Caera did not move for a long time after the truth was spoken.
The ruin around them lay fractured and silent, as if the land itself were holding its breath, uncertain whether to remain whole. Dust drifted in slow spirals through the broken ceiling.
Light—her light—lingered faintly along the edges of stone, refusing to fully fade.
Viehl watched her carefully.
Not with hunger.
Not with devotion.
With vigilance.
She felt it.
"You should be afraid," she said at last.
"I am," he replied. "Just not of you."
She turned sharply. "That's a mistake."
"No," he said. "It's a calculation."
Her lips thinned. "Then you're worse than I thought."
He pushed himself upright with effort, wincing as the scorched fractures along his arms pulsed weakly. The glow had faded, but the scars remained—thin, luminous lines etched into his skin like cracks in dark glass.
"They hurt," he admitted. "But they're… stable."
She stared at the marks.
The chain pulsed once.
"You absorbed divine output," she said flatly. "You should be ash."
He shrugged weakly. "Apparently I'm inconvenient."
Something almost like grief passed through her chest—sharp, fleeting, unwelcome.
She turned away.
They remained in the ruin for three days.
Not because they needed shelter—but because Caera could not trust herself to move.
Her power surged unpredictably now, reacting to memory and thought rather than intent. At times it dulled so sharply she felt hollow, like a sun extinguished from within. At others it spiked violently, light tearing free of her skin in jagged flares that scorched stone and air alike.
Each surge tugged the chain.
Each tug pulled Viehl closer to the edge of agony.
He never complained.
That made it worse.
On the second night, Caera lost control completely.
It happened when she slept.
The dream returned—the chains binding her parents, the sealed void, the soundless scream of divinity caught mid-failure. This time, the dream answered back.
Power flooded her.
The ruin ignited.
Viehl woke to blinding light and pain like being flayed from the inside. The chain yanked him across the chamber, slamming him into Caera as raw divinity tore outward.
He wrapped his arms around her again.
Not gently.
Desperately.
"Caera," he said through clenched teeth. "You're tearing through me."
"I don't care," she snarled, half-conscious, eyes burning. "Let go."
"If I do," he said, voice breaking, "you'll unmake yourself."
Her power screamed.
The chain burned.
And something else—someone else—spoke.
Enough.
The voice did not echo.
It pressed.
The light froze.
Caera gasped as if struck, consciousness snapping fully back into place. The presence settled over the ruin like gravity given will—ancient, controlled, deeply disapproving.
A figure coalesced from shadow and fractured radiance.
Tall.
Veiled.
Not sealed—but diminished.
A god.
Not her parents.
An observer.
"You were not meant to wake the chain yet," the god said, voice like stone worn smooth by centuries of regret.
Caera tore herself free of Viehl's grip and rose, blade blazing into her hand instinctively.
"Name yourself," she demanded.
The god regarded her with something like sorrow.
"I am Aurelion," it said. "One of those who voted against your forging."
Her breath hitched.
"You knew," she said.
"We all did," Aurelion replied. "Some of us lacked the courage to stop it."
Viehl struggled to his feet beside her, swaying. "You let her parents do this."
"Yes," the god said. "And we told ourselves it was mercy."
Caera's light surged violently.
"You made me a weapon," she hissed. "You bound my existence to an ending I didn't choose."
Aurelion met her fury without flinching. "We bound you because nothing else could survive what was coming."
"And him?" Caera demanded, gesturing sharply toward Viehl. "What was he meant to be. Collateral."
The god's gaze shifted.
"No," Aurelion said slowly. "He was an anomaly. A flaw."
The chain pulsed angrily.
"Flaws," the god continued, "are how fate resists perfection."
Viehl laughed weakly. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever called me."
Aurelion ignored him.
"Your power is destabilizing," the god said to Caera. "Because you are approaching the threshold. The point at which divinity ceases to be you and becomes function."
Her throat tightened.
"And when I cross it."
"You will no longer choose," Aurelion said. "You will complete."
Silence fell heavy.
Viehl looked at Caera—not pleading, not fearful—but steady.
"I won't let that happen," he said quietly.
Aurelion turned to him. "You cannot stop it."
"No," Viehl agreed. "But I can slow it. Break it. Hurt it."
The god studied him for a long moment.
"Then you are more dangerous than we anticipated," Aurelion said. "Which explains why the King of Chaos has begun
whispering your name."
Caera stiffened.
"What."
The god's gaze sharpened. "He knows what you are now. Both of you."
The presence began to fade.
"One last thing," Aurelion said. "The chain was forged to end a god."
"Yes," Caera said coldly.
"But it was never meant to decide which god," Aurelion replied.
And then the ruin was empty again.
Afterward, Caera sat alone in the dark, light suppressed with brutal discipline. Her hands shook despite her control.
Viehl approached slowly, as if nearing a wild, wounded thing.
"I'm not going to save you," he said quietly. "I know that now."
She did not look at him.
"But I'll stay," he continued. "Until you decide who you're ending."
Her voice came out raw. "You should hate me."
"I don't," he said. "That scares me more."
She finally met his gaze.
"For your sake," she said, "you should pray I die first."
He gave a tired, crooked smile. "I don't pray."
The chain lay between them—warm, awake, patient.
Somewhere beyond the veil of war and ruin, the King of Chaos watched and laughed softly, already setting pieces into motion.
Because weapons that learn they were forged can still choose where they fall.