Zephyros cradles the vase in his hands, its porcelain cool against his fingertips.
For a moment, it feels like the weight of the city rests within its fragile curves. Then, it slips. The shatter is deafening in the silence, shards scattering like fallen stars across the darkened floor. He stares at the fragments, his breath catching in his throat.
"What's happening in the underground?" he whispers, his voice barely audible, as if speaking too loudly might summon something unspeakable. The room is cloaked in shadow, save for the faint glow of his outfit—the radiant white that seems to pulse with a life of its own.
But as he steps forward, a crimson stain blooms across the fabric. Blood? Perhaps. Or something darker, something that clings to him like a curse. The white light dims, shifting to a deep, unsettling red.
He smiles. "I retract what I said," he murmurs, each word drawn out, deliberate, as if savoring the taste of his own defeat. "Everything… doesn't seem to be going my way."
His hands curl into fists, veins bulging like rivers of rage beneath his skin. "Skillset," he mutters.
The air around him shimmers as a holographic interface flickers to life: Architect of Cycles (Legendary/Stage 5). But he dismisses it with a flick of his wrist.
Then, without warning, he strikes his own face. Once. Twice. Again and again, each blow harder than the last.
Blood trickles from his split lip, mingling with the glow of his outfit, as he raises his hand.
Azarias' voice echoes in his mind, taunting him. "I wonder what you would do when they all start crashing down on your head, every—" The words stretch and distort, slowing to a crawl. "—single one. Your devout people. Let's see whether they live for you or are truly blind."
Zephyros coughs.
Three massive pillars, dark grey and plunging into layers beneath, stand before him. They aren't straight; instead, they curve subtly inward like colossal ribs. Through the window, their tips pierce the clouded air of the first layer, glowing with an ethereal blue light. Far below, impossibly distant, tiny figures walk towards their immense base.
"Come here, beast," he mutters, his voice trembling with barely restrained fury. The air grows heavy, charged with static, as the red dragon materializes behind him. Its massive form blots out the sky, wings beating with a rhythm that seems to sync with Zephyros' racing heartbeat.
Beast. The word slithers into Ignavaris's mind, sharp as a dagger. Once, I had names that shook cities. Now? A weapon chained to a mortal's madness.
You begrudge me titles, Godling, the voices harmonize, yet you wield me like a butcher's cleaver. But it says none of this. Mortals rarely survive his unfiltered truths.
"Yes?" Ignavaris rumbles, its voice low and resonant, like distant thunder.
Zephyros doesn't turn to face it. His gaze remains fixed on the district below, his disheveled hair framing a face streaked with blood and sweat.
"How probable is it for you to go to the underground layer?" he asks, his tone eerily calm now, as if the storm within him has momentarily stilled.
Ignavaris tilts its head, studying him with ancient, knowing eyes. "What reason?" it asks, its voice a careful balance of curiosity and caution.
Zephyros' smile returns, but it's darker now, edged with something unhinged.
"Death." He utters the word with quiet finality.
"People can't see good, even when it's staring them in the face. I don't want to kill my own people! I love my people! But they force my hand. They turn away. Cowards. Greedy fools. Rats scurrying in the dark, clawing for scraps. Every last one of them—headless sacks of meat, stumbling through life. But let's see how they fare when the flames rise, when this foolish revolution turns their precious layer to ash. Their screams... now that's music, don't you think? It's always the same, isn't it? A layer burned for their sins. Insolence! Greed! Sins! Sins! Sins!"
Ignavaris watches him in silence. Without a word, it spreads its wings and ascends into the sky. The bioluminescent scars flare—a constellation of pain—and for a heartbeat, his form flickers: a skeletal thing, all molten core and jagged wingspan, before collapsing back into mortal-seeming flesh. He leaps skyward, but not before his tertiary voice, a child's singsong, whispers to Zephyros: You'll miss the rats when they're gone.
Zephyros swipes a hand through his hair, his earlier fury replaced by a chilling serenity. "If it is war they so desperately seek," he murmurs, "then it is war they shall receive. Divine providence, it is."
A stare toward the unknown. "Cloudspine."
A drone descends from above, its lens focusing on him as he steps into the light. He clasps his hands together, his smile radiant, almost beatific. "Hello to the districts," he begins, his voice smooth and melodic.
"I am Zeph—no, never mind that. Most of you already know me. Your so-called 'intelligent' leaders were advised to avoid direct contact with me, saying that the central district would simply destroy itself. So..." He pauses, his smile widening. "Death to all heretics."
The drone shifts its view, capturing the dragon as it soars toward Cloudspine, its crimson form a blazing streak against the sky. Zephyros watches it go, his laughter echoing through the air—a sound heavenly.
As Ignavaris descends toward Cloudspine, he feels the woman's presence before he propels higher—the Nexusian whose arm he incinerated a few days ago.
He could vaporize her. Should. But the curse doesn't command mercy, only destruction. So why does he let her live? Because, whispers his oldest voice, even fallen seraphs need witnesses.
"Kaelith," it adds. "Kaelith is her name," it finishes.
Expanded scene with the children
[Dawn: Diotima's daily ritual]
Diotima wakes up and immediately runs to the picture of Zephyros that hangs on the wall. Diotima begins her daily prayer, as she does twice each day, for exactly two minutes, the scent of old wood and dust thick in the morning stillness.
"Save the world, oh Father," Diotima breathes, the words worn smooth as river stones. "I beg you to act, so that the light may find me while I still draw breath." A single shaft of dawn light cuts across the worn floorboards as she finishes.
[Moments later: Outside the house]
As Diotima finishes, she steps outside, the cool air biting, and there he is—Zephyros himself, descending with an otherworldly grace, robes swirling like captured mist. The grassland stretched endlessly before him, a sea of green and gold.
Beside him, a chained man struggles weakly, his rasping breaths loud in the sudden silence.
Children's Conflict After Zephyros Leaves
[Immediately after Zephyros departs: Siblings in the yard]
Hypatia approaches, her voice soft but insistent, carrying the weight of memory. "He raised me," Hypatia says. Socrates feels his eye twitch involuntarily as he listens, a familiar coil of unease tightening in his gut. They seem to already be leaving, figures blurring at the edges.
Hypatia smiles—a strange, unsettling smile cracking her face like porcelain—and stretches out her hands. Before Socrates can react, Hypatia's fingers close around his neck, tightening with a force that surprises him, the pressure sharp and absolute against his windpipe.
"How gruesome," Hypatia mutters, her voice trembling with a mix of envy and rage as she continues choking Socrates. The boy's frantic gasps fill the space between them. "How envious you are. Zephyros loves only me." The metallic tang of adrenaline floods her mouth.
The boy struggles, his hands flailing as he tries to break free. One of his strikes lands on Hypatia's face, and both Diotima and Heraclitus feel the warm, sudden rush of blood as it spills from his nose—a bright crimson streak against pale skin.
Diotima smashes his face in with a nearby stone, but Heraclitus doesn't let go. He can't. Zephyros is his, and his alone—the thought a burning brand in his mind. He tastes iron on his lip.
Plato stumbles outside, his vision blurred by tears or blood—he can't tell—and finds his siblings locked in a violent struggle, a tangle of limbs and snarls under the indifferent sky.
For a moment, Plato considers intervening, the old instinct to mend flickering weakly. But then the realization washes over him like a wave, cold and clarifying: if they destroy each other, Zephyros will be his entirely.
A smile, thin and sharp, creeps across Plato's face as he sits down in the damp grass, watching their scuffle with detached fascination, blades of grass cool beneath his palms.
"Zephyros," Plato whispers, his voice filled with reverence that feels like a physical ache.
"His glory, his grace—they radiate through me. I am the chosen one." His heart pounds in his chest, a wild, uncontrollable rhythm against his ribs. Plato can barely contain the violent surge of devotion and triumph within him.
And then, as if in response to Plato's devotion, he remembers how Zephyros touched him.
Plato remembers. He remembers the large, impossibly gentle hand reaching down, lifting him from his cradle like a precious, fragile thing. Zephyros's touch was both tender and divine, radiating a warmth that seeped into Plato's very bones.
In those arms, Plato felt safe, cherished, and utterly complete, the rough linen of the god's robe soft against his cheek. The world outside—the cries, the shadows, the cold—faded away into nothingness, and all that remained was Zephyros—and Plato. The scent of ozone and ancient stone clung to the memory.
Third Layer.
Present.
Mara surges upward, winds howling around her as grey clouds whip against her skin. "Everyone, Tenebris is ours!" She screams, her voice cutting through the chaos while she ascends toward the highway.
Below, people scatter in panic—some scream, others fumble with devices, recording every moment. Cameras flash, capturing her defiance.
"What are you doing?" a Flint guardian shouts, sprinting toward her, arms outstretched. "In the name of Zephyros, stop!"
She doesn't hesitate. Landing squarely on their head, her legs lock around their neck. They thrash, desperate to throw her off, but she's relentless. Her hands claw at their face; with a swift, calculated motion, she wrenches their arm blaster free and presses it against their temple.
"How do I go up?" she snarls, her voice raw with desperation.
The crowd recoils, screams blending into a cacophony of fear. A deafening bang echoes. Flesh scatters. She drops from the lifeless body, her breath ragged. "I don't have time for this," she spits, wiping blood from her hands.
The onlookers stare, wide-eyed, but soon return to their routines, as if the violence were just another spectacle. The world moves on, indifferent. She glances at her stream—thousands flood in, numbers climbing by the second. A laugh escapes her, bitter and unhinged.
Another guard collapses nearby, body hitting the ground with a dull thud. "Haha," she chuckles, but her amusement dies instantly. Cold steel presses against her skull – a blaster barrel.
"You've caused a string to vibrate uncontrollably," Dirge says, his voice calm, almost bored.
Sweat drips down her face. For a heartbeat, defiance flickers, then crumbles. "Please," she mutters, her voice trembling. "Please."
She sinks to her knees, the weight crashing down. The blaster hums, energy building as Dirge tightens his grip.
"To this revolution, death is the easiest option," he says, tone devoid of emotion.
"You—you should understand," she stammers, the flicker weak. "Always used by Zephyros, always—"
"Quiet," Dirge snaps. "In the name of your soon-to-be corpse, I couldn't care less about a Tenebrisian."
Dirge's words sting, but she forces herself to meet his headgear. "This won't lead anywhere," he continues, his voice cold. "It never does."
She watches, helpless, as he adjusts his aim.
"Thank you, though," he adds, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. "God will go to war now."
Upper Layer.
Elsewhere, in the upper layer, a pool of blood and ash begins to stir. It seeps into the charred remains of a body—a husk of flesh and armor. Life surges through it, and Kaelith's eyes snap open.
She gasps, her body writhing as she struggles to stand. Her bow lies shattered beside her, its once-gleaming surface now dull and cracked.
"Gah!" she cries out, her voice raw as her hair begins to regrow, her armor slowly reforming, though its colors are forever altered by the burns.
She reaches for the bow, but it disintegrates at her touch.
"Story skill no longer active. Recalculating new skill."
The words glow before her, and her eyes narrow as they shift uncontrollably.
"Flame Resurrector, Stage 4."
Fire erupts from her hands, illuminating the scorched ground. She kneels, her fingers digging into the dark soil as the skill recalibrates once more.
A sentence etches itself into the dirt: "I'm dead. You're the new Kaelith. Make use of it! Bye."
"The new Kaelith," she murmurs, a slow, unsettling smile spreading across her face. "Oh."