The moon light spilling through the lattice windows of King Maymun's palace flickers like across the marble floors. The air inside hums softly with layered essence of the djinn king.
In the upper chamber, where the ceilings are carved with constellations, two voices drift across the polished floor.
Kelsey stands near the open balcony, arms folded, looking out toward the dunes that shimmer beyond the palace walls. The desert wind carries a low heat, but her eyes are cold, distant.
Mr. Johns leans against a marble column behind her, his cane resting against his knee. He doesn't speak at first. He just watches the way her fingers tighten on the railing whenever she exhales.
"So," she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's started again."
The old man tilts his head. "You'll have to be more specific, dear. There are a lot of 'its' worth dreading these days."
"You know what I mean," Kelsey replies, turning toward him. Her eyes, once gentle and full of quiet humor, now hold the same fire she used to admire in Mike. "The attacks. The trumpet calls. Abbadon. The armies of demons. It's all spiraling too fast. The world's dying, and we're just… talking about it."
Mr. Johns sighs, his mouth curling into a tired smile. "Talking is the only luxury left when you've outlived the first twenty solutions. Everything after that starts to sound like madness until it works."
She studies him for a moment, expression unreadable. "You always sound like you're telling a story you already know the ending to."
"That's because I usually am," he says with a small shrug. "Anansi's gift. Or curse, depending on how fond you are of foreshadowing."
Kelsey walks toward him, the soft clink of gold anklets faint beneath her steps. "Tell me something, then, storyteller. Do you think Mike's doing the right thing?"
Johns raises an eyebrow. "Which part?"
"All of it." Her voice sharpens. "Killing chosen. Devouring gods' vessels. Striking deals with djinn. Every time he moves forward, something breaks. King Maymun says the balance shifts. And the only ones getting stronger are the monsters."
Johns looks down, tracing the top of his cane with a thumb. "Mike was never meant to be a hero, Kelsey. Heroes hold the world together. He was born to tear it open."
"That's not an answer," she snaps.
He meets her gaze, calm but unwavering. "No, it's not. Because there isn't one. Every act of creation demands destruction. He's Bahamut's chosen, his purpose is to devour what's been made wrong. It's not noble. It's not clean. But it's necessary."
"Necessary?" Kelsey echoes bitterly. "That's what the council said when they destroyed cities to kill one Hecate vessel. When the angels burned towns because they claimed demon's were hiding there."
She turns away, her hair catching the light from the moon. "Everyone keeps calling it necessary. And all it's done is kill more people."
Mr. Johns's expression softens. "You're angry."
"I'm tired." Her voice breaks slightly, though she hides it quickly. "Every time I close my eyes, I see him, not the man I married, but the dragon who eats gods. He doesn't even sound like himself anymore. It's like something's replacing him piece by piece."
Johns says nothing at first. Then quietly, "That's what gods do. They consume what they touch. Mortals think they can channel divinity without cost, but the cost always collects. Sometimes it's the soul. Sometimes it's the face."
She clenches her fists. "Then why did you help him?"
"Because he still fights for you," Johns answers without hesitation. "And because I can see what happens when we let the gods decide who lives and dies.'"
Silence hangs between them. The cool blue of night filtering through the stained glass.
Finally, Kelsey says quietly, "Maybe that's why it scares me. He doesn't fight for me anymore. He fights for revenge. For pride. For Bahamut."
Johns chuckles under his breath. "Ah, but the first two are still human. The last one is something older, something that might yet save us all."
She looks at him sharply. "Save us? By burning half the planet?"
His smile fades. "Do you know what the council was doing before Tartarus stirred? They were debating property rights over sanctified ruins. Angels wanted dominion clauses. Olympus wanted tithes. The djinn were excluded entirely. That's the poison of politics, Kelsey. It's the disease that eats wisdom long before the monsters ever arrive."
He gestures vaguely toward the open balcony. "You think I don't see what he's doing? I do. But for all the chaos he causes, he's still the only one who acts. The rest of the world just writes minutes and prayers."
Kelsey leans against the wall, rubbing her temples. "So what, then? We're just supposed to let him keep killing anyone tied to the gods until there's nothing left? Until every side's too weak to stop the angels or demons?"
Before Johns can answer, the heavy doors to the chamber swing open with a slow groan. The scent of burning incense fills the air as King Maymun enters, his golden eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. He's draped in pure white silks and the warmth of his presence instantly pulls the air tight.
"I hear unrest in your voices," he says calmly, his tone more observation than accusation.
Kelsey straightens slightly but doesn't bow. "Just questions."
"Good," Maymun replies, stepping closer. "Questions are the beginning of wisdom. Answers are where it usually dies."
Johns smirks faintly. "You and I might get along after all."
Maymun gives him a glance that might be amusement. "I've heard your kind speak riddles since before your ancestors built temples, storyteller. You weave them well. But sometimes the web catches those who spin it."
Johns dips his head, not insulted. "And yet I'm still here, Your Majesty."
Kelsey watches the two of them, then turns to Maymun. "Tell me something honestly. Are we doing the right thing following him?"
Maymun's expression doesn't change. "Do you mean Michael?"
"Yes."
The king takes a long breath and looks toward the fading horizon. "Right and wrong are illusions we cling to when we've forgotten how to measure consequence. I measure balance instead. Michael's actions… disturb the balance, yes. But he disturbs what needed to be shaken."
"That's the same excuse the gods always use," she says quietly.
He turns to her then, eyes softening. "Perhaps. But consider this, would the gods themselves be stirred to act if the order they built was not cracking? He is a fracture in destiny, not a pawn. That is why both angels and demons fear him."
Kelsey shakes her head. "Fear doesn't make him right. It just means he's unpredictable."
"Unpredictable," Maymun repeats, "is the only thing that can still change the outcome."
Johns steps forward, resting both hands on his cane. "You think there's still an outcome left to change?"
The king studies him a moment. "You're tired, old spider. You've spent too many years in the libraries of those who only pretend to see. The threads are moving. The war hasn't peaked yet."
"War," Johns mutters. "Always that word. You all talk about balance and destiny, but it's still blood that pays for it."
"And yet," Maymun says softly, "you came here anyway. You helped the dragon. You risked the wrath of every pantheon to stand in this room."
Johns exhales through his nose. "Because someone has to write the ending properly."
The king smiles faintly. "Then perhaps you will."
Kelsey looks between them both, frustration and fear mixing in her tone. "You talk like everything's already decided."
Maymun shakes his head. "Far from it. Every choice made now pulls against the threads of fate. Every life ended changes the balance. Even your doubt changes it."
"My doubt?" she asks.
"Yes," Maymun replies. "You are his anchor. Even across distance, through divinity's noise, he feels your belief or your fear. The more you waver, the more he burns to prove himself. That's the cost of being loved by something that's no longer entirely human."
Her expression falters. "You make it sound like I'm the reason he's becoming this."
"No," the king says gently. "You are the reason he has not become worse."
The words hang heavy in the air.
Mr. Johns looks down at the glowing sigils carved into the floor, tracing the patterns with a frown. "And yet the world still burns."
"It must," Maymun answers. "To reveal who survives the fire."
Kelsey turns away again, gripping the edge of the balcony railing. The desert stretches endlessly before her, golden by day, black as ash by night. "I just want him back," she says softly. "Not the dragon. Not Bahamut's weapon. My husband."
"Then speak to him when he returns," Johns says gently. "Remind him of what still lives in him before the power inside eats it whole."
She glances over her shoulder. "You think that'll work?"
Johns shrugs. "It might. Or it might drive him further. But either way, he'll listen to you before anyone else."
Maymun moves toward the center of the chamber, his robes whispering against the polished floor. "Every chosen faces the same abyss, the moment they realize power is never borrowed, only absorbed. Some are consumed. Some master it. But none remain untouched."
He looks at both of them. "If Michael loses himself entirely, it won't be because he wanted power. It will be because he believed he could use it without becoming part of it."
Johns murmurs, "A tale as old as creation."
Kelsey stares at the horizon again. The stars high above the dunes, faint and trembling. "Then I guess I have to believe there's still a piece of him that can come back."
"You must," Maymun says simply. "Because belief shapes gods more than prayer ever did."
The silence that follows feels almost sacred.
Outside, the wind changes cooler now, touched with something distant, like the faint hum of wings passing across the veil. The sigils on the floor flicker once in response.
Johns finally breaks the quiet. "Something's moving," he says softly.
Maymun nods, gaze still distant. "The second night has begun."
Kelsey's fingers tighten on the railing. "Then it's already too late?"
The king looks at her, his golden eyes reflecting the faint glow of the horizon.
"No," he says. "It only means the world is listening again."
And somewhere far beyond the dunes, the faint echo of a dragon's roar trembles through the sky so distant it could almost be mistaken for thunder.
Kelsey closes her eyes, a single tear slipping free. "Then let it listen," she whispers. "Because I'm not done yet."