THE KING'S CHAMBER, LATE EVENING
The candlelight was low. Curtains fluttered gently as the wind from the palace balcony brushed through, carrying the scent of night-blooming lilies—now replaced by the safe kind, personally inspected by Lumira.
Erevan sat beside the wide window, his eyes reflecting the starlight above the kingdom. A warm robe rested on his shoulders, his posture relaxed but his breath slightly shallow.
Carlos was curled sideways in a velvet chair, elbow on the armrest, one boot tapping restlessly on the marble. Across from him, Lumira stood with arms folded, not quite a guest, not quite a courtier. And Kave sat on the floor, back against a bookcase, chin resting on his knees.
They weren't king and court here. Just people.
"He asked me," Erevan began quietly, "what story I would tell her."
Carlos looked up. "Did you answer?"
"Yes," Erevan said. "But she didn't want a story. Not really. She wanted a promise. That I wouldn't become like them."
"The other kings?" Lumira asked, softly.
"The other gods," Erevan said, eyes unfocused. "All those who wear crowns just to forget the weight of them."
There was a silence.
Kave broke it with a tired laugh. "Well, if anyone would forget the weight of a crown, it wouldn't be you. You always look like it's stapled to your conscience."
Erevan smiled faintly. Carlos did not.
He stood, crossed the room slowly, and sat beside his brother on the window ledge.
"You don't have to become anyone," Carlos said. "They'll all want you to change. To become the image they prefer. Don't."
Erevan looked over.
"I'll always see you, Erevan. Not the god-chosen king. Not Persephone's vessel."
Erevan's voice was low. "Even if I falter?"
Carlos leaned back, arms behind his head. "Especially then."
Kave muttered, "Okay, you two are going to make me cry," and Lumira whispered, "Good. Maybe you'll finally have an emotion."
Kave glared. "Excuse me?"
Carlos smiled. Erevan laughed—quiet, but real.
And for one long moment, in the hush of twilight, none of them were preparing for battles or burdens.
Just four people.
Trusting.
Resting.
And above them, in the wind beyond the balcony, something unseen stirred—watching, approving.
_____________________________________
They stood within the high marble chamber, where the seal of Persephone pulsed quietly at the altar. The floor was etched in silver runes, and moonlight poured like silk from the open roof. A stillness wrapped the room—a silence reserved for ancient things.
Erevan stood at the center, barefoot upon the sigil. His chest rose with measured breath as Persephone's mark burned softly against his sternum. Carlos stood just outside the ring of runes, jaw tense, shoulders locked in restraint.
The first shift was subtle. Frost kissed the air. The sigils turned pale, then white, then crystalline. Erevan's feet did not bleed, though the stone froze under him. His fingertips glowed faintly blue, and behind him—faintly, gloriously—a silhouette of the Queen of Night spread her arms like wings, mist and frost curling outward from her figure.
Carlos felt it.
The sting of memory.
The image of his brother, pale and unmoving, in a past life that ended far too early.
The bitter cold of a power used not to heal—but to preserve.
To delay death.
"No!" Carlos whispered, stepping forward, heart hammering. "Stop. Not this power. Not again—"
He reached toward Erevan—but was stopped.
By him.
The god. His god.
"It's not like before," the voice murmured in his mind, calm as snowfall. "Not her. Not that moment. Look."
Carlos froze.
And looked.
Erevan was not dying.
He was breathing. And the frost did not hurt him—it flowed with him. The cold no longer seized him like a poison—it danced along his limbs like a second skin, drawing patterns of snowflakes on his palms, his hair lifting as if carried by wind and memory.
Carlos's breath caught.
"Why does it feel the same?" he muttered under his breath.
"Because last time," his god said, "the power was given to keep him from feeling. To hold his soul back from escaping. A leash. This time—it is armor. She gave it to protect the heart, not trap it."
And now Carlos could see it: the water that coiled around Erevan's feet was alive, not static. It shimmered. It flowed. It was the pulse of life, not the stutter of death.
Erevan raised his hands—and the water shaped itself around him like a cloak. A crown of frost kissed his brow, and where he stepped, the earth cooled, not froze—gentle, not punishing.
From the sidelines, Lumira murmured, "Beautiful."
Kave let out a breath. "Terrifying."
Carlos lowered his arm, slowly. "I thought it would be the same," he said aloud. "That his heart would be too cold to reach again."
Erevan looked toward his brother.
"Never," he said.
And the goddess—smiling faintly, her eyes veiled behind darkness and stars—watched with quiet pride.