Immersed in the endless search for divine artifacts, the two spellcasters from the Heavenly Realm had spent over two weeks buried in the library. Scrolls, books, ancient records— they drowned in an ocean of forgotten knowledge, chasing even a single thread that might lead them to their goal. And still, after all this time, they had barely scratched the surface of what these shelves held.
Another sleepless night had settled over the Order. Kael, still lost in his research, only looked up when he realized he could barely see. The candles were burning low, casting the library into a dim haze, and his eyes, worn from reading fine script for hours, had begun to sting. He rubbed his face in a futile attempt to push back the fatigue, but it clung to him like fog, heavier than before.
Naros had collapsed right onto a pile of scrolls, peacefully snoring with his arms sprawled out like a man who had surrendered first in battle. Kael let out a weary sigh, casting his friend a look of half-annoyance, half-defeat, and stood up. He needed to get more candles. If he stopped now, he'd fall asleep just like Naros, and they'd lose another night.
Stepping outside, he drew a deep breath, letting the cold air sharpen his thoughts. The Order was drowned in silence. Buildings lay under a veil of night, and the few lanterns that remained lit cast a dim glow over the stone paths. Silence. Stillness. Not a sound.
Everything as it always was.
Kael was about to turn away when he froze.
Far in the distance, just past the lake, a faint light flickered. He squinted, trying to pinpoint its source. A lantern, maybe? But there weren't supposed to be any lights in that direction. That part of the Order was dark. Empty. Abandoned.
And yet the light was there. Dim but unmistakable, glowing against the night like a beacon in the void.
Something twisted in his chest.
He couldn't explain it—why that light sent a chill through him—but it did. A strange, tight unease curled inside his ribs.
He glanced once more at the sleeping Naros.
Then, without fully realizing it, he took a step toward the glow.
Moving silently through the sleeping halls of the Order, Kael stepped carefully, avoiding every stray sound. The bridge over the lake groaned beneath his feet, but the night swallowed the noise whole, veiling his presence. He crossed the garden shrouded in darkness, where the wind rustled the branches in eerie, whisper-like tones.
Soon, he reached an old building tucked away in the farthest corner of the Order's grounds. That faint, almost imperceptible light was coming from within.
Kael paused, studying the structure. Its white bricks, faded by time, still looked strangely clean for an abandoned place. And above the entrance, he spotted a single golden letter — an "L" encased in a perfect circle.
Kael frowned.
That wasn't the Order's emblem.
All buildings within the Vectan Order bore the letter V— the symbol of its greatness and dominion. But here, there was a different mark.
What was even stranger—Kael clearly remembered this section of the Order being cloaked by a shadow barrier.
For all the years he had lived here in his previous life, this place had remained sealed off.
Darkness had blocked the way.
No one ever came here.
No one even knew what lay beyond.
Kael clenched his fists.
But now… the barrier was gone.
Now, a faint light flickered in the window.
What had changed?
He moved carefully, each step muffled by the grass beneath his boots, until he reached the window. Slowly—almost soundlessly—he lifted the shutters, holding his breath.
His heart pounded, deep and heavy, tension humming in the air.
Kael peered inside.
What he saw was a vast hall, swallowed by shadow. Towering bookshelves lined the walls, packed with old, forgotten tomes and scrolls blanketed in a thin layer of dust. Long tables stretched out below them, cluttered with jars of all shapes, ancient artifacts dulled with age, and yellowed manuscripts. Some notes appeared half-finished, as if someone had just been working here… and left in a hurry.
Kael let his gaze drift carefully across the room. It was a laboratory. But not just some abandoned relic—everything inside was meticulously preserved, untouched by time, as if someone still cared for every corner, refusing to let decay take hold.
But that wasn't what stunned him most.
His eyes fell on the massive portrait at the center of the hall.
It hung above a small altar, like the very heart of the room. The painting depicted a young man—so vivid, so exquisitely detailed, it looked almost alive. It drew Kael in like a beacon in the dark.
His long silver hair fell over his chest and touched his stomach, shimmering as if it were real. His eyes—deep, sapphire blue—burned with life. Like a dragon's gaze, they stared out of the portrait with startling intensity. A warm, gentle smile played on his lips, as if he might step out of the canvas at any moment, reach out… and speak.
His snow-white robes with wide sleeves were painted with such masterful detail that they seemed to ripple in a nonexistent breeze, cloaking him in otherworldly grace.
And in front of that portrait stood an altar.
The kind one would find in temples, placed before the faces of gods.
Incense still smoldered atop it, releasing a thick, sweet aroma into the air.
But the most unexpected thing of all—kneeling before the altar, head bowed in silence—stood the Grandmaster of the Order himself: Kirion.
Kael felt his heart stop.
What… was this place?
Who was the man in the portrait?
And why was Kirion—Kirion, a man who had never bowed to anyone—standing here in prayer?
Kael narrowed his eyes, focusing on the elder's back. His shoulders were trembling ever so slightly, as if he were crying—soundlessly, with sobs buried deep in his chest.
Kael's fist clenched.
The great, deathless master—the man who had twice been offered ascension and refused—was now kneeling before a painting, head lowered.
And then, Kirion spoke.
His voice was quiet. Hoarse. Laced with something Kael had never heard in his tone before.
"My little god… are you still angry?"
Kael froze. Something twisted in his chest.
Kirion lifted his head, his gaze slowly tracing the young man's face on the canvas.
"So many years have passed, and still you haven't returned to me. When will you come back, my little god? When will you return?"
Kael couldn't look away. Not from his teacher.
That voice… it wasn't the Kirion he knew. There was no authority in it, no strength or command—only a faint echo of who he used to be, crushed beneath the weight of waiting.
Kirion raised his hand, gesturing to the room around him.
"Look, look, my son! It's your favorite laboratory! It's still here," his voice trembled, but he kept going, clenching his fingers tighter. "And all your things… they're exactly where you left them. No one dares to touch them."
Kael inhaled sharply, as if the air had thickened—something heavy pressed against his chest.
Son?
Kirion was speaking of a son?
The realization hit Kael like a blow. His stern, unshakable master—the man who had never known weakness or doubt—was a father?
Kirion reached out, his fingertips brushing the portrait—so gently, as if it might vanish if he dared to blink.
"Come home… come back to me," his voice trembled, falling into a whisper. "Please, my son… come home."
He curled in on himself, still kneeling, like a broken statue—cracked by time, but refusing to fall.
Kael stood frozen, unable to look away.
Kirion—unyielding, towering Kirion, the man who once stood above all mortals—now looked like a father mourning what he had lost.
"I… I…" A sob pierced his voice. "Gods…"
But still, he didn't let himself fall apart.
Kael could feel the weight inside him growing, like the world itself was pressing down, too real, too raw.
"I've searched for so long… I've waited so long for you to come home…"
Kirion drew in a shaking breath, as if searching for the strength to stay upright.
"I won't leave. Not until you return."
He bowed his head, resting his forehead against the painting, his fingers trembling where they clutched the frame.
"Do you hear me? I'll wait for you… When will you come back, my boy?"
His voice cracked, turning rough—barely a whisper.
"Your father loves you so much… I was so unfair. Gods, I was so cruel to you…"
A broken, muffled moan slipped from his lips as he curled in tighter, as if trying to hide from the grief that was tearing him apart.
"Come home…"
Unable to bear another second, Kael quietly shut the window and turned—bolting into the night.
He ran blindly, the cold air burning his lungs, his legs weakening beneath him, his heart pounding like a war drum.
He didn't even realize he had stopped in front of the library.
Breathing hard, he leaned against the cold stone wall, trying to collect his thoughts.
But his mind refused to obey.
Everything inside him had clenched into a single, aching knot.
Kael slid down, sinking to the grass, tilting his head back to the sky—
star-filled, silent, offering no answers.
Gods… why did I even go there?
He pulled his knees close, resting his forehead against them, eyes shut tight.
Bitterness crept through his veins, but he didn't know who it was meant for—
himself, Kirion, or the boy in the painting who, for some reason, never came back.
Not even to those desperate prayers.
Kirion…
His teacher. His mentor.
The man who had never shown weakness, who never allowed himself softness,
who demanded discipline, order, obedience.
Always cold. Always strict.
Carved from marble.
And now…
Now Kael knew that at night, that same untouchable man
slipped away to an abandoned laboratory
and prayed.
Prayed to someone who never returned.
How was that even possible?
Kael clenched his jaw and ran a hand over his face.
His eyes stung—but he wasn't even sure if it was from exhaustion or from the weight of someone else's grief.
In his past life, Kirion had died.
Died still waiting for his son.
Died without ever seeing him, not even in his final breath.
Kael swallowed hard, his insides twisting.
He remembered the portrait again—those eyes, so vivid and deep, sapphire-bright.
That warm, slightly teasing smile.
Who was he?
What had happened to him?
Why… hadn't he come back?
When his father had waited for him so long?
Kael pressed his fists against his forehead.
Gods. Damn it. Fuck.
With a heavy breath, Kael pushed himself to his feet, brushed off his robes, and stepped into the library.
Inside, only half-light remained—every candle had long burned out, leaving behind a faint trail of moonlight slipping through the narrow windows.
Towering shelves cast elongated shadows, turning the room into a maze of silver flickers and dense darkness.
Kael frowned.
The candles…
He had completely forgotten.
Of course he had.
Without a word, he walked over to Naros, still sprawled on the floor, fast asleep amidst a scattered sea of scrolls.
Naros muttered something unintelligible in his sleep, grimaced—but didn't wake.
Kael didn't hesitate.
He grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him to the long couch by the wall.
Naros lazily flopped onto his side, sighed, and instantly slipped back into a deep slumber, completely unaware that he'd just been hauled halfway across the room.
Kael, too drained to go anywhere else, sank down beside him.
He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, where the shadows of tree branches shifted—like ghostly silhouettes drifting in silence.
Had he truly been so blind in his past life?
He had lived in the Order for years, side by side with Kirion, and never once noticed the pain hidden behind his eyes.
How?
How could he not have seen it?
What else had he missed?
Kael clenched his teeth, eyes still fixed on the ceiling—
but that wasn't what he saw.
He saw Kirion's eyes, drowning in grief.
His trembling hands as they touched the painting.
His voice, broken with quiet despair.
His prayer, spoken into the void.
Kael's fists curled tight.
Had his arrogance—his careless indifference—blinded him to the truths his dearest ones were carrying in silence?
He exhaled, slowly closing his eyes, trying to sleep.
But in his mind, Kirion's voice echoed on—
"Your father loves you so much… I was so unfair… Come home…"