he spear struck.
For one blinding instant the world forgot how to breathe. White fire swallowed everything, and the only sound was two hearts beating in perfect rhythm.
Then the light died.
Gulf was still there. But he was no longer beautiful. His right arm ended in a cauterized stump. Half his face had melted, the golden eye burst like an overripe fruit, starlight dripping down a cheek stripped of skin. The Star Crest on his chest was a shattered mirror, bleeding constellations. He knelt in the crater his own backlash had carved, one trembling hand pressed to the ruin of his ribs, breath coming in wet, shocked gasps.
For the first time in three thousand years, a god was in pain.
He stared at the two boys lying twenty meters away, barely alive, fingers still interlaced like children afraid of the dark. A laugh—small, broken, almost human—tore out of his ruined throat.
"You made me bleed," he whispered, voice cracking with wonder and terror. "Ten minutes… and you actually made me bleed."
Steve coughed blood onto the concrete. His lips moved soundlessly, but Jack heard it anyway.
Still here.
Jack squeezed his hand once. Tears fell onto Steve's knuckles, sizzling against the lightning burns.
From the rooftop, Elisa's scream was soft, almost a prayer.
"She's coming… oh God, she's really coming…"
Aurora's rifle slipped from numb fingers and clattered down the tiles. She didn't notice.
The sky split open again—not violently, but gently, like curtains drawn by loving hands. A single beam of dawn-gold light poured down, warm as fresh bread, warm as mornings Jack remembered before everything went wrong.
She stepped out barefoot.
Jack's mother.
Translucent, trembling, more memory than flesh, but unmistakable. The same tired smile, the same gentle eyes that had once sung him to sleep. She looked at her son first—broken, bleeding, clinging to a stranger like he was the only solid thing left in the universe—and her face folded with fifteen years of unsaid I'm sorrys.
A sob tore out of Jack's chest, raw and childlike.
"Mom…?"
She knelt between them, knees never touching the ground, and laid one glowing hand over their joined fingers.
The warmth that flowed in wasn't power. It was every bedtime story she never finished. Every scraped knee she never kissed. Every "I love you" stolen by exile guards before she could say it.
Steve's ruined lungs expanded. Jack's shattered ribs shifted back into place with soft clicks. They both cried—ugly, open-mouthed, relief and grief tangled together.
Jack's mother leaned down. She kissed Jack's forehead first, lingering, breathing him in like he was still five years old. Then she kissed Steve's—the boy she had never met, but already loved because her son did.
"My brave, brave boys," she whispered, voice cracking like sunrise on water. "Live. Live long enough to grow old together. Live long enough to make him remember your names when he screams in the dark."
Her edges were already fraying, turning to sparkling dust on the wind.
Gulf forced himself upright, stump dripping starlight, remaining eye wild.
"You think a dead woman—"
She looked at him.
And the dawn behind her became a storm of silent golden blades.
They fell. Not to kill. To scar.
Light carved rivers across Gulf's immortal body—his remaining arm, the cheek that still had skin, the Star Crest until it screamed like breaking glass.
Gulf shrieked, no longer god, only something afraid.
Jack's mother smiled through her tears, already half gone.
"Remember their faces," she said, fading to a lullaby. "They're only getting started."
The last of her turned to warm light and soaked into the boys' joined hands.
The dawn stayed, a gentle dome around them, holding the night back.
Gulf staggered, half his body in ruins, Star Crest flickering like a candle in wind. He looked at the two boys slowly, painfully pushing themselves to their feet, hands still clasped, tears cutting clean lines through blood and ash.
Something ancient and terrified moved behind his remaining eye.
Jack's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it carried like a vow across the ruined plaza:
"Next time… we finish this."
Steve's cracked lips curved into the faintest, bloodiest smile.
Together, they took one shaking step forward.
The spear struck.
White fire swallowed the world. Two hearts beat as one.
When the light collapsed, Gulf was on his knees.
His right arm gone. Half his face melted, golden eye burst and dripping molten starlight. The Star Crest on his chest fractured like broken glass, bleeding constellations into the night.
For the first time in three thousand years, a god tasted fear.
He stared at the two boys twenty metres away (barely breathing, fingers still locked together) and a small, cracked laugh escaped his ruined throat.
"You made me bleed," he whispered, wonder and terror braided together. "Ten minutes… and you actually made me bleed a god."
Steve's lips moved. No sound. Jack heard it anyway. Still here.
Jack squeezed once. Tears fell onto Steve's knuckles, hissing against the lightning burns.
From the rooftop, Elisa's voice broke into a sob that carried across the plaza. "She's coming… she's really came back…"
Aurora's rifle slipped from her fingers and clattered away unnoticed.
The sky opened—not with violence, but with the gentleness of a mother parting curtains for her sleeping child.
A single beam of dawn-gold light poured down, warm as fresh bread, warm as every morning Jack had lost.
She stepped out barefoot.
Jack's mother.
Translucent, trembling, but unmistakably her. Same tired smile. Same eyes that once sang him to sleep.
She looked at her son (broken, bleeding, clinging to a stranger like he was the only real thing left) and her face folded with fifteen years of unsaid apologies.
Jack's voice cracked, small and five years old again. "Mom…?"
She knelt between them, knees never touching the ground, and laid one glowing hand over their joined fingers.
Warmth flowed in. Not power. Love. Every bedtime story cut short. Every scraped knee she never kissed. Every "I love you" the guards stole.
Steve's lungs filled. Jack's ribs clicked softly back into place. They cried together (ugly, open-mouthed, relief and grief braided so tight it hurt).
She kissed Jack's forehead first, lingering, breathing him in. Then she kissed Steve's (the boy she had never met, but already loved because her son did).
"My brave, brave boys," she whispered, voice cracking like sunrise on water. "Live. Live long enough to grow old together. Live long enough to make him remember your names when he screams in the dark."
Her edges were already turning to sparkling dust on the wind.
Gulf forced himself upright, stump dripping starlight, remaining eye wild with fury and fear. "You think a ghost—"
She looked at him.
The dawn behind her ignited into a silent storm of golden blades.
They fell—not to kill, but to brand.
Light carved burning rivers across his remaining arm, his chest, the fractured Star Crest until it screamed like shattering crystal.
Gulf shrieked, a sound no longer divine, only animal and afraid.
Jack's mother smiled through her tears, already half gone.
"Remember their faces," she said, voice fading to a lullaby. "They're only getting started."
The last of her dissolved into warm light and soaked into the boys' clasped hands.
The dawn stayed, a gentle, unbreakable dome around them.
Gulf staggered back, half his body in ruins, Star Crest flickering like a candle about to drown.
He looked at the two boys slowly, painfully pushing themselves to their feet—hands still locked, tears cutting clean lines through blood and ash.
Something ancient and terrified moved behind his remaining eye.
Jack's voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, but it rang across the ruined plaza like a vow carved in stone:
"Next time… we finish this."
Steve's cracked lips curved into the faintest, bloodiest smile.
Together, under their mother's fading dawn, they took one shaking step forward.
Gulf took one step back.
And for the first time in three thousand years, a god ran.
Fade to white