Ethan sat down on the bed inside his new room, the mattress soft and the faint scent of wood still clinging to the freshly carved walls. The teddy bear that Evodil had given him rested against the headboard, its button eyes glinting faintly in the dim light. Beside it, a white pillow pressed neatly against the wood, while an orange blanket—matching the hue of the Christmas lights strung above—draped lazily over the edge.
The lights hung from a rail near the ceiling, blinking softly, their reflections dancing along the room's wooden walls. It was strange—the bed's legs stretched high up, connecting to the ceiling itself, forming an odd, frame-like structure that made the entire setup look suspended rather than placed. He didn't question it too much; Evodil always had a taste for the unusual.
To his left, a painting hung just above the nightstand—a quiet lake surrounded by a misty forest. The still water, the reflection of trees across it—it all looked peaceful in a way Ethan hadn't known peace could look. He stared at it for a while, imagining himself there, somewhere distant from gods, chaos, and endless loops. A small sigh escaped him.
Near the door stood a wardrobe, tall and empty for now. He'd have to fill it someday—with something other than the black coat and red shirt he always wore. Next to it was a small bookshelf, humbler than the towering shelves of the great library above. A few stray novels and old tomes Evodil had probably thrown in for decoration rested there, their spines dusty, their pages yellowed.
Across the room, a desk sat beneath a window. A laptop glowed faint blue on its surface, the screen's harsh light briefly blinding him when he first entered. Beside it, a mug filled with pens and markers stood waiting—tools for someone who didn't yet know how to use them. He wondered if he should try drawing someday, even if just to pass the time. A few unopened boxes were stacked nearby; he guessed most were empty, though something about one of them—the smallest one—felt heavier, as if it held something meant to be found later.
And then, to the left of the desk, a low wooden table stood surrounded by pots and clusters of green. Flowers filled it—lavender stems, white lilies, and blue forget-me-nots in a glass vase at the center. Beneath the table, clay pots brimmed with ferns, creeping ivy, and a patch of marigolds that leaned toward the faint light coming from the ceiling. Their mingled scents filled the air, soft but strange, giving the room a subtle freshness mixed with something earthy and wild.
He leaned back on the bed, eyes drifting across the room's quiet clutter. For once, everything felt still—almost like a home.
Four days.
It had been four days of being alive—of having his own room, his own quiet space where nothing slithered across the floor or whispered from the walls. No tendrils creeping from the dark, no half-mad figures with empty guns, no eyes in the corner of his vision. Just still air, the hum of lights, and the faint creak of old wood when he moved.
His body was finally settling into what it meant to exist. Every stretch of his limbs, every shallow breath, still felt unfamiliar—like he was borrowing someone else's form—but it was getting easier. He couldn't feel much yet, but there was a quiet hope that someday he'd walk and breathe like a normal human. Not a being from the City of Shades, not a mistake revived through godly desperation, but a person. Someone who belonged somewhere beyond Menystria's shifting skies.
Evodil had told him about his curse a few nights ago. The loops, the resets, the deaths that piled over one another like broken glass. At first, Ethan thought it was some cruel joke, but the way his father's tone cracked mid-sentence—flat, tired, restrained—made him realize it wasn't a story. It was confession.
He remembered the part about the creature too—the one that was part of him. That was where Evodil stopped talking, where his eyes turned distant. Ethan didn't press further; if the man himself didn't understand what it was, what right did he have to ask? Still, it lingered in his head, like an unfinished sentence that refused to fade.
He couldn't imagine what it must've been like for Evodil—watching the same faces die, again and again, even by his own hand. Seeing that woman's life end countless times, then ending his own not out of peace, but out of exhaustion. He wondered if Evodil ever slept peacefully, or if every night just replayed the same endings behind closed eyes. To be aware, to remember all of it—that was a prison worse than any death.
To be the strongest, mentally… it's a curse, he thought, staring up at the ceiling.
Eventually, he pushed himself up with a soft grunt, sitting on the edge of the bed. The warmth that clung to him drifted away as soon as his feet touched the floor. The wooden planks creaked faintly beneath a red rug, soft under his soles. He blinked, noticing it again—how every hallway, every room, even the stairs shared that same pattern of red rugs. Like threads binding the whole manor together.
He stepped out of his room, closing the door quietly behind him. The corridor stretched to his left, familiar yet still uncanny in its stillness. It was the same hallway that branched off from the dining room—the one he had passed on his first day here.
His footsteps echoed softly against the wooden floor as he walked. The air was faintly dusty, touched by that strange scent of age and faint polish. At the far end stood a window, dim light leaking through the pale glass. Beneath it sat a dresser, small and plain, with a crooked lamp that looked older than the house itself. Beside it, a golden statue rested—a blocky, awkward shape with strange symbols carved into it. The writing looked almost like English, twisted just enough to be unreadable, like someone had taken the letters and stretched them until their meaning snapped. He had spent days trying to decipher it, but now it was just another mystery he ignored.
He turned the corner into the dining room, passing by the long wooden table he remembered from before. The air here always felt a little colder, heavier, as if the house itself held its breath when he entered. He didn't linger. Through the archway, he crossed into the entrance hall—the same space that had greeted him when he first stepped into this place.
The coat hanger stood beside the small table as always. The old radio sat in its usual spot, the fruit bowl beside it filled with the same untouched fruits, and the white candle still stood proudly unburnt, the eternal champion of the manor. Ethan frowned slightly and adjusted them all, pushing each object a little further from the table's edge. He smoothed out the white cloth beneath, tugging at a wrinkle until it straightened.
Then came the chairs. The damned chairs. He tried to center them again—lining them against the wall, stepping back to check, only to find they had shifted ever so slightly the moment he turned his back. He gritted his teeth and tried again. Once. Twice. Ten times. Twenty minutes later, one of the chairs creaked when he wasn't looking, and that was enough for him to give up entirely.
He exhaled hard through his nose, muttering something under his breath about haunted furniture, and turned toward the front door. The wooden boards beneath his steps groaned like they recognized him. The rug by the door—just a small, worn mat—sat crooked again, so he kicked it into place before reaching for the handle.
But before he could touch it, the door opened on its own with a slow, low groan. He didn't flinch this time. No sudden stumble, no clumsy fall—just quiet acceptance as he stepped through. The heavy door shut itself behind him with a soft thunk, sealing the air inside once more.
Outside, the front yard breathed with light and color. Trees of deep blue wood and glowing leaves stood still in the dimness, their surfaces catching a faint astral shimmer from above. Some were small, barely taller than him, while others climbed so high their branches brushed against the edge of the observatory dome. The bushes below pulsed softly with pink and violet hues, their flowers casting faint halos across the grass.
It was strange—how quiet beauty could feel so alive. Ethan stood there beside the door, his breath slowing as he closed his eyes, letting the ethereal glow brush against his face like soft rain.
After a few quiet minutes, the peace around the manor began to shift. Ethan's ears caught something distant—faint at first, like a low vibration crawling up from the edge of the crater. Then it grew louder. Footsteps. Dozens of them. Rhythmic, deliberate, heavy. It didn't sound like any of the wandering noises he'd gotten used to hearing around the manor. This was a march.
He didn't move, didn't open his eyes, didn't even tense up. He just stood there, breathing in slowly, his faint smile unmoving. The ground beneath his feet carried the sound up his legs—an army's worth of motion, drawing closer and closer to the gate, to the yard, to him. Or maybe not to him specifically, but to the one who lived within these walls.
Then, as suddenly as it started, the sound died down. The majority stopped somewhere further out. Only a handful kept walking forward. The sharp, steady clack of boots against the stone path came closer until he could count them—three distinct rhythms.
He opened his eyes.
The first thing he saw was the faint glint of orange. Eyes that cut through the haze like twin embers—steady, focused, and sharp enough to burn through thought. James. He walked in front, his presence drawing the others like gravity itself. There was something about the way he moved—controlled, weighty, almost militant. The kind of stride that told Ethan he didn't have to order people to follow him; they just did.
Behind him came Noah, slightly shorter, posture a little too stiff, his polished glasses flashing with every pulse of violet light from the glowing flora. He barely glanced at Ethan before flicking his gaze back to the tablet in his hands, scribbling something quick across its screen. A list? Notes? Observations? It didn't matter—he was already two steps ahead of the moment they were in.
And finally, trailing behind, was Jasper. His skin was warm-toned against the cold light around them, his black hair a little too long, his smirk perfectly in place as always. The katana on his back reflected the faint glow of the garden, and his hands were tucked lazily in his pockets, like this was just another casual walk through familiar ground.
Jasper lifted his hand and gave a wave, grin widening. Ethan blinked once, then returned the gesture, a little awkwardly, before bowing his head slightly toward the other two. He didn't know why—instinct, maybe—but it felt like the right thing to do.
The three stopped just in front of him. James's orange eyes lingered, measuring. Noah's glasses caught the light again as he adjusted them. Jasper just looked amused, clearly out of place but enjoying every second of it.
Ethan straightened his back again, coughing into his hand to clear his throat as the three men stared at him. He stepped to the side, motioning toward the door with a stiff hand and forcing a smile — not from joy, but from the pressure building in his chest. From what Evodil had told him, he was nothing more than a boy standing before cosmic beings disguised in human form. Well… except Jasper. He at least looked somewhat human.
Jasper chuckled at Ethan's strained posture, walking over to pat his shoulder. "Calm down, kid. We're not here to hurt you. Just need a word with Evodil, if he's around."
Ethan nodded, shoulders loosening slightly at the reassurance — or maybe just out of tired resignation. He looked away from the other two men, gathering enough nerve to ask quietly, "Do you… want to come inside?"
Neither answered. They only passed by him, each giving a small nod — more habit than politeness. Jasper exhaled, half amused, half apologetic. "The one with the glasses is Noah. The other, the one with the fire in his eyes, that's James." He said it like Ethan should already know those names.
Ethan gave another nod and followed after them. The Manor doors opened on their own as the four entered, then shut behind Ethan with a heavy thud that echoed faintly through the halls. For a moment, the air felt thicker, colder. And as he looked ahead at the gods now stepping across the polished floor, one thought crossed his mind — whatever happens today, whether it's a fight or a conversation that feels like one, it's going to be loud. Loud and long. Gods arguing with gods… and him, trapped in between.
As Ethan tried to keep pace with them, he did his best to sound hospitable — offering to hang their coats, asking if they'd prefer coffee or water. His words barely reached them. None of the three slowed down, their steps echoing through the entrance hall as they moved straight toward the dining room. For a second, he stood there, blinking, his polite attempts hanging in the air unanswered. Even Evodil, with all his moods and cold remarks, always responded when spoken to.
He hurried after them through the archway. The room felt heavier than usual — the long table, lit by the faint sunlight breaking through the tall windows, cast stretched shadows across the walls. Jasper sat down first, choosing the seat on the left side of the table, right beside the way back to the entrance. What caught Ethan off guard, however, was the seating of the other two.
Instead of James taking the opposite end where Evodil usually sat, he'd taken the right chair, while Noah sat at the head of the table — the helm — his hands clasped together as he leaned slightly forward, his sharp eyes fixed on Ethan.
After a pause, Noah adjusted his glasses, then spoke. "Where is your father?" His tone wasn't harsh, but it carried weight. Enough to make Ethan freeze.
Ethan hesitated before answering quietly, "I… don't know. But I can call him down, if you'll just give me a moment."
James groaned, running a hand down his face before leaning forward on the table. "Told you this was a waste of time," he muttered, his voice rising. "This kid's just bait. Another pawn — expendable, like every other shade that bastard collects."
Jasper clicked his tongue sharply. "Tsk. Calm down, James. You're overreacting. Not everything's a damn trap."
The tension in the room grew thick. James's glare met Jasper's grin, and for a moment it looked like it would snap — his hand twitched toward a plate as if ready to throw it. But before anything could happen, a faint creak echoed through the room — a single, deliberate footstep from above, on the staircase right behind Noah.
The sound froze everyone. The argument died instantly, silence filling the air as all eyes slowly turned toward the shadowed steps above.