Work was a blessing in disguise.
Duvan had always known this about himself—both as Lucas and now—that he could lose himself in tasks, in problems that needed solving, in the mechanical rhythm of productivity. It was easier to think about magical circuit optimization than about betrayal. Easier to focus on projected quarterly growth than on phantom chest pain.
So that's exactly what he did.
The morning meeting at Future Tech went smoothly. They were developing a new type of barrier reinforcement that could potentially extend the safe zones by several miles. The research team had questions about magical resonance frequencies, Duvan had answers, and for three blissful hours he was just the Time Prince, genius inventor, not Duvan Excy, recently cuckolded husband.
Nobody noticed anything different.
Nobody asked if he was okay.
Nobody looked at him with pity or concern or any of those awful emotions that would have shattered the careful composure he'd constructed.
Thank the gods for professional boundaries and people who minded their own business.
The afternoon council session with the other Grand Protectors was trickier, but Duvan had decades of experience maintaining masks. This one was just another performance.
They gathered in the Council Chamber—a circular room at the top of the Grand Spire, warded so heavily that reality itself seemed to hum with protective magic. Appropriate, given the people it housed.
Gawain sprawled in his chair like he owned the place (he kind of did), reviewing reports with the casual authority of someone who'd been leading the Guild for thirty years. Lucifer sat perfectly still, shadows pooling around his feet in a way that was either dramatic flair or unconscious magic leakage—hard to tell with demons. Celeste radiated soft golden light, because apparently angels couldn't turn that off even if they tried.
And Silvia...
Silvia was watching him.
Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But Duvan could feel her attention, that unnerving future-seer focus that suggested she knew exactly what had happened and was waiting to see what he'd do about it.
He ignored her.
"Right," Gawain said, clapping his hands together. "Let's start with the anomaly reports from the Deep. Duvan, you flagged some unusual pattern clusters in sector seven?"
And just like that, they were in work mode.
Duvan pulled up his analysis—diagrams and data that he'd compiled over the past three weeks, showing movement patterns in the Deep that suggested coordinated intelligence rather than random monster behavior. He explained his theories, fielded questions, proposed additional surveillance measures.
His voice was steady. His hands didn't shake. His expression remained professionally engaged.
The Time Prince, performing his role perfectly.
"Concerning," Lucifer said quietly, studying the data with crimson eyes that missed nothing. "If they're organizing, we'll need to adjust our defense protocols."
"Already drafted proposals," Duvan said, distributing documents with smooth efficiency. "Three scenarios ranging from minor coordination to full tactical awareness. Recommended responses for each."
Celeste smiled warmly. "You're always so prepared, Duvan. I don't know what we'd do without you."
You'd probably be fine, Duvan thought distantly. I'm replaceable. Everyone is.
"Just doing my job," he said aloud, returning her smile with practiced ease.
The meeting continued for another two hours. Strategic planning, resource allocation, political maneuvering between the various factions they represented. Important work. Work that mattered.
Work that kept him from thinking about anything else.
By the time they adjourned, Duvan felt a genuine sense of relief. He'd made it through the day. Nobody had noticed. The mask had held.
He was gathering his documents, preparing to teleport home—no, not home, back to the house—when Silvia appeared at his elbow.
She didn't say anything.
Just stood there, those ancient elven eyes watching him with that insufferable knowing expression.
Duvan continued packing his papers, jaw tight.
Still she said nothing.
The silence stretched, became uncomfortable, verging on aggressive.
"Did you need something, Silvia?" Duvan finally asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"No," she said simply.
He looked at her then, really looked, and saw something that might have been sympathy in her expression. Or pity. Or satisfaction at a prophecy fulfilled.
Hard to tell with future-seers. They operated on a different time wavelength than everyone else.
"Then if you'll excuse me—"
"Some threads must break before they can be rewoven," Silvia said softly. "Some pain is necessary for growth."
Duvan's hands stilled on his papers.
"Is that supposed to be comforting?" His voice was colder than he'd intended.
"No." Silvia tilted her head slightly. "It's supposed to be true. Comfort and truth are rarely the same thing."
"Right. Well, thank you for that incredibly unhelpful insight." He finished gathering his things, turning away from her. "I'll be sure to remember it while my life falls apart."
"It's already fallen apart, Duvan." Her voice followed him as he headed for the door. "Now you get to decide what to build from the pieces."
He didn't respond.
Didn't acknowledge her words.
Just activated the teleportation anchor and vanished in a flash of spatial magic, leaving the Omniscient Priestess alone in the council chamber with her visions and her cryptic wisdom.
I really hate future-seers, Duvan thought for the second time in as many days.
The feeling was starting to become familiar.
The teleportation anchor deposited him three blocks from his house.
House. Not home.
When had he started making that distinction? Yesterday? This morning? Just now?
Words mattered. Labels mattered. "Home" implied belonging, warmth, a place where you were wanted. "House" was just a structure, a building where you happened to store your belongings and occasionally sleep.
Yeah. House was the right word.
Duvan walked slowly, in no hurry to arrive, his mind drifting to places he'd rather it didn't go.
Hera and Kieran.
The names sat in his mind like stones, heavy and unavoidable.
He'd asked Gawain about the Hero's party once, years ago. Casual curiosity, the kind of intelligence gathering any Grand Protector might do about significant figures in their world. Gawain had been happy to talk—the man loved gossip almost as much as he loved teleporting into dangerous situations.
"Kieran Brightblade," Gawain had said, pouring them both drinks in his office. "Ascender ability called Limit Break. Basically, the more danger he's in, the stronger he gets. No upper cap that we've discovered. Kid's been in situations that should've killed him a hundred times over, and he just keeps breaking through his limits."
"Overpowered," Duvan had commented.
"Extremely. But the Deep has him matched—those Void entities scale to opposition. It's like the universe is playing a sick game, constantly escalating." Gawain had shrugged. "His Saintess, Hera, has Holy Heal. Can cure anything short of death, sometimes even pull people back from death's door if she's fast enough. They're a hell of a team."
"His Saintess?"
"Well, she's assigned to his party by Magism Unos. You know how it works—political arrangements, religious blessings, all that ceremonial nonsense." Gawain had grinned. "Though between you and me, I think there's more than professional cooperation there. Saw them once after a mission, the way they looked at each other..." He'd whistled low. "That's not just party synergy, if you know what I mean."
Duvan had laughed it off at the time.
Not so funny now.
Limit Break, his mind repeated. The more danger, the stronger he gets.
Broken ability. Absolutely broken. The kind of power that made Kieran one of humanity's greatest assets against the Deep.
Which was probably why the thought that followed was so troubling:
I could definitely kill him.
Duvan stopped walking.
The thought had appeared fully formed, clinical and certain. Not emotional, not vengeful—just a cold assessment of capability versus opportunity.
Kieran's Limit Break made him stronger in response to danger, but it had a ramp-up period. He needed time to adapt, to break through his current limits. And time was literally Duvan's domain.
Stop time. Kill Kieran before Limit Break could activate. Done.
Simple. Efficient. Permanent solution to a personal problem.
Duvan shook his head sharply, like he could physically dislodge the thought.
"No," he muttered to himself. "Absolutely not. What the hell is wrong with you?"
Kieran was the Hero. His party ventured deepest into the Deep, mapped territories, recovered artifacts, saved settlements that would otherwise be lost. Killing him would cripple one of humanity's most effective expedition teams.
It would weaken their already desperate defensive position.
It would make Duvan a murderer for purely selfish reasons.
It would be stupid.
"Logic," Duvan said firmly, resuming his walk. "Use logic. Not impulsive revenge fantasies. We're better than that."
Are we though? another part of his mind whispered. Lucas never got revenge on anyone who wronged him. Just swallowed it, internalized it, let it eat him alive until his heart gave out. Is that better?
"Yes," Duvan said aloud. "That's definitely better than becoming a murderer. Congratulations on clearing the lowest possible moral bar."
A passing couple gave him odd looks—the Time Prince, talking to himself in the street like a madman.
He ignored them.
Killing Kieran wouldn't solve anything anyway. Wouldn't undo the betrayal, wouldn't make Hera love him, wouldn't heal the hurt. It would just add guilt and consequences to his already impressive collection of negative emotions.
Besides, if he wanted to make them suffer, there were better ways.
More legal ways.
Ways that wouldn't compromise humanity's survival.
Listen to yourself, the rational part of his brain said. You're literally debating the methodology of revenge. Maybe focus on not being a villain?
"I'm not a villain," Duvan muttered. "Villains have motivation and clear goals. I'm just..." He searched for the right word. "...processing."
Processing murder?
"Impulsive thoughts. Everyone has them. Doesn't mean anything."
You literally calculated the optimal method to assassinate the Hero.
"And then decided not to! That's called impulse control! That's called being a functional adult!"
The couple from before had stopped to watch him argue with himself.
Duvan sighed, gave them a polite wave, and continued walking.
Maybe he needed more therapy than whiskey could provide.
Just maybe.
He arrived at the house—definitely a house, not a home, he was committed to that terminology now—and immediately noticed something off.
The lights in the living room were on.
It was late. Past dinner, past evening prayers, past whatever schedule Hera usually maintained. She should be in her room by now, doing whatever saintly activities occupied her evenings.
Instead, she was waiting in the living room.
Waiting for him.
Duvan stood in the entryway, hand still on the door, and considered just turning around. Going back to Future Tech. Maybe sleeping in his office. Anything to avoid whatever conversation she thought they needed to have.
But that would be cowardly, and whatever else he was, Duvan Excy wasn't a coward.
He stepped inside, closed the door, and headed for the stairs without acknowledging her presence.
"Lord Excy—"
He kept walking.
"Duvan, please—"
His foot hit the first stair.
"We need to talk about—"
Second stair. Third. Fourth.
He could hear her standing, the rustle of her robes as she moved toward the stairs.
"You can't just ignore me forever—"
Fifth stair. Sixth.
"I know you're hurt, but—"
Hurt? Hurt?
Duvan's hand tightened on the banister, but he kept walking. Didn't look back. Didn't engage.
What was there to say? She'd lied for six years. She'd used him as cover for her real relationship. She'd let him fall in love with a persona that didn't exist.
And now she wanted to talk about it?
As if words could fix any of this?
As if he owed her the emotional labor of processing her betrayal?
No.
He'd given her six years. Six years of patience, of effort, of trying to make a relationship work with someone who'd never wanted it in the first place.
He didn't owe her another second.
Duvan reached his bedroom, entered, and locked the door behind him with the kind of finality that ended conversations.
He leaned against it for a moment, eyes closed, breathing carefully.
Then he pushed off and headed for his liquor cabinet.
Time to see if alcohol could succeed where logic had failed.
The cabinet was empty.
Duvan stared at the bare shelves where twelve bottles of premium whiskey had been stored just two days ago.
Twelve bottles.
Gone.
"You've got to be kidding me," he said to the empty space.
He'd gone through his entire personal stash in two nights? That was... concerning. Possibly a sign of unhealthy coping mechanisms. Definitely a sign he needed to restock.
Also concerning: he'd drunk enough alcohol to kill a normal human twice over, and he only felt slightly drunk. Ascender metabolism was both a blessing and a curse. Mostly a curse right now.
Duvan closed the cabinet door with excessive care, the kind of gentle precision that meant he was actually furious but refusing to show it by breaking things.
Fine. The cellar had more. That's what cellars were for—backup alcohol for emergencies.
This definitely qualified as an emergency.
He unlocked his bedroom door, stepped back into the hallway, and headed for the stairs that led down to the wine cellar. The house was quiet, Hera presumably having given up on ambushing him with unwanted conversations.
Good. He needed—
She was still in the living room.
Still sitting there, in the same position, like she'd been frozen in time.
Crying.
Duvan stopped at the base of the stairs, hand on the railing, and just looked at her.
Hera Machival, the Saintess, perfect embodiment of holy devotion and spiritual grace, was crying. Not dramatically, not with heaving sobs—just quiet tears streaming down her face while she stared at nothing.
Something hot and angry twisted in Duvan's chest.
Why are you crying? he thought viciously. You're the one who cheated. You're the one who lied. You're the one who used me for six years while living your real life with someone else.
You don't get to cry.
You don't get to play the victim.
You don't get to sit there looking sad when you're the one who did this.
The rational part of his brain noted that pain wasn't a competition, that her feelings could be complicated, that maybe she was experiencing genuine remorse or—
Duvan told that rational part to shut the hell up.
He walked past her without a word, heading for the cellar door.
She looked up as he passed, eyes red, face blotchy from crying, mouth opening to say something—
He didn't pause, didn't acknowledge her, just opened the cellar door and descended into the cool darkness below.
The cellar was well-stocked. Rows and rows of wine, spirits, specialty liquors he'd commissioned from various craftsmen. The collection of a wealthy man who appreciated fine alcohol and had the resources to indulge.
Duvan grabbed three bottles of the strongest stuff—something from the northern distilleries, aged in demon-oak barrels, with an alcohol content that would make a normal person go blind.
Perfect.
He climbed back up, bottles clinking in his arms, and walked past Hera again without looking at her.
She was still crying.
He still didn't care.
He reached his bedroom, locked the door, set the bottles on his desk, and poured himself a generous glass.
Then another.
Then he stopped bothering with the glass and just drank straight from the bottle.
By midnight, Duvan was finally, properly drunk.
Not the mild buzz of earlier. Not the pleasant warmth that made everything softer. Actual, genuine intoxication that made the room spin slightly and thoughts blur at the edges.
Thank the gods. Or the demons. Or whoever was responsible for demon-oak barrel aging.
He lay on his bed, still fully clothed, staring at the ceiling while the world tilted gently.
His mind, traitor that it was, kept trying to process things. Kept circling back to Hera, to Kieran, to the betrayal and the hurt and the question of what he was supposed to do now.
Focus on what matters, he told himself firmly. This is trivial. Personal problems are trivial compared to the survival of humanity.
The Deep was still out there, pushing at their borders, testing their defenses. People were dying every day holding the line. Future Tech had projects that needed his attention, innovations that could save lives. The other Grand Protectors needed his support, his strategic insight, his abilities.
That was what mattered.
Not a failed marriage.
Not betrayal.
Not the ache in his chest that felt like Lucas's heart condition coming back to haunt him across lifetimes.
Trivial, he thought again, trying to make himself believe it. Just trivial personal drama. Not important. Focus on the work. Focus on what you can control.
The Deep. Future Tech. The Grand Protectors. Humanity's survival.
Those were important things.
Those were things worth his time and energy.
Everything else—Hera, Kieran, the marriage, the lies—all of it was just noise. Distractions from what really mattered.
He had no time for trivial matters like this.
No time at all.
His eyes were closing now, the alcohol finally overwhelming even his enhanced metabolism. Consciousness fading into blessed oblivion where thoughts couldn't chase him and phantom pain couldn't reach.
Trivial, he thought one last time as sleep claimed him. Just... trivial...
The lie tasted bitter even through the demon-oak whiskey.
But he told it to himself anyway, because what else was there to do?
The world needed the Time Prince.
It didn't need Duvan Excy's broken heart.
So the heart could wait.
Everything could wait.
Tomorrow, he'd go back to work.
Tomorrow, he'd be the Grand Protector again.
Tomorrow, he'd pretend none of this mattered.
Tonight, in the darkness of his locked bedroom with three empty bottles scattered around him, Duvan let himself feel everything and nothing at all.
Just for tonight.
Just this once.
Tomorrow, it would all be trivial again.