‘cause i'm still the same

He swishes the vial around, looking muddy green and disgusting. “It’s just herbs, I'm pretty sure.”

“I can live without those!”

The yelling catches up to you in a sudden throbbing behind your eyes, interrupting your spiel with uncomfortable writhing and an unbidden whine. Lohen’s face drops, the playful mood vanishing for a second. He closes the distance soon enough, hovering anxiously in case you wobble in the wrong direction.

Lohen wipes off sweat that’s begun to accumulate on your forehead. “Do you want to stay confined to this room? I mean, I wouldn’t mind, but you’ll get all restless and blame me for not making you drink this.”

Your snarl twists into a pout, a foolproof look that usually gets you out of whatever he makes you do. But Lohen just watches with that infuriating quirk to his lips as you even bat your lashes. You almost think it worked, by the way his eyes flicker downward for a moment too long, but you still end up with your jaw in his hand, and the vial pressed against your mouth.

“I’ll kill you for this,” you swear, glaring with all your might. “Once I’m back in business, you’ll be out of it.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Lohen coos, tipping the concoction to your lips. The bitter taste of what seems like grass clippings and boiled Dendro Slime scalds your throat. You gag and grip his arm tight enough to hurt just to be petty, but Lohen makes sure you gulp it all, just as Barbara advised. “Once you can take more than three steps to the other room, you’re more than welcome, pretty.”

Beneath the Dawn Device’s unwavering radiance lies a bustling Okhema. Action-Hour has just begun, and the merchants alongside the shopkeepers waste no time in opening their stalls, their voices already rising into the morning air. Bright fabrics are unfurled, polished wares arranged with care, and the scent of warm food drifts lazily through the streets.

Children’s laughter rings clear as they gather beneath Aglaea’s golden thread woven high above, daring one another to leap higher, to reach closer, as though they might grasp divinity itself. And between it all, the little Tribios flit through the streets like fragments of light—tiny, radiant guides leading humanity gently toward its countless destinations.

“Snowy, wake up!” Tribbie calls, her voice bright and insistent as it echoes toward the slumbering god before her. Behind her linger Trianne and Trinnon—the remaining fragments of the Passage Titan—quiet yet watchful, their presence carrying a weight far older than the lively city below.

Beside them stands you—Trianne’s so-called 'Worldbearing Star'. A title you have protested more times than you can count, one that feels far too grand, far too misplaced upon your shoulders. Yet they insist. To Trinnon’s logic, if the Worldbearing Titan himself bears Amphoreus upon his existence, then it is only fitting that his beloved be the guiding star that walks beside him through every phase—life, death, and all that lingers in between.

However, Khaslana does not stir at Tribbie’s call. He remains as he is—motionless, unbothered, slumbering like an ancient monument carved into existence. One pair of his arms continues to uphold the Dawn Device, unwavering even in sleep, as though such a burden has long since become second nature. You would argue it is a habit inherited from his human self. Despite being a tireless Flame-Chaser in the past, Phainon had never once passed up an opportunity to rest when it presented itself—and it seems even ascension has not rid him of that trait.

Tribbie glances toward you with a look that can only be described as troublesome, mischief and mild exasperation mingling in her expression. Beside her, Trianne looks far less amused—her posture already stiffening, as though preparing to scold the Titan himself. Truly, such laziness does not suit the Worldbearing Titan… at least, not in her eyes.

“Wake up, Snowy. We have a guest,” Trinnon tries again, her voice calm and measured, carrying a gentler authority.

It proves just as futile.

Tribbie sighs, long and dramatic, as Khaslana remains entirely unresponsive. You consider stepping in—suggesting that perhaps they should try again later, that there is no need to force themselves to wake him from such a deep slumber.

But of course, they are stubborn.

Trianne floats forward, drawing in a breath until her chest rises with the effort. “Little [Name] has come to visit you, Snowy!!” she calls out, her voice ringing with half her strength, determined to pierce through the thick veil of his sleep.

For a moment, the attempt crosses the possibility of a failure. Then—at last—one golden eye flutters open.

Relief ripples instantly through the fragments of the Passage Titan, their tension easing as Khaslana slowly begins to wake. His other eye follows, heavy with lingering drowsiness, and the Tribios collectively release soft sighs of triumph. Beside them, you cannot help the quiet chuckle that escapes you, light and unrestrained.

Where others might tremble before the Worldbearing Titan, you find yourself laughing more freely than anyone.

Khaslana lifts his head, the motion slow but effortless, his awareness settling over the scene before him. For a being of such scale, such ancient weight, he has retained an almost startling amount of his humanity. And the moment his gaze finds you—truly finds you—his expression softens, brightening into something unmistakably warm.

“Oh,” he hums, voice still touched with sleep, “I have four lovely guests.”

His gaze drifts over the group, but it does not linger long on the others. Inevitably, inevitably, it returns to you—carrying something quieter, something unspoken, as though the rest of his sentence exists only in the space between you both.

And you are the loveliest of all.

Trianne huffs, clearly irritated, though it is a fleeting thing—one that will undoubtedly fade within minutes. “We may be lovely,” she snaps, “but you certainly weren’t, with the way you were sleeping!”

A soft laugh escapes Khaslana, low and unbothered, as he tilts his head slightly to better observe the four of you. There is amusement in his gaze, gentle and unguarded—until Trianne fixes him with what is meant to be a warning glare. In practice, it resembles more a child’s attempt at intimidation than anything truly threatening.

Before he can respond, she turns sharply and flies off, her indignation carrying her forward. Tribbie follows with a small shrug, and Trinnon hesitates only briefly before trailing after them, leaving you behind in their wake.

You can only smile fondly as you watch them leave, their voices fading into the lively hum of Okhema below. You know well that none of them have taken anything to heart—bantering with Khaslana has always been one of their favorite pastimes, rivaled only by the hours they spend in Aglaea’s presence. It is a familiar rhythm, one you have seen play out countless times, and one that never truly changes.

Out of nowhere, something brushes gently against you.

You turn, only to find Khaslana already watching you—his immense form lowered, bringing himself down to your level with a care that feels almost reverent. There is a softness in his gaze, something warm and unguarded, as though the vastness of his existence narrows to you alone. One of his fingers shifts slightly, brushing against you in a motion meant to mimic a poke—a small, almost playful gesture he once did so easily, and now can only imitate.

“My beloved has taken time out of their day to visit me,” he murmurs, voice low and threaded with quiet fondness. “How could I ever ignore such a call?”

The way he speaks—so earnest, so effortlessly devoted—affects you no less than it once did when he was still Phainon. A devotee in every life, it seems. Some things, even ascension cannot change.

A soft smile curves your lips as you rest your hand lightly against his finger, grounding both yourself and him. “A flatterer, through and through,” you tease gently, though the warmth in your voice betrays you. You have heard words like these a thousand times before—yet they never quite lose their weight.

As expected, his response comes not in words, but in action.

A free pair of his arms begins to move, slow and deliberate, forming a quiet barrier around you. The world beyond is gently obscured, his towering presence shielding you from the eyes of Okhema. To him, you are something far more sacred than even a Coreflame—something that should not be witnessed carelessly, something to be hidden away from the gaze of others. Though, as always, you are quick to recognize the exaggeration woven into his beliefs.

Still, you step closer. Raising your hand, you let it come to rest against a small portion of his cheek. The contact is featherlight, almost insignificant in scale—a touch so gentle it should not register upon a being of his size.

Yet, it does and Khaslana stills completely.

For a fleeting moment, it feels as though everything about him—his breath, his thoughts, the quiet hum of his existence—pauses, just to feel that fragile, fleeting warmth. As though the vastness of the world he carries fades into nothing, leaving only the soft press of your hand against him.

Silence settles between you. It lingers, unbroken, stretching into minutes as he remains there, unmoving, basking in the small flame of your touch. You can tell, even without him saying it, that he is fighting the pull of sleep. That familiar heaviness threatens to claim him once more—after all, even your voice alone has always been enough to lull him into rest.

“How was your day, Dawnlight?” the Worldbearing Titan finally murmurs, his voice softer now, almost drowsy. His sunrise-gold eyes flutter open again, seeking you out as though he fears you might disappear the moment he closes them.

Those eyes…

They have never changed. Still loving. Still unbearably, hopelessly devoted—no matter the life, no matter the form.

Once, long ago, Phainon had asked you the same question, his head resting against your chest as he sought refuge in the sound of your voice. Back then, it had been a simple wish—to fall asleep without nightmares, to let your voice be the last thing he heard before sleep claimed him.

Now, stripped of his mortal shell and reborn beneath the Era Nova, Khaslana waits for that same answer.

Not for the sake of conversation— But in the quiet hope that, if he listens closely enough, he might drift into sleep once more… and dream of a world where he can hold you once more.