as he walked, rolling his shoulders, feeling joints pop and tension ease just a little. A relieved sigh escaped him as he rounded a corner—
And nearly ran straight into Sarah Fortune.
He startled, stopping short.
Truth be told, he'd been trying to avoid her.
Not because he disliked her. Not even close.
But because she dragged memories up from a place he'd spent years trying to bury.
Fifty years.
Fifty goddamn years fighting Godzilla in another dimension.
And with that war came another Sarah Fortune.
Older. Wiser. Sharpened by time and loss.
A Sarah who had developed real feelings for him.
And Ace had never gotten the chance to explore that—never gotten the chance to decide anything—because he'd sacrificed himself to drag Godzilla into a black hole.
Whenever this Sarah was around, the current one, he kept things brief. Small talk. Polite distance. He always prayed someone else would carry the conversation so he wouldn't have to.
But now, there was no one else.
His hands shifted uncomfortably at his sides as he looked at her—this Sarah. Younger. Still smiling. Still warm.
And his mind betrayed him immediately.
He remembered the other Sarah. The one who'd noticed first that he hadn't aged. The one who'd pointed out that for fifty years, while everyone else grew older, Ace stayed exactly the same.
Guardians didn't die of age.
They didn't die of most things.
Only Darks. Only beings that could bend the story itself—its narrative, its structure, even the architecture of the internet—could kill them.
As long as imagination existed... Guardians would too.
Unless something far worse took them down.
Ace felt a twist of remorse settle in his chest.
That other dimension had moved on without him. Kai'Sa. Sarah. They'd lived their lives believing he was dead.
And in a way, they weren't wrong.
It wasn't death—but it was erasure.
Like Adriel had said before: back then, whenever Adriel saved a story, he left. And once he did, it was as if he'd never existed. Canon healed. Structure restored. The job was done.
At least, that was before Adriel learned the truth.
Before Kara had manipulated him through his Gamer System—before she'd tried to turn him into a machine. A murderer. A terminator who thought only in objectives and casualties.
She almost succeeded after the Infinity War.
But now... Adriel wanted better for them.
He wanted the new Guardians spared from the despair he'd endured.
Ace knew that was why Adriel said they'd had it easier than him—and why he was glad for it.
Even so... despair was hard to avoid in this line of work.
Ace drifted in thought until—
"Good morning."
Sarah's voice snapped him back.
He blinked, refocused, and awkwardly returned the greeting.
An uncomfortable silence followed.
Sarah noticed.
She always did.
Her expression softened with concern. She wondered if she'd done something wrong. She knew Ace had gone through hell saving her and the survivors of Bilgewater. She knew Bilgewater itself was gone—erased from the map.
But ever since then... Ace barely spoke to her.
She'd tried during group outings. Tried small conversations. He always cut them short.
And she couldn't understand why.
Her thoughts spiraled, self-doubt creeping in—until Ace noticed.
He stepped forward quickly, cutting her off before she could sink deeper.
"No—hey. Stop. It's not you," he said firmly.
She froze.
"You didn't do anything wrong. At all. This... this is on me."
He hesitated, jaw tightening.
"It's my memories. My past. Every time I see you, I remember that fifty-year war. I remember the people I lost. I remember her."
Understanding flickered in Sarah's eyes.
Another her.
Another dimension.
She knew Guardians traveled worlds. Fixed stories. Lived lives no one else could comprehend.
It still hurt—but at least now, it made sense.
She started to speak, to argue that it wasn't fair—
Ace cut in gently. "I know. And I'm sorry. I don't want to keep hurting you because I can't let go."
He paused.
Just one day.
One day before everything went quiet again.
He looked at her—and for a moment, he saw the shadow of the Sarah he'd lost. Same posture. Same kindness. Same presence.
He exhaled slowly.
"I don't want to run anymore."
He met her eyes.
"I want to go into tomorrow with a clear head."
Ace straightened, then offered his hand.
"Do you wanna eat breakfast together?"
Sarah stared at his hand, stunned.
This entire time... he'd been avoiding her to escape a war he wanted to forget.
And now he was choosing not to.
She searched his face. "Are you sure? Being around me... doesn't it bring those memories back?"
Ace thought about it.
Then shook his head. "It doesn't matter anymore. I don't want to keep pushing you away."
A small smile tugged at his lips. "So... why don't we be friends?"
For a split second, it felt like he was talking to the past.
Sarah smiled.
The same smile.
The exact same smile.
"I'd love that."
Ace and Sarah moved through the castle corridors in a quiet, unhurried line—no rush, no patrol formation, no tension in their shoulders like they were bracing for impact.
Just... walking.
The halls were warm with morning life. Servants carrying fresh linens. Guards switching shifts with sleepy jokes under their breath. The faint clink of dishes somewhere ahead. It felt unreal to Ace in that specific way peace always did after a long stretch of war—like the world was daring him to believe in it again.
When they reached the mess hall, the sound hit first.
Laughter. Plates scraping. Chairs dragging. People talking over each other because nobody had to whisper anymore.
At the far end of the room, castle guards and workers ate like they were making up for lost time—like joy itself was a meal they hadn't been allowed to taste. The people of Ixtal looked... healthy. Not just alive.
Alive with color.
Ace's gaze lingered, and something in his chest loosened.
So it wasn't for nothing.
He caught himself comparing—instinctively—because that was what soldiers did. Ixtal was bright, fixed, thriving. And then his mind tried to drag him through the ruins of other regions, the names and faces that didn't make it here, the places that never got restored...
He shut that door before it could swing open.
Sarah noticed his expression shift and slowed just a half step beside him, not asking—yet. Just staying there. Present.
They hadn't even made it three steps into the hall when three waitresses spotted them at once.
It was almost comical. One froze mid-walk like she'd just seen a celebrity. The second elbowed her in panic. The third murmured something sharp and urgent, and suddenly they were moving like a trained unit.
"Lord Ace," one of them whispered with the kind of reverence people used for gods in temples.
Ace flinched—actually flinched—and Sarah's mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile.
The waitress who approached looked young. She wrung her hands as she came closer, posture stiff, cheeks already pink. When she bowed, she did it too fast and nearly bonked her forehead on the edge of a tray she wasn't even holding.
"G-good morning, m-my lord," she said, voice cracking slightly. "And... and Miss Fortune. I-I mean—Sarah— I—"
"It's okay," Sarah said gently, her tone instantly soft in a way that made the poor girl's panic ease a fraction. "Breathe. You're doing fine."
The waitress nodded too hard, like she was trying to shake the nerves out of her skull. Her eyes kept flicking toward Ace like her brain couldn't decide whether to stare or explode.
Ace blinked. "Uh... you okay?"
The girl audibly squeaked.
Sarah's shoulders started trembling with contained laughter.
Ace looked at Sarah with a silent are you seeing this?
She leaned in just slightly, grin widening. "Ace," she murmured, "she's a fan."
"A... fan?" Ace repeated dumbly, as if the word was in another language.
The waitress's cheeks somehow got redder, like that was even possible. "I-I'm sorry! I didn't mean— I mean, I did mean— I mean—"
Sarah waved it off with a warm smile. "It's cute. Don't apologize."
Ace scratched the back of his head, still thrown off. "I mean... I'm used to attention, but..."
Sarah arched a brow. "Used to it how?"
Ace hesitated—just long enough for the old instinct to kick in. Keep it vague. Keep it moving.
"...Back home, I ran with Whitebeard," he said finally. "Big crew. Big name. Bounties. People stare at you for a lot of reasons."
Sarah blinked once, then let out a low whistle. "Wait—Whitebeard? You were one of his? That sounds like a really big deal."
Ace's lips pressed together, his eyes narrowing like he was choosing his words carefully. "That's different. People staring because they're scared or because there's a bounty on your head... you get used to it. But this—"
He gestured vaguely at the whole castle, the reverent tone, the *Lord Ace*, the way people looked at him like he was a miracle.
"Being treated like some kinda—" he paused, grimacing, "—god? Yeah. No. I'm never gettin' used to that."
Sarah's smile softened, but her teasing still sparkled in her eyes. "Aw. Poor Ace. Worship is so inconvenient."
He shot her a look. "Don't start."
"Oh, I'm starting," she said, already halfway into it.
Ace opened his mouth to protest, but Sarah cut him off instantly, tapping the side of his arm like don't you dare.
"Let it happen," she whispered with playful authority. "I'm a pirate, but I'm still a woman with class."
Ace stared at her.
"You say that like you haven't stabbed someone for looking at you wrong," he muttered.
Sarah gasped dramatically. "Slander."
Ace made a sound halfway between a sigh and defeat and let himself be guided.
They were brought to a quieter side room—still part of the mess hall, but tucked away behind carved wooden partitions and potted jungle greenery that made it feel private without being isolated. The table was... absurdly fancy for breakfast. Clean linens. Proper cutlery. Even a small vase with flowers that looked like they'd been hand-picked from the garden.
Ace sat down like the chair had personally offended him.
Sarah sat like she belonged there.
The waitress placed menus down with trembling hands. "W-water or drinks to start?"
Ace glanced at the menu like it might bite him. Sarah leaned forward, scanning quickly with interest.
"Okay," Sarah said, thoughtful. "Breakfast drinks."
The waitress nodded eagerly. "Yes, ma'am."
Sarah tapped the menu with a finger. "I'll take coffee. Black. And... if you have it—something sweet on the side. Like a little cinnamon cream. If not, I'll live."
The waitress's eyes lit up like she'd just been assigned a sacred quest. "Yes! Yes, ma'am!"
Ace stared at the menu longer than necessary, then shrugged like he was pretending this didn't matter.
"Uh... give me hot chocolate," he said, then quickly added, more defensive than he meant to, "with whipped cream."
Sarah's eyes slowly slid up to him.
Ace's face went pink immediately.
"What?" he snapped.
The waitress squealed—actually squealed—hands flying to her mouth. "That's so—!"
Ace's eyes widened. "Don't you—"
Sarah broke.
She burst out laughing so hard she had to bend forward, one hand bracing the table like she was about to fall out of her seat.
Ace's ears turned red. "Oh my god."
Sarah pointed at him between laughs. "Hot chocolate. With whipped cream. Ace—"
"Shut up," he groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. "Just—shut up."
"I can't," Sarah wheezed, wiping at the corner of her eye. "I'm sorry. I physically can't."
Ace stared at her like he was debating whether arson was morally justifiable.
The waitress scribbled their drinks down, still blushing like she might faint, and bowed again. "R-right away."
She left.
The door hadn't even fully closed behind her before Sarah leaned back in her chair, eyes sparkling like a menace. "So. Vice Captain. Wanted man. Big scary pirate. Hot chocolate."
Ace picked up his menu like it was a shield. "Keep talking and I'm throwin' this."
Sarah lifted her hands innocently. "No, no. Throwing menus is beneath you. Throw utensils. Commit to the bit."
Ace's eye twitched.
Sarah kept teasing anyway—circling her finger in the air like she was sketching his face.
"Ace, I swear, you've got that 'accidentally adorable' thing going on right now. Like you don't mean to, but it happens."
He glared. "I'm not adorable."
"You're blushing."
"I'm not blushing."
Sarah leaned forward, delighted. "You absolutely are."
Ace's fingers tightened around the menu. He genuinely considered launching a spoon into her forehead.
He didn't—only because Sarah finally laughed so hard she had to clutch her stomach, wheezing like she'd done a sprint.
"Okay," she gasped. "Okay. I'm done. I'm done. I swear."
Ace narrowed his eyes. "You promise?"
Sarah held up three fingers solemnly. "Pirate oath."
Ace exhaled through his nose. "That means nothin'."
"Hey!"
The door opened again.
The waitress returned with their drinks—moving so carefully it was like she was carrying explosives. She set Sarah's coffee down first, then turned to Ace with his hot chocolate.
Her gaze flicked up to his still-warm cheeks and—
"A-AHH—!" she squealed again, voice pitching up in pure delight. "He's still blushing!"
Sarah's laughter restarted instantly like a cursed machine.
Ace's shoulders dropped. He stared dead-eyed at the table, speaking in the calm tone of someone trying not to snap.
"I'm gonna commit arson."
The waitress went rigid. "I-I'm sorry! I didn't mean—!"
Sarah waved a hand, still laughing. "She'll live. He won't. But she'll live."
Ace turned his head slowly toward Sarah. "You are evil."
The waitress placed the drinks down and fled the room like her life depended on it.
Ace swore he heard giggling and whispered gossip immediately outside the door.
He took a long sip of his hot chocolate and stared into the void. "So... this is what Adriel deals with all day."
Sarah stirred her coffee with a tiny spoon. "Yup."
Ace blinked. "How does he not lose his mind?"
Sarah smiled, but there was something real under it. "Insane patience. And insane self-control."
Her words settled for a second... and the playful atmosphere thinned, just slightly.
Sarah's smile softened as she looked at him over her mug. "You know," she said quietly, "I'm kinda mad at myself."
Ace glanced up. "For what?"
"For not finding the courage to approach you sooner." She shrugged lightly, like she was trying to pretend it was no big deal. "If this is what hanging out with you is like, I should've done it earlier. I could've survived the fan club."
Ace snorted. "Better late than never."
He took another sip, then the weight behind his words showed up.
"It's just..." he began, voice dulling. "Unfortunate timing."
Sarah's brow knit. "Because you're leaving tomorrow."
Ace didn't deny it.
Sarah leaned forward slightly, confusion slipping in. "I thought you guys were taking a breather. A real one."
Ace's jaw tightened. "We were supposed to."
"Then why—?" Sarah started, then stopped herself. She already knew the answer was going to hurt, or be complicated, or both. "Is it... bad?"
Ace stared into his mug for a second. His voice came out softer.
"I can't tell you." And when Sarah's expression shifted, he added quickly, "I'm sorry."
Sarah held the silence for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"It's because if you tell us," she said carefully, "we'll worry ourselves sick."
Ace's eyes lifted to hers.
"And if you tell the survivors," she continued, "they'll spiral. Fear, anxiety, pity... all of it." She swallowed. "So you carry it. Like you always do."
Ace didn't answer, but he didn't need to.
Sarah let out a slow breath. "Is that why you don't talk about the missions? The real stuff?"
Ace's fingers tightened around the warm mug. "Yeah."
Because the truth was never just "we fought." It was what you saw, what you had to do, and how much it cost.
Sarah's gaze dropped to the table for a second—hesitating—and then she forced herself to look back up.
"There's something else I wanted to ask," she said. Her tone was careful, like she was stepping onto thin ice. "And if you don't want to talk about it, we can drop it. No hard feelings."
Ace's posture stiffened before she even finished.
Sarah immediately regretted it. "Actually—never mind. Forget I—"
"Ace?" she tried again, softer. "Are you okay?"
Ace closed his eyes briefly.
Then he opened them and exhaled, like he was choosing to stop running from it—just for today.
"It's fine," he said. "Ask."
Sarah blinked. "Are you sure?"
He nodded once. "Yeah."
The door opened again.
A waitress stepped in—a different one this time—hands clasped nervously, eyes wide, like she could sense the emotional temperature in the room.
"E-excuse me," she said softly, "are you ready to order your breakfast?"
Ace and Sarah both shifted instantly, like they were slamming a lid over something fragile.
Sarah offered a reassuring smile. "Yeah. Sorry. You're not interrupting anything."
The waitress looked like she absolutely thought she was interrupting something and might cry about it.
Ace, blunt as always, cut through it. "You're fine. Relax."
That did it.
The waitress visibly calmed down—because of course she did. Because Ace told her to, like it was law.
Sarah's eyes flicked to Ace with the tiniest smirk.
He ignored it.
They ordered quickly:
Sarah went with something that fit her—hearty, practical, still indulgent: "Eggs, toast, and... do you have breakfast potatoes? And—" she glanced at Ace like she was daring him to judge her, "—a side of fruit."
Ace ordered like a man who had spent half his life hungry:
"Give me... two plates. Whatever's biggest. Pancakes. Eggs. Bacon. And..." he paused, then added, "more pancakes."
The waitress scribbled furiously, eyes shining like she'd just been blessed. "Right away!"
She left again.
The door closed.
The private room went quiet.
Sarah's gaze softened, sympathy returning. "Okay," she said. "Last time I ask—are you sure?"
Ace stared at his hands for a second, then looked up.
"What I did," he said quietly, "avoiding you? That wasn't fair."
Sarah's throat bobbed. She didn't interrupt him.
"I told myself I was doing it because it was easier," Ace continued, voice rougher now. "Because I didn't wanna think about it. Didn't wanna remember."
He swallowed.
"But all I really did was make you feel like you did something wrong."
Sarah's eyes brightened, but she kept her voice steady. "Ace..."
He raised a hand slightly—not cutting her off harshly. Just asking for space.
"I knew... another you," he admitted.
Sarah's heart kicked. She leaned in just a fraction, listening like if she moved too fast the moment would break.
"A different world," Ace said. "Different story. Different war."
Sarah's voice came out small. "Is that... why you flinch whenever I talk to you?"
Ace nodded once.
Sarah hesitated. "Was she... important to you?"
Ace's eyes went distant.
And the answer was written there before he spoke.
"Yeah," he said.
Sarah's breath caught. Not jealous—just... hurt for him.
Ace's voice dipped lower. "I got stuck."
"How long?" Sarah asked, already afraid.
He held her gaze anyway.
"Fifty years."
Sarah went still.
"Fifty..." she repeated, stunned. "Ace, that's—"
"A long time," he finished for her, jaw tight.
The food arrived not long after—plates steaming, the smell warm and comforting—but neither of them moved immediately.
Sarah was too caught in what she'd just heard.
Ace was too deep in the memory.
When they finally started eating, it was slow at first.
And Ace began to talk.
He told her about being thrown into that world like a mistake. About how the fights didn't stop. About Godzilla—how absurd it sounded and how terrifying it actually was. About the first months being adrenaline and rage and survival...
...and how the years after that weren't heroic.
They were exhausting.
They were lonely.
He spoke about the people who didn't understand him, the ones who feared him, the ones who aged while he didn't. He spoke about watching friends grow older, watching time take them piece by piece while he stayed the same.
He spoke about her.
The other Sarah Fortune—older, sharper, still somehow warm in the middle of hell. How she'd looked at him like he was real. How she'd laughed at him when he tried to act tough. How she'd called him out when he started shutting down.
How she'd cared.
How, by the end, she had feelings she didn't try to hide.
And how Ace...
He didn't say he returned them out loud.
He didn't have to.
Because Sarah could hear it in the way his voice softened when he spoke about her.
The story got darker as it went—less "battle" and more "survival." Less "wins" and more "losses."
Sarah barely touched her food by the time he reached the end.
Her coffee went cold.
Her hands were clenched under the table.
When Ace finished, his voice cracked once—just once—before he forced it steady again.
"I left," he said. "I didn't... choose to. It just—happened." His jaw clenched. "And I never got to say goodbye."
Sarah's eyes burned.
Not because she was hurt.
Because she understood what that did to someone.
Silence hung between them—thick, heavy, respectful.
Then Sarah reached across the table and took Ace's hand.
Ace flinched at first—automatic.
Then his fingers curled around hers.
Sarah's voice was quiet. "I'm sorry you carried that alone."
Ace stared at their hands like he didn't trust the moment.
Sarah smiled, gentle and sincere. "And I'm sorry you thought you had to punish yourself by avoiding me."
Ace's lips pressed together. He didn't argue.
Sarah's thumb brushed his knuckles—small, grounding.
"I want to be your friend," she said. "For real. Not 'we're in the same castle' friends. Actual friends."
Ace's eyes lifted to hers. For a second, something old moved behind his gaze—like the shadow of another life.
Another Sarah.
Another ending that never got closure.
Then Ace exhaled.
And his expression softened in a way it hadn't earlier.
"...Yeah," he said quietly. "I'd like that."
Sarah's smile widened, and for a heartbeat, Ace swore he saw that other smile—the same warmth, the same curve at the corner of the mouth.
It didn't stab him this time.
It just... hurt in a way that felt human.
And when Ace looked down again, there was a small bit of light in his eyes that hadn't been there when he walked into the mess hall.
Not joy.
Not peace.
But something close.
Something like the start of healing.
Peter's POV
I don't think I slept that afternoon. Or... if I did, it barely counted, because by the time I looked out the window of my lab, the morning sun was already crawling up the sky.
Great. Another all-nighter.
I remember when I used to be less anxious about this. When I could actually get decent sleep. Now I don't even have that luxury—restless, wired, stuck on a loop because of this war.
Truth be told, I don't think I can sleep right after everything that happened.
AM. Lux. Neeko... Jinx... Red Goblin.
Just thinking about it is enough to push a migraine right up behind my eyes. Maybe that's why I've been so clingy lately—staying around people to keep my mind from wandering. Because the second I'm alone, I reflect. And then I get angry—at what I did, at what was done to me—and I spiral into "What if?"
I can't even bring it up to Ace. Or anyone else. I don't want to sound like some broken record who can't ever get past his trauma.
But I just... can't.
The only times my brain shuts up are when I'm messing around with Ace... or passing time with the others, doing whatever. Yesterday at the mall, I noticed how odd Lux had been acting—clingier than usual. And yeah, sure, I can understand someone getting attached to the person who helped save them. Respect. Gratitude. Hero worship. Whatever.
But it wasn't just that.
It was her eyes.
Those were the same eyes from Lux in the Star Guardian timeline.
She didn't have those eyes before. I know that for a fact.
Back then, Lux was a champion who'd lost everyone she loved to the Darks—she'd tried to kill herself more than once. Kayle saved her every time. Not because Kayle hadn't lost everything too... but because she refused to be left alone. Lux was the one thing keeping her grounded in a world that had turned into a graveyard.
Then Ace and I showed up. We changed things. Not perfectly—nothing fixes that kind of loss—but they found some of their light again. Even if they'll carry that weight forever.
And now, after yesterday's reunion... I get why Lux is acting like her counterpart. What I don't get is why Kayle hasn't questioned it harder. Unless she has, and she's just choosing not to push. Or maybe she's afraid of what the answer is.
Because Anansi has ruined the cosmology of this verse so badly that memories are shifting at random. Plot holes opening and closing like wounds. The story is turning into a mess on purpose.
He's overloading servers.
And sure—fiction can handle a lot. A story can go full crossover-madness if it wants to. Hell, it can pull a Fortnite and shove an entire multiverse into one setting and still function.
But this?
This feels deliberate. Like he wants it to break.
Why?
I don't know. And that's the problem. That question has kept me up all night, and now I feel drowsy enough to bite through steel just to stay awake. I could run like this for a week if I had to... but I'd rather not live chronically half-asleep.
As if on cue, my stomach grumbles—like it's sick of my bullshit and wants me to do something productive instead of replaying the same thoughts until they rot.
And... it's probably right.
Stress eating sounds a lot better than giving myself a migraine.
So, yeah. I'm doing that.
If I'm lucky, maybe I'll run into Ace on the way. Or anyone, honestly. I don't really care who.
I push up from my chair, throw on something normal just to look presentable, and leave my lab. The mess hall is calling, and for once, I'm gonna answer it before my head splits in half.
I stepped out into the hall and immediately let my gaze drop to the floor like it had personally offended me.
Not because there was anything wrong with the castle—if anything, the place was too clean, too bright, too... alive now. It was just... my head. My brain kept chewing the same thoughts like gum that lost its flavor three days ago.
Overthinking. Yeah. I probably caught that from Adriel. It wasn't even a bad habit in theory. It kept you alive. It made you notice traps, patterns, lies—
It also made you second-guess every breath you took.
I exhaled through my nose and kept walking, letting my feet do the work while my mind tried to set itself on fire.
Mess hall. Breakfast. Something simple. Something normal. Something I could taste that wasn't dread.
I rounded a corner—
—and nearly walked straight into red hair and steel posture.
Katarina Du Couteau.
We both froze like the universe had hit pause for comedic timing.
Her eyes flicked over me fast—head to toe, taking inventory. Not hostile. Not friendly either. More like... deciding whether I was supposed to be treated like a person or a... concept.
I could see it in her face: the hesitation. The thought of bowing. Of playing it safe because Guardians in Ixtal were basically treated like royalty—sometimes more than Qiyana herself.
Then something shifted in her expression, like she remembered the dinner. The after-party. The fact that Ace and I acted like we belonged in a kitchen more than on a throne.
So she went casual.
"Morning," she said, voice smooth but cautious. "You're... Spider-Man, right?"
I stopped in front of her, hands slipping into my pockets like I was trying to look less like a walking problem. "That's me."
Her brow lifted a fraction. "The one Ace keeps talking about."
I snorted. "That narrows it down to... me and the other eight Spider-Men that definitely don't exist." I paused, then added, "Yeah. I'm him."
She let out a quiet huff that might've been a laugh if she allowed herself joy in public. "And you're his best friend."
I didn't even hesitate. "Unfortunately, yes."
That got her. A real giggle—short, surprised, like it slipped out before she could strangle it.
Thank God.
No bowing. No "Your Grace." No people treating me like I was a prince because I could break reality if I got bored. That stuff was getting old fast.
To be honest, I'd expected her to be... harsher. Noxus wasn't exactly known for warm greetings and casual laughter. But I guess surviving a year of hell rewires people.
Her eyes narrowed slightly—not in suspicion, more like interest. "Where are you headed?"
"Mess hall," I said. "Breakfast. Before I start haunting my lab like a depressed ghost."
That earned me another tiny breath of amusement. "You have a laboratory?"
"Yeah."
Her head tilted. "So you're... a scientist."
I almost laughed at how clean the word sounded. Scientist. Like I wasn't also a walking disaster in spandex with trauma for blood.
"I guess I am," I admitted. "Depends on the day."
Katarina crossed her arms beneath her chest and leaned her shoulder lightly against the wall, posture casual but still disciplined. "What can't Guardians do?"
The question landed sharper than she intended—like she didn't mean to expose her curiosity that bluntly, but it came out anyway.
I blinked. "That's... broad."
"I mean it." Her gaze didn't waver. "Everyone treats you like you can do anything. But I've seen Ace." She hesitated, searching for the right word. "He's... different."
I felt my jaw tighten without permission.
She continued, quieter now. "Reckless. Loud. Too much energy, too many jokes." A small pause. "But now he looks... burdened."
Her mouth twisted, like she didn't know if that was good or bad. "I can't tell if it's an improvement or a downgrade."
I stared at her for a second, actually seeing her instead of just registering her as "Katarina, assassin, Noxus." There was tiredness in her eyes that didn't belong there. Something frayed at the edges. Like confidence used to live in that space, but it got burned out.
"Yeah," I said, voice softer than I meant it to be. "We all... carry different stuff."
She looked at me like she didn't expect me to answer honestly.
I kept going because stopping meant thinking again.
"You're not wrong. Ace has... pieces of himself that slip through sometimes. Old habits, old energy." I shrugged. "Time's weird for us. Months, years... it's not the same."
Her gaze sharpened at that. "For us it's been a year."
"I know." I swallowed. "And for Noxus..."
I didn't finish the sentence, but I didn't have to.
Godzilla. A three-hundred-foot nightmare. Juggernaut turning Noxus into a cult and a hellscape. A year of trauma carved into stone.
Katarina's expression tightened like the name "Godzilla" alone still tasted like blood.
I found myself staring at her—thinking about the way Noxians valued strength above everything. From their perspective, Ace dragging a Kaiju into another dimension probably looked like the ultimate sacrifice.
Maybe that was why she looked at him the way she did.
Not fear.
Not worship.
Something worse.
Something heavy.
I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck. "You... want to talk to him."
It wasn't a question.
Her shoulders lifted and fell, controlled, but her eyes gave her away. "I do."
Then, like she couldn't hold it back anymore, she said it—raw, honest, unpolished.
"I'm grateful." Her voice turned firm, like she was daring herself to admit it out loud. "He saved us from that... thing. He saved us again when Noxus fell. Twice. And I—" She cut herself off, jaw flexing. "I don't know how to thank him."
She stared at the floor for half a heartbeat, then forced herself back up. "Every time I see him I... freeze. Like there's something stuck in my chest. I've tried to find a moment to speak to him, but he's always with someone. Or moving. Always moving."
Her hands tightened into fists for a second, then relaxed again. "And I haven't been the same after everything."
That hit me harder than it should've.
Because she wasn't wrong.
None of them were the same.
All the survivors looked like different versions of themselves—still alive, still moving, but the light in them flickered like a candle in wind.
Katarina... the proud, confident, terrifyingly capable Katarina... reduced to someone who didn't know how to approach a friend.
It was bleak.
I hated it.
And before I could overthink it, I blurted, "Eat with me."
She blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"Breakfast," I clarified quickly, waving down the corridor like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Come with me. Better than eating alone."
Her eyes narrowed again, hesitant now for a different reason. "And Ace?"
"If we run into him," I said, "you can talk."
She took a slow step back—just a fraction—like the mention of his name brought a wall up in her chest.
I noticed it and immediately stepped forward, stopping her retreat with nothing but presence.
"Katarina." My voice came out more serious than I expected. "If you want to talk to him... now. The time is now."
Her eyes widened, shocked at the way I said it—like I wasn't suggesting it, like I was insisting.
"What are you talking about?" she demanded, sharper now. "Why are you saying it like that? Like..." Her throat bobbed. "Like I won't get another chance."
My stomach sank.
Because she wasn't stupid.
And I couldn't tell her.
I couldn't tell her about tomorrow. About Piltover. About the dome. About Anansi. About the way every "final mission" carried teeth. About how Guardians could die. About how, even worse—sometimes stories got reset, and the people we saved forgot we ever existed.
She couldn't hear that truth.
None of them could.
So I did the only thing I could.
I dodged.
I put on the dumb face.
"Relax," I said, forcing a shrug. "I'm just... being dramatic."
Her eyes sharpened into blades. "Don't lie to me."
"Katarina—"
"No." She stepped closer, voice lowering. "Say it again. Tell me it's nothing."
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
And I watched her face change—not into anger, not into suspicion—
—into dread.
Like she wasn't hearing words, she was hearing the absence of them.
Her breathing hitched. "You're going to die."
My throat tightened.
She kept going anyway, words spilling like she had to get them out before they choked her. "Or Ace is. Or all of you." Her voice cracked for half a second, and she hated herself for it. "That's why you're acting like this."
I couldn't correct her.
Because she wasn't that far off.
I looked down, hands flexing uselessly at my sides, then finally forced myself to meet her eyes again.
"Please," I said, and it came out rough. "Just... eat with me. Okay? Breakfast. No doom. No questions I can't answer." I swallowed. "And if we see Ace... you talk to him. You say what you need to say."
Katarina's jaw clenched like she wanted to fight me for answers. For the truth. For control.
Then she looked at my face—really looked—and whatever she saw there made her shoulders drop.
She exhaled, slow and tired. "Fine."
Her voice softened, barely audible. "I'm sorry."
"You don't have to be," I said immediately. "You didn't do anything wrong."
She shook her head like she disagreed, like she hated the helplessness of it all.
But she fell into step beside me anyway.
We started walking.
And I kept my eyes forward, because if I looked back and saw her expression again, it would crush me.
I caught it anyway in the corner of my vision.
Dread.
Not the full truth—she couldn't have that—
...but enough of it to hurt.
I swallowed hard and kept moving, my guilt simmering under my ribs.
Me and my big mouth.
As we walked, Katarina kept her eyes down. The whole time.
I couldn't blame her. I'd basically hit her with the emotional equivalent of "trust me bro" and then refused to elaborate. Which—yeah. Asshole move. Even if it was for a reason.
I didn't know if we were going to die. That was the honest truth. We'd been lucky so far. Stupid lucky. "Plot loves Guardians," Ace would say with a grin, like the universe had a punch card and we were one victory away from a free smoothie.
But luck runs out.
Adriel had won every fight with a Dark until the day it mattered most. He'd limped out of wars half-dead and still stood back up like gravity was optional.
And then Infinity War happened.
We won the battle and still lost the war.
That kind of loss doesn't fade. It just... camps out in your ribs and pays no rent.
My brain kept skipping ahead—tomorrow, Piltover, the dome, Anansi, the "what if we miss one tiny detail and everything collapses." It was like trying to hold a glass of water in an earthquake and convincing yourself the spill wouldn't matter.
Chrona wouldn't survive another version of me like that. Adriel wouldn't either. And Ace and Artoria—
Artoria already carried enough ghosts to start her own cemetery.
I was spiraling quietly when Katarina sped up and stepped into my space—just enough that I couldn't pretend she wasn't there.
Her voice was careful, but there was something under it. A crack in the steel.
"Peter," she said. "What's going on?"
I stopped walking. Just... stopped. Like my feet decided they didn't want to carry this conversation anywhere public.
Katarina paused too, half a step ahead, then turned to face me.
Her expression was controlled, but her eyes... her eyes were asking the question she didn't want to say out loud again.
Are you going to die?
I swallowed.
"I—" I started, then cut myself off before I could say something stupid, which is usually my brand. "Are you sure you want an answer?"
She blinked. "Yes."
"Katarina..." I exhaled hard, like I could push the dread out of my lungs. "What we do... it's—"
"Beyond," she finished, bitterly. "Beyond comprehension. Beyond common sense. Beyond... whatever the hell this place used to be."
I stared at her. She was sharper than people gave her credit for. Not just with knives.
I rubbed at my jaw, buying time. "Right. And if I explain it wrong, you'll either think I'm lying... or you'll start seeing the cracks in everything and never sleep again."
Her gaze flicked away, jaw tightening. Like she already wasn't sleeping.
"I've heard the others talk," she admitted. "Everyone has theories. Everyone has opinions. Everyone—" she scoffed softly. "Everyone calls you Gods like that makes it easier."
It didn't. It made everything worse.
I snorted under my breath. "Yeah, that whole 'Gods' thing... I still don't know who started that. I'd like to file a complaint."
Katarina's mouth twitched, the smallest hint of amusement.
I latched onto it like a life raft.
"I mean, seriously," I continued, leaning into the bit because if I stopped joking I might actually start screaming. "If I'm a God, where's my, like... lightning? My dramatic cape? My ability to not get emotionally wrecked by breakfast conversations?"
She looked at me like she wasn't sure whether to laugh or punch me.
I gave her my best Peter Parker shrug. "What? I'm coping."
Her shoulders eased a fraction. "That was... a terrible attempt."
"Hey," I said, offended on principle. "That was a solid attempt. A respectable attempt. A 'C+ but the teacher appreciates the effort' attempt."
Her breath hitched—and then she actually smiled. Small, quick. Like it surprised her.
Then it faded again, because she wasn't done.
"So you can't tell me," she said quietly.
I hesitated, then nodded. "Not the way you want. Not... safely."
Katarina stared at the floor for a second, then blew out a slow breath like she was trying to keep herself from shaking.
"I'm worrying too much," she murmured, not convincing herself at all.
"That's my job," I said automatically. "Get your own thing."
She blinked at me, and I realized the joke came out a little too fast.
I cleared my throat. "Sorry. That sounded less 'supportive friend' and more 'sarcastic gremlin.'"
She waved a hand. "It's fine. I—" She paused, then frowned like she was choosing the right word. "I kind of walked into your business."
I immediately shook my head. "No. No, you didn't. You're allowed to ask. You're allowed to... be human."
She made a face at that. "I don't feel very human lately."
That one hit.
My mouth opened, closed, then opened again—useless. So I did the only thing I had: I tried to patch it with humor again.
"Well," I said, gesturing vaguely at both of us, "if it helps, I'm pretty sure we're both clinically unwell."
Katarina stared at me for a beat.
Then she let out a short laugh—sharp and surprised, like it escaped her throat before she could stop it.
And I laughed too, because the alternative was crying in a hallway like a rejected soap opera protagonist.
We stood there in this ridiculous loop of mutual apologies and half-jokes, like two people trying to build something stable out of splinters.
She wiped at the corner of her eye with the back of her hand and shook her head. "We're... beyond fucked in the head."
I nodded solemnly. "Facts."
"Look at us," she muttered. "Apologizing to each other like it's a sport."
"Hey," I said, raising a finger, "in my defense, apologizing is one of my core competencies."
Katarina arched a brow. "Really."
"Yeah. Right after 'making things worse' and 'needing immediate assistance.'"
That got another laugh, softer this time. More real.
Then she grew quiet again.
And when she spoke, the tone shifted.
"Maybe I should've talked to you more," she said.
I blinked. "Me specifically, or...?"
"The Guardians," she corrected, quickly. Then she hesitated. "Not because Ace saved us. Not because you're... you."
She flicked her gaze up at me, and there was something almost irritated in it—like she hated how careful she had to be around us.
"It's because you're still people," she said. "Just... people dealing with bullshit every day."
I didn't know what to do with that, so I did what I always did when I didn't know what to do: I got honest.
"I wish more people realized that," I said quietly. "This whole religion thing? It's... awkward. It makes everything feel like a stage."
Katarina nodded slowly. "I noticed you all hate it."
"Yeah," I said. "It's like... we're trying to fix the world, not start a fan club."
She stared at me for a second, then said, "So I'll treat you like friends."
My stomach tightened.
That word shouldn't have scared me, but it did.
Friends meant attachment. Attachment meant leverage. Leverage meant Darks smiling.
I heard my own voice, and it sounded smaller than I wanted:
"Are you sure?"
Katarina's expression softened—not pity, not condescension. Just... understanding.
"I was alone for a year," she said, blunt. "Not physically alone. Noxus had bodies. But..." Her throat worked. "Juggernaut didn't just conquer a region. He stripped people down. He made you watch what you couldn't stop. He made you live inside it."
She looked away for a second, like the memory had teeth.
"When it ended, I realized something," she continued. "Being strong doesn't matter if you're isolated. Isolation is how you break."
I didn't speak. I couldn't.
She stepped closer—not invading my space, just enough to be real.
"And I see it in you," she said, voice lower. "That reflex. The way you keep your distance even when you're standing right next to someone."
My throat tightened.
She didn't stop. "You think if you don't let people in, you can't lose them. Like that makes the pain smaller."
My jaw clenched. Because... yeah. That was exactly it.
Katarina's eyes held mine, steady as a blade.
"It doesn't," she said simply. "It just makes you lonely and in pain."
A beat passed.
Then, more gently: "You don't have to carry everything alone just because you can."
I felt something in my chest shift—tiny, stubborn. Like a locked door cracking open one millimeter.
And suddenly, uninvited, Aunt May's voice floated through my head like a phantom hand on my shoulder.
You don't get to stop being good just because it hurts.
Then Chrona's voice—soft, patient.
Life doesn't stop being hard. We just learn how to keep walking anyway.
I inhaled shakily.
Katarina held out her hand.
Not formal. Not royal. Not worship.
Just... a person.
"I'm Katarina," she said, quiet. "For real this time."
I stared at her hand like it was the most dangerous thing in the room.
And maybe it was.
Because taking it meant choosing connection anyway.
I swallowed, then reached out and clasped her hand gently.
"Peter," I said. "For real."
Her smile this time was different.
Not sharp. Not practiced. Not guarded.
Beautiful in the way sunrise is beautiful—because it shows up after you've convinced yourself it won't.
And for the first time since yesterday's meeting, some of the pressure in my lungs eased.
Not gone.
Just... lighter.
"Okay," I breathed, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. "Now we go get breakfast before I start overthinking again and spontaneously combust in the hallway."
Katarina's smile widened.
"Lead the way, Spider-Man."
And we kept walking.
We finally made it to the mess hall.
By then it was pushing nine in the morning, and the place was already getting fuller by the minute—workers in uniform, guards with plates stacked like they were prepping for a siege, staff moving in practiced lanes like a kitchen was the closest thing this castle had to a heartbeat.
I scanned out of habit.
No Adriel.
Not even a glimpse of him lurking in a corner with that thousand-yard stare he tries to pretend is just "thinking." If I had to guess? He was still asleep. The guy slept like he'd negotiated a peace treaty with the concept of waking up.
Me and Katarina didn't even make it five steps before the whole good morning thing started.
It wasn't malicious. It wasn't even annoying in the way people meant it.
It was just... a lot. Too many eyes. Too much reverence. Too much you're important, you're important, you're important when all I wanted was eggs and a corner of silence.
I leaned toward Katarina. "Private room?"
She didn't even hesitate. "Please."
A waitress clocked us immediately—went pale like she'd just seen a ghost with an autograph. She rushed over, hands clasped so tight her knuckles were white.
"L-Lord—"
"Hey," I cut in gently, because I cannot do the "Lord" thing before breakfast. "It's Peter. Can we get somewhere quieter?"
She nodded so hard I thought her neck might come loose, and she ushered us away from the noise into one of the side rooms.
And the second we stepped in, I saw them.
Ace.
And Sarah Fortune.
Already seated. Already mid-conversation. Like they'd been here for a minute.
I honestly wasn't expecting that. Ace at nine a.m. doing something responsible? The universe was wild for that.
Katarina visibly paused beside me—like her body hadn't gotten the memo that this was happening now. Not later. Not "when she's ready." Not after mentally rehearsing a speech in the mirror.
Right now.
I didn't give her time to talk herself out of it.
I strolled right up to Ace like I owned the room, because if I acted normal my brain would start overthinking and ruin it.
Ace saw me and grinned. We dapped each other up—easy, automatic.
"Yo," I said, loud enough to be obnoxious on purpose. "You already ate breakfast and you didn't say anything, you little shit."
Ace didn't miss a beat. "I don't need to tell you shit. You ain't my mother."
"Oh, no," I said instantly, like my mouth had signed a contract without consulting my brain. "I wouldn't be a mom. I'd be a mommy."
Sarah's face did this violent pause—like her soul briefly left her body and came back just to judge me.
Katarina stared at me like she was recalculating every life choice that led her into a private room with Guardians.
Ace looked at me, deadpan. "You're disgusting."
"Thank you," I said. "That means a lot coming from you."
Ace leaned back in his chair like he was about to start a sermon. "See? This is what I deal with."
I pointed at him. "Bro, you started it."
Sarah and Katarina looked at each other in perfect sync—two women silently communicating what the fuck are they doing?
And then me and Ace laughed at our own jokes because we're idiots.
Ace waved at the empty chairs like he owned the place. "Don't just stand there. Sit. Me and Sarah already ate, but we can hang a bit. You two eat, we'll talk."
Katarina's feet still hadn't moved.
I slid into the chair anyway and gave her a look—soft, subtle: you're okay, you're not alone here.
After half a second, she sat too. Careful. Like sitting down might accidentally trigger a war flashback.
Sarah was the first one to break the ice like she always did—warm, casual, and a little nosy in the best way.
"So," she said, leaning forward on her elbows, "did either of you sleep well?"
Her eyes flicked to me immediately. Concern slipped in like it lived there. "Actually... Peter. You good?"
I let out a breath that was half laugh, half exhaustion.
"I'm still here," I said, because honestly, that was the metric lately. "Which is... a win. And I should probably be thanking Ace over here, but if I do, his ego's gonna inflate until it has its own orbit."
Ace scoffed. "My ego is perfectly proportioned."
Katarina snorted—quick, surprised, like she didn't mean to.
I pointed at her. "See? She gets it."
Ace jabbed a thumb at me. "He can't help it. He's a little shit. Always annoying as fuck."
"Oh, here we go," I muttered.
Ace kept going, because of course he did. "So someone—me—has to put him down a notch. He tries to one-up me on being annoying, and I can't let that happen. But..." He shrugged, pretending he wasn't smiling. "He's tolerable."
I stared at him like he'd just stabbed me in the heart with a plastic spoon. "Tolerable? That's insane. I'm an absolute delight."
Ace looked me dead in the eyes. "Yes. You're tolerable. You know how much trouble you've brought me since we met? You need a babysitter."
"Fuck off," I said immediately.
Sarah's mouth quirked. Katarina's eyes were bright with amusement now, the tension easing just a little.
Sarah tapped the table like she'd made a discovery. "Okay, yeah. I should've hung out with you more. This is free entertainment."
"I'm telling you," Katarina added, a little incredulous, "you two act like brothers."
Ace pointed at her like she'd solved a riddle. "Exactly."
I didn't say it out loud, but hearing that—brothers—did something to me. Something small and warm. Something that didn't hurt.
It was stupidly comforting.
Then the waitress returned with menus.
And immediately looked like she was about to faint again.
Her eyes bounced between me and Ace like she'd walked into an exhibit she wasn't supposed to touch.
Sarah noticed and had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.
Katarina took a second to catch the vibe, then leaned toward Sarah, whispering. Sarah whispered back.
Katarina giggled—actually giggled—and the waitress looked like she might combust.
Ace pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh my god."
I cleared my throat, tried to be nice. "Hey. You're good. No pressure. We're just hungry."
The waitress nodded too fast, like a bird trapped in a room.
We ordered quickly—because at this point I was just trying to save her life.
"Coffee," I said. "Black. Please."
Katarina went with tea—something simple, something steady.
Sarah ordered coffee too, but sweeter, like she was choosing comfort over function.
Ace... Ace ordered juice and coffee like he couldn't decide which version of himself he wanted to be.
The waitress scribbled, squeaked out an "I'll be right back!" and disappeared like the room was on fire.
The second the door closed, Sarah lost it.
She laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes. "She was going to pass out."
Ace groaned. "Again. How does Adriel deal with this everyday?"
I shrugged. "He's built different."
Katarina's amusement softened into something quieter. Something thoughtful.
And for a minute, we just... sat there.
Four people at a table.
Talking.
Normal.
Not running. Not fighting. Not bleeding. Not screaming into a void that screamed back.
Just... a morning.
I stared at the scene like it was a rare animal I didn't want to spook—Sarah teasing Ace, Katarina easing into the rhythm, Ace pretending he wasn't enjoying any of it.
And I realized, very suddenly, that I'd forgotten what "normal" felt like.
So much that it almost scared me.
I must've gone quiet too long, because Ace's voice shifted—no smirk, no bait.
"Hey," he asked, real. "You alright? You need anything?"
Sarah's laughter died down. Katarina's gaze sharpened with concern.
I looked at them—Ace, Sarah Fortune, Katarina—and I felt something unclench in my chest.
"I'm fine," I said, and for once it didn't feel like a lie.
I exhaled, softer. "I'm actually fine."
Artoria Pendragon POV
Morning light found the one gap the curtain didn't cover—an absurdly precise line of sun that slipped in like it had a mission, and promptly stabbed me in the eye.
...Of course.
I shifted, blinking it away, and sat up slow. My body felt heavy in that quiet, post-war way—like it didn't trust peace yet. I reached for the clock on the nightstand and squinted.
10:00 a.m.
I stared at it for a beat longer than necessary.
I used to wake early. Not because I enjoyed it—because I believed I had to. A king rises before her people. A knight rises before her duty. Routine was... structure. Safety. Something to hold when everything else moved.
Now?
Now I've been sleeping in. Slacking, if I'm honest.
And there's a bitter humor to that—because once upon a time, I didn't have the luxury of "slacking." I had conquest. I had orders. I had a blade in my hand and a country's pain beneath my boots.
I exhaled and pushed that thought away.
I have more time for myself now. Time that isn't spent ruining lives.
And—strange as it still feels to admit it—this life hasn't been... terrible.
Adriel and the others have been supportive in ways I never asked for, and never deserved. I want to return it. I want to be useful. Not as a weapon. Not as a symbol. As someone they can rely on.
I rose, crossed the room, and opened the drawers. I chose something simple—civilized, as Adriel would put it. A white shirt. A long blue skirt. Boots. Nothing ornate. Nothing that screamed royalty or war. Just... me, trying to exist without armor.
I smoothed the fabric, tied my hair back, and stepped into the corridor.
The castle was awake—soft footfalls, distant voices, the faint clink of dishes somewhere far below. The scent of food drifted up the halls like a promise.
Mess hall, then.
I'll likely run into Ace or Peter there. Assuming they haven't already eaten and wandered off to do whatever chaotic nonsense they label "relaxation."
They're... loud, in their own way. Unapologetically alive. Sometimes I can't tell whether Peter is a good influence on Ace, or whether Ace is a bad influence on Peter.
Perhaps it doesn't matter.
Peter needs distraction. Ace is a walking distraction.
And, in his own ridiculous way, Ace is gentle with him. He keeps Peter moving. Keeps him talking. Keeps him from sinking into the quiet too long.
I understand that more than I wish I did.
I took a turn—one last corner before the mess hall—
—and collided with someone.
A soft thud. A startled gasp.
I caught myself immediately, instinctively reaching out so I didn't knock the other person off-balance.
Neeko.
She froze like a deer, then quickly composed herself once her eyes registered me. Recognition flashed across her face—sharp, immediate—and then she smiled with that bright, almost childlike warmth that always makes me feel vaguely... out of place.
"Neeko says good morning!" she chirped, and then, as if correcting herself, added, "Neeko means... good morning, Artoria."
I returned the greeting, more gently than I expected. "Good morning, Neeko."
We fell into step together, walking toward the mess hall. The silence lasted only a moment before Neeko tilted her head, studying me with open curiosity.
"How is Artoria doing?" she asked. "Artoria is... okay?"
It wasn't an empty question. Neeko had a way of asking things like she genuinely cared about the answer—like she didn't know how to pretend she didn't.
I kept my gaze forward. "I'm... well. I believe I'm doing better." I hesitated, then added honestly, "Everyone has been kind to me. More than I deserve."
Neeko hummed thoughtfully, hands clasped behind her back. "Neeko thinks Artoria changed a lot."
"I hope so," I murmured.
Neeko blinked, then said something that made my steps slow a fraction.
"Neeko also realizes... Neeko and Artoria never really talked before."
I looked at her, startled by the simplicity of the statement. Because it was true.
We'd existed in the same space, in the same war. But we'd never actually spoken—not like this. Not as people.
"You avoided me," I said before I could stop myself.
Neeko didn't flinch. She didn't deny it.
"Neeko was afraid," she admitted, blunt as ever. "Artoria did many bad things to Ixtal. Neeko remembers. Neeko remembers all of it."
My throat tightened.
Neeko continued, voice softer now, like she wasn't trying to cut me—just telling me the truth.
"At first... Neeko hated that Adriel made Artoria a Guardian."
I didn't move. My hands curled slightly at my sides, not in anger—just reflex.
Neeko's ears drooped a little as she spoke.
"Neeko thought... why save her? After suffering. After slavery. After..." Neeko swallowed, then went on. "Neeko thought it was wrong."
I forced myself to breathe. To stay present. To listen.
"And now?" I asked quietly.
Neeko looked up at me, eyes bright. "Now Neeko sees Artoria is sincere."
My chest loosened by a fraction.
"Artoria looks like she hates what Artoria did," Neeko said simply. "Artoria tries. Artoria feels bad. Neeko can tell."
I didn't trust my voice for a second. "You gave me... the benefit of the doubt."
Neeko nodded. "Sarah did first."
That made my gaze snap to her.
Neeko smiled, like she knew exactly what she'd just pulled out of me.
"Neeko saw Sarah with Artoria at fountain," she said. "Sarah was not afraid. Sarah was kind. Sarah forgave."
Neeko's tone shifted—more serious than I was used to hearing from her.
"If Sarah Fortune can forgive Artoria... Neeko would be stupid to never try."
I stopped walking.
For a moment I couldn't form a proper response.
Neeko had built resistance against me. Neeko had lost people because of me. Neeko had every reason in the world to keep her distance.
And yet...
"Thank you," I managed, and my voice sounded... smaller than I wanted. "For being honest."
Neeko's smile—this time—wasn't cautious. Not fearful. Not the kind she'd forced when I passed by in a hallway.
It was real.
"It is okay," Neeko said, and then added, almost shyly, "Neeko thinks Artoria can be... good."
I felt something settle in my ribs. Heavy and warm at the same time.
Perhaps Adriel was right.
Perhaps redemption wasn't a myth.
We resumed walking.
Neeko's mood lifted, as if she'd dropped a weight she'd been carrying for days. A few steps later, she glanced around and then asked, almost too casually:
"Where is Adriel?"
I blinked. "Adriel?"
Neeko nodded eagerly. "Neeko wants to see him."
I resisted the urge to smile. "He's likely still asleep. He's a heavy sleeper."
Neeko pouted. A dramatic, exaggerated pout that didn't match the seriousness of what we'd just spoken about.
"Neeko misses him."
I gave her a look. "You're rather attached."
Neeko didn't even pretend to deny it. "Neeko loves Adriel."
The way she said it was blunt enough that I nearly stumbled.
"...Love?" I repeated carefully.
Neeko's cheeks warmed. "Yes. Love." She waved her hands a bit, searching for the right shape of the word. "Like admiration. Like... hero. Like..." She hesitated, then added, quieter, "Neeko wants to stay near him."
Ah.
That kind of love.
Still intense. Still dangerous, if she wasn't careful.
Neeko's expression tightened like she'd remembered a rival. "But Qiyana keeps hogging him."
There it was.
I breathed out through my nose, amused despite myself. "Qiyana is... persistent."
Neeko sighed as if enduring tragedy. "Neeko knows."
I chose my next words carefully. "Do not... make this harder for him, Neeko. Adriel is tired enough."
Neeko blinked innocently. "Neeko is not making it harder."
The sincerity in her voice was almost convincing.
Almost.
Before I could respond, we entered the mess hall.
The noise hit first—laughter, clinking plates, voices stacked over each other like waves. Then the attention.
A waitress spotted me and went visibly pale.
Not admiration.
Fear.
I recognized it instantly because I'd worn it on other faces for too long.
The girl's hands trembled as she hurried over, like she wasn't sure whether to greet me or flee.
Neeko stepped forward smoothly, taking the reins like she'd done it a hundred times. "Private table, please," she requested with a cheerfulness that made it feel normal.
The waitress nodded too fast and led us toward a quieter section.
As we walked, my gamer system HUD flickered in my peripheral vision—an interface I still wasn't fully used to, even after months.
A message.
From Ace.
Ace: Already ate w/ Peter + 2 champs. Gonna sightsee around Ixtal. Join if you want. We can wait.
I paused, reading it twice, then looked at Neeko.
Neeko's eyes darted to my face, immediately curious. "Message?"
"Ace," I said. "He and Peter are already up. They're going to look around Ixtal."
Neeko's face brightened. "Neeko wants to go!"
I considered it for only a moment.
It wouldn't hurt to bring her. If anything, it might do her good—to be around the others, to feel included, to stop orbiting Adriel like he was her only sun.
"Would you like to join us?" I asked.
Neeko lit up. "Yes! Neeko wants to see Peter and Ace. Neeko hasn't talked to them in a while."
Then it's decided.
We would eat first.
Then meet the others.
Just one more day of quiet before everything turns sharp again.
I don't know how long we'll be allowed to keep this peace. But I intend to hold it—carefully, gratefully—as long as I can.
And perhaps Adriel truly was right to force us to rest.
I'm thankful he did.
To Be Continued...