The halls were quieter than usual.
Nhilly's footsteps echoed against marble, each one swallowed by the endless stillness that hung between the pillars. Morning light spilled through stained glass, painting fractured colours across the floor red, gold, and the pale blue of a sky that never shifted.
A week before the march, and the palace still felt too calm. Too deliberate.
He walked without direction, his hand resting loosely on the hilt of Draco's Shroud. The blade's weight was comforting the only thing that ever felt real.
They call it preparation, he thought, eyes tracing the statues of kings and saints that lined the hall. But all I see is waiting the kind that stinks of fear dressed as discipline.
He paused by a window overlooking the training fields. Soldiers moved like clockwork below, drills snapping into rhythm. From this height, they looked almost perfect — too synchronized, too clean.
If this is what the gods call a world, he thought, then maybe perfection's just another kind of rot.
He pushed away from the window and continued walking. His reflection in the polished floor moved with him, flickering faintly half there, half gone.
It took him a moment to realize he'd reached the meeting room. The door was already ajar. Voices slipped through Celeste's, Eli's, Kael's. Raised, tense, alive.
Nhilly leaned against the frame for a heartbeat before stepping inside.
The room was small compared to the council chamber a war table, several maps, and a few chairs scattered around it. The air smelled faintly of parchment and metal.
Celeste stood near the centre, her hands clenched against the edge of the table. "You can't seriously be considering letting her go alone," she said sharply, her usual calm cracking around the edges.
Seris sat across from her, silent, composed her cloak draped neatly over the chair, her expression unreadable.
Eli was pacing. "Five days. A single week out there with half-trained scouts and no backup? That's suicide."
Kael's voice was quieter, but no less firm. "We don't know what's waiting past those borders. The council doesn't know either. Sending her alone is reckless."
"She's not going alone, she'll have the soldiers" Nhilly said finally, stepping fully into the room.
The others turned Celeste mid-sentence, Eli stopping dead in his track.
Seris's eyes met his. Calm. "You weren't summoned to this briefing," she said.
The air grew heavy. No one spoke for a moment.
Finally, Seris broke the silence. "It's reconnaissance. Not a war march. I'll be fine."
"Fine?" Celeste's voice wavered between disbelief and frustration. "You barely slept this week. You're still overusing your Star. Don't pretend we can't see it."
Seris looked away. "This isn't up for debate. The council made their decision."
"Then let's unmake it," Eli snapped, slamming his hand against the table. "If they're so desperate to call us heroes, then maybe it's time we start acting like it."
Nhilly watched them, arms crossed. The argument was a storm circling the same point — the kind that burns itself out because no one knows how to stop it.
Finally, Kael looked to Nhilly. "You already went to the council, didn't you?"
Nhilly's silence was answer enough.
Seris's brow furrowed slightly.
"I was summoned," he said. "They wanted my approval."
Celeste looked furious. "And you gave it?"
"I told them she was the best choice for reconnaissance," Nhilly replied evenly. "And I was right."
Celeste's voice rose. "You knew they'd twist that into sending her out alone!"
"Of course I did," he said. "That's what they wanted from the start."
Eli let out a harsh laugh. "You're unbelievable."
Nhilly's expression didn't change. "You think this is about choice? Look around you. Every step we take here's already written. If I hadn't agreed, they'd have sent her anyway."
The words hung in the air like cold smoke.
Seris finally stood, her voice calm again. "Enough. It's done."
Celeste opened her mouth to argue again, but Seris shook her head gently. "If anything happens, it'll be me they expect to die first. That's how these worlds work. You know that."
Her words stilled even Eli.
Nhilly watched her carefully, the faintest flicker of emotion crossing his face before fading. "Then don't die first," he said quietly. "Die last, if you have to."
Seris gave him a small, tired smile. "I'll keep that in mind."
The meeting ended without resolution.
When the others left, Nhilly lingered by the table. The map still lay open the red routes leading toward Wyre like veins. He traced one absentmindedly with his finger, following it to the end.
It stopped at an unmarked circle. No name. No note. Just a ring of ink where the line ended abruptly.
He stared at it for a long time.
"Reconnaissance." He almost laughed. They make it sound like a game.
Behind him, the sound of armour faded as the others walked away.
And for a brief moment, as he stood alone in the quiet room, Nhilly could've sworn he heard laughter again faint, distant, familiar echoing through the walls like the ghost of something watching from above.
The palace had long since gone to sleep by the time Nhilly returned to the library.
The corridors glowed faintly in moonlight, and the torches burned lower than usual — tired, almost human. He slipped between the rows of books until his fingers brushed the spine of a dark blue tome gilded with silver sigils.
"Draco: The Constellation of Ascension."
The title shimmered faintly under the candlelight. He carried it to the nearest table and opened it with care. The pages smelled like incense and dust, preserved too well to be old yet written as if it belonged to another age.
The first line was bold, reverent, almost worshipful:
Before he was a god, he was a man. A conqueror of trials. A paragon of strength.
Nhilly's eyes narrowed.
Draco, known in mortal life as the Champion of the Northern Reach, cleared more Scenarios than any human before him. He entered the Yarion world as all Dissapants do uncertain, unarmed yet through sheer will, he climbed through despair and death alike, his Star burning bright enough to draw the attention of heaven itself.
The script flowed like a sermon.
He was the perfect actor in the divine play. Unyielding. Brilliant. Favoured by Constellations and men alike. His blade, though but a common sword, cut through monsters, wars, and the very fabric of fate. He earned Blessings from many gods, and still he sought more. Not for greed, the scriptures say, but for purpose. For perfection.
Nhilly's thumb lingered on the margin where a faint ink blot marred the parchment — almost as if something had once been written there, then scrubbed away.
He turned the page.
And so, when mortal limits could no longer contain him, the Constellations offered him what no man had been offered before a Devotional Contract. He signed it, heart and soul, becoming one with the heavens. When he rose from mortal flesh, the world trembled as a new star was born.
The next section was obscured entire lines blurred into illegible smears, as if the ink had been melted and frozen again. Only fragments remained.
...and when he had this power, he...
...the heavens fell silent for three days...
...the chains were not meant to bind gods...
Then the clean text resumed, unnaturally pristine.
And thus he ascended, shedding weakness and mortality. The man became myth. The myth became light. He took his place among the divine, a guardian forever watching over the Yarion world, his eyes unblinking, his strength eternal.
Nhilly frowned. "Convenient edit."
He skimmed the closing paragraphs.
His sword, the same he wielded as a man, rose with him — transformed by his ascension. Once common, now sacred. A Relic that mirrors his domain: control through weight, gravity through devotion. For Draco's strength came not from his blessings, but from his unwavering will to carry the heavens themselves upon his shoulders.
The page ended with an inscription in smaller script, almost reverent:
Let his story remind us that the gods reward faith, not defiance. To follow their path is to be seen. To serve their will is to be eternal.
Nhilly closed the book halfway, staring at the golden lettering.
So that was how they told it. A mortal who reached for too much, worshipped into sainthood. The perfect story for the perfect world.
But something about the gaps, those blurred lines, lingered.
He reopened the book and flipped back to the section about his death. There, faint and almost erased, he caught a single fragment of text between the blotches of ink. Barely legible.
...his voice failed him... breath lost... the light would not let go...
Nhilly froze.
"Choked to death," he murmured. "Fitting."
He leaned back in the chair, eyes trailing over the candlelight that shimmered against his blade. Draco's Shroud rested beside him black steel reflecting nothing, silent and still, as if it too were listening.
"So, you were human once," he said softly. "A man who wanted too much."
The sword gave no answer, but a faint ripple of air passed through the room, a whisper, almost like a sigh.
Nhilly glanced at the book again. "They really cleaned you up for the audience, didn't they? Perfect actor, loyal servant. Guess we're not so different after all."
He traced the inscription once more: The gods reward faith, not defiance.
A quiet, humourless laugh escaped him. "And yet, you defied them."
He shut the book and rested his hand on Draco's Shroud. The black steel pulsed once — faint, warm, like a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
The voice startled him. Nhilly turned.
An old man stood near the end of the aisle, robes of a scholar, silver hair tied loosely behind his head, eyes soft with age. He looked frail, harmless, his smile gentle.
"I didn't hear you come in," Nhilly said, slipping the book slightly closed.
"I tend to move quietly," the old man said, approaching at an unhurried pace. His voice was warm, his tone kind — too kind. "What are you reading, young man?"
Nhilly hesitated, then turned the book slightly so the title faced him. "A history. Draco the Constellation of Ascension."
For a heartbeat, the man's smile faltered. Then it returned, polite but tighter this time. "Ah… that one. The divine scriptures are not often kept in reach of common eyes."
Nhilly raised an eyebrow. "Common?"
The old man chuckled softly, waving a wrinkled hand. "Please do not misunderstand. You are a guest of the palace, but those texts… they're sacred. To read them without permission is considered… unwise."
He placed a hand gently on the cover of the book, closing it the rest of the way. His palm lingered there for a moment, the warmth of his skin oddly steady.
"Please," he said with that same gentle smile. "Do not. We common people are forbidden to read the divine scriptures. It is not for minds like ours to dwell on such things."
Nhilly studied him in silence, then leaned back. "Of course."
"Good," the old man said softly. He turned to leave, the candlelight catching the faint gold thread on his sleeve a sigil of the Church of Ascendants.
Nhilly watched him go, the echo of his footsteps fading down the corridor.
When the old man vanished into shadow, Nhilly looked back at the book.
The cover still glowed faintly under the light the serpent of stars coiled around its spine.
He smirked. "Forbidden, huh?"
His hand brushed Draco's Shroud, and the candle beside him flickered once more this time, almost like laughter.