#silent devotion

Not because of the danger. Not because the Coreflame feels heavier in your chest now that it answers to your name.

But because of the silence.

It’s the kind of silence you can’t fill. Even when the Chrysos Heirs greet you, even when Okhema’s streets hum with life, even when the Legion drums beat in rally — it’s still there. The place where his voice used to be. Where he’d tell you to breathe before a fight, or slip in a joke when you were on the edge of breaking. That place is empty now.

You keep walking anyway. You have to.

Somewhere beyond the cycles, beyond even the architecture of reality, a man watches you. His blond-white hair drifts in an unseen wind, his body little more than a silhouette of burning motes. His edges fray — fading into the endless dark — but his eyes, bright as the horizon, stay fixed on you.

He can’t speak. He can’t touch. The rules here — wherever here is — won’t let him.

But he can watch. And so he does.

You tell yourself you’re doing this for Amphoreus. That’s what a Deliverer should say. That’s what people expect to hear.

But deep down, you know it’s not the truth.

You’re doing this for him.

The Coreflame he left behind burns differently in you. Not quite the blaze you remember, but enough to carry the memory of his warmth. Every swing of your greatsword is a vow. Every victory, no matter how small, is an offering to his name.

When the others ask about the last Deliverer, you tell them the truth — or as much of it as they can bear.

“He went through thirty-three million cycles,” you say one night, when the firelight has burned low and the rookies are too tired to hide their fear. “Thirty-three million… trying to find a perfect ending. He never stopped. Even when it broke him. Even when it broke everything.”

Their eyes widen. You don’t tell them what thirty-three million cycles really means — how much loss, how much dying, how much starting over. You don’t tell them how many times he must have had to watch friends fall, or how often he must have had to kill to save.

But you tell them enough. Enough so they’ll remember.

Somewhere far outside the cycle, Phainon feels the weight of your words.

He closes his eyes. Breathes it in.

Days blur into battles.

Battles blur into months.

You learn to be quick with your sword and quicker with your decisions. You learn to read the land, anticipate Titan movements, and ration your strength for when it matters most. You learn to comfort your squad after losses, even when you’re the one who wants to scream.

You don’t learn to stop looking over your shoulder.

Every time you turn, you already know there will be no white hair in the crowd. No cyan gaze locking with yours across the courtyard. No quiet hand on your shoulder before you step onto the field.

Still, you look. Because maybe — maybe — he’ll be there.

From beyond, he sees this.

The way you hesitate, scanning the crowd after every mission. The way your eyes dart when you hear a voice almost like his. The way you stop mid-step sometimes, like you’re certain he’s right behind you.

It’s not cruelty that keeps him silent. It’s mercy.

If he showed himself, you’d never move forward.

And he… he wants you to move forward more than anything.

The seasons shift in Okhema. The Legion holds its lines. The Titans press harder.

You grow harder, too. Not colder — never colder — but sharper.

One evening, you stand on the city’s outer wall, watching the horizon bleed into dusk.

The younger fighters drift away, muttering about dinner. You stay. You let the Coreflame’s heat anchor you against the wind.

“I hope I’m doing this right,” you murmur to no one. “I hope… you’d be proud.”

You don’t hear it, but beyond the veil, Phainon answers anyway.

‘You’re doing more than I ever did.’

Time moves differently for him now. Or maybe it’s stopped moving altogether. He’s not sure.

He measures the days by your triumphs, the nights by your grief. He sees the way you lead, not by barking orders, but by stepping into the danger first. He sees how you protect those under your care like each one is the last light in the dark.

He sees the moments you’re alone, when you think no one’s watching — when your shoulders slump and you let yourself miss him, just for a breath.

Those are the moments he wishes he could step forward the most.

Months turn into a year. The prophecy shifts — they call you the nameless new monarch now. You reject it, just like he did. You tell them you don’t believe in destiny, only in what you can make with your own hands.

At the next victory feast, someone asks again about the one who came before you.

“His name was Phainon,” you say, and the way you say it makes the whole room quiet. “Some called him the Deliverer. Others, the Nameless Hero. But to me… he was the one who showed me how to keep going when the world was burning.”

You tell them of his laugh, of his patience, of the way he fought like the dawn itself was at stake every time. You tell them of the thirty-three million cycles, and you make them promise — every single one of them — not to forget.

Somewhere outside, Phainon’s fading body flares just a little brighter.

Not much time left now. But enough to hold onto this moment.

Eventually, the day comes when you lead your forces into the biggest push since the Siege of Okhema. The air smells of iron and ozone. The Coreflame hums in your chest like it knows the stakes.

You take the field, and for a moment — just a breath — you swear you feel him.

Not a touch. Not a voice. Just… him. Like sunlight on your back.

You don’t turn. You don’t look around this time.

Instead, you grip your sword and whisper, “This is for you.”

Beyond the horizon of the cycle, Phainon watches your charge. Watches you fight like the promise of dawn is clenched in your hands. Watches you lead not because prophecy said you should, but because he showed you; you could.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself smile.

The battle is over by the time the last light leaves him.

His body is already unspooling into drifting motes, the Coreflame’s glow dispersing into the void.

He doesn’t resist.

He’s seen enough to know you’ll keep going. Enough to know you’re not just carrying his legacy — you’ve made it your own. Enough to know you’ll tell the world his name until the cycles themselves crumble.

Phainon’s last thought is simple, and it’s yours:

‘You did it, little star’

The motes scatter. The void is quiet.

And you, somewhere deep in the heart of the next morning, raise your sword to the sun.