Duvan sat in his study, staring at nothing.
The walk home had been automatic—feet moving, body navigating familiar streets, mind completely elsewhere. He'd entered through the side entrance, avoided the servants, and locked himself in his private study before anyone could ask questions like "How was your day?" or "Would you like dinner?"
Because how the hell was he supposed to answer that?
Oh, you know, pretty standard Tuesday. Prevented a magical explosion, saved half the city, discovered my wife has a secret family. The usual.
He should be furious. That's what normal people felt when they discovered their spouse had been living a double life, right? Rage, betrayal, the urge to break things or scream or do something dramatic and cathartic.
Instead, Duvan just felt... cold.
Cold and weirdly analytical, which was probably concerning from a mental health perspective, but Lucas—no, Duvan—had always dealt with emotional trauma by intellectualizing it. Can't process your feelings? Turn them into a problem to solve. Much healthier than therapy, obviously.
So. Let's think this through rationally.
Problem: Wife has secret family with the Hero. Child appears to be about five years old, which means—quick math—Hera was already involved with the Hero when they got married. Possibly pregnant, even.
Question One: How did she hide this from him?
Duvan was a Grand Protector. He had resources, connections, a network of information that spanned their entire civilization. More importantly, he had time manipulation. He'd rewound conversations, slowed moments to catch lies, accelerated his perception to read micro-expressions.
And yet, for six years, Hera had maintained this deception perfectly.
Which meant she'd had help. Serious, organized, powerful help.
Magism Unos.
Of course it was Magism Unos. They'd arranged the marriage, set the terms, created the perfect cover story with all those rules about "purity" and "sacred unions." Separate bedrooms meant no accidental discoveries. Minimal physical contact meant no slip-ups in intimacy. Scheduled, clinical encounters every two months meant she could maintain both relationships without overlap.
It was actually brilliant, in a completely soul-crushing way.
But Magism Unos was an independent religious organization—not as large or influential as Divine Revelation (Celeste's angelic followers) or the Demon Cult (Lucifer's surprisingly reasonable adherents), but still significant. They had resources, safe houses, ways to move people without notice.
They could absolutely hide a Hero and his child.
Question Two: Why go to all this trouble?
Duvan leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, channeling his inner detective. What did Magism Unos gain from this arrangement?
Marriage to a Grand Protector gave them political leverage, access to his influence and resources. But they could have achieved that with an actual partnership. Why the deception?
Unless...
Oh.
Oh.
Magism Unos was building an army.
Not a conventional army—they already had priests and paladins and all the usual religious military types. No, they were collecting Ascenders. The Hero was an Ascender. If Hera's child inherited that power—and Ascender abilities often ran in families—then Magism Unos would have multiple generations of living weapons.
And what better way to secure funding, protection, and political cover than to marry their Saintess to another Ascender? Specifically, one with vast resources and a tendency to stay out of religious politics.
Duvan had been a convenient shield. A useful idiot bankrolling their operation while they built something behind the scenes.
He should feel proud of himself for figuring it out.
Instead, he just felt tired.
His chest hurt.
Not physically—Ascenders didn't really get psychosomatic pain the way normal humans did. Their bodies were too optimized, too enhanced by magic. But there was an ache there anyway, something deeper than muscle and bone.
Anxiety.
Duvan recognized it like an old friend he'd hoped never to see again.
This was the feeling that had defined Lucas Smith's life. The constant low-grade panic of never being good enough, never doing enough, always one mistake away from losing everything. The tightness in the chest during performance reviews, the sleepless nights before big presentations, the crushing weight of trying to be perfect because anything less meant failure.
He'd died with that feeling. Heart giving out at twenty-four because his body couldn't handle the stress his mind kept manufacturing.
And now it was back.
Six years. Six years of trying. Six years of being patient, being understanding, being everything Hera asked him to be. Making time in his impossibly busy schedule for a wife who never wanted him there. Respecting boundaries that were designed to keep him out. Hoping that eventually, eventually, she'd let him in.
All of it worthless.
Every effort, every compromise, every moment of hope—completely meaningless.
The rational part of his brain noted that this was probably not a healthy thought pattern and he should talk to someone about it. The rest of him told that rational part to shut up because he was busy having an emotional crisis, thank you very much.
"Personal interest, my ass," Duvan muttered to the empty room.
Silvia's words echoed in his memory: "This marriage serves both political and personal interests."
He'd thought she meant his personal interest. His love for Hera, his desire for partnership, his hope for something real.
But no—she'd meant Hera's personal interest. The interest of a woman who wanted to protect her real family while using Duvan as a convenient cover story.
And Silvia had known. That damn elf could see fragments of the future, and she'd known exactly what this marriage was and what it would do to him, and she'd called it necessary.
"I really hate future-seers sometimes," Duvan said to his empty glass.
He should pour himself a drink. He had excellent whiskey—aged in barrels he'd designed himself, using techniques from his past life. One of the perks of being a genius inventor: you could make your own top-shelf liquor.
But he didn't move. Just sat there, staring at nothing, feeling the familiar anxiety wrap around his chest like old chains.
Here's something that had always unsettled people about Lucas Smith: he could let go of attachments instantly.
Not in the healthy, Buddhist-enlightenment way. More in the "flip a switch and completely stop caring" way that made therapists nervous and friends uneasy.
A relationship would end, and Lucas would just... move on. No lingering feelings, no what-ifs, no gradual healing process. One day he'd be invested, the next day he'd be completely indifferent. Like cutting a rope and watching it fall away without a second thought.
His ex-girlfriend had called him a psychopath after he'd responded to their breakup with "Okay, makes sense. I'll get my stuff this weekend." No drama, no fighting for the relationship, just immediate, clinical acceptance.
"It's like you don't even feel anything," she'd said, tears streaming down her face. "Like I never mattered at all."
Lucas had tried to explain that he did feel things, he just processed them differently, but even as he said it, he'd known it sounded hollow. Because the truth was, he didn't feel anything anymore. Not about her, not about the relationship, not about the future they'd planned.
The switch had flipped. The attachment was gone. Simple as that.
It had made him feel like a monster. Still did, if he was honest with himself.
But during his years as an adventurer, that particular brand of emotional dysfunction had proved invaluable. Monster kills your team? Flip the switch, complete the mission, grieve later (or don't). Political ally betrays you? Switch off the friendship, adapt the strategy, move forward. No hesitation, no second-guessing, just cold efficiency.
Useful for survival. Terrible for being human.
And now, sitting in his study with his heart doing that familiar anxious ache, Duvan faced a choice:
Confront Hera and deal with the messy emotional aftermath, or flip the switch and let it all go.
Option One meant pain. Explanations, accusations, probably crying (her, definitely not him, because Grand Protectors don't cry in front of people). It meant processing betrayal, working through hurt, possibly trying to salvage something from the wreckage.
Option Two meant... nothing. Just turn off the feelings, reduce the marriage to what it actually was—a political arrangement—and stop wasting energy on someone who'd never wanted him anyway.
The old Lucas would have chosen Option Two immediately. Just detach, move on, problem solved.
But Duvan had spent ten years in this world trying to be better than Lucas had been. Trying to connect with people, to care about things beyond pure efficiency. The other Grand Protectors weren't just colleagues—they were friends. The kids at the orphanage weren't just statistics—they were people he'd risked his life to save.
He'd been trying, dammit.
And maybe that's why it hurt so much. Because he'd let himself hope. Let himself be vulnerable. Let himself love someone who'd been using him from day one.
His mind drifted back to the scene outside the café. The man with Hera, broad-shouldered and smiling. Something familiar about him...
Wait.
Duvan's eyes widened slightly.
The Hero.
That was Kieran goddamn Brightblade, the Hero. Leader of the legendary party that ventured deepest into the Deep. The man whose name children whispered with awe, whose exploits were already becoming legends.
Of course. Of course it was the Hero.
Because apparently Duvan's life was now a tragic romance novel with all the worst tropes.
The Saintess and the Hero, a tale as old as time. And Duvan? He was the convenient plot device. The wealthy, powerful husband who existed solely to make the real love story more complicated.
He laughed—a short, bitter sound that didn't reach his eyes.
"Well played, universe. Well played."
The door to the study opened.
Duvan didn't move, didn't even look up. He knew who it was—could hear the soft footsteps, the gentle rustle of ceremonial robes. Hera always wore those robes at home, as if she couldn't separate herself from the Saintess persona even in private.
Or maybe that's all she was. Maybe there was no real Hera, just the carefully constructed image of holy devotion.
"Lord Excy," she said softly. "You're home early. I didn't expect—"
"I usually greet you first, don't I?" Duvan interrupted, still not looking at her. His voice was flat, empty of its usual warmth.
Silence.
He could feel her confusion, her uncertainty. In six years, he'd always been the one to initiate. Always the one to try, to reach out, to maintain the pretense of normalcy.
Not today.
Duvan slowly looked up, meeting her eyes, and let the mask slip.
He didn't even try to hide what he was feeling—or rather, what he wasn't feeling. The warmth, the affection, the desperate hope—all of it gone. In its place was something cold and empty and fundamentally other.
Lucas's face. The monster who could flip the switch.
Hera took a step back.
She'd never seen him look like this. Never seen the Time Prince without his carefully maintained composure, his friendly demeanor, his patient understanding. This was something else entirely—something that looked at her with complete detachment, as if she were a stranger or a chess piece rather than his wife.
"Why did you lie to me, Hera?"
The words were soft, almost conversational. No accusation in the tone, no anger. Just a simple question seeking a simple answer.
"I—I don't know what you mean—" She was already lying, already falling back on the saintly confusion, the innocent bewilderment.
Duvan stood, the movement smooth and controlled. He crossed the distance between them in three steps, and Hera's instinct was to retreat, but her back hit the door.
He reached out—not roughly, but firmly—and gently cupped her face, turning it toward him. Making her look directly at him.
"I saw you," Duvan said quietly. "This afternoon. In the lower district. With him. With your daughter."
Hera's eyes widened in genuine shock. "That's—how did you—we were disguised—"
"You think a simple glamour could hide you from me?" Something that might have been amusement flickered in his expression, but it was cold. "I manipulate time, Hera. I see the world in ways most people can't imagine. Did you really think I wouldn't recognize my own wife?"
She was trembling now, her face still cradled in his hands. Looking into his eyes and seeing something that scared her—not violence, not rage, just the complete absence of the man she'd been manipulating for six years.
"Tell me the truth," Duvan said. "Right now. Is that your child? Is the Hero the father?"
For a long moment, Hera said nothing. He could see her mind working, trying to find an angle, a lie that would work, a way to salvage the situation.
Then she looked into his eyes again and saw something that made her give up.
"Yes," she whispered. "She's mine. Kieran is her father. We've been together for seven years."
Seven years. Before the marriage. Before the proposal. Before any of this.
Duvan let her go, stepping back, his hands falling to his sides.
"Thank you for being honest," he said politely, like she'd just confirmed a meeting time. "That's all I needed to know."
Then he walked past her, opened the door, and headed to his own bedroom without another word.
Thank God—or the angels, or whoever was listening—for the foresight to keep alcohol in his room.
Duvan had started the habit during the early days of being a Grand Protector, when the weight of responsibility made sleep difficult and the screams from the Deep echoed in his memory. A few drinks before bed helped quiet the noise, made the darkness less oppressive.
Tonight, he'd need more than a few.
He poured himself three fingers of whiskey—the good stuff, aged ten years with just a hint of magical enhancement to smooth the burn—and sat on the edge of his bed, glass in hand.
Then he did what he'd been trained to do: inspect his feelings.
Assess the damage. Catalog the responses. Understand what was happening in his own head so he could address it logically.
Observation One: He felt numb. The switch had flipped, just like he'd known it would. The love, the attachment, the hope—all of it was just... gone. Like it had never existed. Hera was now simply "wife (political arrangement)" in his mental filing system, no different than a business contract or treaty obligation.
Observation Two: It still hurt.
That was new.
Lucas had never experienced both numbness and pain simultaneously. Usually it was one or the other—feel everything intensely until the switch flipped, then feel nothing at all.
But this? This was different. The attachment was gone, the love was gone, but there was still this ache in his chest. Like a phantom limb, a ghost of feeling that lingered even after the actual emotion had been excised.
Maybe because he'd tried so hard here. Maybe because he'd invested so much of himself into being better than Lucas had been. Maybe because this wasn't just romantic rejection—it was a fundamental betrayal of trust that cut deeper than simple heartbreak.
Or maybe he was just broken in new and exciting ways.
"Cheers to that," Duvan muttered, raising his glass to nobody. "Here's to emotional dysfunction and complex trauma. May they keep me company tonight."
He drank. The whiskey burned pleasantly, warmth spreading through his chest in a way that almost—almost—felt like feeling something real.
He poured another glass.
Outside his window, the city continued its evening routine. Lights flickering on as families gathered for dinner, children playing in the streets before curfew, the distant sounds of laughter and life happening to other people.
Duvan sat in the darkness and drank alone, feeling everything and nothing at the same time, and wondered if this was what he'd been reincarnated for—to be hurt in new and creative ways.
"At least I didn't die of a heart attack this time," he said to his reflection in the glass. "Small victories."
The reflection didn't answer.
He hadn't really expected it to.
Ascenders didn't get hangovers.
One of the perks of having magic-enhanced biology—alcohol metabolized quickly, toxins were filtered efficiently, and the body reset to optimal function regardless of the previous night's poor decisions.
Which meant Duvan woke up at his usual time, feeling physically perfect and emotionally hollow.
Perfect. Just perfect.
He went through his morning routine with mechanical precision. Shower: check. Shave: check. Dress in appropriate Grand Protector attire: check. Inspect appearance in mirror: functional, professional, showing no signs of having had a personal crisis approximately eight hours ago.
The face looking back at him was the Time Prince—composed, competent, untouchable.
Lucas would be proud.
He left his room and headed downstairs, where breakfast would be prepared and his schedule laid out by the household staff. Business as usual. Just another day in the life of Duvan Excy, definitely not a man whose entire marriage had imploded yesterday.
Hera was in the dining room.
She stood quickly when he entered, her expression carefully arranged into something like concern or perhaps guilt. Hard to tell—the saintly mask was back in place.
"Lord Excy, I—we should talk about—"
Duvan looked at her.
Just looked, his expression neutral, empty of any recognition beyond basic acknowledgment of her presence. The way you might look at a piece of furniture or a painting on the wall—something that existed in your space but held no particular significance.
Then he turned his attention to the breakfast table, selected a piece of toast, and began reviewing the documents his assistant had left for him.
"Lord Excy, please—"
He continued reading. A report from Future Tech about a new magitech prototype. Interesting. They'd managed to increase efficiency by twelve percent.
"Duvan—"
Wait, had she just used his name? His actual name? He glanced up briefly, mildly curious about this deviation from her usual behavior, then returned to his documents.
Too little, too late, he thought distantly. Six years of "Lord Excy," and now you want to pretend we're familiar?
Hera tried three more times to engage him in conversation. Each time, Duvan either looked at her with polite, empty acknowledgment or simply ignored her entirely, treating her attempts at communication the way one might treat elevator music—vaguely aware it was happening, but not particularly interested in engaging with it.
After the third attempt, she fell silent, her hands clenched in her lap, her perfect saintly composure cracking at the edges.
Good.
No, wait. Not good. He didn't care. Caring implied emotional investment, and emotional investment was precisely what he'd excised last night.
She was just... there. A person in his house. A political arrangement that needed to be managed but not engaged with.
He finished his toast, drained his coffee, and stood.
"I have meetings at Future Tech this morning, then a council session with the other Protectors this afternoon," he said, his tone professionally courteous. The same tone he'd use with any household staff. "I'll be back late. Don't wait up."
He walked past her without waiting for a response, collected his coat from the waiting attendant. As he slipped his arms into the sleeves, he noticed his hands were shaking—just slightly, a tremor that betrayed everything his face refused to show.
He stared at his traitorous hands for a moment, then deliberately ignored the trembling and stepped out into the morning air.
The sun was shining. The city was waking up. People were starting their days with hope and purpose and all those annoying positive emotions that seemed completely absurd right now.
Duvan took a breath, centered himself, and became the Time Prince again.
Grand Protector. Genius inventor. Leader, innovator, protector of humanity.
Not a man with a failed marriage and a chest full of phantom pain.
Never that.
He had work to do. The other Protectors needed briefing on some anomalies he'd detected in the Deep's activity patterns. Future Tech had three projects requiring his direct oversight. There were people depending on him, systems that required his attention, responsibilities that didn't care about his personal problems.
So he'd do what he always did: compartmentalize, optimize, and move forward.
The hurt would fade eventually. The numbness would become normal. And maybe someday he'd forget what it felt like to hope for something real.
But not today.
Today, he'd settle for just getting through the day without breaking down.
His mind, traitor that it was, kept circling back to one detail: in six years of marriage, Hera had never once called him by his name. Not casually, not intimately, not even in private.
Always "Lord Excy." Always the title. Always the distance.
Like he'd never been a person to her at all. Just a position. A resource. A convenient shield for her real life.
The bitterness that thought produced was almost enough to make him feel something again.
Almost.
Duvan shoved it down, straightened his coat, and headed toward Future Tech's headquarters.
He had work to do.
Everything else could wait.