Chapter 211 – What the Drawing Meant
The door closed with a gentle click.
Alex stood in the silence that followed, his hands resting briefly on the handle before falling back to his sides. He wasn't sure what to make of the strange guest who had just left. Vira Sunleaf. Elven nobility, most likely — high-ranking, if her presence meant anything. Elegant, controlled, and oddly persistent.
She had challenged him to a game he couldn't remember learning. A game he had apparently mastered as a child.
And won again.
He moved into the living room and sat down slowly. The sigils from the game had long since vanished, but the feeling remained — the echo of thought, the quiet rhythm of strategies unfolding in his mind as naturally as breathing.
His fingers tapped the glass of the tea table.
"…Strange."
He wasn't left alone for long.
The front door opened with a soft hum. Light footsteps entered.
"Alex?" came a familiar voice.
He looked over his shoulder.
Alice stepped into the living room, setting her shoes aside. She wore a light jacket and carried a bag of groceries. Her expression softened when she saw him, but then her brow furrowed slightly.
"…You look like you just lost an argument."
He gave a short exhale. "More like won one. Kind of."
She tilted her head. "You okay?"
Alex leaned back. "Yeah. Just… had a visitor."
Alice blinked. "Visitor?"
"High Elf. Named Vira Sunleaf. Said she knew me from when we were kids."
That gave her pause.
Alice's hands stilled on the bag. "Did you?"
He shook his head. "Not at all. She seemed surprised by that."
A moment passed.
Alice walked quietly over to the sofa and sat down across from him. "Hanabi and Airi?"
"They're out. Hanabi's caught up with the Organization again — something about a rogue hunt. Airi went home to help her grandfather. Said it was personal."
"And Morgan? Ciel?"
Alex lifted his hand and turned it slightly. The delicate symbol etched on his skin shimmered faintly in response — the dormant magic that represented their presence pulsing once before settling again.
"They're asleep. It's how they stay close when we're not doing anything."
Alice nodded.
The room grew quiet again.
She studied his face carefully. Then she asked — too casually — "Did she say anything else?"
Alex shrugged. "Something about a drawing. Said I sketched armor like the one from that sky fortress years ago. She said I showed it to her. I don't really remember."
Alice's expression didn't change.
Not much.
But he saw something behind her eyes.
A flicker.
She stood.
"I'll get dinner started," she said lightly, walking toward the kitchen.
Alex watched her go, narrowing his eyes slightly.
He knew her well enough to know when she was hiding something.
But he didn't press.
Not yet.
Later that night, long after he'd gone to bed, Alice moved quietly through the house. The lights were off. Her steps made no sound. She slipped into the storage room — a quiet corner where a box of old belongings was still kept. Childhood things. Paper and crayon sketches. Photographs. Trinkets.
She pulled out a folder and opened it.
Inside were drawings.
Many of them.
Alex's.
Some messy, some precise.
And several of them—
Armor.
Unmistakable.
Detailed.
Refined.
She stared at the one in the middle — a tall figure standing atop a floating ring of platforms, twin wings shaped like unfolding lances. A fortress in orbit. A sword of starlight.
It wasn't a child's imagination.
It was memory.
Foreshadowing.
Instinct.
Alice exhaled, her breath caught somewhere between pride and dread.
"…You really don't remember, do you?"
She ran a finger down the edge of the page.
"And maybe that's for the best."
But she knew one thing:
Vira remembering him wasn't the problem.
It was Alex not remembering her — or himself — that would be the spark.
And somewhere, deep in her gut, she knew that this was only the beginning.
The portal shimmered shut behind her, sealing the boundary between Earth and the realm of her birth. The air changed — sharper, purer, thick with luminous mana and the scent of ancient blossoms. She stepped onto pale marble, her boots clicking softly as she crossed the threshold into her private chambers deep within the Sunleaf Court, nestled in the high boughs of Alfheim's endless forest.
Vira stood before the mirrored glass, hands clasped behind her back, her reflection faint and golden in the window.
Her cloak was off.
Her expression, for once, unguarded.
And the cold behind her eyes had deepened.
She had lost.
Again.
He hadn't remembered her. Hadn't even hesitated. He had sat down across from her, listened to her rules, nodded politely — and beat her without effort.
Just like before.
Even with all her preparation. All her training. All her noble pride and perfect calculation.
He hadn't needed memories to defeat her.
She whispered his name to herself. "Alex…"
But this time, there was no edge of contempt in it.
Only calculation.
And something else she couldn't quite name.
She turned from the window and approached a small table beside her bed. Upon it sat two objects: the drawing — the original, preserved and reinforced so it would never fade — and a fresh board for Lunecraft.
She picked up the drawing first.
Ran a finger along its edge.
She had watched him become a man — not in physical form, but in the way he moved. In how he thought, how he acted. He wasn't mortal anymore. Not truly. Something had changed.
Something had been buried.
Something even he didn't know.
She had come to mock him.
Now, she wanted answers.
And revenge.
And something else she refused to name.
Vira set the drawing down and tapped the Lunecraft board.
Sigils flared to life again.
Silent.
Challenging.
She would study this game until its every echo was hers. Learn his patterns. Break them. Reshape them.
She would not leave this realm until she was ready.
Until she could face him again.
And this time—
She would win.
The door sealed behind her with a whisper of magic, responding only to her presence. The soft crystalline glow of the wall runes dimmed to a gentle radiance, mirroring the hues of her fluctuating mood. The chamber was vast but not ostentatious — Vira's rooms were not filled with meaningless ornamentation like some of her elder sisters'. Everything was deliberate, elegant in its restraint.
The walls were grown from living wood infused with moonstone, smooth and pale as frost-dusted birch. A floating shelf lined with intricate sigil-books curved around one side. Near the center, a shallow sunken basin of enchanted water rippled endlessly, projecting constellations across the arched ceiling. Silver blossoms from the nightbloom tree outside drifted in through the open archway, carried on the hush of wind that smelled like starlight and rain.
Her bed — draped in veils of translucent green silk and woven with threads of starlace — remained untouched. She had not slept. She could not.
She walked past it and stood before her sigil board again.
The drawing lay on the table.
Still there.
Still mocking her.
The same drawing he'd made when they were six — of armor far too precise for a child, and now terrifyingly close to the design of the fortress that saved the world.
Vira touched the edge of the paper, her gloved fingers lingering there.
He didn't remember her.
But he had remembered this.
And he had carried it forward. Not consciously, perhaps, but deeply. Like the dream of a god that never left.
She was shaking.
Not with anger.
But with something she could not allow herself to name.
Then came the knock.
Soft, musical, chiming like crystal struck by wind.
Her eyes narrowed.
Only attendants knocked like that. Royal family would enter without announcement.
"Enter," she said, her voice like polished glass.
A young elf in ceremonial emerald stepped in, eyes low, posture reverent.
"Your Highness," the girl said carefully, "Her Radiance, the Lady Freyja, requests your presence. A gathering of all noble-born daughters and royal family members has been called."
Vira turned, cold light catching her eyes.
"What for?"
"She did not say, Your Highness. Only that it was urgent. Every sister and cousin has been summoned. Even the Lady Elanwe from the distant grove has returned."
Vira was quiet for a moment.
Then nodded once.
"Very well. Prepare my formal mantle."
"Yes, my lady."
As the girl bowed and hurried away, Vira stood in the silence again — but this time, her expression was different. Sharper.
Meetings with all the royal daughters were rare.
If Freyja was calling everyone, it wasn't just for politics.
Something was shifting.
And Vira hated being the last to understand.
But she would not remain behind for long.
Not in this.
Not in anything.
The Hall of Blossoming Echoes had quieted. The noble daughters had been dismissed, their silken steps fading down mirrored corridors like the petals of a fading storm. Only two figures remained beneath the living dome — Freyja, the goddess of beauty and war, and Queen Ao of Alfheim, draped in deep green regalia laced with living runes.
They stood in silence for a moment, neither eager to speak first.
Then, at last, it was Ao who broke it.
"She was silent."
Freyja's gaze flicked toward her. "Yes."
"You think she's hiding something?"
"I know she is."
Ao's jaw tensed, her hands clasped behind her back. "She's always been prideful. She inherited too much of me."
"Which is precisely why you're worried."
Ao's eyes narrowed, gold flashing faintly. "Don't presume to know my thoughts, goddess."
Freyja smiled faintly. "I don't have to. I've known you since before you crowned yourself."
That earned a brief, reluctant smirk from the Elf Queen — sharp and vanishing.
They stood in silence again. The great flowering throne behind Freyja rustled faintly, as if listening.
"…She's no longer a child," Ao said quietly. "But she still carries that wound. That loss."
"The boy?" Freyja asked, voice even.
Ao didn't answer. Not directly.
Instead, she said, "He defeated her. Not just once. Not just in games. He broke her belief that she could always win. And that… frightened her."
"She remembers him, then."
Ao nodded. "She's never forgotten. She speaks his name in her sleep sometimes. Though I doubt she realizes it."
Freyja folded her arms. "You should have told me sooner."
"I wasn't certain until recently. And by the time I was… she was already preparing to descend."
"You've never tried to stop her?"
"She is my daughter," Ao said firmly. "Not my possession."
Freyja looked at her for a long moment. "And yet you're considering giving her to that… wretched thing in the northern courts."
Ao's eyes hardened. "I did not agree to the arrangement. It was suggested. And now the pressure grows."
"That godling doesn't want a wife. He wants a jewel to lock in his treasury."
"I know." Her voice was low now. "He sees her as a trophy. A crown to wear when speaking to other pantheons. He called her 'the final proof of my status.'"
Freyja stepped closer. "And yet you hesitate."
"Because refusing him means war."
Freyja's voice was like a whisper of iron. "Then let there be war."
Ao's jaw tightened. "Easy for you to say. You are a goddess. I command one court. If I provoke a divine conflict without cause, it won't be you they punish."
Freyja looked at her friend — the woman so feared, so arrogant, so unyielding — and saw the quiet lines of dread beneath her beauty.
"You're afraid," she said softly.
Ao didn't deny it.
"I've lived through a thousand political marriages," she said. "But not this time. Not her. If she's going to give herself to someone — let it be her choice. Not mine. Not his. Not anyone's."
"She already has someone in mind, doesn't she?" Freyja asked gently.
Ao looked away.
Then finally whispered:
"…She just doesn't know it yet."
Freyja turned toward the moon-glass window behind her throne. The branches of Alfheim shimmered beyond it, constellations pulsing faintly between the leaves.
She didn't speak for several seconds.
Then, quietly, she said, "I will handle the northern courts."
Ao's eyes narrowed. "You would intervene?"
Freyja shook her head once. "Not officially. Not loudly. But I can tangle their petitions in review. Tie up the diplomatic channels. Encourage some… internal friction. Enough to slow the process."
Ao crossed her arms. "You'd risk divine scrutiny for my daughter?"
Freyja's voice was soft. "For our daughters."
Ao looked at her — truly looked — and then turned away, just slightly.
"…She won't thank you," the Elf Queen said.
"I know."
"She'll think you doubted her strength."
"I do," Freyja replied, "but not her strength. Only her timing."
Ao let out a breath — something between a laugh and a sigh.
"You haven't changed."
"I've simply seen too many children given to gods who wanted statues, not partners."
A silence settled between them again. But this one was gentler.
"I can give her time," Freyja said at last. "But I can't give her peace."
"She wouldn't take it anyway."
"No," Freyja agreed. "She wouldn't."
She reached out and touched the air, drawing a small sigil in glowing light — a letter folded in wind, drifting toward the divine bureaucracy that governed inter-pantheon marriage inquiries. It would not cancel anything.
But it would buy them weeks.
Maybe months.
Enough for Vira to meet him again.
To lose again.
Or win.
But most of all, to choose.
As the sigil vanished into the ether, Freyja turned back to her old friend and said, "Let her chase her pride."
Ao smiled faintly.
"And what if her pride chases her into ruin?"
Freyja's eyes shone like dusklit steel.
"Then we will be there to carry her back."
Chapter 213 – Recognition
The morning sun filtered through a thin curtain of mist outside Alex's window, tracing soft lines across the floorboards. It was quiet in the house — quieter than usual. Hanabi and Airi were still away, caught up in their respective duties. Morgan and Ciel, as always when resting, remained sealed within the twin sigils on the back of Alex's hand — faint and warm, like sleeping breaths made of magic.
He sat at the kitchen table, flipping through a book he barely read, sipping tea that had long gone lukewarm.
He had a strange feeling again.
Not anxiety.
Just… inevitability.
Then—
A knock.
Two beats.
Measured. Elegant.
Alex looked up, blinking once.
"…Not again."
He opened the door.
And there she was.
Vira Sunleaf. Again.
Same poise. Same perfect posture. But something had changed. Her eyes no longer held the cold curiosity of a noble girl indulging an old memory.
Now they burned with clarity.
"May I come in?" she asked, voice light as ever.
Alex hesitated. Then stepped aside.
They sat across from each other once more — the same table, same silence between them, but this time it didn't feel like a game.
It felt like a confrontation.
"I won't be long," Vira said. "But there's something I need to say. Something you need to hear."
Alex raised an eyebrow. "Alright."
Vira placed something on the table.
A photograph.
Old. Creased. Preserved by magic.
It was the same picture she'd brought before — a drawing. A boy's drawing of armor.
Black. Sharp. Functional. Silent. The very design that had obliterated twenty thousand meteorites above the Earth in under a minute.
Alex stared at it.
"I remember this," he said. "I drew it when I was a kid. But I don't remember why."
Vira didn't blink.
"It's not a coincidence," she said quietly. "I thought it might be. But it's not."
Alex looked up.
Her voice sharpened. "The man in the armor. The one who erased the corruption meteors. Who defeated a world-ending entity in Antarctica in seconds. Who stood alone against fate."
A pause.
"That was you."
The words hit like thunder — not loud, but unignorable.
Alex opened his mouth.
Closed it.
And then, finally, gave the only response he could muster.
"…No."
Vira's gaze didn't waver.
"I'm not—" he began.
"You are," she said firmly. "And you don't even know how much."
He tried again, slower. "I don't remember ever wearing armor. Or being there. Or even how—"
"Because something has hidden it from you," she said. "Or perhaps you've hidden it from yourself. But I've played games with you before, Alex. I've studied how your mind works. The way you think. The way you move. The fortress, the blade, the silence — it's the same pattern. The same you."
Alex looked back down at the drawing.
His own drawing.
It didn't feel like fantasy.
Not anymore.
Vira leaned forward, golden eyes intense.
"Skuld is watching you now."
He blinked. "Who?"
"The youngest Norn," she said. "A goddess of fate who only smiles when things are about to fall apart. She sees no future for you. No past. Nothing but black. And now? She's interested."
"…Why?"
"Because you don't exist on the threads," she said softly. "Because you are the break in fate."
Alex swallowed.
"I came here for revenge," Vira continued. "For pride. But now I see… you're not just the boy who beat me at a game."
She stood.
"You're the one who isn't supposed to be possible."
The silence returned.
But this time, it wasn't peaceful.
It was loaded.
Vira walked toward the door.
Before she opened it, she paused.
"And one last thing," she said without turning. "Don't try to run from this. You'll only prove me right."
Then she was gone.
And Alex sat alone — staring at a drawing he'd made as a child.
A design that came from nowhere.
A memory that didn't feel like memory.
And the cold, rising certainty that something inside him had begun to wake up.
The teleportation gate was ready.
Vira stepped onto the quiet hilltop where she had arrived hours earlier, her cloak brushing the grass. The wind was calm. Her thoughts were anything but.
The conversation with Alex replayed in her mind over and over again — the drawing, the denial, the confusion, the subtle fear behind his eyes when she mentioned Skuld.
He didn't know what he was.
And yet…
Everything about him was exactly what the Norns feared — and what the gods now hunted.
She reached toward the air, beginning to form the rune that would return her to Alfheim.
But the wind shifted.
It turned golden.
Then hot.
Light broke around her like a silent explosion — not from the sun above, but from the sky itself, warping with divine power. Sunbeams took shape, becoming a chariot of gold and fire. The air grew oppressive.
And then—
He appeared.
Apollo.
The god of prophecy. Of music. Of sunlight. Radiant, handsome, his golden hair flowing behind him like woven flame. He stepped down from his chariot as if gravity existed only to obey him.
Vira didn't flinch.
But her fingers curled inward.
"A strange place for a princess to wander alone," he said, his voice smooth as honeyed harpstrings. "I was told you were avoiding me, dear Vira. Is that true?"
Vira stood straight. "I go where I choose. That should answer your question."
Apollo smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"You're even more exquisite in mortal light," he murmured. "It suits you. Fragile... exposed... rare."
She didn't respond.
He stepped closer.
"I've already prepared a place for you," he continued casually. "A garden woven of star-pearls. You'll like it. There's music every hour. And dancers who perform only for us."
"I am not your prize."
"No," he said. "You're more than that."
His hand moved faster than her eyes could follow.
A flash of gold.
A binding rune ignited beneath her feet — ancient, celestial, forbidden. The teleportation array she had begun collapsed under interference.
Vira tried to raise her hand, to summon the vines, but the air choked around her.
He whispered, "You are the final ornament."
And then—
The light consumed her.
She vanished into his sun.
Gone.
Chapter 214 – When Light Burns Wrong
It began with silence.
Not the ordinary kind — not hesitation, not pause. But a wrongness in the flow of mana itself, like a string of the World Tree suddenly slackened, plucked too hard and gone silent.
Freyja froze mid-sentence.
She had been in a garden hall of polished starlight, speaking with emissaries from Vanaheim's western edge — a polite formality, a discussion of leyline migration. But the moment the silence struck, she felt it. A tear. A pull. A wrong pulse in the pattern she had spent millennia listening to.
She turned.
At the same time, across the inner sanctum of Alfheim, Queen Ao staggered — just slightly.
She was in her private sanctum, surrounded by floating sigils of bloodline resonance. The throne of woven ivy, ancient and conscious, glowed dimly beside her. Her connection to her daughters pulsed constantly in the background of her mind — gentle heartbeats of presence.
Until Vira's flickered.
Then flared.
Then—
Vanished.
Her eyes widened.
The air around her cracked like dried bark underfoot.
She rose without a word.
A second later, a spellform shimmered in the air beside her — Freyja's presence.
"Ao," the goddess said, no pleasantries.
"I felt it," Ao replied sharply. "Vira is gone."
"Not dead."
"No. Worse. Taken."
They stared at each other — not physically, but through the projection, layered in ancient friendship and mutual fury.
"I am tracing the disruption," Freyja said. "The dimensional gate collapsed — intercepted."
Ao's voice darkened, sharper than ice. "Which pantheon?"
"I don't know yet."
"Find out."
Freyja hesitated — then whispered:
"…I have a guess."
Ao's expression became stone.
"Say it."
Freyja closed her eyes.
"Apollo."
The name echoed in the chamber like poison.
Ao said nothing.
Then her throne withered.
Leaves curled into ash.
Her aura flared — no longer calm, no longer regal.
Only mother.
Freyja's voice followed, low and dangerous: "He has forgotten that beauty is not his to claim."
Ao's reply came through clenched teeth.
"Then remind him."
The missive took only a moment to craft — but its weight shook the leyline gates of Olympus.
Freyja's sigil glowed in cold silver and blue, lined with thorns of royal elven glyphs. Queen Ao's signature came layered beneath, entwined in spiraling ivy and flame. The message was short.
"Return Vira Sunleaf immediately.
Or this alliance will end in war and wildfire."
It needed no further elaboration.
They knew where to send it.
And who it was for.
The scene shifted.
High above mortal eyes, within the immortal heights of Mount Olympus, golden halls glistened with myth and pride. In a private council chamber built of sky marble and burning cloudglass, the Olympian gods sat — not in ceremony, but in uneasy conversation.
Apollo had not arrived yet.
But his name already hung in the air like a fragrance no one wanted to claim.
Hera, draped in regality and judgment, was the first to speak. "Has he truly done it again?"
Ares scoffed from his seat near the flame altar. "Of course he has. He doesn't see women. He sees victory conditions."
Dionysus sipped from a jeweled cup, lounging sideways. "He sees reflections. Pretty ones. Doesn't care what they think back."
Hermes appeared upside-down in the air above them, one leg hooked lazily over a floating pillar. "He was whispering about the elven princess a few days ago. Said she was 'ripe for ascension.' I nearly threw up my sandals."
"Why didn't you stop him?" Athena asked, her voice flat.
"Because I enjoy breathing," Hermes muttered. "And also because he said it was 'already arranged.'"
Demeter leaned forward. "He's used that phrase before. 'Arranged.' That was the same excuse he gave for that nymph in Thessaly."
A tense silence followed.
Then Hera, voice steely, added, "This isn't a marriage. It's a ritual. A claiming. Like plucking a flower and declaring it sacred. He's done it before. He'll do it again."
Artemis stood quietly near the back, arms crossed, gaze like a silent winter. "And this time he's taken someone whose court won't be silent."
All eyes turned.
Athena nodded once. "Freyja and Ao are not mortals. They won't plead. They'll retaliate."
Poseidon rumbled low from his obsidian throne. "Then we best ensure it doesn't escalate."
The doors opened.
A burst of radiant light preceded him.
Apollo walked in.
Smiling.
Unafraid.
As always.
And completely, infuriatingly certain that he had done nothing wrong.
Apollo walked into the chamber like he belonged in the center of every myth ever written — golden, radiant, casually divine. His robe was open at the chest, his sandals polished like starlight, and his smile brighter than any halo.
"Apollo," Hera began, voice curt, "we've received a demand from Alfheim."
"I expected nothing less," he said smoothly, striding toward the central dais. "Their princess is… spirited."
"You kidnapped her," Athena said flatly.
Apollo tilted his head. "I liberated her from indecision."
Hermes groaned and floated downward. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"
"I offered her eternity," Apollo said. "A place in a garden designed for gods. For me. She is beautiful enough to warrant it."
Artemis, his twin, stood with eyes cold as a moonless sky. "You didn't ask her."
"She's too proud to see the gift for what it is."
"And too unwilling to be owned," Hera snapped. "You can't take royalty from another realm and expect silence."
Apollo's golden eyes glinted, unfazed. "Let them roar. She'll understand eventually. They always do."
Poseidon's rumble rolled through the marble. "You're inviting war with Freyja and Ao. You know what that means."
"I do," he said. "And I am not concerned."
"Of course you're not," Dionysus muttered. "You never are. Until the arrows are already in your back."
Athena stood. "Let her go."
"No," Apollo said, the smile finally fading from his lips. "She belongs with me."
A long, cold silence.
They all knew it.
Apollo would not yield.
Not now.
Not until something stronger broke the illusion of his right to take.
Far away — in a realm of pure light, beneath skies sculpted to reflect eternal noon — Vira awoke.
She lay on silk woven from solar strands, surrounded by golden vines that sang softly when touched. A pool of mirrored light shimmered nearby, reflecting the impossible perfection of a false sky.
Her wrists were free.
But her magic was not.
She stood, slowly, eyes narrowing. Her surroundings were flawless — pristine gardens, curated harmony — but soulless. The place reeked of performance, like a stage dressed in divinity.
She touched her throat.
No collar.
No shackles.
Just one truth:
This was a gilded cage.
Her golden eyes flashed.
And for the first time in her life, the third princess of Alfheim realized what it meant to be claimed.
But she was no mortal maiden.
And she would not be kept.
Chapter 215 – The Golden Cage
The garden was endless.
And fake.
Every leaf shimmered in perfection, untouched by insects or decay. The wind was programmed — gentle, warm, never too strong. Even the birdsong, sweet and constant, followed a rhythm. A lullaby without soul.
Vira moved through it like a knife through silk.
She had been here three days, if time even passed properly in this divine pocket realm. There was no sunrise. No sunset. Just light. Always light. Blinding and false.
Her magic had returned gradually — carefully, in layers. She had been cautious not to draw attention, reshaping her inner weave one sigil at a time.
This morning, she found a weakness in the warding grid — near the statue of Apollo that towered above a silver lake. An oversight. Or perhaps arrogance.
Either way, it was enough.
Vira pressed her hand against the marble beneath the pool, and a hidden glyph flared.
The light twisted.
A seam in the reality cracked open.
And she ran.
Through golden mists.
Through folding geometry and burning air.
She ran until the false sky began to darken — until she was almost out.
Until—
He was there.
Apollo.
Radiant.
Unsmiling.
"You disappoint me," he said quietly, as if scolding a wayward pet. "You would leave your destiny behind so easily?"
Vira drew breath to strike — to burn him with every spell in her arsenal.
But the world turned against her again.
A chain of sunfire wrapped around her wrist mid-gesture.
She fell, not in weakness, but in sheer magical suppression. He hadn't just planned for escape.
He had expected it.
The next time she woke, she was standing.
Draped in divine silks.
A wreath of glowing flowers circled her head like a crown.
Her wrists were free again, but only because she was surrounded — by gods, spirits, heavenly guests from Olympus and beyond. All watching. All smiling.
All believing this was a union of love.
At the far end of the hall, Apollo stood waiting in white and gold. The marble aisle between them gleamed like a blade.
Vira stared ahead, her expression unreadable.
This was no wedding.
It was a performance.
A final act of domination.
She lifted her foot forward—
And then—
BOOM.
The great golden doors at the end of the hall shattered inward, blown from their hinges in a thunderous burst of raw, unfiltered force.
Dust and divine light scattered through the chamber.
The crowd gasped.
Vira's eyes widened for the first time.
A lone figure stepped through the smoke.
Silhouetted.
Unshaken.
His voice was calm.
His presence absolute.
"She's not yours."
The drawing was still on the table when Alex sat down again.
His tea had gone cold.
He stared at the childish sketch — not for what it looked like, but for what it felt like. Like something echoing across time. A memory not just hidden, but sealed.
And then something cracked open.
It came back in pieces.
A game board of rotating sigils. A silver forest. The faint scent of rain on marble. And a girl — small, proud, impossibly sharp for her age. Golden eyes that narrowed with disdain. She had looked down on him the moment he opened his mouth.
"You may try," she had said coldly, "but I'll cut off your finger if you lose."
He had laughed then, confused, unsure if she was joking.
She wasn't.
She never was.
But he'd played. Again. And again.
And won.
Not because he was cruel — but because she needed to be challenged. Because something in her had dared him to take her seriously.
And he had.
He leaned back, eyes darkening.
"…Vira."
The name left his lips in a whisper, and the moment it did, something else broke.
A sudden emptiness.
Like a thread cut.
His breath caught. He stood up.
The world around him remained still — but he felt it. A pulse of divine magic colliding with a noble aura. Vira's aura. And something else—larger, golden, suffocating.
"Someone took her."
A voice hummed from his right hand — elegant, bright, ancient.
Ciel.
"So you remember her now."
Her tone was warm, almost amused.
"If you're going to help her, then go."
And then another voice — cooler, laced with that soft, jealous nobility only one being ever held.
Morgan.
"I don't like her."
A pause.
"But if helping her makes you feel lighter…"
She sighed.
"Then go."
Alex's fingers curled into a fist.
On the back of his right hand, their twin symbols shimmered — living marks woven with divine affection. They remained there always, nestled against his skin when they weren't with him physically. In sleep. In stillness. In breath.
They knew him.
All of him.
And neither tried to stop him.
A second later, his body glowed with radiant compression — black and violet light swirling into motion.
He didn't need a gate.
He didn't need permission.
He only needed one thing.
A thread.
He closed his eyes and reached inward, searching through the haze of memory, through the lingering scent she left in the air, through the faint aftertaste of her aura — arrogant, brilliant, and burning.
Her mana signature.
Delicate.
Intricate.
Sharp as thorns woven from pride.
He grasped it.
Mapped it.
Saw where it should be — and where it had been ripped away.
A rift, closed by divine sealing.
But not sealed from him.
Not anymore.
He whispered:
"Found you."
And stepped into the breach.