The monastery cellar felt smaller now.
The Black Sun still hung above the city—its darkness absolute, its hunger patient—but the immediate drain had eased. Plants no longer withered in seconds; breath came easier; the faint violet static at the rim flickered less often. Elias's refusal—his desperate push of black flame against the void—had bought hours, perhaps a day. No more.
But the cost showed.
Elara sat against the far wall—knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. Her skin looked thinner, almost translucent; the mark of Leviathan on her forearm had faded to a dull gray outline. She stared at her hands as though they belonged to someone else.
Behemoth stood near the single narrow window—stone skin no longer seamless. Cracks ran through his arms and chest like old fault lines; when he shifted, small chips of granite fell and did not regrow. His breathing was slower, heavier, as though each inhale required effort from rock that had forgotten how to move.
Liora huddled in the darkest corner—shadows around her reduced to faint wisps that barely concealed her. Her storm-cloud eyes were dull; her small frame shook with quiet tremors. She kept touching the place on her chest where Belial's mark had once burned—now only smooth, ordinary skin.
They had not spoken since Elias collapsed after closing the Gate.
The silence was thick—broken only by Lucian's faint, uneven breathing from the cot.
Elias sat beside the boy—head bowed, elbows on knees, hands clasped so tightly the knuckles showed white.
He felt them.
Not as separate presences anymore—not as voices or tides or mountains—but as parts of himself. Leviathan's endless patience flowed through his blood like slow current. Behemoth's unyielding weight anchored his bones. Belial's cunning sharpened every thought that passed through his mind.
They were inside him now.
Fully.
Irreversibly.
And they were dying.
Not quickly. Not dramatically.
But steadily.
Every moment Elias held the Black Sun at bay, every heartbeat he refused Abaddon's final command, the primordials weakened further. Their essence—once vast, once eternal—now burned like candles in a high wind.
Elara broke the silence first.
Her voice was small—almost lost.
"I can't feel him anymore."
She lifted her arm—showed the faded mark.
"Leviathan… he's quiet. Like he's falling asleep. And I don't know how to wake him."
Behemoth rumbled—low, pained.
"Stone… forgets how to be stone."
He lifted one massive hand—fingers stiff, joints grinding. A small flake of granite fell away and shattered on the floor.
Liora hugged her knees tighter.
"Shadows don't lie when they're dying," she whispered. "They just… go dark."
Elias looked at each of them—his companions, his generals, now mortal again because he had pulled everything into himself.
"I'm sorry," he said. The words felt inadequate—small against the enormity of what he had done.
Elara shook her head—slowly.
"Don't be. You didn't steal it. We gave it. Because we trusted you to refuse him when we couldn't."
Behemoth nodded once—stone grinding.
"You carry the weight now. We carry none. That was the choice."
Liora lifted her head—eyes wet but steady.
"We're still here. Even without them. We're still yours."
Elias looked down at Lucian—still, pale, breathing in shallow sips.
The boy had not moved since the tether broke. No golden flicker. No hazel resurfacing. Just quiet, stubborn persistence.
Elias reached out—laid two fingers against Lucian's throat.
The pulse was there—faint, thready, but present.
He exhaled—shaky.
"They're dying because of me," he said. "Because I won't let it end."
Elara moved closer—placed her hand over his on Lucian's chest.
"They're dying because you won't let us end. There's a difference."
She looked at him—really looked.
"You carried the refusal alone for too long. Now we carry the dying together. That's fair."
Behemoth stepped forward—slow, careful—placed one cracked stone hand on Elias's shoulder.
"Stone breaks," he rumbled. "But stone chooses when."
Liora unfolded herself—small, fragile—and crawled across the floor to sit beside them.
She took Elias's other hand.
"We're not generals anymore," she said softly. "We're just… us. And we're still fighting."
Elias looked at them—three mortals who had once carried gods, who had once obeyed ruin, who now chose to sit in a dying cellar beside a dying boy and a dying friend.
He felt the primordials inside him—fading, quiet, but still there.
Still his.
Still theirs.
He looked up at the low ceiling—toward the Black Sun that waited beyond stone and sky.
Abaddon spoke—soft, almost resigned.
They weaken because you refuse the end.
But they live because you refuse the end.
Elias closed his eyes.
"Then we keep refusing," he whispered.
He opened them again—black-gold gaze steady.
"Until there's nothing left to refuse."
Outside, the Black Sun pulsed once—slow, uncertain.
The world—dying—held its breath.
And four mortals and one fading vessel sat together in the dark.
Still breathing.
Still choosing.
Still here.
End of Chapter 37