Kalthem was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that comforted, but the kind that pressed against the chest and hollowed it out from the inside.
Caelus stood alone on a floating platform of mirrored crystal, his robes trailing behind him like liquid shadow. Above him, the void shimmered with spectral lights that never moved—stars, maybe, or fragments of time, or gods watching and refusing to speak.
He didn't speak either. Not until the presence arrived.
The air bent inward as something stepped across the fold of space. A veil of drifting symbols, question marks that looped in and out of themselves like broken language, approached with slow, soundless steps. Their face was obscured by clouds that refused to settle.
"You're late," Caelus said, the words flat, dry.
"I'm exactly when I needed to be," said the figure, their voice smooth and echoing like it came from beneath water. They were Caelvynne—Revelation, the Arcanist who never gave answers, only unveiled them.
Caelus didn't look at them. He stared outward, where Kalthem faded into kaleidoscopic space.
"What do you want," he said more than asked.
"Drevaloth has stirred," Caelvynne replied. "The Bleak there is fracturing."
"Then let it." Caelus rolled his shoulder, a slow, tired motion. "Maybe it's time the world breaks properly."
"The Varn'Kai have already begun to pour through its cracks. If it collapses, the Legion will devour more than Drevaloth."
"Let them." He finally turned, turquoise light faintly pulsing beneath his skin. "I told you. I'm done with them. I won't return."
"You don't have to return," Caelvynne said. "You only need to project."
Caelus narrowed his eyes. "Do you think distance changes the nature of attachment?"
"No," Caelvynne replied. "But you pretend it does."
There was a pause. Caelus breathed slowly. The air in Kalthem never moved, yet it always felt like it was pushing against him.
"You've seen it, haven't you?" Caelvynne asked, stepping closer. Their form was always shifting slightly, like looking into moving glass. "The crack in Drevaloth. You felt it."
"The Bleak there sings your name."
Caelus said nothing.
"You were never meant to stay here, Caelus. You were only meant to rest."
"And I have." His voice was calm, but the turquoise light at his collarbone flickered. "A thousand years is enough. Let someone else carry the ruin this time."
"There is no one else who can."
"And whose fault is that?"
No answer came. Just the weight of silence—denser, now.
Caelus turned back toward the edge. Below, Kalthem stretched out in mirrored veins of glass and broken geometry. He hated how beautiful it was. He hated how far from everything it kept him.
He lifted a hand. Light surged from his chest, slow and coiling, turquoise turning silver at the edges. Glyphs unfolded beneath his feet—ancient, divine, unwilling to fade.
"I'll look. That's all," Caelus said, his voice quieter now. "And when I find it falling apart, I'll leave before it demands anything more of me."
Caelvynne didn't reply.
The spell surged, and Caelus' form scattered like dust across the sky, pulled downward toward a world he no longer trusted—toward a place that had already failed him once.
The world greeted him with rot.
Caelus stepped out of the light, boots pressing against frost-laced stone. The glyph beneath him faded as turquoise lines scattered into the dark. He stood atop the shattered wall of a forgotten watchtower, cold wind weaving through torn banners and blood-drenched moss.
Drevaloth had not changed.
Clouds loomed low, thick enough to strangle sunlight. The land wore its night like a second skin—castles dimmed to silhouettes, trees like bone fingers, nothing moved unless it wanted to kill. The medieval spires that remained stabbed the sky in silence, and far off, a glimmer of unnatural light betrayed the skyline of Deladolpheous—barely visible, like a dream someone tried to forget.
The air was heavier here. Sadder. And far too alive.
He stepped to the edge. Rain dripped from his shoulders but never touched his skin. Below, across the valley, something pulsed—cracked and bleeding shadow. The Bleak. Its chains were failing.
The wind spiraled, wrong and whispering. Then came the sound.
Scraping.
From the woods beyond the ruins, bodies emerged—misshapen silhouettes stitched with red veins and bone. Crawling, twitching, dragging closer. Hollow mouths opened, and from one of them spilled a voice—
"Caelus... Caelus..."
The Varn'Kai.
They surged, dozens, then more. Some fused with weapons, others blurring too fast to follow. Cracked limbs and screaming magic filled the field.
Caelus didn't move. Not as one lunged.
He raised a hand.
A pole of pure light snapped into his grip. At its tip, a glowing banner unfurled like mist catching starlight. He waved it once.
The sky obeyed.
Blades of turquoise light rained down—piercing, pinning, splitting. Screams vanished. Bones cracked. Stillness returned.
Then a second wave came.
Caelus raised his other hand. A burst of blinding light carved through three creatures, splitting the earth. Time bent. Space shimmered. The Varn'Kai slowed, unraveling mid-charge.
He walked through them like ash.
A small voice whispered, "Is that... a god?"
Caelus turned slightly.
Behind a ruined pillar, a girl with scraped knees and a tall man in patched armor stood frozen.
"Stay behind me, Mimi," the man said.
"But his eyes—"
"Mimi."
She fell quiet.
Caelus didn't speak. He lowered the banner, its light fading. Rain resumed.
"I told you not to talk to glowing things," the man muttered.
"You didn't say glowing people." she mumbled back.
Caelus looked at them a moment longer, then turned toward the Bleak's pulse again—still distant, still calling.
He didn't plan to speak to them.
But somehow, he already knew they would follow.
Mimi kept glancing back at the field of corpses—what was left of the Varn'Kai now dissolving into smoke and sparks. The armored man ahead didn't look back at all.
He hadn't seen where the stranger came from. One moment they were surrounded, and the next, light had fallen like rain. The Varn'Kai scattered. Silence fell.
And the glowing figure was there.
They followed him now.
The path curled through dead grass and rain-drenched trees. The air was too still. Drevaloth never smelled clean—its earth reeked of old blood and broken iron—but something deeper had begun to rot beneath the soil. Even the roots were anxious.
"Why are we following him again?" the man muttered.
"Because we're alive and he's why," Mimi answered, catching up to him.
"I mean it. He just appeared. You didn't see where he came from, right?"
"No," she admitted. "But does it matter? He saved us."
"Maybe. Or maybe he just didn't want anyone else interfering."
She frowned. "I think he heard you."
"I don't care."
The glowing stranger—Caelus—continued ahead, unbothered. Rain slid off his shoulders without touching his skin. Even his steps barely marked the mud. The man's grip on his sword tightened, but he said nothing else.
The trees broke ahead, revealing low flickering lights through a veil of mist.
A village. Small. Hidden. Built of stone and scavenged wood. It looked more like a wounded memory than a real place—fences crooked, windows dim, chimneys thin and sharp against the dark.
Caelus stopped at the edge of the clearing.
He didn't move forward.
"They won't trust me," he said, gaze fixed on the fences.
"That's okay," Mimi said quietly, stepping beside him. "They barely trust us either."
The man stepped up behind her, still tense. "There's an elder inside. He might know more about the Bleak."
"I'm not here to speak," Caelus replied.
The man narrowed his eyes. "Then why are you here?"
Caelus didn't look at him.
"I was sent to look."
"To look?" The knight scoffed. "You show up from nowhere, erase a swarm of Varn'Kai, and you're just looking?"
Caelus said nothing.
Mimi, still watching him, tilted her head slightly.
"…Your eyes," she murmured.
The man turned sharply. "Mimi."
She flinched. "Sorry. They're just… they're different. I mean—really different."
"I said that's enough."
But the glowing man didn't seem to mind. Not yet.
Then, finally, Caelus looked at her. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter than before.
"Mimi."
She blinked. "Huh?"
"That's your name."
She hesitated. "…Yes."
Caelus turned to the knight. "And you?"
The man hesitated a second longer than necessary.
"…Hoon."
A long pause passed between them—silent, but heavy.
The Bleak pulsed again far off, a distant throb through the earth like something buried was trying to remember it had a heartbeat.
"You said there's an elder," Caelus said.
"Yes," Hoon replied.
"Then lead."
The gates didn't open right away.
A guard stood at the top of the makeshift wall, his helmet dented and one eye swollen shut. He gripped his spear tighter when he saw Caelus standing between Hoon and Mimi.
"No outsiders past nightfall," he barked.
"He's with us," Hoon called back.
The guard's good eye narrowed. "He doesn't look like anyone should be with him."
Caelus remained silent.
Another voice came from behind the gate—older, quieter, with authority woven into the cracks.
"Let them in."
The creaking groan of rusted hinges opened a narrow path just wide enough for the three of them.
They stepped inside.
The village was quiet—too quiet. People peeked from shuttered windows, some clutching tools instead of weapons, others holding candles like wards. No one greeted them.
The elder stood at the center of the courtyard.
He was draped in wool and fur, with rings hanging from his belt like talismans. His face bore a scar that had barely missed his throat.
"Which god do you serve?" he asked Caelus immediately.
Caelus didn't answer.
"I asked—"
"I serve none."
The elder's eyes narrowed. "Then what are you?"
Mimi looked up at Caelus, clearly expecting him to speak again—but he didn't. Hoon stepped forward, voice low.
"He saved us. We were ambushed—Varn'Kai, almost a full nest. He destroyed them in minutes."
The elder studied Caelus for a moment longer, then nodded once.
"Fine. You'll have a roof tonight. But you'll sleep apart, and the watchers won't take their eyes off you."
"That won't be necessary," Caelus said. "I won't be staying."
Mimi looked at him, alarmed. "But you just got here—"
"I came to see the Bleak."
"You should rest first," Hoon muttered. "Even gods need sleep, don't they?"
"I'm not a god," Caelus said flatly.
The elder's voice cut in again, quieter this time. "Then what are you, truly?"
Caelus didn't answer right away. But the turquoise glow under his skin dimmed slightly.
"I'm… a remainder."
No one spoke.
The wind moved through the village like it had heard something it didn't like.
The gates shuddered.
Villagers screamed from behind barricades. Talismans cracked. The sky rippled like bruised glass as the Varn'Kai threw themselves against the wooden palisade—claws splitting through boards, fangs flashing like knives pulled from tar.
Hoon stepped in front of Mimi.
"We won't hold it," he muttered. "Not like this."
Caelus walked forward.
He said nothing. His footsteps were silent, but each one bent the light around him like a heatwave. Rain curled upward before it could touch his shoulders.
Elgrin turned as he passed.
"You said you wouldn't stay long."
"I'm not," Caelus replied.
He raised his right hand—and a pole formed mid-air, called from nothing, forged from quiet will. Light coiled around it, turquoise and rust-gold. Fabric unfurled from the top, not cloth but brilliance—streaming like slow sunlight.
A banner without symbol.
Mimi's breath caught. "What's he—"
"Move," Hoon said, already pulling her back.
Caelus reached the gate. The Varn'Kai were shrieking now, sensing something ancient, wrong, familiar. The boards before him cracked—not from impact, but from pressure. His presence distorted time. The lanterns flickered faster. The shadows moved slower.
Then—
He lifted the pole.
And slammed it down.
The base struck the earth like a gavel on the bones of creation.
Light exploded.
Not fire. Not heat. Just pure direction. A burst of turquoise brilliance shot upward like a column, then bloomed outward in rings—layered and laced with golden pulse. It didn't burn. It erased.
The Varn'Kai on the other side of the gate were gone before they could scream. The trees beyond the path were stripped of darkness. The ground shimmered like silver veins cracking through stone.
And then, stillness.
Only the fabric of the light-banner still fluttered—though no wind dared move near him.
Caelus didn't move.
Behind him, no one spoke.
Only Mimi whispered:
"…What was that?"
Elgrin answered, not looking away from the smoldering edge of the world.
"An Aelenev's doing."