Three weeks.
Three weeks of burying himself in work like a man trying to dig his way to salvation through sheer productivity.
Duvan arrived at Future Tech before dawn and left long after midnight. Sometimes he didn't leave at all, just dozed in his office chair between project reviews and design iterations. His assistant started keeping a change of clothes in the office. His staff started exchanging concerned looks when they thought he wasn't watching.
He was always watching.
Time manipulation meant he could stretch seconds into minutes, could experience hours of work in what others perceived as mere moments. It was efficiency taken to an absurd extreme, and it was slowly driving him insane.
But it was better than going home.
Better than being in that house with Hera's presence like a ghost haunting rooms they'd never really shared.
The work helped. God, did it help.
Future Tech's development speed increased dramatically. Projects that should have taken months were completed in weeks. The new barrier reinforcement system? Finished. The improved water purification array? Implemented across three settlements. The magitech communication network expansion? Ahead of schedule.
His research team was simultaneously thrilled and exhausted trying to keep up with him.
"Boss," his lead engineer said carefully during one late-night session, "maybe you should... take a break? Go home? Sleep in an actual bed?"
Duvan had looked at him with those empty eyes that had become his default expression.
"We're three days ahead of schedule on the sensor grid project," he'd said flatly. "I'd like to make it five. Are you going home, or should I continue alone?"
The engineer had stayed.
They all stayed. Because when the Time Prince worked, everyone worked. And when the Time Prince didn't sleep, well... that was his business.
The Grand Protector meetings became Duvan's only real social interaction, and even those he approached with mechanical efficiency. Arrive exactly on time, present his reports with clinical precision, answer questions, deflect personal inquiries, leave.
No small talk. No lingering. No vulnerability.
Just the Time Prince, performing his duties flawlessly while the man underneath slowly hollowed out.
The meeting had been standard—defense updates, resource allocation, intelligence reports from the Deep. Duvan had presented his analysis on the anomaly patterns, recommended adjustments to patrol schedules, and was gathering his documents when Gawain intercepted him at the door.
"Got a minute?" the Guildmaster asked, his usual jovial tone slightly subdued.
"I have seventeen meetings scheduled for this afternoon and three projects requiring my direct oversight," Duvan replied without looking up from his papers. "So no, not really."
"It's about the Hero."
Duvan's hands stilled for just a fraction of a second before resuming their mechanical sorting.
"What about him?"
"He wants to meet with you."
"No."
"Duvan—"
"No." His voice was flat, final. "I'm busy. Tell him to submit a formal request through proper channels if he needs Future Tech resources."
Duvan moved to step around Gawain, already mentally moving on to his next task, but the larger man didn't budge.
"It's personal, kid."
"Then definitely no." Duvan's expression didn't change. "Is there anything else?"
He took another step toward the door, and this time Gawain let him pass.
But Silvia was standing in the hallway.
Of course she was.
The elf looked at him with those ancient, knowing eyes, and said one word:
"Listen."
Then she turned and walked away, robes flowing behind her like she was in some kind of dramatic stage play.
Duvan stood there, jaw clenched so tight he could feel his teeth grinding.
"I really, really hate future-seers," he muttered.
"She does that to everyone," Gawain offered sympathetically. "The cryptic one-word advice thing. Very irritating."
"Are all elves like this?"
"Mostly just the ones who can see the future. The others are usually quite pleasant."
Duvan closed his eyes, took a breath, and made a decision he knew he'd regret.
"Fine. I'll meet with him. But it won't take long." He fixed Gawain with a sharp look. "And I mean it—if this takes more than fifteen minutes, I'm leaving."
Gawain's expression softened into something like relief. "Fair enough. Come on, I'll take you there now."
"Now? I have—"
"Seventeen meetings, I heard. They can wait fifteen minutes."
Before Duvan could protest further, Gawain's hand was on his shoulder and reality folded.
Teleportation was instantaneous, but Duvan had experienced it enough times to hate it. The momentary dissolution of space, the sensation of being nowhere and everywhere at once, the sudden reassembly in a new location. It played hell with his time-sense.
They materialized in the Adventurer's Guild headquarters—specifically, in one of the private meeting rooms on the upper floors. Discrete, warded, designed for conversations that needed to stay confidential.
"He's waiting inside," Gawain said, gesturing to the door. "Try not to kill him. He's useful."
"I don't kill useful people," Duvan replied coolly. "It's inefficient."
"That's... not as reassuring as you think it is."
Duvan ignored him and pushed open the door.
The room was simple—a table, two chairs, basic furnishings. Nothing fancy. The Guild's version of a neutral meeting space.
Kieran Brightblade stood by the window, looking out over the city.
This was Duvan's first time seeing him up close rather than from across a street. The Hero was tall, built like someone who'd spent years fighting monsters that could kill normal humans in seconds. Dark hair, strong features, the kind of presence that made people instinctively trust him.
Duvan understood, intellectually, why Hera had chosen him.
It didn't make him hate the man any less.
He walked in, closed the door behind him, and sat down at the table without preamble.
"Personal or business?" Duvan asked flatly.
No greeting. No introduction. Just straight to the point, because he had seventeen meetings and no patience for social niceties with the man who'd been sleeping with his wife.
Kieran turned from the window, and something like surprise crossed his face. Probably not used to being greeted with such cold efficiency.
"I'm Kieran Brightblade," he started, moving toward the table. "I wanted to—"
"Personal or business?" Duvan repeated, his tone making it clear he wouldn't ask a third time.
Kieran paused, then sat down across from him. "Personal."
"Then let's make this quick. I have work to do."
"I wanted to apologize—" Kieran began, his expression earnest, hands clasped on the table in what was probably meant to be a gesture of sincerity.
Duvan said nothing.
Just looked at him with those empty eyes, waiting for something more substantial than platitudes.
The silence stretched.
Kieran's earnest expression faltered. "I... I know what happened between Hera and me is unforgivable. The deception, the—"
"Get to the point." Duvan's voice was colder than a winter in the Deep. "You didn't ask for this meeting to apologize. Apologies are worthless. What do you actually want?"
Kieran took a breath, and something hardened in his expression. The earnest Hero facade cracking to reveal someone more direct underneath.
"I want you to stop hurting Hera."
The words hung in the air for exactly one second.
Then everything except the two of them stopped.
The dust motes froze mid-float. The sound of the city outside cut off like someone had severed an audio cable. The light from the window became static, unchanging, trapped in a moment that refused to progress.
Time stopped.
And Duvan's eyes began to glow.
Not the subtle golden shimmer he sometimes got when using his abilities. This was different—intense, radiant, like miniature stars had replaced his irises. The full manifestation of his power, unrestrained.
When he spoke, his voice was soft, conversational, and absolutely terrifying.
"Who are you to ask me of that?"
Kieran had been in life-or-death situations more times than he could count. Had faced Void Colossi, ancient monsters from the Deep, entities that defied natural law. His Limit Break had carried him through scenarios that should have killed him a hundred times over.
None of that prepared him for this.
He could feel it—the sheer, overwhelming power radiating from Duvan. This wasn't just an Ascender using their ability. This was reality itself bending around the Time Prince, acknowledging his absolute dominion over a fundamental aspect of existence.
In this frozen moment, Kieran understood with perfect clarity: Duvan could kill him.
Not eventually. Not if he got lucky.
Right now.
Before his Limit Break could even begin to activate. Before he could draw a weapon or mount a defense or do anything except realize he was already dead.
One of the five Grand Protectors, they called Duvan. The youngest by decades.
Kieran suddenly understood why.
But he didn't back down.
Couldn't back down. Because Hera was suffering, and their daughter was being affected, and someone had to advocate for them even if that someone was the idiot who'd helped create this mess.
"I—" His voice came out strangled. Speaking through frozen time felt like moving through concrete. "I know I have no right—"
"You don't." Duvan's glowing eyes never blinked. "You have less than no right. You're the one who made her a liar. You're the one who helped her deceive me for six years. And now you come here, into a private meeting, and have the audacity to tell me to stop hurting her?"
The temperature in the room dropped.
"The audacity," Duvan continued, his voice dropping even lower, "is almost impressive."
Kieran forced himself to maintain eye contact, even though every instinct screamed at him to look away, to submit, to acknowledge the apex predator sitting across from him.
"She's suffering—"
"Good."
The word was ice.
But then Duvan's eyes dimmed slightly, the glow receding just a fraction. Logic reasserting itself over rage.
"What," he said carefully, "makes you think I'm hurting her?"
Kieran swallowed. "She looks terrible. She's trying to hide it, but I can tell. She's not eating. She's vomiting constantly. She's—" He paused, knowing this next part would be dangerous but needing to say it anyway. "It's affecting our daughter. Cyrene sees her mother falling apart and doesn't understand why."
The moment the word "daughter" left his mouth, something changed.
Duvan's eyes stopped glowing as intensely. Not completely—they still held that golden shimmer—but the overwhelming pressure eased slightly.
Time began to resume. Not suddenly, but like a machine slowly grinding back into motion.
The dust motes started floating again. Sound filtered back in stages—distant voices from the Guild below, the wind outside, the creak of furniture settling.
Duvan sat perfectly still, his expression unreadable.
Children. His weakness. His blind spot. The orphans at Brighthollow, the kids he'd risked everything to save.
A five-year-old girl who'd done nothing wrong except be born into this mess.
"Your daughter," Duvan said slowly, "is innocent in this."
"She is," Kieran agreed quickly, sensing an opening. "And she's suffering because her mother is suffering. Cyrene doesn't understand why mama is sad all the time. Why she cries when she thinks no one's watching."
Silence fell over the room, heavy and oppressive.
Kieran took a breath and did something that went against every instinct: he bowed his head.
"I'm asking you," he said quietly, "please. Just listen to her. Hear what she has to say. Just once. I won't ask anything more of you after that."
More silence.
Duvan stared at the Hero—this man who'd stolen his wife, who'd built a family with the woman Duvan had loved, who had the audacity to come here and plead on her behalf—and felt... nothing.
No. Not nothing.
Tired. He felt tired.
"Fine."
Kieran's head snapped up.
"One conversation," Duvan said, standing. "She gets to say whatever she needs to say. After that, I don't want to hear about this again. Are we clear?"
"Yes. Thank you—"
"Don't thank me." Duvan's expression was still cold. "I'm not doing this for her. I'm doing it for a child who doesn't deserve to suffer because the adults in her life made terrible choices."
He walked to the door, paused with his hand on the handle.
"And Kieran?" He didn't turn around. "If you ever presume to tell me how to handle my marriage again, frozen time will be the least of your concerns. Understood?"
"...Understood."
Duvan left without another word.
Duvan stood outside his house—not home, definitely not home—and wondered when he'd become the kind of person who needed to be guilted into talking to his own wife.
Ex-wife, his mind supplied. Effectively, anyway. Only paperwork keeping that "ex" from being official.
The house was lit. Not just the usual soft glow of evening lamps, but brighter. Like someone had turned on every light while waiting.
Waiting for him.
He could leave. Should leave, probably. Go back to Future Tech, lose himself in work again, pretend this conversation didn't need to happen.
But he'd given his word to Kieran, and whatever else he was, Duvan kept his promises.
Even the ones he regretted immediately after making them.
He pushed open the door.
Hera was in the living room, standing this time rather than sitting. Like she'd been pacing, working herself up for this conversation.
She looked terrible.
That was his first thought, clinical and detached. She'd lost weight. Her face was pale, drawn, the healthy glow of the Saintess replaced by something fragile and breakable. Dark circles under her eyes suggested sleep was as elusive for her as it was for him.
Her robes—always those ceremonial robes—hung looser than they should.
And even looking like that, like a shadow of herself, she was still beautiful.
How laughable.
How absolutely absurd, that his traitorous brain could look at the woman who'd deceived him for six years and still find her beautiful.
Lucas had always had terrible taste in partners. Apparently that carried over into his next life.
Their eyes met, and Hera's breath caught. Like she hadn't actually expected him to show up. Like Kieran's intervention had been a desperate gamble she'd assumed would fail.
Duvan walked into the room with measured steps, his expression carefully neutral, and sat down in the chair across from where she stood.
"Speak," he said flatly.
Not "What did you want to talk about?" Not "I'm listening." Just one word, stripped of any warmth or invitation.
A command more than an offer.
Hera flinched slightly, her hands clasping together in front of her—a nervous gesture he'd never seen before. The Saintess didn't do nervous. She did serene, composed, untouchable.
This was something else.
This was Hera. The real one. The one who existed when the mask came off.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
Duvan waited, his golden eyes reflecting the lamplight, patient in the way only someone who could manipulate time could be patient.
He had nowhere else to be tonight.
No meetings to rush to. No projects to escape into.
Just this moment, stretching out before them like a battlefield where words would be weapons and truth would draw blood.
"Speak," he repeated, softer this time but no less cold.
And Hera, standing in the too-bright living room of a house that had never been a home, finally began to talk.