Komus did not follow him to the docks.
He stopped where Deepcrest's lower streets began to widen, where lanterns hung in uneven rows and the evening market breathed smoke, spice, and voices into the cooling air.
"We'll meet you after," Komus said, nodding toward the heart of town. "There's supposed to be a good pub nearby."
Niriai caught Qaritas's wrist before he could answer.
Their fingers were cool.
Ink spilled from their touch.
Not liquid.
Magic.
It slipped beneath his skin in thin black lines, painless but intimate, curling over the inside of his wrist until it formed a symbol: a door inside a circle.
Qaritas stared at it.
Niriai released him. "Knock three times on any hard surface," they said. "It'll open a portal to us."
Komus glanced at the mark, then at Qaritas. "Emergency exit."
Qaritas swallowed. "You think I'll need one?"
Komus's expression did not soften.
"I think erased names don't hold meetings because they're bored."
Niriai's mouth twitched faintly. "Very comforting."
"I try."
Qaritas almost smiled.
Almost.
Komus touched his shoulder once—brief, firm, grounding.
"Good luck."
Then he and Niriai turned toward Deepcrest's center, disappearing into the flow of lanternlight and evening voices.
Qaritas stood alone.
For one breath.
Then Eon stirred.
Time for the meeting.
The sun had begun to set.
Deepcrest changed at sunset.
The village did not darken. It ignited gently. Lanterns bloomed along bridges and balconies, soft gold and blue and rose, reflecting against the lake until the water looked like someone had spilled stars into it and forgotten to clean up. The canyon walls caught the dying light in their veins, glowing faintly like old wounds remembering warmth.
The docks stretched ahead.
Long.
Quiet.
Waiting.
Qaritas walked toward them with the feeling that every step was already known by something older than him.
He did not want to wait anymore.
Not for answers.
Not for permission.
Not for Eon to decide what he deserved to know.
Whatever Goro wanted, Qaritas would hear it.
And then he would decide what came next.
For once, Eon did not mock him.
That unnerved him more.
Qaritas glanced toward the water, where the last strip of sun bled across the surface.
"What did it feel like?" he asked quietly.
Eon did not answer.
Qaritas kept walking.
"When you ascended. When you became… whatever you became." His voice tightened. "Were you happy? To have power people would dream of?"
Silence.
Then Eon spoke, so quietly it almost didn't sound like him.
No.
Qaritas slowed.
It ruined everything.
The words carried no drama.
No performance.
Just fact.
Then, after a pause—
Until a light came into my life.
Qaritas waited.
Eon said nothing more.
Of course he didn't.
Because Eon did not open doors.
He showed you the lock and made you bleed guessing where the key was hidden.
Qaritas reached the edge of the docks.
The lake moved beneath him in slow black-blue folds. Boats rocked gently against their ropes. Farther down the pier, a few market workers loaded crates with glowing seals stamped across the wood. Somewhere in town, someone laughed too loudly. Somewhere else, music began—low strings, soft drumbeat, something meant for drinking and forgetting.
Then someone sat beside him.
Qaritas turned.
And forgot, for a second, what question he had been carrying.
Xheavend sat at the dock's edge as if she had always been there.
Her black hair fell in soft, weightless layers around her face, framing the impossible mismatch of her eyes—one crimson, glowing like a dying star, the other luminous pink, soft and unnerving as dawn seen through blood. Sunset caught on both and made her look half-real, half-myth.
She wore a sharply tailored black button-up beneath a long white tailcoat trimmed in gold. The coat moved behind her like a ceremonial banner, its oversized cuffs resting elegantly near purple-gloved hands. Gold detailing traced constellations, arcs, and sigils along the fabric, subtle until the light touched them and woke them.
Her pinkish-purple trousers shifted between dusky rose and deep violet with each movement. Black thigh-high boots gleamed like polished obsidian. A black bow sat neat at her collar, almost sweet against the military precision of the rest of her. Around her waist, a purple ribbon-sash flowed lazily, anchoring the rapier at her side.
She looked like she was dressed for a duel, a funeral, and a coronation all at once.
Qaritas blinked.
"You look like you're going somewhere after this."
Xheavend's mouth curved faintly.
"I usually am."
Before he could respond, a presence behind her shifted.
Qaritas glanced past her.
Someone stood there.
Not Goro.
A companion—silent, watchful, dressed in dark travel leathers with a hand resting near a blade. They gave Qaritas a hard look, then a reluctant nod.
Inside Qaritas, Eon laughed.
Still the same.
Qaritas ignored him.
"Before I speak to Goro," Qaritas said, "I need to ask you something."
Xheavend rested her elbows lightly on her knees, looking out over the lake.
"Need company while you ask?"
Her companion's glare sharpened.
She did not look back.
Qaritas hesitated, then asked the question that had followed him since Deepcrest's mouth.
"How are you?"
Xheavend glanced at him.
"Since the divorce," he added carefully. "Since you were coughing blood after Tavran broke the bond."
For a moment, the lake made the only sound.
Then Xheavend smiled.
It was a beautiful smile.
That made it worse.
"I'm fine."
Qaritas didn't believe her.
"Blood and heartbreak have been with me since birth," she said lightly. "You get used to both."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one I have."
Her companion stepped forward, unable to keep silent.
"That is not true, my lady."
Xheavend's eyes narrowed slightly.
The companion continued anyway, brave or foolish enough to ignore the warning.
"There are Ascendants and mortals across worlds who speak of you with nothing but reverence. You are in their myths. Their prayers. Their songs." Their voice softened, but did not weaken. "They call you the most selfless being they know."
Xheavend looked away.
The companion pressed on.
"None of them could have endured what Yzer did to you. None of them could have killed him afterward. You saved the 1990th Universe. You protected the Third. You are not a curse."
A pause.
"Far from it."
Xheavend's fingers tightened around the dock's edge.
The wood creaked.
"That didn't save Kyrian," she whispered.
The name landed cold.
Her face changed.
Not visibly.
Not enough for someone who didn't know grief to notice.
But Qaritas noticed.
Because grief recognized itself.
"That's why I'm here," she said. "We need to be prepared to kill Eirisa. Killing a Fragment is not simple." Her pink eye flicked toward Qaritas. "And the cost of doing it is greater than most survive."
Eon moved before Qaritas could stop him.
His voice came from Qaritas's mouth, smooth and low.
"What is the cost?"
Xheavend went very still.
For one breath, even the lake seemed to stop moving.
Then she turned her face toward him.
Not afraid.
Measured.
"Not here."
Eon studied her through Qaritas's eyes.
Xheavend studied him back.
Then, just as suddenly, she looked at Qaritas again—past Eon, through Eon, as if she knew exactly where the boy had been shoved inside his own skin.
"How would you feel," she asked, "about traveling with me?"
Qaritas blinked as control returned.
"What?"
"I have errands to collect across several worlds," she said. "Old doctors. Forbidden libraries. Places that don't put their cures in polite books." A pause. "We can search for a way to bring Ayla back while gathering information on Eirisa."
Qaritas stared at her.
He had expected strategy.
Warnings.
Maybe threats.
Not help.
"Why?" he asked.
Xheavend's expression softened.
Not pity.
Recognition.
"Because I know what it is like when a Fragment takes everything you care about," she said. "In any shape. In any form."
Her voice stayed steady.
That made it worse.
"They play with you like a toy. Break you down little by little. Strip away the parts that still answer to your own name." Her gaze lowered to the lake. "Until you are mindless. Useful. Quiet."
Qaritas said nothing.
"But I also know what it is like to take it back," she continued. "To stand up with the pieces still inside you and choose to protect someone else anyway."
She looked at him then.
Fully.
"That is what it means to be an Ascendant. Not power. Not worship. Not survival." Her eyes burned. "Protection."
Something cracked quietly inside Qaritas.
Because she was standing there with her own wounds hidden under white and gold, offering to help him carry his.
He realized two things.
First: something terrible had happened to her.
Something worse than he knew.
Second: she was suppressing something.
Not emotion.
Not pain.
Something else.
Something living beneath the skin of her calm.
He opened his mouth.
Xheavend smiled faintly.
"Ask."
Qaritas swallowed.
"How did you kill a Fragment?"
The air changed.
Not wind.
Intent.
Cold, vicious, ancient intent curled through the dock like something had opened one red eye beneath the water.
Xheavend's smile disappeared.
For one heartbeat, Qaritas saw it—
not Xheavend the sister.
Not Xheavend the wounded.
The Apocalypse.
Then a voice spoke from behind her.
"Why, little prince, Goro is the one who summoned you. Ignoring him is a little rude."
Qaritas stiffened.
Eon burst into laughter inside his skull.
How did you not notice him?
Qaritas turned slowly.
A figure stood behind Xheavend.
Eight feet tall.
Humanoid.
Serpentine.
Goro.
His body was a seamless fusion of snake and lizard, sleek yet unnervingly regal, built for grace and sudden violence. Amethyst-black scales rippled over him like shattered nebulae forged into living armor, catching the sunset in fractured glints that made him seem carved from the cosmos.
At rest, he had only two eyes.
Pitch-black sclera.
Molten gold irises.
Patient.
Predatory.
Wise.
He wore a sleeveless black waistcoat trimmed in deep purple, open over a scaled chest. A black cloth draped around his waist to his knees, secured with a golden leather belt and an oval black buckle. Purple trousers tied below the knee with black ribbons. A thick black wristband circled his left wrist. Black open-toed sandals revealed clawed, careful feet.
His presence did not shout.
It suffocated gently.
Like a strike that had already decided the ending.
Xheavend glanced over her shoulder. "He was being sincere."
"I know," Goro said.
His voice was calm.
Almost fond.
"That's why I let him finish."
Qaritas looked between them.
"You were standing there the whole time?"
Goro's mouth curved.
"Longer."
Eon laughed again.
Xheavend stood, brushing nonexistent dust from her coat.
"I know doctors in several worlds," she told Qaritas, as if a giant serpent had not been silently looming behind them. "Think about my offer."
Her gaze shifted toward the street leading down to the docks.
"But I'll leave you with Goro. Seems I have visitors."
Qaritas followed her gaze.
Three figures came toward them first.
Dheas.
Tavran.
Rivax.
Dheas called out before they reached her.
"Well, if you didn't disappear, we wouldn't have to look for you."
Xheavend did not move.
But Qaritas saw it.
The grief.
The anger.
The longing.
Dheas slowed when he reached her.
"End," he said softly. "Are you still mad at us?"
The nickname broke something in the air.
Xheavend looked at him.
Then Tavran.
Then Rivax.
For a moment, she looked painfully young.
Then she said, "Yes."
Dheas winced.
Rivax exhaled.
Tavran's face fell.
Xheavend looked back at the lake.
"But you can come underwater with me," she added. "If you'll have me."
A smile spread across Dheas's face before he could stop it.
Rivax laughed under his breath.
Tavran looked like someone had handed him his sister back in pieces and he intended to hold every one.
"Always," Tavran whispered.
Then another voice called from farther up the dock.
"Does that include us?"
Tavran went still.
His lips parted.
"Varin?"
The man who strode into view looked like war forced into ceremony and already regretting the restraint.
Broad-shouldered, scarred across jaw, collar, and chest, Varin wore layered black cloth bound over one shoulder and left open over skin carved with old violence. His black hair fell rough and untamed, streaked with ember-pink like fire had burned through him and stayed. His eyes were not gentle pink.
They were red.
Or close enough to make no difference.
The fabric around him was dark as voidstone, threaded with ember-pink veins that flickered with his temper. Weapons hung at his waist—not decorative, not ceremonial, but eager.
His boots hit the dock with weight.
Not footsteps.
Warnings.
Behind him came a second figure, breathless but smiling.
"Varin," the man said, "did you have to run like an idiot after fifty years?"
Tavran's voice cracked. "Icardà."
Icardà smiled at him like the world had not stolen five decades.
"Hello, big brother."
He carried stillness the way others carried weapons.
Dark hair fell in soft deliberate waves, catching light with a silver-rose sheen. One visible eye glowed rose-gold, warm and kind; the other rested beneath a clean white patch. His pale layered clothes moved like softened light around him, immaculate but gentle.
There was no tension in him.
Only warmth.
The kind that made the world remember it did not have to hurt forever.
"And both of you," said a third voice, precise and cool, "are behaving like beasts."
Varin barely had time to turn before a gloved hand struck the back of his head.
"Ow—Rezorin!"
"No reason," Rezorin said. "I simply thought you deserved it."
Tavran whispered his name like a prayer.
"Rezorin."
Rezorin did not enter a space.
He corrected it.
Obsidian hair lay immaculate, every strand denied chaos. Bright polished pink eyes reflected everything and forgave nothing. He wore a crisp white shirt beneath a dark blue striped vest, sharp black trousers, pristine white spats, and a large blue bow tie centered with mathematical perfection. His long oversized black coat rested around him like a statement, one shoulder artfully slipped, wide collar framing him like a portrait that refused to behave.
Black gloves covered his hands, claws set neatly into the fingertips.
Surgical.
Intentional.
Perfect.
Tavran ran at them.
All three.
The hug was violent.
Varin grunted.
Icardà laughed.
Rezorin sighed like affection was an inconvenience he had allowed only because it was family.
Xheavend smiled.
Small.
Real.
Qaritas had never seen her look like that.
"These are my and Tavran's brothers," she said. "Protectors of the Third Universe."
She gestured.
"Rezorin, Ascendant of Pride and Perfection. Varin, Ascendant of Wrath. Icardà, Ascendant of Healing."
Rivax grinned. "Guess Xhea brought you three here for a visit?"
"No," Icardà said. "Xhea told me there was a patient who needed my help."
His rose-gold eye flicked toward Qaritas.
"Ayla."
Qaritas's breath caught.
"The other two," Icardà continued, "wanted to see Mother and Father."
Varin snorted. "Don't pretend you're noble. You wanted a break from work."
Icardà turned red. "Says the man who got stabbed with a quill by his beloved after she found out you took a job wiping out a black market last week."
"She forgave me when she found out they had our descendants," Varin said smugly. "So shhh."
"I should cut you into forty pieces and scatter you across the universes."
Varin grinned. "Aw. Cute you think you can."
Rezorin looked at Tavran.
"Are you sure you missed us?"
Tavran laughed.
Then hugged them harder.
Qaritas watched all of it in stunned silence.
Inside him, Eon was quiet.
Then, softly—
Interesting group.
Qaritas swallowed.
"They love each other."
Yes, Eon murmured.
A pause.
Reminds me of my beloved.
Qaritas froze.
Your what?
Before he could ask, Varin was suddenly in front of him.
Too close.
"So," Varin said, leaning in. "You're the one our sister decided to protect."
Qaritas held very still.
Varin studied him.
"Not the worst Horseman she's found."
"Horseman?" Qaritas asked.
Varin grinned. "Beings meant to stop the apocalypse in their worlds. You're looking at three of the Horsemen of the Third Universe."
Qaritas looked at Tavran.
"You're the fourth?"
Tavran shrugged. "Technically."
"Technically," Rezorin said, "because he likes pretending titles are optional."
Rivax jumped into the lake.
The splash drenched half the dock.
"Are we training," he called, "or have you three gotten sloppy?"
Varin's grin turned feral.
He leapt after him.
Icardà sighed, then followed.
Rezorin removed his coat with care, folded it perfectly, handed it to Tavran, then stepped into the water as if even lakes should behave around him.
Dheas jumped next.
Tavran went after them laughing.
Xheavend watched them, something aching and bright in her face.
"This reminds me of the night we went to the Third Universe to save you," Varin shouted from the water.
"Only with less fear," Icardà called.
Rezorin's voice carried, calm and sharp. "And slightly more noise."
Varin looked toward Xheavend. "Where is your pathetic excuse of an ex-husband? I'd like to put him in a well-deserved grave after seeing the state you were in for twenty thousand years."
Qaritas stiffened.
"Twenty thousand?"
Tavran, already in the water, looked back. "Time works differently in each universe. Fifty years here can be days in one place. Or twenty thousand somewhere else."
Qaritas stared at Xheavend.
She did not explain.
She simply smiled sadly.
Then dove into the lake after her family.
For a moment, the docks became something Qaritas had not expected.
Not war.
Not destiny.
Not strategy.
Family.
Messy.
Loud.
Alive.
Goro watched the water with a warm expression.
"Have fun, boys," Xheavend called from the lake before vanishing under the surface.
Goro lifted one clawed hand.
"Call if you need me, little lady."
Then the serpent turned to Qaritas.
The warmth did not vanish.
But it deepened into something ancient.
Eon moved forward.
This time Qaritas did not fight him.
Eon took the body gently.
Almost reverently.
"Thank you," Eon said, voice low. "For helping us, my friend."
Goro sat where Xheavend had been.
"It has been a long time, my king."
Eon smiled.
Not cruelly.
Not sharply.
Genuinely.
Then he stood and embraced Goro.
Qaritas felt it.
The way Eon's arms tightened.
The way Goro lowered his head against him.
The way something old and broken moved between them without words.
A tear slipped down Qaritas's face.
Eon's tear.
"I thought," Goro said quietly, "you would never be free from your father's grasp."
Eon said nothing.
But Qaritas felt a conversation happening in silence.
Something he was not allowed to hear.
Something older than trust.
Older than grief.
Then Goro's molten eyes shifted inward somehow.
Toward Qaritas.
"It is nice to see you again, young prince."
Qaritas seized the opening and pushed forward.
Control returned.
"How do you know me?"
Goro laughed softly.
A deep, scaled sound.
"We will have to wait for that answer."
"That doesn't make sense," Qaritas said. "I didn't awaken until the 2000th Universe."
Goro smiled.
"Then I suppose we would have run into each other sooner if you had."
That did not answer anything.
Qaritas narrowed his eyes.
Goro only looked back toward the lake, where Xheavend and her brothers had vanished beneath the glowing water.
"I am grateful she is back," he said. "I have known Xheavend since she was nine years old."
His voice softened.
"She was always running toward the fire before anyone else smelled smoke."
Qaritas looked at him.
"You think I should travel with her."
"I do."
"Why?"
"Because she will teach you what power cannot." Goro's gaze sharpened. "And because killing a Fragment requires more than strength. It requires knowledge, sacrifice, timing… and a willingness to survive what victory takes from you."
Ayla's face flashed through Qaritas's mind.
Broken.
Still.
Barely breathing.
"But Ayla," Qaritas whispered.
Goro's expression did not change.
But his voice gentled.
"Trust Icardà."
Qaritas swallowed.
"He can help her?"
"He can begin the process," Goro said. "Recovery is not a door. It is a road. But he knows how to find the first stone."
The first stone.
That was more than Qaritas had yesterday.
It was almost enough to hurt.
Goro stood, stretching to his full height.
"Now, excuse me."
Qaritas blinked. "Where are you going?"
Goro's molten eyes glinted.
"Poison is calling me."
Then he turned toward Deepcrest's lights, toward the night market, toward the kind of pub that apparently served venom strong enough for old kings and erased serpents.
At the end of the dock, Qaritas stood alone again.
But not the same kind of alone.
Behind him, laughter erupted from the lake as Varin shouted something insulting and someone—probably Rezorin—threatened to drown him with elegance.
Ahead, Goro walked into Deepcrest like history wearing scales.
Inside Qaritas, Eon was silent.
Not withholding.
Remembering.
And somewhere beneath the dock, the lake rippled once.
Not from the swimmers.
From something deeper.
Something that had heard Goro call him prince.
And had believed him.