I will try to remember putting these over here too. So sorry if any of these are from bsky-only peeps. I love them all, thank you so much!

I hope it was a good cry :’D
Thanks for reading!

And maybe—Mydei thinks, eyes drifting to Kephale’s distant form—maybe in the next life… or the one after that… or in some gentler world far from this endless war…

He will see him again; Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.

☀️

So Mydei fights—and he gives everything to the fight, just as every Mydeimos before him has done.

Gives his soul, if he must. Swears himself to stop Lygus and Irontomb, no matter the cost.

To pave the way for the Trailblazer with his own blood to finish what must be done.

Cyrene’s eyes never leave his, though her smile turns just a little brittle.

"Khaslana—no. 𝘗𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘯," she says softly. "Phainon of Aedes Elysiae."

☀️

Mydei nods, the weight of her words settling deep in his chest. Something in him shifts—resolve taking root where uncertainty had been.

“One last thing,” he says, his voice quieter now but steadier than before. “What is he called?”

“Even after thirty million cycles, he’s still fighting. And the Deliverer from beyond the sky… the Trailblazer… they’re carrying on the torch he passed to them. That’s why we fight. That’s what 𝘩𝘦 would want.”

Slowly, he accepts the handkerchief from Cyrene and gently dabs at his eyes. All the while, Cyrene simply watches him with that warm, wistful smile.

“He is still fighting,” Cyrene begins slowly, her gaze drifting toward Kephale’s distant form.

His voice sounds strange—thick, unsteady, like the words have to push their way past something lodged in his throat.

"Lord Mydei, if I may," Cyrene says as she offers him a handkerchief.

𝘖𝘩. He doesn’t even notice the warmth streaking down his cheeks until it drips onto the pages in his hands.

When the memories end, the hollow in his chest feels so full it’s as if it might 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘵.

For a moment, he just stands there in silence. Processing. Taking it all in.

Then, "Where… where is he now?"

Of a first meeting, a first ‘duel,’ the first time he yielded and chose to call someone, with full sincerity, by the title 𝘋𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘳.

Of a smile so radiant it could have come from Kephale themself.

Of entrusting a weakness he hadn’t even known he possessed—only to have it betrayed, and yet the trust remain unshaken.

Of millions of different iterations of the same fight to the death, over and over and 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳—

Of childish competitions in the bath, on the rooftop, in the streets.

Exchanging verbal blows like it was a game only they knew the rules to, trading victories no one but them ever kept score of.

When Mydei touches the page, he sees them. The illusions—no, the 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴.

Of ‘returning’ to Castrum Kremnos and competing to slay the most Titankins with a figure of grey-white hair and brilliant blue eyes.

Of fighting a black-cald figure, back-to-back with a stranger who feels achingly familiar.

At that, Cyrene’s smile turns wistful. She takes out a thick book with a pink quill attached to it and leafs through the pages.

“There isn’t another Deliverer… not in this time, but—” Cyrene pauses and pulls out a page, then another, and another. “Let me tell you a story, about 𝘺𝑜𝘶𝑟 Deliverer.”

Seemingly realizing it, her smile softens and her voice gentles as she asks, “Not the Deliverer you wanted to hear about?”

Mydei doesn’t know how to respond. He doesn’t know how to explain the unfulfilled ache in his heart.

So instead, he simply asks, “There’s… another Deliverer?”

But the moment he heard the title Deliverer, something in his chest shifted—giving way to a gaping hollow he hadn’t known existed.

When Cyrene tells him about the Deliverer from beyond the sky, however, her words do nothing to fill that emptiness.