Carla didn't scream.
She couldn't.
Leon was simply—gone.
One heartbeat he had been there, bloodied but unbroken, standing between a god and everything that still mattered. The next, the space he occupied folded inward and snapped shut, leaving nothing behind but warped air and a silence so deep it hurt to breathe.
"Leon…?"
Her voice sounded wrong. Too small. Too fragile.
She staggered forward, boots scraping across fractured stone. The battlefield looked unfinished now—like a story torn apart mid-sentence. The scars Leon had carved into the Realm of Gods still burned faintly in the air, but there was no one left to anchor them.
"Leon!" she shouted.
No answer.
The Realm did not respond.
Her legs gave out.
Carla fell to her knees where he had vanished, fingers digging into scorched ground as if she could pry him back into existence by force alone. Her hands came away slick with blood—his blood—and the sight stole the breath from her lungs.
"You promised me," she whispered. "You promised."
The Realm didn't care.
Only absence answered her.
A sound broke the silence.
Metal against stone.
The Valkyrie stood at the edge of the battlefield, wings folded tight, armor scorched and cracked.
"You shouldn't stay here," she said calmly.
Carla already knew what that meant.
When the helm came off, the truth followed.
Angelica.
Not alive the way she once was—but here. Borrowing a body forged for war, wearing divinity like armor she never asked for.
Carla didn't have the strength to question it. She only held on.
When Angelica closed her eyes and said, "I can't feel him anymore," Carla nodded.
She believed it.
The Realm of Gods was collapsing.
Angelica opened the way out.
They stepped through together.
The forest clearing was quiet when the world returned.
Too quiet.
Rebecca was already standing when the air shimmered, Alina half-asleep in her arms. Hope flared instantly in her eyes—sharp, desperate—
—and died just as fast.
She saw Carla.
She saw Angelica.
She did not see Leon.
"…Where is he?" Rebecca asked.
Carla couldn't speak.
Efil stepped forward, eyes searching every shadow like Leon might still emerge at the last second. Lynnette stood just behind her, hands clenched white at her sides.
Angelica spoke softly.
"Leon is gone."
Rebecca shook her head. "No. He wouldn't leave us."
Alina stirred. "Mama?" she mumbled.
Rebecca dropped to her knees, clutching her daughter as the truth finally broke through her denial.
"He promised," she whispered. "He promised he'd come back."
Carla knelt beside her, gripping Rebecca's shoulder. "He fought a god," she said quietly. "He made sure the rest of us could live."
Efil turned away sharply, jaw clenched tight. Lynnette covered her mouth as tears finally fell.
Mina stood a few steps back.
Yuki pressed close against her leg, solid and warm.
"…He's dead," Mina said quietly.
No one corrected her.
Angelica met her eyes and nodded once.
Mina buried her fingers in Yuki's fur and went very still.
Alina looked up, confused. "Daddy's hiding?"
The silence answered her.
Rebecca's sob broke free then—raw and uncontrollable.
Leon was gone.
And all four of his wives felt the absence like a limb torn away.
They told the village at dusk.
No bell was rung. No call was shouted.
People gathered because they felt it.
Carla stood at the front with Rebecca, Efil, and Lynnette beside her. Four women. One space missing between them.
Angelica stood a step back, wings folded.
"Leon is dead," Carla said. "He fought a god. He stood where no one else could stand. Because of him, we are alive."
The square went still.
Rebecca stepped forward, Alina held tightly in her arms. "My husband is gone," she said through tears. "Our children will grow up without their father. But they will know who he was."
Efil followed. "He did not die running," she said firmly. "He died standing."
Lynnette swallowed. "Leon chose this village. Remember that."
Mina stepped forward last.
Yuki sat pressed against her leg.
"He was my dad," Mina said quietly. "So don't talk like he failed."
No one did.
They buried Leon at dawn.
Not because it felt right—
but because the night had been unbearable.
The village moved in silence as the sky slowly lightened, the pale gray of morning creeping in like an apology no one wanted. No birds sang. Even the wind seemed hesitant, brushing softly through the grass as if afraid to disturb what little composure remained.
There was no body.
The grave was still dug.
An empty space carved into the earth, deeper than necessary, lined with stone so the dirt wouldn't collapse in on itself too quickly. It looked wrong—too clean, too final for someone who had always filled every space he stood in.
At its head stood the statue.
Not tall.
Not proud.
Just Leon.
Standing as he always had—shoulders squared, blade at his side, gaze fixed forward. No triumph. No rage. Just quiet resolve frozen in stone.
Rebecca arrived first.
She walked slowly, Alina bundled against her chest, the child unusually quiet. Alina's small fingers clutched Rebecca's collar, her thumb brushing absently against her mouth as her eyes tracked the statue with serious concentration.
"That's Daddy," Rebecca whispered, her voice breaking on the second word.
Alina nodded once, solemn. "He's not moving."
Rebecca swallowed hard and kissed the top of her daughter's head, unable to answer.
Carla stood nearby, hands clasped so tightly in front of her that her fingers ached. She couldn't stop staring at the grave—at the empty space where Leon should have been. Every part of her expected him to step out of the trees, annoyed they'd started without him.
He didn't.
Lynnette stood with her arms wrapped around herself, shoulders shaking silently. She hadn't cried loudly since the night before—now the grief leaked out of her in quiet, endless streams that left her hollow-eyed and exhausted.
Efil stood apart.
Straight-backed. Still.
Her hands were clasped behind her, knuckles white. She didn't look at the grave at first—only at the horizon, jaw clenched tight enough that it trembled. When she finally bowed her head, it was sharp and precise, like a soldier acknowledging a fallen comrade.
Mina arrived last.
She walked slowly, deliberately, Yuki pressed firmly against her leg, matching her pace step for step. The dog's ears were back, tail low, eyes scanning the gathered crowd once before settling on the statue.
When Mina stopped, Yuki stopped.
They stood at the edge of the grave together.
No one spoke.
Time stretched uncomfortably, the silence thick and oppressive. Someone sniffed. Someone else shifted their weight. No one filled the space with words.
Angelica stepped forward at last.
She did not wear her helm.
Her wings were folded tight, feathers dulled and heavy in the weak morning light. She looked at the grave, then at the statue, then at the people gathered there—people who had lost not a god, not a legend, but someone who belonged to them.
"Leon did not belong to the gods," she said softly. "They tried to claim him. He refused."
Rebecca's breath hitched.
"He belonged to this world," Angelica continued. "To this village. To his family."
Her gaze lingered briefly on the four women standing together, bound by the same absence.
"When the choice came," Angelica said, "Leon chose everyone else over himself. He did not hesitate. He did not look back."
She stepped away without ceremony.
No prayers followed.
No formal rites.
Instead, the village moved.
One by one.
A farmer placed a bundle of grain at the base of the statue, hands shaking.
The blacksmith set down a small iron charm, face etched with grief.
A woman laid a folded scarf, whispering a thank-you Carla barely heard.
Each offering made the emptiness feel more real.
Carla stepped forward next.
She knelt slowly, carefully, like the ground might give way beneath her. From her pocket, she pulled a narrow strip of cloth—torn from Leon's old cloak. She held it for a long moment before placing it gently into the grave.
"I'll carry you," she whispered. "Everywhere."
Her voice broke completely on the last word.
Lynnette followed.
She knelt abruptly and dropped a ring into the grave, the soft clink of metal against stone echoing far louder than it should have. She pressed her forehead to the edge of the earth, shoulders shaking as silent sobs wracked her body.
"You were impossible," she whispered. "And you were ours."
Efil stepped forward last among the wives.
She did not kneel.
She placed her fist over her heart and bowed her head once—precise, controlled.
"You stood," she said quietly. "As promised."
Then Mina stepped forward.
The crowd parted without being asked.
Mina knelt at the edge of the grave, staring into the empty earth. Yuki sat beside her, close enough that their sides touched, her tail brushing the dirt once before going still.
"You said I was almost ready," Mina said softly. "You said you'd show me the rest."
Her voice wavered—but didn't break.
She pressed her palm flat against the soil.
"I'll make you proud." She said, tears forming in her eyes. "I promise."
Yuki let out a low, broken sound and leaned harder into her, as if trying to fill the space Leon had left behind.
Rebecca approached last.
She knelt slowly, holding Alina so the child could see.
"That's Daddy," she said again, like saying it enough times might make it true in a different way.
Alina studied the statue carefully.
"He looks strong," she said.
Rebecca's breath collapsed into a sob.
"Say goodbye, sweetheart."
Alina lifted her small hand and waved uncertainly. "Bye, Daddy," she said. "Come home soon."
No one corrected her.
When the grave was finally filled, the sun had fully risen.
The statue cast a long shadow across the grass—stretching back toward the village, touching every set of feet gathered there.
No one rushed to leave.
They stood until the cold sank into their bones.
Leon was gone.
And the world did not pause for it.
But for one long, unbearable morning, everyone did.
Months passed.
The world didn't heal.
It adjusted.
Rebecca learned the exact creak in the floorboards that meant Alina was awake. She learned how to braid hair one-handed while stirring a pot with the other. She learned how to smile on command for villagers who meant well and how to fall apart quietly after the door was closed.
Alina still asked about her father.
Not every day. Not anymore.
Sometimes it was simple.
"Daddy liked soup, right?"
Sometimes it came out of nowhere.
"Daddy's just late?"
Rebecca answered the same way every time, kneeling so they were eye to eye.
"Daddy was very brave."
And Alina would nod, satisfied for now, accepting bravery as an explanation for absence the way only a child could.
At night, Rebecca slept with one arm stretched across the bed, fingers resting where Leon should have been. Some mornings she woke to Alina curled against her instead, warm and solid and alive—and the relief hurt almost as much as the loss.
Mina changed the most.
She grew taller. Quieter. Sharper.
She trained early in the mornings, before anyone else was awake, practicing the things Leon had shown her and the things he hadn't lived long enough to teach. When she failed, she didn't curse or cry—she just tried again until her arms shook.
Yuki was always there.
When Mina sparred, Yuki watched.
When Mina sat staring at nothing, Yuki rested her head in her lap.
When Mina whispered things she didn't want anyone else to hear, Yuki listened like it mattered.
Sometimes Mina talked to Leon out loud.
Not prayers.
Not pleas.
Just updates.
"I didn't mess up today."
"I helped Alina with her letters."
"I think you'd be proud."
Yuki's tail would thump once, like agreement.
Carla measured time differently now.
Weeks were counted by heartbeats she felt beneath her ribs, by the subtle weight of a life growing quietly where grief had tried to settle. She moved slower, gentler, as if the world itself might bruise too easily.
Some days she felt strong—unbreakable, even.
Other days she sat alone and cried until there was nothing left, one hand over her stomach, whispering apologies to a child who had never known their father.
"I'll tell you about him," she promised.
"Every day."
Efil filled the spaces Leon had once guarded.
She stood watch. She gave orders. She made hard decisions and didn't look back. But in the evenings, when the village quieted and the armor came off, she sat in the dark and stared at the door like she expected him to walk through it, annoyed she'd rearranged things.
Lynnette became the glue.
She cooked. She listened. She stayed when no one asked her to. When Rebecca broke down, Lynnette was there. When Carla couldn't find the words, Lynnette spoke for her. When Mina shut herself away, Lynnette left food outside the door and pretended she didn't notice when it was gone in the morning.
Angelica remained just outside it all.
Close enough to protect.
Far enough not to intrude.
She watched the family learn how to exist in pieces—how to function with a shape missing at the center of everything.
Leon's chair stayed empty.
No one moved it.
Sometimes, when the light hit it just right, it almost looked occupied—and every single one of them noticed. No one said a word.
They laughed again. Eventually.
Quiet laughter. Careful laughter. The kind that faded quickly, like it was afraid of being punished.
But it existed.
And that mattered.
Leon had protected them.
Now they protected each other.
And somewhere beyond the lantern light, beyond the life that had learned to go on—
Leon watched.
Changed. Scarred. Silent.
Still protecting them.
Just like he always had.
The idea came from the villagers.
Not all at once.
Not loudly.
Someone suggested it in passing—over bread, over repairs, over a fire that burned a little too low. Someone else nodded. Another added a detail. And before anyone could talk themselves out of it, the decision settled in like it had always been waiting.
They would celebrate Leon.
Not mourn him.
The preparations took days.
Lanterns were cleaned and rehung across the square, their glass polished until they caught the light just right. Tables were dragged out from storage and repaired where old cracks showed. Food was made in excess—because Leon had always believed there was no such thing as too much when it came to feeding people.
Rebecca helped where she could.
She cooked dishes Leon used to like, even when her hands shook while stirring. Alina sat on the counter beside her, swinging her legs and asking questions.
"Daddy liked this one, right?"
Rebecca smiled, tight but real. "Yes. He always asked for seconds."
Alina beamed at that, like it was a victory.
Mina avoided the preparations at first.
She stayed on the edge of things, arms crossed, watching from a distance with Yuki pressed against her side. It wasn't that she didn't want to be there—she just didn't trust happiness that announced itself so loudly.
But when she saw the villagers carving Leon's name into a wooden plaque for the square, something in her chest eased.
She helped after that.
Quietly.
Without being asked.
Efil oversaw the logistics with practiced efficiency, making sure everything ran smoothly, even if her eyes lingered too long on the empty spaces Leon used to occupy. Lynnette focused on people—checking on who needed help, who needed a moment, who needed to be reminded to eat.
As the sun dipped low, the village came alive.
Lanterns were lit one by one, their warm glow washing over the square. Music started softly—someone brave enough to play first, others joining in when they realized no one would stop them.
People gathered.
Not in black.
Not in silence.
Stories were shared instead.
About Leon fixing a roof that wasn't his problem.
About him standing in front of danger like it was just another chore.
About the way he smiled when he thought no one was looking.
Laughter crept in—hesitant at first, then freer.
Rebecca stood near the statue, Alina perched on her hip.
"He would've hated this," Rebecca murmured, watching the lanterns sway.
Lynnette snorted softly. "He'd complain the whole time."
"And still stay until the end," Carla added, one hand resting protectively against her stomach.
Mina stood nearby, Yuki sitting at her feet, tail thumping lazily as music drifted through the air.
"They're saying good things," Mina said quietly.
Carla smiled at her. "They should."
Efil stepped forward when the music faded slightly.
"We're not here because Leon died," she said, voice carrying without effort. "We're here because he lived. Because he chose us. Because he protected this place when it mattered."
Carla added, softer, but no less steady, "You protected us. Like you always did."
Glasses were raised.
"To Leon."
The name echoed across the square—spoken with warmth, gratitude, and a sadness that no longer crushed quite as hard.
Food was passed. Children ran between tables. Someone danced badly on purpose just to make others laugh.
And at the very back of the celebration, just beyond the reach of the lantern light—
Leon stood.
He stayed in the shadows, unseen, his presence muted and careful, like the world still hadn't decided what he was allowed to be. He watched Rebecca laugh quietly at something Lynnette said. Watched Carla rest her hand against her stomach without realizing it. Watched Mina sit straighter when Efil spoke, pride written plainly across her face.
Yuki lifted her head.
Her ears pricked.
She turned slowly, gaze cutting through the darkness until it found him.
Leon froze.
For a long moment, they stared at each other—girl and dog bound by shared loss and shared loyalty.
Yuki didn't bark.
Didn't run.
Her tail stilled, then gave a single, careful wag.
Leon exhaled.
Not yet.
The music swelled again. Lanterns swayed. The village celebrated the man they believed was gone.
And from the shadows, Leon watched them live—
protecting them still,
just like he always had.