The troll's corpse sagged into molten ruin, its final roar swallowed by flame. When it fell silent, the gate behind it groaned open, the ancient stone dragging itself aside as if reluctant to wake. From within came the hum of something ageless—light that pulsed like a heartbeat through the walls, veins of faint blue shimmering under layers of dust.
Beyond that gate, the tunnels of Neria waited.
The air here was too still. It wasn't silence—it was absence. No echo, no wind, no breath of time itself.
Dante stepped forward, boots crunching on brittle stone. Lyra followed, the faint flames that licked her shoulders dimming with each hesitant step. The Trickster's voice coiled in Dante's head.
"Feels like a graveyard that forgot what it buried."
Lyra's steps slowed. Her eyes flicked over the walls, over runes that pulsed faintly like eyes remembering faces.
Dante turned. "You've been quiet."
She pressed a hand to the wall, her breath shaking. "This place… feels wrong," she murmured. "It's the same. The same tunnels my mother came through when she tried to kill me."
Dante froze. His pulse quickened, but not from fear—from guilt. He remembered the screams, the fire, the night he arrived a second too late.
He moved to her side, voice low. "Lyra… I should've protected you that night."
She shook her head. "You did. You always do."
But the tremor in her hand betrayed her. The flame that always answered her fear began to bloom again—burning through her fingers, crawling up her wrist, bright and merciless. The air warped from the heat.
Without thinking, Dante reached out. He took her hand in his.
The fire should've erased him. It burned, seared, sank through his skin, yet he didn't let go. He could smell his own flesh singe—but he didn't move.
Her eyes widened. "Dante—"
He smiled faintly through the pain. "It's fine," he said. "If this is what it takes to calm you, I'll survive it."
The Trickster scoffed, "Ah, love—the most suicidal emotion in creation."
The Sound God's voice followed, deeper and warmer: "For once, I agree with the mortal. Let him feel. Let him anchor her."
Lyra's flames faltered. The inferno curled inward until it was nothing but a soft blue glow between their palms. She could feel his cold hand against hers, scarred and trembling, yet steady.
"Your hand…" she whispered, staring at the frost creeping from his veins where the fire had kissed him. "It's cold."
"Good," he breathed. "Then we balance each other."
She smiled weakly and, instead of pulling away, held him tighter. Neither of them spoke again. The silence between them said more than words could.
They walked together, hands still locked, the only light in the still world of the tunnels.
Every time her flame flickered, his grip steadied it. Every time his step faltered, her warmth pulled him on.
The Trickster sighed in mock exhaustion. "Alright, fine, I'll admit it. You two make a disgustingly poetic team. Now can we focus on not dying? There are traps waiting to flirt with us next."
Lyra chuckled softly; even the cave seemed to exhale at the sound.
And so they went deeper, hand in hand, through a world where time dared not follow.
-----
The Southern Supply Channel had never been this loud.
Flames swirled along the edges of the coliseum as molten stone poured from the cracks in the walls. Above it all, Hephaestus—lord of this city, blood-descendant of the god of fire himself—laughed so loud the air trembled.
In the center of the arena, Zerathis barely kept his footing. His coat was torn, his body laced with molten scars that smoked instead of bled. Before him stood the Chimera—an unholy amalgam of lion, serpent, and dragon, its eyes burning with contempt for anything less divine.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Hephaestus shouted from his throne, the magma under him shifting like a living throne. "A creature born from chaos itself! Be grateful—few mortals die this spectacularly!"
Somewhere in the stands, a commentator piped up through a laughter-filled voice:
"Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen! Our challenger's durability is on par with soggy parchment! Will he last another minute? No? Thought so!"
The audience roared with amusement.
Zerathis spat blood that hissed as it hit the molten sand. "I'm surrounded by idiots," he muttered, voice hoarse.
The Chimera lunged—its lion head roared while the serpent tail spewed a stream of liquid fire that burned without light. The blast consumed the ground, erasing not just matter but the concept of what it touched; reality seemed to skip like a broken reel.
Zerathis twisted gravity around himself, the fire bending away in slow motion—an unseen shell of warped space. He blinked, breathing raggedly, muscles trembling.
Hephaestus grinned. "You're dancing well, godling. Let's see how long that body holds."
The Chimera struck again. Zerathis blocked with a wave of compressed weight—the air folded into itself, shattering the ground. He slid backward, leaving glassed stone in his wake.
He was done playing.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath, eyes dimming to pure white, voice deepening until even the magma rippled in response. "Let's stop pretending."
He whispered a chant older than the gods that ruled above, words that sounded like the universe remembering it could collapse.
The weight of creation folded around him.
The Chimera charged—and the world bent.
Light flickered wrong, and for a fraction of a second, everything inverted. Space no longer knew which direction to stretch, gravity forgot which way was down. Zerathis moved through it like a ghost, his speed so violent the air itself seemed to tear backward.
He struck the Chimera once—only once—and reality stuttered. The creature screamed, half its body crushed by weight that didn't exist, an infinite mass, pressure and space shot, bones bending in directions geometry couldn't define.
But the power burned him alive.
His skin peeled away like pages from an old book, his divine flesh turning to black dust that spiraled upward. Even as he fought, he was disintegrating, unmade by his own strength.
Hephaestus leaned forward. "Ah. There it is—the price of arrogance."
The commentator snorted. "Well, folks, that's all she wrote! The god-man's been flambéed by his own ego!"
Zerathis could hear them. Faintly. Distant. He couldn't even feel his body anymore—just awareness suspended in void.
He thought of the Trickster's grin. Of Dante's reckless plans. Of Lyra laughing once when the Trickster tried to flirt through Dante's mouth. He remembered purpose.
"No," his essence whispered. "Not yet."
The dust began to spin. The gravity he had twisted so violently before now folded back inward—imploding and repelling at once. A paradox, forced to rewrite itself.
The black hole of his body inverted, rejecting death.
With a sound like glass breaking underwater, Zerathis reformed.
He opened his eyes—white flames flickered inside them—and roared. His final strike was a cascade of weight and heat that collapsed the Chimera into itself, turning the beast into a smear of red light that imploded with a silent scream.
When the light faded, Zerathis stood alone, one hand still raised, shaking.
The coliseum was silent. Then came the slow clap of Hephaestus himself.
"Well," the fire-blooded god said, smirking. "That was… unexpected. Fine, Zerathis. You've proven your worth. The forges of the South will serve your cause."
Zerathis smiled weakly, hair reverting to its normal hue as his power drained. "Good," he whispered. "Because I'm done."
He collapsed as the arena lights dimmed, the molten ground cooling under him.
And from above, Hephaestus grinned.
"Rest easy, gravity-breaker. You've earned your recruits."