In the ethereal haze of the god realm, the air shimmered like liquid starlight and carried the bittersweet scent of fading lilies, eternal blooms wilting beneath divine sorrow. Gulf stood before the swirling vortex, voice cracked like thunder muffled by grief, eyes glistening with unshed tears that mirrored the cosmic void.
Aurora knelt at his feet, heart aching with the echo of his pain.
"Go," he whispered, the words raw, trembling. "Bring her home. I'm not ready to stop being her dad. Not today. Not ever."
The plea hung in the air, a father's unbreakable bond laid bare. The realm's eternal choir of celestial winds faltered, as if the heavens themselves held their breath.
Aurora rose. Ozone stung her lungs, sharp and metallic. She swallowed the ache and leapt.
The portal swallowed her. Colors bled into a screaming kaleidoscope. Interdimensional winds howled like grieving souls.
Then, cold fingers of essence brushed hers in the dark.
Back in the god realm, Gulf sank against a pillar of crystalline light. Tears finally fell, hot and silent, carving silver trails down divine cheeks.
That was all the opening they needed.
Alarms tore through the palace, shrill, blasphemous. Blades clashed against ethereal wards. The air filled with the reek of scorched divinity, sacred incense set ablaze.
An assassin cloaked in malice slipped through the chaos and dove into the portal's dying glow.
Inside the tunnel of worlds, steel sang. A blade flashed toward Aurora's throat with a whistle thin as a widow's scream.
She spun. Stars wheeled. Static burned her lungs. Jace's half-crest seal throbbed, a second heart drinking her strength.
She gathered the rest and struck.
Light exploded, a dying sun inside the void.
The assassin laughed, low and venomous, and twisted aside. "Your god weeps," he hissed. "And weeping gods cannot protect their dogs."
Her strike shattered against his ward. The backlash ripped through her like broken glass.
Blood flooded her mouth, copper-bright. The void clawed her hair into mournful banners.
Gulf's voice rang inside her skull, fragile and fierce: Not today. Not ever.
Aurora smiled through the blood, small and terrible, and readied herself to fight with whatever scraps remained.
She would crawl out of this portal if she had to. She would drag the girl home. Because some fathers refuse to let go, and some guardians refuse to let their fathers break.
Human Realm – Steve
The balcony door creaked like a tired sigh. Steve stepped into the cool night, city breath curling into his lungs: diesel, wet asphalt, someone's overcooked curry. He flicked the lighter; the flame shivered, died, flared again. Finally the cigarette caught, orange tip glowing like a tiny middle finger to the universe.
He exhaled smoke that tasted of yesterday's regret and muttered, "I'm moving out. This place is too cute to live in."
Then the sky cracked open.
A jagged ribbon of violet light tore across the stars. Two falling bodies trailed sparks and black smoke. A heartbeat later came the sound, high, metallic, swords dragged across glass. The air reeked suddenly of ozone and hot iron.
Steve's cigarette froze halfway to his lips.
"Elisa drops out of a portal, forgets her apocalypse cutlery in my hallway," he whispered, voice trembling between laughter and terror, "and now round two comes gift-wrapped with a killer. Universe, I want a refund."
He crushed the cigarette against the rail, ember hissing out like a dying star, and ran.
Bare feet slapped cold hardwood. He snatched Neptune from the umbrella stand, Elisa's trident, still warm from the night she'd laughed and pressed it into his hands with a wink: "Keep it safe for me."
The moment his fingers closed around the shaft, saltwater flooded the room, ancient, alive, hers. The tines sang a low, eager note that vibrated straight into his bones and squeezed his heart with memory.
Steve's breath hitched. Then he grinned, wild, terrified, alive. "One more time, beautiful."
Aurora – the fall
The portal spat her out like it was personally offended.
She hit asphalt shoulder-first. Pain exploded white. Mortal air, thick, smoky, alive, flooded her lungs and tasted of salvation and exhaust.
Three blocks east, Elisa's aura blazed, bright as sunrise, cradled in the slow, patient heartbeat of an earth spirit older than mountains.
Aurora laughed once, wet, broken, relieved beyond words. "Elisa… you clever, impossible girl. You're safe."
She pushed up on shaking arms. The seal burned white-hot under her ribs. Behind her, smoke re-knit into a blade.
Then bare feet pounded around the corner.
Steve skidded beneath a streetlamp, hair a mess, eyes blazing, Neptune blazing brighter. Streetlight shattered along the tines into liquid sapphire.
He planted himself between her and death, chest heaving, barefoot on broken glass, not flinching.
The assassin solidified.
Steve's grin was all teeth and adrenaline. "Hey, shadow breath," he said, voice cracking with joy. "Wrong planet. Wrong night. Wrong life."
He spun Neptune once, graceful, impossible, perfect.
The air answered with a roar that rattled windows for three blocks.
A water dragon erupted from nowhere: thirty feet of living ocean, moonlight on every scale, eyes like storm-lit pearls. It smelled of deep trenches and the first summer rain Elisa ever danced in. Its roar was the sound the sea makes when someone finally hurts the people it loves.
It struck.
The impact stole Aurora's breath. Water slammed the assassin like a tidal wave made of fists. Cloak shredded. A single, shocked scream, almost human, cut off as the dragon tore him into black mist and flung the pieces into the night.
Silence fell, broken only by dripping water and the soft patter of leftover rain on metal roofs.
Aurora's knees buckled. She hit the ground hard, palms scraping, tears cutting clean tracks through blood and grime. Relief poured through her so fiercely she couldn't breathe, sweet, aching, impossible.
Steve lowered the trident. His hands shook. The glow faded to a gentle pulse, like a heartbeat calming.
He stared at the empty air where death had stood, then down at her.
"Holy shit," he whispered, half-laugh, half-sob. "I just did that."
Aurora lifted her head. Tears kept falling, but she smiled, small, fierce, radiant.
"You did," she said, voice raw velvet. "You just gave a god back his daughter."
Steve exhaled a shaky laugh, wiped his face with a trembling hand, and shrugged like his heart wasn't breaking open in the best way.
"Yeah, well," he said, voice soft now, "tell him he owes me a beer. And maybe a new balcony railing."
Above them, the broken sky began, slowly, to heal.