The chamber was still.
Not in the way silence fills an empty room — but the deeper stillness, the kind that breathes between heartbeats, between stars. Crept sat cross-legged in its center, body unmoving, mind fixed on the impossible dance between his sigil and the core within.
Chainheart.
The sigil pulsed softly beneath his ribs, tethered by threads of Yai, trying — and failing — to align with the storm inside his Yai Core. The process was familiar by now, yet no less agonizing.
Even after stepping into the Continental Tier, the road forward was slow. Painfully slow.
Three realms existed at this level, and Crept had barely scraped past the first. Stabilization required an intimate harmony between the sigil and the core — a resonance so pure that even seasoned warriors of the Roseblood lineage failed to achieve it in their lifetime. The Rosebloods, after all, were infamous for failing here — their line plagued by meditation-induced sleep and worse.
Meditation was everything.
And it was maddening.
The moment your focus broke, your entire effort unraveled. Some fell asleep. Some went insane. Some accidentally reversed their own cultivation and collapsed to earlier stages.
He could feel it now — the Yai flowing inside him like foreign rivers, attempting to braid into his essence. Each time it tried to seep into the Yai Core, the core rejected it. Too turbulent. Too proud.
A spark ignited. Then snuffed.
Another.
Failed.
But he persisted.
And so the hours passed. Quietly. Brutally.
---
Eventually, he rose. The fatigue clung to his limbs like chains, but his mind was clear — or at least quieter.
The scent of food reached him first.
Shilial had already set the table.
She was busier than ever these days — juggling his responsibilities, overseeing the reconstruction of the southern wards, managing the estate, the healers, the upcoming birth… and now she'd even begun handling his appointments.
Crept frowned at the thought.
She shouldn't have to carry this much. Not while pregnant. Not while the world was still reeling from what happened.
But meditation was the only way forward.
His timing had been cursed. His ascension began just as her womb swelled with life.
And he had no intention of raising a child like himself — work-bound, honor-chained, disciplined to the point of obsession.
Maybe I should find someone else to take the seat. Temporarily, he thought, sipping warm tea. Someone capable enough.
But before the thought could root deeper, a chime echoed through the estate.
A call.
He glanced at the name.
Inteja V Pharsa.
He didn't hesitate.
---
The call connected.
Her face flickered into view. Silver eyes. Sharp lips. The aura of royalty, heavier than any crown.
> Inteja: "How goes the reconstruction?"
> Crept: "Faster than expected. It'll be as it was within the week."
She nodded once.
> Inteja: "And congratulations… you're going to be a father."
Crept exhaled, a tired chuckle escaping.
> Crept: "Well… it seems so."
There was a pause. Not silence — something heavier.
Then she spoke again.
> Inteja: "I have a mission for you."
> Crept: "I decline."
The refusal was immediate. Reflexive. His responsibilities were here.
But Inteja didn't miss a beat.
> Inteja: "I know where they are."
His breath caught.
The room darkened just a little.
> Crept: "Go on."
> Inteja: "Ellejort."
Silence again.
This time, it burned.
Crept's eyes narrowed, fingers curling slowly into a fist. He didn't even realize he'd stood up.
Ellejort.
Of all places.
Off-limits. Sacred. Bound by pacts older than most families. Not even the Rosebloods could step foot there without bleeding consequences.
And yet…
Atiya. Zelaine.
Of course it was them.
Of course it was those two.
He exhaled slowly, a quiet growl in the back of his throat.
> "Those bastards are always giving me headaches."
The call remained open.
But his mind was already calculating.
Paths.
Risks.
Exits.
---
Snow fell in slow, delicate spirals across the frozen streets of Houfam, dusting the rooftops in gentle white. Rainslick shadows shimmered faintly under the dull glow of the streetlamps. Araya leaned back in his sleek, hybrid cruiser — a silent machine made for the northern terrain — its wheels carving quiet paths through wet snow.
He drove without hurry.
The destination wasn't far.
What he didn't know — what no one could know — was that something followed him. Shapes. Quiet footsteps that never touched the snow. Shadows that never broke the light.
Something watched.
And waited.
---
Penelope's house sat at the edge of the lower ring district — a modest two-floor dwelling nestled between a row of identical structures. Not lavish. Not poor. Just… lived-in. It glowed with a gentle amber warmth that softened the cold outside.
As Araya approached, scanners embedded in the porch flickered to life. The door hissed open.
Penelope stood waiting, dressed casually, arms crossed, brow raised.
"You brought gifts?" she asked as he stepped inside.
Araya held up a paper-wrapped bundle. "A little something."
She eyed him, unconvinced. "You've already eaten, haven't you?"
Araya tilted his head. "Not really."
Penelope squinted. "Oh my — my boyfriend is terrible at lying."
He sighed, defeated. "Maybe a little."
She smirked. "You're lucky I find it charming."
With a slight tug on his sleeve, she pulled him deeper into the home.
---
The dining hall was simple, warm, and filled with the quiet murmur of family life. The table had already been set. Her parents looked up from their seats — her father nodding, her mother smiling gently — and beside them sat Zafira, Penelope's younger sister.
Zafira's eyes lit up. "Araya! Finally. I've been telling Pen she doesn't deserve you. If she slips up, I'm stealing you."
Penelope groaned. "Zafira, I swear—"
Their mother laughed, already pouring drinks. "Have some of this, dear. It'll warm you."
Her father, a broad-shouldered man with tired but kind eyes, offered a casual grin. "Hope Penelope's not causing too much trouble. She's a picky eater, you know."
"That's from your side," her mother countered.
Zafira stabbed a fork into her food. "No, she got it from both of you. It's inherited chaos."
The conversation flowed like warm soup on a cold night — full of easy teasing and layered affection. Araya, usually quiet, smiled more than usual.
He didn't speak much.
But he watched.
And listened.
And somewhere in the middle of it — when Penelope rolled her eyes at Zafira, or when her mother asked him how long his shifts were these days — he realized how loud the mansion felt by comparison.
Not in sound. But in emptiness.
---
After dinner, Araya rose from his seat. Penelope followed him to the door, arms wrapped in a shawl against the cold.
Snow drifted softly outside, the air thick with that peculiar warmth only shared laughter could leave behind. Araya, however, lingered near the gate, hands buried in his coat pockets.
"I want dessert," he said.
Penelope blinked. "You're still hungry?"
"No," Araya replied. "Just... dessert."
She paused, then chuckled. "Right. I forgot. My family doesn't really do sweets."
"Tragic," Araya sighed.
Minutes later, they were at a nearby fast food stall — a flickering sign above, warm lights inside, the smell of cheap oil and sugar curling into the cold. Penelope ordered the cheapest items on the menu: two little choco-chaps and a paper cup of syruped fruits.
Araya narrowed his eyes. "You think I'm cheap?"
"I'm broke," Penelope replied. "Didn't get paid this cycle. Everything I had went into—" She hesitated. "Never mind."
He didn't press.
They sat on the bench outside and ate quietly. No silverware. Just fingers, and steam rising from styrofoam.
Afterward, they stood in front of his vehicle — a sleek snow-adapted runner — letting the silence settle.
They talked.
About work. About the old man who kept falling asleep in the clinic. About the time Penelope confused a sleep monitor with a Yai stabilizer and nearly shut down the cardiac wing.
And then, in a quiet breath between words—
Araya kissed her.
No prelude. No question.
Just the press of lips beneath snowfall.
Penelope stiffened at first. Then melted into it.
It lasted longer than either expected.
When they finally pulled away, breathless, Araya smiled.
"That," he said, "was the best thing I tasted all day."
Then — he was gone. Back inside the car. Gone like he always was.
Penelope stood still, fingers brushing her lips. A soft smile curled there.
But somewhere deep inside, something tugged — quiet, uncertain.
She stared at the fading trail of lights in the snow.
And felt it.
The kind of silence that meant something was about to end.
Because neither of them knew—
That was the last time.
The last soft dinner.
The last warm kiss.
The last ordinary day.
---