The world was dim, hushed, and warm, like candlelight behind closed eyes.
Rhea felt small again.
Not weak—small. Her limbs were short, her breath shallow, and the weight of the world hadn't found her yet.
She sat on the edge of a fraying mattress, knees drawn to her chest, a thin blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her parents knelt in front of her, faces pale beneath the flickering lamplight. Their hands trembled, not from fear, but from sickness. Even at that age, she could see it. See the gray beneath her mother's eyes. The tight, pained way her father held her little brother.
Stix, barely a baby then, squirmed in their father's arms—tiny fingers clutching at nothing, eyes too bright for how tired he always looked.
"Rhea," her mother said gently, brushing hair from her face. "Listen to me."
"I am listening," she whispered.
Her father leaned closer. "When we're gone… It's going to be just you and him."
Tears welled in her eyes. "Don't say that."
But her mother smiled. "You'll be strong. Stronger than both of us. Strong enough to love him, protect him… even when it's hard."
Her father nodded. "Especially when it's hard."
"I can't," she choked. "I'm just a kid…"
"So is he," her mother replied softly. "And you'll be all he has."
The warmth of her parents' hands faded.
And the memory dissolved—soft at the edges, like paper burned too slowly.
The dark shifted.
Now she was older. Maybe ten. Her clothes were dirty, threadbare. Her knees scraped and bandaged. The cold cobblestone pressed through the soles of her shoes.
She crouched in a shadowed alleyway—one of many twisting veins of backstreet life in Veyport. Crates had been stacked to form makeshift walls, torn cloth stretched overhead like a roof. Their home.
Stix, curled beside her, looked no older than five. His face was smudged with soot, and his voice cracked as he spoke through a laugh.
"You're such a crybaby, Rhea."
She rubbed her eyes furiously, sniffling. "Am not."
"Are too. You're the big sister, but I feel like I have to protect you."
She glared at him, but it was half-hearted. Her eyes were already softening. "I will protect us one day. I promise. No one's gonna hurt you. Not ever again."
He smiled through crooked teeth, then reached out and flicked her forehead.
"Then you better toughen up."
The two of them leaned into each other beneath the threadbare blanket.
And just beyond the alley's mouth—unseen in the shadows—he watched.
A tall figure. Quiet. Hardened. Scarred by a life neither child could yet understand.
Jalen.
He hadn't approached yet. Not fully. But he'd seen enough.
Two kids, alone. Broken. Fighting to survive.
He didn't know then how much they'd come to mean to him.
But even in that first moment, standing in the rain-soaked dark—
He'd already decided:
He wasn't leaving them behind.
The next memory came in flashes.
Not like the quiet warmth of her childhood—but with fire and shouting and wind. She was older now, maybe fifteen, her enchanted armor half-melted and scorched. Her boots crunched over blackened earth as smoke rose in waves, thick with the stench of burning salt and ash.
The fishing village was in ruins.
Collapsed nets. Boiled water. Screams echoing across empty docks.
The fire elemental had made landfall before dawn, and it had taken all four of them to drive it back—Jalen, Nathan, Lucio, and her.
Correction: mostly them.
She wasn't like them. Not really.
No divine gifts. No broken-limit powers. Just strength borrowed from runes etched into her armor—armor Jalen had helped steal, enchant, and resize for her because she "deserved more than prayers and scrap."
Still, she'd fought. Thrown buckets. Guided villagers. Helped ferry the wounded to safety while the others clashed with the elemental's molten form. Every time she thought the flames were gone, they returned—like the thing was made of fire and hatred and memory.
And yet… even fire could die.
When it finally fell—when Jalen drove his fist through its burning chest and the wind shifted to a whisper—she stood alone among the rubble, heaving for breath.
Until she heard it.
A faint cry. Not human.
She turned. Followed the sound through the cinders and wreckage, into a charred hut near the edge of the village.
There, nestled beneath scorched blankets and a burned pile of fish crates, lay a tiny creature.
Not quite a fox. Not quite a flame.
It whimpered—coiled tight in the ash, tail flickering with pale orange fire.
At first, she thought it was dying. Then it opened one glowing eye.
Their gazes met.
She knelt slowly. "Hey… you okay?"
The creature didn't speak. But it didn't run either.
It just stepped forward—shivering, singed—and curled up against her chest.
When she walked out of the hut, the others turned.
Lucio blinked. Nathan raised a brow. Jalen smirked and said, "You always pick the ones that bite."
The creature let out a soft chuff of heat, and Rhea held it tighter.
"I'm calling her Ember," she said, voice steady. "And I'm keeping her."
And no one argued.
Because for the first time, Rhea hadn't just saved someone.
She had chosen someone.
And Ember—silent, warm, and loyal ever since—had chosen her back.
Rhea's next memory didn't come with warmth or fire—it came with ache.
Calloused hands. Bruised ribs. Splintered confidence.
Everlock.
The city that had become home. The city that had sharpened her.
Kuromi stood like a storm given shape. Cold, calculating, unmoved by excuses. She didn't believe Rhea belonged. Made that clear from the first day of training.
"Armor doesn't make you strong," she had said, knocking Rhea to the dirt for the fifth time that morning. "It just slows down your failure."
Rhea had wanted to scream. Cry. Quit.
But she didn't.
Because if she quit, she'd always be the girl who was saved. Never the one who could do the saving.
And so, she returned every day. Every hour, Kuromi would give her.
Sword in hand. Sweat in her eyes. Knuckles raw. Stomach hollowed from missed meals and late nights spent repeating drills until her muscles memorized movements her mind hadn't yet grasped.
Lucio would watch sometimes, offering the occasional tip. Nathan mostly teased. Jalen stayed silent but always stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed, nodding faintly when she improved, never praising. Never mocking. Just… present.
Eventually, Kuromi stopped knocking her down.
One morning, Rhea landed a strike—just a graze, but clean.
Kuromi didn't smile.
But she nodded once. "You can stay."
That was enough.
The memory shifted.
Gone was the quiet of training.
In its place, chaos.
The air had smelled of blood and fear. The crowd roared above like a pack of wolves, waiting for the next kill.
She and Vexa had come for Jalen.
The plan was simple: get in, break him out, get out alive.
But plans were never held in places like Kieros' coliseum.
They had found Jalen half-naked, half-dead—and still terrifying. He'd already begun breaking his own chains by the time they reached him, body pulsing with something divine. His smile had scared her more than his injuries.
Rhea had watched him tear through a stone wall like it was paper.
And she'd followed.
She remembered running, dodging blades, shielding Ember, dragging wounded prisoners behind her while the underworld itself threatened to collapse.
She remembered turning back once, just before the exit.
Jalen had looked over his shoulder at her. Just one glance. No words.
But in that moment, she knew he trusted her.
Not because she was strong.
Because she was willing.
That was the night they survived the impossible.
That was the night she stopped being just someone to protect.
She became part of the fight.
The sound of Jalen's fist crashing into the Smiling Man split the silence—
—but it passed through him.
Not a crack. Not a flinch. Nothing.
Like punching fog.
The Smiling Man simply blinked. Then grinned wider than ever, retreating with a half-spin, his translucent limbs rippling like a mirage.
Lucio fired a shot straight through his head. Kullen summoned a spear of light. Nathan tried to rewind him in time—
None of it landed.
The Smiling Man bowed, exaggerated and mocking.
Then he paused, turning his head slightly, like a dog hearing a distant whistle.
His smile curled crueler, if that were even possible.
"Ah… he's calling."
Without another word, the Smiling Man began to drift backward into the shadows, fading. Zeraphon was summoning him.
Kullen didn't hesitate. "We follow."
Nathan and Lucio rushed after him. Kullen close behind.
They vanished into the dark, giving chase.
Leaving behind Rhea, Stix, Kuromi, Vexa, Ember—
And Jalen.
Rhea swayed, her breath shallow.
Her limbs were heavier now. Too heavy. Her pulse fluttered like a candle in the wind.
She looked down at her hands, trembling, pale. The glyph Jalen had once given her glowed faintly beneath the skin.
No longer gold.
Faded. Cracked.
Jalen stepped closer, his eyes glowing softly with golden and violet light—his godhood fully awake, if only for a moment.
He crouched beside her, voice low but steady.
"…You overused it," he said. "The glyph I gave you wasn't meant to hold that much power, Rhea. It wasn't designed to burn this long."
Rhea's lips parted, but no sound came.
Jalen's eyes scanned her body—not physically, but deeper. Through flesh. Through spirit.
"It's not your wounds," he continued. "Your systems… they're shutting down. One by one."
He looked around at the others, who now realized the truth in his tone.
"She's not bleeding out. She's just… unraveling."
No one moved.
Vexa covered her mouth, silent.
Ember whined and nudged closer, sensing something was wrong.
Kuromi clenched her jaw. Her voice didn't come either.
Stix stood frozen.
And Rhea—barely able to stay upright—smiled.
She smiled faintly, her lips cracked but gentle.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Jalen shook his head. "Don't you dare apologize."
Her gaze flicked to him. "I didn't mean to use that much power. I just… I wanted to keep him safe."
Jalen's voice broke. "You did."
Stix fell beside her, grabbing her hand with trembling fingers. "Rhea, you're okay. We're gonna fix this. We can fix this, right?"
She squeezed his hand weakly. "You're safe. That's what matters."
He shook his head, face crumpling. "No—no, what matters is you. I don't want to be safe without you."
Rhea looked at him like she was memorizing his face. Like she already knew time was short.
Her voice softened. "You're not the little brother anymore, Stix. You're… you're stronger than me now. Maybe you always were."
Stix leaned over her, tears falling freely. "Don't go. Please."
She turned her eyes toward Jalen again. "Thank you."
His brows furrowed, lips trembling. "For what?"
"For choosing us. That night. In the alleyway."
Jalen swallowed hard, gold and violet still glowing behind his eyes.
"If I had more time," she whispered, "I'd learn how to use that glyph right. I'd fight better. I'd be stronger…"
"You were strong," Kuromi said hoarsely, kneeling beside her. "Don't you ever doubt that."
Rhea smiled again. "Thanks. Coming from you, that… that means something."
The silence stretched.
Her chest rose.
Then fell.
A pause.
Then nothing.
No tremor. No last gasp. No flare of divine light.
Just stillness.
Stix let out a sound—half scream, half sob—as he clutched her. "No… no no no—Rhea, please wake up!"
Jalen stood slowly, fists clenched. His aura flared again—bright gold clashing with sorrowful violet.
He turned away for a second, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek.
Kuromi rested a hand on Stix's shoulder.
Vexa looked away, eyes misted but dry.
Ember whimpered and laid his head beside Rhea's.
And then—
A whisper on the air.
Low. Mocking.
"You humans are so obsessed with last words."
The Smiling Man's voice—somewhere just beyond the veil.
But this time, he didn't laugh.
He sounded… disappointed.
As if the game had changed.
And he wasn't ready for the next rule.