Chapter 6: El Elyon

Chapter 6: El Elyon

(Tsukiko's POV)

The morning light had barely begun to seep through the windows of St. Maria Orphanage, casting soft golden hues across the wooden floors. The air was thick with the lingering scent of old parchment and the faint aroma of Sister Irene's herbal tea, which she often brewed at dawn.

I stood by the doorway, watching as Akrūra finally trudged towards his room, his movements sluggish, his posture slumped. His usual grace—if one could call it that—was nowhere to be seen. Dark circles framed his mismatched eyes, evidence of yet another sleepless night.

Shigure had scolded him, her tone filled with concern rather than anger.

"Get some sleep, Akrūra," she had said, arms crossed, her silver hair catching the dim light of the hallway.

Akrūra had only chuckled, his voice hoarse. "Yes, yes, Mother Shigure. I shall heed your divine command."

He barely dodged the flick to his forehead that followed.

Now, as he disappeared into the dimly lit corridor, I couldn't help but feel a strange unease settle in my chest. Something about him felt... off. Akrūra had always been different—his shifting hair and eye colors, his uncanny awareness, the way he sometimes stared into the distance as if seeing something no one else could.

But this was different.

I turned my gaze towards Yuuka, who stood beside me, arms folded. She too was watching him, her usually bright expression tinged with something unreadable.

"You felt it too, didn't you?" I asked in a hushed tone.

Yuuka nodded slowly. "Something's wrong with him."

Karna, who had been leaning against the wooden railing near the staircase, let out a sigh. "He's been like this for a while. The nightmares, the lack of sleep, the way he spaces out. It's not just exhaustion."

Noah, who had been unusually quiet this morning, glanced towards the hallway. "It's like... he's afraid of something. Something he won't tell us."

The words hung in the air, unspoken truths filling the silence.

I exhaled, shaking my head. "We'll figure it out later. For now, let's just let him sleep. He needs it."

But even as I said those words, I couldn't shake off the feeling that something—or someone—was watching us.

---

Nightfall

Despite the morning conversation, the day passed as uneventfully as any other in St. Maria. The younger children played in the garden under Sister Helene's watchful eye. Father Alfred had left in the afternoon for church matters, and Sister Irene busied herself with preparing dinner.

But as night fell, the orphanage grew eerily silent.

I lay in my bed, staring at the wooden ceiling. The faint flicker of candlelight cast elongated shadows across the walls, giving the room an almost ghostly atmosphere.

A soft rustling sound broke the silence.

I turned my head slightly, just in time to see Akrūra slipping out of his bed. His movements were slow, deliberate—like someone trying not to be noticed.

My brows furrowed. Was he sleepwalking?

I watched as he quietly opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Without thinking, I slipped out of bed and followed.

The wooden floor creaked beneath my feet, but Akrūra didn't seem to notice. His steps were soundless, his breathing unnaturally even. The dim candlelight flickered as he passed, casting his silhouette against the walls.

Something about the way he moved sent a chill down my spine.

I should wake someone up.

But before I could, he stopped.

Right in front of the old mirror in the hallway.

The mirror had been there for as long as I could remember. It was antique, its silver frame ornately carved with strange symbols that none of us could decipher. The glass itself was slightly warped, making reflections appear distorted—stretched, twisted.

Akrūra stood in front of it, unmoving.

Then, slowly, he lifted his hand and pressed it against the glass.

The temperature around me dropped.

A whisper—too faint to understand—filled the hallway.

I took a step back, heart pounding. "Akrūra?" I called, keeping my voice steady.

He didn't respond.

Instead, his reflection in the mirror... moved.

Not like a normal reflection. No, it lagged behind, its movements slower, more deliberate—like it was watching him, studying him.

Then, it smiled.

But Akrūra wasn't smiling.

I felt something cold grip my spine.

I took a shaky step forward. "Akrūra!"

At that moment, his eyes snapped to me.

The reflection stilled.

Akrūra blinked, his expression shifting from blankness to confusion. His hand dropped from the mirror. He turned to me, his mismatched eyes unreadable.

"...Tsukiko?" His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken in hours.

"What the hell are you doing?" I demanded, keeping my tone sharp to mask my unease.

Akrūra looked at the mirror, then back at me. For a brief moment, I saw something flicker in his gaze—something like fear.

"I... don't know," he admitted quietly.

The whispering had stopped.

The hallway was silent once more.

But I knew, deep down, that whatever had happened just now... it wasn't over.

The orphanage was quiet. Too quiet.

After what had happened in the hallway, I couldn't bring myself to return to bed. Sleep felt impossible with the image of that distorted reflection burned into my mind. And so, I found myself outside, sitting on the worn stone bench in the orphanage's garden.

The night sky stretched endlessly above, a sea of dark velvet speckled with stars. The moon hung low, its pale glow casting silver light across the garden. The scent of damp earth and blooming flowers lingered in the crisp evening air.

I wasn't alone.

Akrūra sat beside me, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze locked onto the ground. His black hair, which had streaks of silver tonight, fell over his mismatched eyes—one deep red, the other an icy blue. It had shifted again. Lilinious. A rare and unexplained condition, something only ten people in history had ever been recorded to have. He was the only one of this generation.

He looked exhausted.

"Are you going to tell me what that was?" I asked, breaking the silence.

Akrūra sighed. "I told you, I don't know."

I frowned, watching him closely. "You weren't sleepwalking. You were awake."

He ran a hand through his hair. "I know."

His voice was distant, detached. I hated when he spoke like that—like he was a million miles away. Like he wasn't really here.

Yuuka, Karna, and Noah joined us soon after. They must've noticed us missing.

"Figures we'd find you two here," Karna muttered, crossing his arms as he leaned against the tree. His red-rose eyes gleamed under the moonlight, the black and red streaks in his hair barely visible in the dim glow.

Yuuka sat down beside me, pulling her knees to her chest. "Akrūra, you look worse than usual. Did something happen?"

Akrūra let out a short, humorless chuckle. "Thanks, Yuuka. That's exactly what I needed to hear."

She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."

Noah, who had been standing quietly, finally spoke. "We're worried about you." His white fox ears twitched slightly. "You barely sleep, you look like a ghost, and now you're wandering around at night staring into mirrors like you're trying to contact the dead."

Akrūra didn't respond right away. He just looked up at the sky, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he spoke.

"...Do you think we were reincarnated here not for the war but for a reason ?"

The question caught me off guard.

Karna frowned. "What do you mean?"

Akrūra exhaled slowly. "I mean... why us? Why were we chosen? Why were we brought here?" His fingers curled slightly. "What's the point of all this?"

The air grew heavier.

I exchanged glances with the others. It wasn't the first time we'd asked ourselves this question, but there was something different in Akrūra's tone tonight.

Yuuka tilted her head. "Do you regret it?"

Akrūra hesitated. Then, he shook his head. "No. Not at all." His voice softened. "I just don't want to lose any of you."

His words lingered in the air.

For a while, none of us spoke. The only sound was the rustling of leaves in the gentle night breeze.

Finally, I sighed and leaned back, staring up at the moon. "You're not going to lose us."

Akrūra let out a short laugh. "You can't promise that."

"No, but I can believe it," I countered. "And that's enough."

Yuuka nudged him playfully. "Besides, you're stuck with us whether you like it or not."

Karna smirked. "Yeah, don't get all dramatic on us now."

Noah gave a small, knowing smile. "We're family. You're not alone in this."

Akrūra didn't say anything right away, but something in his expression shifted. The tension in his shoulders eased just a little.

"...Thanks," he murmured.

The night stretched on as we sat there, watching the moon, lost in our thoughts.

Even if we didn't have all the answers, even if uncertainty loomed over us like a shadow, one thing remained unchanged—

We had each other.

And for now, that was enough.

(Shigure's POV)

The orphanage was quiet, but I couldn't sleep.

Standing by the window of our shared bedroom, I looked outside into the garden. The pale moonlight cast long shadows over the cobblestone path, illuminating the figures of Akrūra, Tsukiko, Yuuka, Karna, and Noah. They sat together, talking in hushed voices.

I narrowed my eyes.

Akrūra looked worse than usual. His hair had changed again, streaks of silver woven into the usual black. His eyes—one crimson, one ice-blue—stood out even in the darkness. Lilinious. A disease so rare that only ten people in history had ever been recorded to have it.

Even from here, I could see the exhaustion in his posture, the weight he carried in his expression.

He never let himself rest.

I clicked my tongue in irritation. "Idiot."

"You're still awake too?"

I turned around. Anneliese stood in the doorway, her delicate features shadowed by the dim candlelight. Her long blonde hair, which usually shone like spun gold, looked dull in the night.

I sighed. "Looks like I'm not the only one."

She stepped into the room, followed by Marie, Mirai, Estelle, Beatrice, and Luciana.

"None of us could sleep," Estelle admitted, brushing a strand of brown hair behind her ear. "It feels… strange tonight."

Luciana crossed her arms. "We're used to strange."

Beatrice hummed in agreement. "But this is different, isn't it?"

I turned back to the window, watching the group outside. "Akrūra's getting worse."

Mirai frowned. "Has he even slept properly once since we got reincarnated here by Aurelthys?"

I scoffed. "Doubt it."

Marie shifted uncomfortably. "He tries to hide it, but we all see it. He doesn't let himself rest because he's afraid."

"Afraid of what?" Estelle asked.

"That if he closes his eyes, everything will disappear," Anneliese said softly.

The room fell silent.

I clenched my fists.

That idiot.

Always carrying everything on his own.

Always acting like he had to bear the weight of the world.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. "We should go outside."

Mirai raised an eyebrow. "And do what? Drag him to bed?"

I smirked. "Tempting. But no. We'll just sit with them."

Luciana nodded. "Good idea. He won't say it, but he needs all of us."

Without another word, we left the room and made our way to the garden.

The night air was cool against my skin as we stepped outside. The others noticed us immediately.

Akrūra blinked, looking up. "Couldn't sleep?"

I crossed my arms. "Neither could you."

He sighed. "Fair point."

We didn't say anything else. We didn't need to.

One by one, we sat down beside them, forming a circle beneath the moonlit sky.

No one spoke.

No one needed to.

For now, just being together was enough.

The night had settled over St. Maria Orphanage, casting its silver glow across the garden. The moon hung high, its quiet presence watching over us like an unspoken guardian.

Akrūra sat across from me, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but still sharp, still refusing to close. The rare condition he bore—Lilinious—caused his hair and eye colors to shift unpredictably, marking him as one of the few in history to have this affliction. Tonight, his hair was streaked with white, his eyes mismatched once again—one crimson, the other a deep, haunting blue.

I had scolded him earlier this morning, and told him to sleep, but I knew my words would do little to change his habits.

He never let himself rest.

It frustrated me.

"You look like you haven't slept in weeks," I muttered, leaning back against the stone bench.

Akrūra gave a tired smirk. "That's because I haven't."

I narrowed my eyes. "That's not something to be proud of, idiot."

Karna chuckled, stretching his arms. "Let him be, Shigure. If he collapses, we'll just throw him in bed ourselves."

"Try it," Akrūra challenged, his tone dry but amused.

Yuuka sighed, crossing her arms. "Honestly, I don't get it. Why do you keep pushing yourself like this?"

Akrūra hesitated, his gaze drifting to the moon. His expression softened, as if he were looking at something far beyond our world.

"It's not that simple," he finally said.

Tsukiko, who had been silent for most of the conversation, tilted her head. "You're afraid, aren't you?"

That made Akrūra pause.

He didn't answer right away, but the way his fingers curled slightly over the fabric of his pants told me she had struck a nerve.

I watched him carefully, waiting.

Akrūra exhaled slowly. "I guess... I'm afraid of losing what we have now."

The weight of his words settled over us.

Noah shifted uncomfortably. "You think something's going to happen?"

Akrūra shook his head. "I don't know. But I've lost everything before. And now that I have all of you…" He trailed off, looking down at his hands. "I don't want to wake up one day and find out it was all a dream."

A heavy silence followed.

Marie, who had been sitting beside Anneliese, spoke up. "We're not going anywhere, you know."

Mirai nodded. "You don't have to carry everything by yourself, Akrūra."

Estelle, always soft-spoken, added, "You're not alone."

Akrūra let out a breathless chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know. It's just… hard to shake off old habits."

I rolled my eyes. "Then get new habits. Starting with sleep."

Akrūra snorted. "Yes, mother."

Without thinking, I reached over and flicked his forehead.

"Ow."

"You deserved that."

Beatrice laughed. "You really do act like an old man sometimes, Akrūra."

He raised an eyebrow. "Old man? I'm the same age as you right now."

"Doesn't change the fact that you sulk like one."

Luciana smirked. "Maybe in his past past life, he was a grumpy old scholar who never left his library."

Akrūra gave a mock gasp. "How dare you."

Karna chuckled. "Well, if that's true, then Shigure was probably a battle-hardened knight who scolded him daily."

I shrugged. "At least then he might've actually listened to me."

Akrūra rolled his eyes but didn't argue.

The mood had lightened, the tension from earlier dissipating into something more comfortable.

Above us, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and night-blooming flowers.

For a moment, none of us spoke. We simply sat there, basking in the quiet presence of each other, in the knowledge that we were not alone.

That was enough.

That had to be enough.

Because no matter what the future held, we would face it together.

(Karna's POV)

The air was thick with the quiet hum of the night, the kind that settled over St. Maria Orphanage like a blanket, wrapping us in its cool embrace. I stood at the edge of the garden, just beyond the moon's silver gaze, watching the others.

Akrūra sat nearby, his posture unusually stiff, even for him. He looked as if something was eating away at him from the inside, a storm brewing in his eyes that he couldn't quite shake. There was something in his demeanor—something darker than usual—that piqued my interest.

It was late, and the others had scattered to their respective rooms. Yet Akrūra remained here, as if the silence of the night were more comforting than the warmth of sleep.

I approached quietly, my boots barely making a sound against the grass.

"Akrūra?" I called softly.

His head turned, his mismatched eyes catching the moonlight like shards of glass. He blinked as if surprised by my presence.

"Couldn't sleep," he said with a sigh, his voice low, almost as if he were talking to himself.

I nodded, understanding. I had seen it before—the restless nights, the internal battle that seemed to plague him every time his thoughts turned inward. It wasn't something he spoke of often, but I knew better than anyone that Akrūra was haunted by a fear deeper than anything any of us could understand.

"Something on your mind?" I asked, leaning against a nearby stone pillar.

He hesitated before looking at me.

"Do you think... when we meet the other Chosen Ones, we'll be able to make friends with them? Or will we become enemies?" His voice was barely above a whisper, as if testing the words before they left his mouth.

His question hung in the air between us, heavy with unspoken fears.

I looked up at the stars, their cold brilliance unyielding, offering no answers, only endless mysteries. The thought of meeting the other Chosen Ones had always been a distant shadow in my mind, something I could push away, ignore. But now, with Akrūra's words, the reality of it seemed to settle into my chest.

"You're worried, aren't you?" I asked, a hint of concern slipping into my voice.

Akrūra didn't answer right away. He just stared at the ground, his hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into the palms of his hands.

"I don't know if we can afford to make enemies," he finally said, his voice barely audible over the wind. "I don't know if we'll even have a choice when it comes to that. What if... what if we have to fight them?"

I knew that Akrūra wasn't just talking about the physical battles we might face. He was talking about something deeper, something more complex—the emotional toll of fighting others who might share our same destiny, the unbearable weight of knowing that we might have to cross swords with those who could have been allies.

"Enemies?" I repeated, more to myself than to him. "I don't know. I'd like to think that we could find a way to make friends out of them. After all, we're all in this together, right?"

But even as I said it, I wasn't so sure. The gods—the ones who had chosen us—had a far different plan in mind. Each Chosen One, marked by their gods, was tied to a destiny we couldn't fully comprehend. We might all wear the same title, but what if that was where our similarities ended?

What if the other Chosen Ones were more like us than we thought?

What if they weren't?

The uncertainty gnawed at me, gnawed at us all.

Akrūra seemed to sense my unease, because his gaze softened.

"I just... I don't want to lose what we have now," he said, his voice quiet, vulnerable. "The bond we've built. The family we've become. What if it all shatters the moment we meet them? What if we can't stop it?"

There was a rawness in his voice, an honesty I didn't expect. Akrūra was always the one who pushed others away, who kept his distance, but tonight, in the shadows of the garden beneath the indifferent sky, he laid himself bare before me.

I took a slow breath, pushing my own fears aside, as if doing so would give me the clarity I needed.

"Akrūra," I began, my voice steady, "you've seen what happens when you don't trust your instincts. You've seen how it destroys you from the inside. Don't let fear control you now."

He looked at me, his eyes still searching, looking for something in my words, perhaps something he couldn't find in his own heart.

"Fear is something we can't afford, but it's also something we can't ignore," I continued. "We don't know what lies ahead, but we can't let it paralyze us. We're not alone in this. We have each other."

I paused for a moment, feeling the weight of the words in the silence that followed.

And then, I added, "Besides, we don't know anything about these other Chosen Ones yet. For all we know, we could be allies. But if we're enemies... then we'll deal with that when the time comes."

Akrūra's lips twitched upward, just slightly. The hint of a smile.

"Yeah, guess you're right," he murmured. "We'll deal with it when the time comes."

But there was something else behind his words, something that lingered in his eyes. Akrūra was still afraid. I could see it in the tightness of his shoulders, in the way his hands were clenched into fists, ready to defend what he held dear.

He was afraid of losing us.

"I just want us to be ready," Akrūra said, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. "I don't want us to be caught off guard. I don't want to make the wrong choices."

I nodded. "None of us do. But we can't predict the future. All we can do is be prepared for whatever comes our way."

Akrūra seemed to settle a little at that, though I could tell his mind was still turning. Still wondering what the future would bring.

The wind rustled the leaves in the garden, the sound almost comforting in its rhythmic consistency. We stood there for a long moment, lost in our own thoughts.

Then, as if to break the tension, Akrūra finally spoke again.

"Do you think we're really ready for whatever's coming? For everything?"

I didn't answer right away. I wasn't sure myself.

But after a moment of contemplation, I replied, "We will be."

Akrūra gave me a sideways glance, his gaze searching my face for any hint of doubt. He didn't find any.

"I hope you're right, Karna," he said, his voice softer now. "I really do."

And for the first time that night, I believed him.

Akrūra's POV

The night hung still and thick, the kind of stillness that seemed to cling to every surface, every shadow, every breath. I watched as Karna made his way back toward the dormitory, the faintest hint of unease trailing behind him. I couldn't blame him—after the conversation we had just shared, we were all bound to feel the weight of things to come. But for me, that weight never seemed to lift. It only grew heavier with every passing moment.

I watched him disappear around the corner, his footsteps fading into the darkness. The moonlight reflected off the distant glass panes of the building, a faint glow in the otherwise blackened landscape.

As Karna's figure vanished from view, something stirred within me—an uncomfortable itch at the back of my mind, a sensation like something was pulling me away from the comforting numbness of sleep. The thought of retreating to my room, of finding solace in the temporary darkness there, seemed inadequate tonight. I felt like I had to stay, like there was something waiting for me, hidden in the folds of the night.

I stood up from where I had been sitting, the ground cold against my legs. I took a slow breath, as if steeling myself for whatever was to come, and made my way toward the building, toward my own room.

But then, just as I stepped away from the garden path, I heard it. A voice.

A whisper at first, faint and distant, as if carried on the wind.

But then it grew clearer.

"Give up your humanity."

The words froze me in place. My heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, I wondered if I had imagined it.

I took a step forward, my feet faltering as the voice repeated itself, this time louder, more insistent.

"Give up your humanity."

It wasn't a whisper anymore—it was like the voice was directly in my ears, an unsettling presence that felt foreign yet somehow familiar.

I froze again, my eyes darting around, searching for any sign of who or what could be speaking to me. But there was nothing. Just the same empty space, the same garden, the same eerie silence of the night.

"Give up your humanity," the voice repeated again, and this time it wasn't a whisper at all. It was clear, sharp, commanding.

I could feel it now, a pressure settling against the back of my mind, an invisible weight pressing in from all sides. It was neither male nor female, a perfect balance between the two, but also neither. A strange, detached presence that had no true form. But the voice—oh, the voice—it resonated deep within me, stirring something ancient, something primal.

A surge of anger flared in my chest. My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into the flesh of my palms. I wasn't sure what was happening. I wasn't sure what I was feeling, but something inside me refused to bend, refused to give in.

"Who… Who is this?" I demanded aloud, my voice low and trembling, but there was no answer.

The air around me grew colder, and the voice seemed to grow louder, more persistent. It felt like it was crawling inside my skull, filling my thoughts until there was nothing left but its words.

"You know what you are, Akrūra."

I froze. I could feel my breath catch in my throat.

"You are not one of them. You never were. You are something beyond them. Embrace it. Let go of your weakness. Become what you were always meant to be."

The words cut through me, like a blade through flesh, tearing open the cracks in my psyche that I had long tried to ignore. I was something beyond them. Something more. Something greater than the others. The thought made my skin crawl. My chest tightened, and I could feel the anger swelling within me. I wanted to scream, to tear the voice apart, but it wouldn't stop. It refused to leave me.

"You think you can tell me who I am?" I muttered under my breath, clenching my fists so tight that my knuckles turned white. "I'm not like you. I'm not like this…"

But the voice only intensified, growing louder, its cold presence gnawing at the edges of my consciousness.

"You are nothing like them. Embrace me embrace your otherself. You are meant to rule. You are meant to destroy. Let go of this pathetic shell and become what you were always destined to be."

The anger surged again, this time boiling over. The sensation of being trapped, of being cornered, was overwhelming. I wanted to fight back. I needed to fight back.

But then, something inside me snapped. My teeth clenched, and I took a deep breath, trying to ground myself. "No."

The voice faltered for just a moment.

"No," I repeated, this time louder. "You are just my imagination. This is just my mind playing tricks on me. I won't listen to you."

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, the voice laughed—a low, echoing sound that sent a chill down my spine. It was neither mocking nor kind. It was simply… empty.

"If you say so," it replied, its tone almost amused. "But remember, Akrūra… you cannot run from yourself forever. You are not who you think you are."

The voice faded into the silence of the night, and for a moment, I was left alone with my thoughts.

I took a few unsteady steps forward, my mind spinning with the words that had just been spoken to me. My hands were shaking, my chest still tight with the remnants of that anger. I couldn't tell if the voice had been real, or if it had just been some part of me—some part I had buried deep inside.

But the unease lingered, like an itch I couldn't scratch.

I stood there for a long moment, frozen in place. Slowly, the cold feeling began to recede, replaced by the familiar, heavier weight of my own thoughts. But the voice... the voice was still there, echoing in the back of my mind. And though I wanted to forget it, I couldn't.

I could feel its presence, the truth of what it had said. I wasn't like the others. I wasn't like any of them.

I wasn't just human.

And perhaps, I never had been.

No, no, no I was and always was a human.

But could I really accept that? Could I truly give up everything I had fought to become—everything I had tried to protect—just to embrace something that felt so foreign, so unnatural?

With a shudder, I pushed the thought away. I wasn't ready for that. Not yet. Maybe I never would be.

I turned and walked back to my room, my footsteps slow but deliberate. The night was still, the silence all-consuming, but I knew one thing for sure.

I wasn't finished with whatever had just whispered to me. It wouldn't be the last time.

And when the time came, I would have to make a choice.

Morning (Mirai's POV)

The soft glow of dawn seeped through the high-arched windows of the orphanage, painting golden streaks across the wooden floor. The morning air carried a crisp chill, mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread drifting in from the kitchen. The world stirred slowly, like a dream unspooling into reality.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, yawning as I sat up on my bed. Another day had begun. The orphanage was never truly quiet, even in the early hours—muffled whispers, the creak of beds, the occasional shuffle of footsteps as the other children stirred from their sleep.

Across the room, I caught a glimpse of Akrūra as he rose from his bed. Something about him seemed... different. His usual tired expression was gone, the dark circles under his eyes nowhere to be seen. It was strange—yesterday, he had looked completely drained, yet now he appeared well-rested, almost as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

"Good sleep?" I asked, tilting my head.

He blinked, momentarily surprised by the question before giving a small nod. "Yeah... surprisingly."

I raised an eyebrow. "That's rare for you. Usually, you look like you're about to drop dead in the morning."

He rolled his eyes, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I'll take that as a compliment, I guess."

A familiar voice interrupted our exchange.

"If Akrūra actually slept well, then today must be a special occasion."

Shigure's teasing remark was accompanied by a smirk as she leaned against the doorway, her silver hair slightly disheveled from sleep. Behind her, Tsukiko and Yuuka were stretching, still groggy from waking up.

"Maybe it's a sign of the world ending," Yuuka added, grinning.

Akrūra let out a sigh, shaking his head. "You're all acting like I never sleep."

"You don't," Karna pointed out as he entered the room, running a hand through his black hair streaked with red. "At least, not properly."

The conversation carried on as we all began preparing for the day. The orphanage's morning routine was always the same—get up, freshen up, have breakfast, then proceed with whatever tasks Sister Helene or Father Alfred assigned to us.

But today, there was something different in the air.

Today was prayer day at the Church of Goddess Lirineus.

---

The church stood at the heart of Drachenheim, its towering stone structure casting long shadows over the streets. The stained glass windows gleamed in the morning sunlight, depicting scenes of divinity—Goddess Lirineus, the Guardian of Fate, surrounded by the threads of destiny she wove.

Father Alfred led us inside, his usual gentle demeanor unwavering. Sister Helene followed closely, her presence as composed as ever. The moment we stepped into the grand hall, an overwhelming stillness settled over us.

The high vaulted ceilings stretched endlessly, adorned with intricate carvings of celestial beings. The air smelled of incense, a mixture of lavender and something deeper, more ancient. Rows of wooden pews lined the main chamber, and at the very front stood the grand altar—a towering marble structure illuminated by the morning sun streaming through the stained glass.

As we took our seats, the murmured prayers of the clergy filled the space, a rhythmic chant that echoed through the chamber.

I stole a glance at Akrūra. His expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed ahead. He had never been particularly expressive, but something about the way he sat—his posture, the way his hands rested against his lap—felt unusually calm.

Did something happen last night?

I frowned slightly but chose not to ask. Not yet.

The prayers continued, and for a brief moment, everything felt... peaceful.

But in the back of my mind, I couldn't shake the feeling that this peace was fleeting. That something was coming—something inevitable.

And when it arrived, would we be ready?

The prayers concluded, and the orphanage children began filing out of the Church of Goddess Lirineus, their chatter filling the once-sacred silence. The golden light of morning streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the marble floor. But despite the warmth of the sun, an unease settled in my chest—subtle yet persistent, like a whisper just beyond my reach.

I glanced at Akrūra. He stood near the entrance, hands tucked into his coat pockets, his gaze distant. His mismatched eyes—one a deep silver, the other a shade of violet today—reflected the shifting light. His condition, Lilinious, made his features ever-changing, but something about him today felt different.

Not just well-rested. Something else.

"You sure you're okay?" I asked, stepping beside him.

He blinked, as if pulled from a trance, before giving me a small nod. "Yeah."

I narrowed my eyes. "You hesitated."

Akrūra let out a breath, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "You're too observant for your own good, Mirai."

"Someone has to be," I shot back. "If I leave it to you, you'll just brush everything off like it's nothing."

He didn't reply immediately. Instead, his gaze flickered toward the sky, as if searching for something unseen. His usual quiet demeanor wasn't unusual, but this silence felt... heavier.

Before I could press him further, Karna approached.

"We should head back," he said, his crimson-red eyes sharp as ever. "Sister Helene wants us to help with the younger kids when we return."

Akrūra exhaled through his nose. "I guess that means Angelika is going to demand we play with her again."

"Obviously," I muttered. "She practically worships you and Karna."

Karna huffed. "And Noah too. If anything, we should be grateful she considers us her big brothers."

Yuuka walked past, hands behind her head. "Don't act like you don't enjoy it," she teased. "You get all soft when she clings to you."

"Do not," Karna muttered, glancing away.

Shigure smirked. "You absolutely do."

We continued down the cobbled streets, the orphanage looming in the distance. Drachenheim was quiet this time of morning, the townsfolk busy with their own routines. Horses trotted past, pulling wooden carts filled with goods, and the scent of fresh bread wafted through the air from a nearby bakery.

Yet, despite the normalcy of it all, I couldn't shake the feeling in my chest.

Like something unseen was shifting.

---

Back at St. Maria's Orphanage

By the time we returned, the younger children were already in the yard, playing beneath the watchful eye of Sister Helene and Sister Amelia. Angelika spotted us immediately and ran straight for Akrūra, her blonde hair bouncing with every step.

"Akrūra!" she beamed, clinging onto his arm. "Where were you? I wanted to play tag, but the others aren't as fun!"

Akrūra ruffled her hair with his free hand, his usual unreadable expression softening slightly. "We were at the church, Angelika."

"Why can't I go too?" she pouted.

Sister Helene approached, smiling. "When you're a little older, Angelika."

Angelika huffed but didn't argue, instead turning toward Karna and Noah. "Then you two play with me! And Mirai and Shigure and everyone else too!"

Karna crossed his arms. "We just got back—"

Angelika's blue eyes glistened with unshed tears.

Karna sighed in defeat. "Fine."

A victorious grin spread across Angelika's face as she pulled us toward the yard.

Shigure chuckled beside me. "She's got him wrapped around her little finger."

"She's got all of us wrapped around her little finger," Anneliese added, stepping beside us with Marie and Beatrice in tow.

Luciana, who had been leaning against the fence, raised an eyebrow. "Can't deny it."

Akrūra stood in the middle of the yard, watching us with that unreadable expression of his. His gaze flickered for a moment—hesitation, something lingering behind those shifting eyes.

I don't know why, but at that moment, a thought struck me.

This—this moment of laughter, of warmth, of our makeshift family—wouldn't last forever.

And Akrūra knew it too.

But for now, we played.

Even if a storm was on the future horizon.

The end.