Beyond the veil of mortal lands lay the Realm Between Realms—a place known in ancient texts as Limithor, or the Cradle of Ends. It was where souls wandered when they did not belong to gods, where time frayed at the edges, and where even death dared not rule.
To reach it, they passed through the Weeping Gate—an arch hidden beneath the oldest roots of the world, guarded by no creature, only silence. Ael stepped through first, knowing full well that what waited inside wasn't a monster.
It was memory.
Worse than that—divinity.
—
There was no sky in Limithor.
Only a vast, endless canvas of shifting light and mist. Shapes moved in the distance—faces, whispers, fragments of broken prayers. The ground was more sensation than substance. Every step felt like walking through a dream too lucid to escape.
Lyra's voice was faint. "I can't feel my heartbeat."
"Because we're not alive here," Elric muttered. "Not completely."
Ael didn't respond.
He was already walking toward the tower that loomed in the far mists—a crooked spire of bones, stone, and wings. It pulsed with light. At its peak burned a flame the color of memory.
That was where the shard of faith waited.
And He would be there.
The god Ael had once broken.
—
They entered the tower.
Its interior was hollow, vast, and echoing. Stained glass windows depicted scenes of devotion—armies kneeling, stars falling, Ael himself raising a banner to the heavens.
This was no shrine built to a god.
It was a monument built by one.
And at the center of it all stood a man.
Or what was left of one.
Tall. Ethereal. Clad in robes of starlight, his body shimmered with cracks like shattered porcelain. Wings—once vast—now hung broken at his sides. His eyes were blind.
But his voice held power still.
"Ael Rynhart."
The god's voice echoed without volume. It shook the walls, the soul, the marrow.
"You have returned."
Ael stepped forward. "I didn't come to ask for power."
"No," the god said softly. "You came to reclaim what you abandoned. Your faith."
Lyra frowned. "Is this… a god you once served?"
"No," Ael said.
The god corrected him.
"I served you."
—
In the forgotten age, before Ael's fall, there was a moment when kings dared command the divine. In desperation, Ael had called upon the gods to stand with him in his war.
Only one answered.
This god.
Nameless, loyal—and ultimately discarded.
Ael had ordered him to burn a city that had already surrendered.
To end a war before it began.
He obeyed.
And broke.
—
The god raised his hand.
The sixth shard materialized in the air—a gleaming crystal like a frozen sunrise.
"You may take it," the god said. "But only if you remember what it cost."
Ael stared at him. "I gave you nothing."
"You gave me purpose," the god whispered. "And then stole it. I have waited here, holding this shard… waiting for your return. Waiting for a king who believed in something again."
Ael stepped forward, lowering his head.
"I was wrong. About power. About loyalty. About you."
The god touched his shoulder.
And the world around them shifted.
Suddenly, Ael stood in the moment before the city burned.
He saw the flames rising.
The god kneeling.
Awaiting the command.
"No mercy," the old Ael had said.
The present Ael watched in silence.
"I should have stopped it," he whispered.
The world faded again.
Back to Limithor.
The god looked at him for a long moment. Then finally smiled.
Soft. Forgiving.
"You have changed."
The shard floated down.
Ael caught it in his hands.
And for the first time since his reincarnation—
He believed in himself.
The sixth shard entered his chest.
The god knelt.
Not in worship.
But in peace.
"I am whole again," he said. "And so are you."
—
As they left Limithor, the mist parted.
The sky returned.
The stars sang.
Six shards now rested within Ael's soul.
Only one remained.
And it was buried in the deepest place of all:
Inside the man who no longer wished to be king.