Far west of the House of the Hearth, where even the birds seemed to fly quieter and the clouds drifted slower, a young man walked.
And no one noticed him.
Not truly.
People passed by him, some brushing shoulders, others glancing for just a split second—yet none could recall him. Their minds flickered like candlelight at his presence. And always, always, they shivered, rubbed the back of their necks, or looked over their shoulder...
Only to see nothing.
Nothing.
But he was there.
He walked with neither purpose nor urgency, yet every shadow he passed shivered—quivered as if whispering his name. Lamplight dimmed. Stray cats hissed, then cowered. The wind held its breath.
His appearance was unremarkable—almost offensively so. Messy hair that couldn't decide on a color, pitch-black eyes that swallowed light, skin pale enough to reflect moonbeams. He wasn't tall. He wasn't strong. He wasn't anything.
And that was precisely the problem.
He was the kind of nothing that unnerved the soul.
He was Carden—the youngest of the Children of Chaos.
And the twin of radiant, screaming Yang.
Where she was light, he was the absence that came after.
Where she blazed, he waited, silent, cold, and hungering.
—
Eventually, his stomach growled.
Even cosmic anomalies get hungry sometimes.
He paused in front of a modest bakery with ivy curling along its stone windows and the soft golden scent of honey and fruit wafting from its chimney.
A hanging sign read:
"Oberon's Treats."
Carden stared at the name for a long time.
Something about it itched.
Then again, everything itched.
So he walked in.
—
Inside, the bakery was warm and smelled of sugar and time. Laughter bubbled from the kitchen, and the shelves were stocked with pastries that shimmered faintly under the sunlight.
At the counter stood a man with stars in his eyes—literally.
His hair floated slightly above his scalp, as if gravity wasn't too sure about him. His smile was knowing. Too knowing.
He looked up as the bell rang, and grinned as if he'd been waiting centuries for this exact moment.
"Little brother," he said cheerfully. "Took you long enough."
Carden blinked.
"…Palentrophy."
The man—Palentrophy, the Third Child of Chaos, the Binder of Space, the one who wove constellations into pastries just for fun—stepped around the counter and gave Carden a hug that bent physics slightly to the left.
"You're skinnier than I remember," he muttered. "Have you been eating?"
Carden's stomach rumbled loudly in response.
Palentrophy laughed. "I'll take that as a no. Come. Sit. Eat. And tell me what you're looking for."
Carden followed numbly, sitting on a cushioned chair that had no right being as comfortable as it was.
He nibbled on a croissant that glittered faintly with cosmic sugar.
Palentrophy watched him with a smile that twisted space slightly at the corners.
"Well?" the being of space said, sipping his tea that seemed to ripple with constellations. "Do you remember now?"
Carden blinked slowly. The taste of the croissant lingered on his tongue, but something else bloomed behind his eyes—a memory. A memory not just of himself, but of a game. A promise.
It returned in fragments:
A circle of six.
Laughter that shook the edges of reality.
A spark of competition born not from cruelty
A game,
"'Let's see who wakes up first and finds Palentrophy,'" Carden murmured. "That's what she said."
Palentrophy nodded. "Yang always did like her dramatics."
Carden exhaled slowly. Shadows flickered beneath the table in delight. His voice was soft but sure:
"I won."
"So," Carden said softly, voice like the hush before midnight. "I'm safe now."
Palentrophy gave a solemn nod. "You found me first. That makes you the winner. No 'Caretaker Duty' for you."
Carden almost smiled. Almost.
"Which means one of the others will be saddled with it," he said, glancing toward the bakery window where the sky, already dusk-colored, bent unnaturally around his reflection. "Depending on who's last."
Outside, the world went on, unaware that a cosmic race had concluded right beneath their noses.