Glacier Covering the Sun

The doors to the Citadel opened with the reluctant groan of stone disturbed from sleep. Cold air poured out like it didn't want them there either.

Inside, the hall stretched long and high, pillars biting into the ceiling like the ribs of some dead titan. No fire. No sound. Just the cold echo of steps on polished obsidian tile.

James sat at the far end, hunched slightly over a stone slab that pretended to be a desk. Paperwork towered beside him—laws to pass, problems to solve, cities to stabilize. One hand clenched his temple like he could hold his headache in place by force of will.

Then came the sound.

Boots. A slow stroll.

Followed by the not-sound: an idiot's grin made manifest in footstep form.

James didn't look up.

He didn't have to.

He felt them.

Noah, calm and collected, peeled off toward the side of the chamber like a man who didn't want to be hit with collateral damage but was deeply invested in the show. His coat trailed behind him, settling against one of the cold side-pillars with all the dignity of a disapproving uncle.

He folded his arms. "Go on, then."

Evodil stopped dead center in the hall, the grin on his face sharp enough to file gods down to size.

"James~," he called out sweetly, like a cat meowing after knocking over your last heirloom.

James inhaled through his nose. Slowly.

He still didn't look up.

There were rules here. Not real ones, not divine edicts—just quiet, bitter truths.

If you acknowledge him, he wins.

If you ignore him, he escalates.

If you engage him directly, you lose something precious.

Evodil walked closer.

One footstep.

Another.

He extended a hand toward the papers on the desk—hovering inches above them.

James raised his head just enough to glare.

"Don't."

Evodil froze, hand in place. Then slowly turned it palm-up.

"What, this? No touching. Promise."

He made a vague gesture with his other hand and a shadow finger poked the top document.

James's eye twitched. Just slightly.

From the side, Noah leaned casually against the stone, watching like someone at a play he's seen seventeen times but still enjoys for the explosions.

"Technically," Noah offered, "he didn't touch it."

James closed his eyes. "You came here for a reason. Speak it. Then leave."

Evodil walked around the desk in a slow circle, shadow tendrils dragging faint trails across the floor like lazy brushstrokes.

"Reason? Oh no, no no. See, he came for a reason." He thumbed toward Noah. "I came for joy. Enlightenment. Civil service sabotage."

Noah gave a small shrug like, He's not wrong.

James placed the stylus down with a very deliberate movement, like each second it took was a rope pulling his patience tighter.

"Civil Control has three active wars to stop, four trade routes collapsing, and two territories threatening secession because of something you said last month about time being fake and taxes being optional."

Evodil beamed. "Ah yes. My TED Talk."

James didn't answer.

He stood up instead.

Seven feet of divine authority wrapped in pressed black, eyes burning like solar flares behind thin-lensed glasses.

"You have thirty seconds to un-exist yourself from my office," James said quietly.

From the side, Noah raised a hand. "Bet he makes it to twenty."

Evodil took that as a challenge.

He leaned forward, palms flat on the stone desk. "Tell me, oh radiant sunbeam of bureaucracy… how many trees died so you could ignore their corpses all day long?"

He gestured dramatically at the paperwork. "A graveyard of wasted effort."

James cracked his neck once to the left. Once to the right.

Noah, from the sidelines, coughed politely. "Fifteen seconds."

James inhaled again. Deeper this time. His aura started to shift—less light, more heat. Not flames, just pressure. The kind that breaks glass.

Evodil backed off slightly, raising his hands like a man accused of arson during the fire.

"Alright, alright. No desk jokes. Let's talk about your fashion sense then."

James didn't blink. "You wear a blindfold and carry yourself like irony incarnate."

"I carry myself with confidence," Evodil shot back. "Which is more than I can say for those funeral director shoes."

From the shadows, Noah gave a soft clap. "Flawless burn."

James exhaled—slow, measured, dangerous.

And just as his hands began to glow with the faint heat of an incoming divine response

James's hands began to glow. The faint golden aura around his knuckles pulsed with mounting heat, the tiles beneath his feet cracking just slightly from the pressure. His words came low, simmering:

"Leave."

Evodil leaned in closer.

"No."

And with that, he reached down—calmly, like it was just another Wednesday—and grabbed the entire stack of carefully ordered, signed, blessed-by-the-sun documents from James's desk.

He made eye contact. Held it.

Then, slowly—deliberately—crushed the stack in his hands.

Paper crumpled, divine ink hissed out, seals broke.

James froze. Something in him went very still.

Evodil turned on his heel, walked toward the nearest window, and—without a flicker of hesitation—threw the entire mess out.

The documents soared through the air, like a tiny doomed planet of bureaucracy, then vanished into the endless crater below the Citadel.

For a moment, no one moved.

Noah blinked. "...Well. That's one way to handle a backlog."

James didn't speak.

His fists clenched.

His jaw set.

And the heat in the room rose like the surface of a dying star.

Evodil turned slowly back around, both hands raised, that ever-familiar grin spreading across his face like it belonged there.

"I did us all a favor. Think of the trees. The storage. The sanity."

James stepped forward. His boots cracked the floor beneath each stride, hair flaring with heat like strands of sunfire.

"You absolute cretin."

"Thank you," Evodil said brightly.

That was the last straw.

James lunged, divine heat trailing behind him like a comet. The ground buckled under the force of the charge.

Evodil dove back, sliding across the floor on a summoned tendril, laughing like this was the best part of his week. Maybe month.

"Finally," he shouted, shadows curling around him like a cloak, "some energy in this frozen corpse of a place!"

Noah watched from the sidelines, hands folded neatly, coat fluttering from the shockwave.

"Should I stop them?" he mused aloud to no one.

He didn't move.

Didn't even blink.

Because the glacier had cracked—

And the sun was finally answering.

The Citadel shook.

And then—boom.

A section of the back wall exploded in divine fury, stone and fire shredding into the air as two gods flew out like launched artillery.

James and Evodil crashed into the crater below, the shockwave tearing through the snow-dusted ridges like thunder made flesh.

The dust hadn't even settled before James was already on his feet, volcanic war hammer in hand, molten cracks spidering beneath each step.

Evodil hit the ground hard, rolled, skidded—then bounced back up with a grin like he'd been waiting for this.

But he was slow.

Just enough.

James charged, fast as divine wrath, hammer cocked back like he was ready to crater the planet itself.

Evodil's eyes widened. "Sh—"

Shadow tendrils erupted from the ground, wrapped around his torso, and flung him into the air just in time—James's hammer striking where he'd been a heartbeat before, shattering stone, sending lava-blooded cracks dancing through the basin.

Evodil landed hard on the other side of the crater, skidding to a stop.

"Alright," he muttered, raising a hand. "Now we play for real."

The shadows around him warped, bent, twisted—

And Crypt Blade tore through the veil with a howling shriek, massive, jagged, and hungry.

He pointed it straight at his brother.

James was already mid-leap, hammer glowing white-hot in the dim air, ash curling from his fingertips.

Evodil surged forward, blade raised, the ground fracturing under the force of their clash.

A god of law and a god of chaos, swinging like children.

Screaming like titans.

Fighting like brothers.

Their weapons met mid-air with a sound that didn't belong in this world—like steel wrapped in thunder slamming into reality's jaw.

Evodil grinned through the sparks, Crypt Blade locked against James's hammer.

"You still swinging that thing around like it's compensating for something?"

James pushed back, heat rippling off him like a solar storm. "You threw six months of negotiations into a hole."

"Correction," Evodil shot back, flipping backwards and landing with one hand on the ground, "I freed them."

James didn't wait. Another leap—hammer blazing—coming down like judgment itself.

Evodil twisted away, a tendril dragging him across the crater wall, narrowly avoiding a blast that turned half the floor into a magma pit.

"You fight like you write laws," Evodil called from above. "Slow. Predictable. Obsessed with control."

"And you fight," James snapped, hurling a spear of molten light mid-spin, "like someone who thinks dying is funny."

The spear tore through Evodil's shoulder, dissipating into steam—just a flesh wound. Or whatever counted for flesh in his case.

He hissed, spun mid-air, and hurled the Crypt Blade like a cursed boomerang. It spun wide, shadows screaming as it curved unnaturally toward James's back.

But James didn't flinch—he caught it. With one hand. Flames swallowing the blade's shadowy glow.

Evodil blinked. "...You're not supposed to do that."

James hurled it right back.

Evodil ducked—barely. The blade whirled over his head and embedded itself in the stone behind him, cleaving a floating boulder in half.

Noah, watching from the ruined Citadel balcony above, sipped water from a silver flask.

"They're idiots," he said flatly. "But at least they're consistent."

Down below, the fight raged on—heat, shadow, laughter, curses.

A war.

A tantrum.

A Tuesday.

Evodil stood still.

Crypt Blade gone, arm torn, and breath ragged—but the grin didn't leave his face.

James braced for another shadow strike.

But Evodil didn't move.

He raised both hands slowly. Palms open. Eyes locked not on James—but on the sky.

Shadow coiled unnaturally beneath him. The crater trembled. A low, deep hum vibrated through the stone.

James's eyes widened. "Evodil."

From far above, Noah's voice cut sharp across the wind. "Don't you dare."

But it was already too late.

Evodil's aura snapped into focus, pure gravity clawing outward from his core. The shadows around him didn't stretch—they collapsed. Crushed into a singular, screaming point between his hands.

The air warped.

Light bent.

Stone shattered inward.

A tiny black sphere pulsed at his fingertips, hungry and alive.

"Wanna reset the board?" he whispered to no one. "Let's reset the board."

"Evodil!" James roared, slamming his hammer into the ground, trying to anchor himself as the pull intensified. "Stop it—you'll tear the crater apart!"

But Evodil didn't stop. Didn't blink. Didn't even flinch as the black hole screamed louder, clawing everything nearby into its teeth—light, stone, heat, law, balance.

Noah's voice thundered from above. "You maniac! You're still inside its pull!"

"Yeah," Evodil whispered, smirking faintly as the void pulled even him off the ground, body bending toward it. "I know."

James launched forward, trying to stop it—but the singularity reached its peak.

And it swallowed.

Everything.

A pulse of absolute dark ripped through the crater, sucking the two gods, their shattered battleground, and half the ridge into its core—

And then, just as suddenly—

It spat everything back out.

Like the universe itself said no thanks.

Evodil and James were flung across the sky like divine shrapnel, crashing into separate distant mountains with the sound of rupturing stone echoing for miles.

Silence followed.

Nothing moved.

Noah stood on the Citadel's edge, wind whipping his coat as dust swirled far below.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Idiots," he muttered.

In the distance, two black dots smoked against the snowcapped peaks.

Nearly unconscious.

Barely breathing.

Still alive.

And somehow, not done.

The wind howled across the mountainside.

Ash and dust drifted lazily through the cold air, settling over broken stone and scorched snow. A crater within a crater. Silence, save for the faint hum of dying power.

From the rubble, a figure moved.

James.

Barely.

He groaned as he pushed himself up, leaning hard on his warhammer just to stay vertical. Every breath dragged through clenched teeth. His coat, singed and torn. His skin, glowing faintly with residual heat.

Step by step, he limped forward.

Toward the crater's edge. Toward the second crater inside it.

Toward him.

Evodil.

Flat on his back. Half his skull gone—clean off like someone had erased it with a cosmic eraser. Black fluid leaked from the wound, trailing down into the stone below. One eye flickered faintly under the mess, dim and unfocused.

James stared down at him.

No words.

Then, without ceremony—

He kicked him.

Hard.

Right in the ribs.

The impact echoed.

Evodil lurched, a guttural cough ripping from his chest as more black ichor spilled out of his mouth. He groaned, rolled halfway onto his side, and blinked slowly like someone waking from a century-long nap.

"...Ow."

Another cough. A wheeze. His fingers twitched against the rock as his head began to repair itself—inch by painful inch. Bone knitting together like dragged metal, shadows weaving in the gaps.

"Okay…" he rasped, voice hoarse and ragged. "That was a bit much."

James didn't reply.

He just stared.

Evodil's grin twitched back into place, crooked and stained with ichor.

"On the bright side... I think we bonded."

James didn't offer words.

Just his hand.

Evodil blinked at it, then—grudgingly—took it.

With a heavy tug, James pulled him up. Evodil wobbled, swayed once, then leaned on his brother's shoulder like a drunk god trying to fake composure.

"Don't say anything," he muttered.

"I wasn't going to," James said flatly.

They stood there.

Two broken divine beings. Covered in blood, ash, melted cloth, and regret.

Nothing needed to be said.

But silence was never Evodil's thing.

He squinted toward the horizon. "So… that could've gone worse."

James side-eyed him. "We were almost erased."

"Yeah, but like, together," Evodil grinned.

James exhaled slowly through his nose.

Evodil gave it another beat.

Then leaned slightly. "Hey... what do you call paperwork that jumps into a crater?"

James didn't answer.

Evodil clicked his tongue. "Filing for impact."

A long pause.

James stared at him like that punchline personally violated several universal laws.

But before either could speak, a sound broke the stillness—a faint shifting from behind a massive snowdrift nearby.

Evodil's head snapped toward it, already on edge.

Then—CRACK.

A shadow tendril launched from his back with the force of a cannon, slicing straight through the upper half of the snow pile. Powder exploded into the air in a giant puff, scattering crystals like ash.

Evodil stood frozen.

Then slowly turned his head back to James, eyes wide with childlike awe.

"Woooooah!!" he gasped. "Did you see that? It was like woosh!—and then the snow went foosh!"

He started mimicking the motion with his hands, wobbling slightly on his feet. "I didn't even aim that one!"

James blinked slowly. "…You're unbelievable."

"Thank you," Evodil beamed.

And beneath the swirling snow, the air remained still—too still.

Something had moved.

And it wasn't just the snow.

The snow settled, but the silence it left behind was heavier than before.

Evodil tilted his head. "...Weird."

James narrowed his eyes at the half-destroyed drift. "That was too precise to be random."

The two exchanged a glance.

Curiosity.

Wariness.

And—because they were who they were—neither said anything more before splitting off.

James circled left, boots crunching through frost and rock.

Evodil, still wobbly but energized by chaos, drifted right—tendrils twitching lazily behind him.

They moved slow.

Quiet.

And met at the far side of the snowpile—

Where something very out of place was huddled in the powder.

A boy.

Young. Maybe seventeen at most. Latino. Thin. Shivering.

His skin was raw from cold. His clothes barely more than stitched rags, the kind you'd expect in a labor camp—not anywhere near Menystria. Not this mountain. Not alive.

His eyes flicked up—dark, frightened, human.

And then—

"Let's kill him," Evodil offered immediately.

At the exact same time, James muttered, "Let's keep him."

They turned. Stared at each other.

"What?" Evodil blinked.

"You—you want to kill him?" James asked, incredulous. "You love humans."

"Yeah, entertaining humans," Evodil said, gesturing. "This one's cold, shaking, looks like a kicked dog. He's depressing."

James gestured back, just as aggressively. "You threw government records into a crater but this is where you draw the line?!"

Evodil pointed at the boy. "He hasn't even said anything! What if he explodes?!"

"He's not a bomb," James snapped.

"You don't know that!"

James stepped between them. "I'm not leaving him here."

Evodil crossed his arms. "You gonna name him too?"

James paused.

Didn't answer.

Which said everything.

Evodil squinted.

"…Wait."

"No," James said flatly.

"You are not doing the parental redemption arc."

"I'm not."

"You're doing the thing where you pretend you hate something but secretly care and now you're projecting—"

"I will hit you with my hammer."

"…Noted."

They stepped closer to the boy.

The kid didn't move—just curled tighter into himself, eyes flicking from one god to the other, half-frozen, half-aware, fully terrified.

And then—

The shadows behind Evodil twitched.

Moved.

Acted on their own.

Two tendrils whipped out—graceful, deliberate—and scooped the boy up off the ground like a sack of misfortune.

Evodil blinked, caught off guard for half a second. But when he saw the bruises, the torn wrists, and the scars etched into the boy's face like someone had tried to erase him by force—

He grinned.

"Well damn," he muttered, inspecting the boy like a cracked relic. "Who did your makeup? A lawnmower?"

James didn't hesitate.

SMACK.

His palm lit up with searing heat, and he slapped the side of Evodil's half-healed skull without warning.

Evodil screamed.

"AUGH—MY BRAIN HOLE!"

The tendrils spasmed, dropping the boy instantly into the snow. He groaned but didn't react much—either unconscious or too far gone to care.

Evodil clutched his head with both hands, stumbling in a circle. "You absolute volcano, I needed that hemisphere!"

James ignored the chaos, crouched beside the boy, and reached out carefully—divine aura dimmed. Gentle. Controlled.

"Who are you?" he asked quietly. "Where did you come from?"

The boy stirred.

Barely.

And then—

CRACK.

A rift tore open behind them.

But it didn't sound like magic. It didn't feel like shadow or flame.

It sang—crystal humming like a tuning fork from another dimension.

Both gods turned instantly, eyes narrowing.

The portal wasn't made of shadow, or fire, or sunsteel.

It was made of crystals. Vines. Metal. Light.

Alien.

Unfamiliar.

And through it—standing calm, arms crossed, eyes tired as ever—

Was Noah.

James stepped forward first. "How??"

Noah raised a brow. "Ariela."

Both brothers froze.

"…Who?" Evodil said slowly.

Noah just stared at them like they were idiots. Which, to be fair, wasn't inaccurate.

"She opened the path."

James frowned. "That's not an answer."

"It's the answer," Noah replied flatly, stepping through the portal without another word.

Evodil squinted. "Man, I swear, if this turns into some emotional lore dump, I'm going back to bed."

Evodil didn't wait for a signal.

He grabbed one of the boy's rags, had a tendril wrap around him like luggage, and dragged him behind as they all stepped through the portal.

The sensation was sharp—cold, but not in temperature. Cold in feeling. Like walking through a mirror of a place that shouldn't exist.

They emerged back into the Citadel.

Where the silence was immediate.

The wall—still gone.

The gaping hole they'd left from their divine fistfight loomed in jagged stone and shattered prestige, letting in the wind like a constant reminder.

James saw it.

Felt it.

And his fist twitched.

He looked over at Evodil, who was casually brushing snow off his coat like he hadn't just detonated a crater and sent them both into low-orbit.

James's knuckles clenched.

Evodil raised a brow. "Go on. Say it."

James stared at him.

Then exhaled through his nose, low and bitter. "...I'd hit you again, but I'm the reason we've got a damn skylight."

"Character growth," Evodil said smugly.

Before James could retort, Noah's voice cut in.

"What is that?"

They all turned.

Noah was staring at the boy, still curled up like a broken animal, now lying at the base of one of the Citadel's intact columns.

Evodil raised a hand. "Souvenir."

Noah didn't laugh. "Why is he here?"

"We found him," James said simply.

"I found him," Evodil corrected.

"And you wanted to kill him," James snapped.

"Well now I'm curious," Evodil shot back.

Noah stepped forward, boots echoing softly through the chamber. "You brought a random, clearly traumatized, probably dying human into our Citadel."

James shrugged. "We've done worse."

Evodil added, "I've been worse."

Noah ignored him. "He shouldn't be here."

"So what do you suggest?" James folded his arms. "Throw him back into the snow?"

"Yes."

Evodil raised a hand, nodding in agreement.

James looked between them like they'd just suggested burning down the moon.

"He's not trash."

"He's a mystery burrito," Evodil countered. "Wrapped in trauma, sprinkled with frostbite."

Noah glared at both of them. "We don't know who he is. What if he's bait? Or cursed? Or infected with some Realm-tier parasite?"

James didn't flinch. "Then we deal with it. But we're not abandoning him."

Evodil glanced at the kid, then at the giant hole in the wall, then back at the kid.

"…If he explodes, I'm blaming both of you."

Evodil yawned.

Loudly.

Dramatically.

Like the conversation had aged him ten thousand years in two minutes.

"Alright," he said, already turning on his heel, stretching his arms overhead. "This has been fun. Truly. Loved the chaos, the threats, the possible cursed orphan situation."

He waved lazily over his shoulder.

"Good luck with your new emotional support burden, brother dearest. I'll send a fruit basket if he explodes."

Noah pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're leaving?"

"You think I'm staying in this emotionally compromised daycare?" Evodil scoffed. "Back to the manor. My couch misses me."

And with a flick of shadow, he vanished.

Noah stood there a moment longer, eyes drifting back to the kid—still silent, still curled.

He sighed.

Didn't say anything else.

Just turned and walked through the crystal portal before it even finished closing, coat trailing behind him like punctuation to a sentence no one wanted to hear.

And just like that—

James was alone.

The Citadel—cracked.

The wall—missing.

The room—silent.

And the boy?

Still staring up at him like a rabbit locked in a room with wolves.

James rubbed the back of his neck, looked down at the kid… and realized, with a slow, dawning horror—

He had no idea what to do next.

James stood still.

The silence between him and the boy was thick. Uneasy. His divine aura dimmed down to nothing, but the child still flinched the moment he stepped closer.

No aggression. No words. Just fear, baked deep into the kid's bones.

James crouched slowly, easing himself down like he was approaching a wild animal.

He lifted a hand—hesitated—then tapped his own chest.

"James."

He said it clearly. Calmly.

"James."

The boy didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't breathe any louder than he had to.

James nodded to himself once. Then gestured, hand open, toward the boy.

"And you?"

No response.

Just more silence.

James exhaled and sat back slightly, rubbing his temples with a quiet groan.

"Don't be mute," he muttered under his breath. "Please don't be mute."

The boy watched him with wide, sunken eyes—still alert, but not a word in him.

James closed his own eyes. Thought for a moment.

What did kids like?

What made them open up?

Gifts? Toys? Warmth?

...No.

Something worse. Something base. Something unholy.

"Grease," James whispered like the answer had been handed down from a devil.

"Fast food."

His hand dropped to his side, and he stared at the floor for a second in disbelief at what he was about to do.

And then—he sighed.

Evodil, for reasons beyond divine comprehension, had built a damn pizzeria not too far from the Citadel.

He stood up and looked at the boy again.

"Alright, fine. You don't talk, you don't move... but if you're not dead in the next five minutes, we're getting pizza."

Still nothing.

James turned away.

Paused.

"…You better like cheese."

Ten minutes passed.

And James, true to his reluctant word, walked the boy out of the Citadel.

The wind was sharp this high up. The sky wide and unfiltered. Floating islands stretched across the Menystrian skyline like scattered thoughts—some glowing, some cracked, others tethered together by narrow, humming bridges of stone and light.

James led carefully.

The boy followed quietly.

More like a shadow than a person.

Twice, the child stumbled. James caught him both times without a word. Just a firm grip under the arm and a quiet pull forward. No lectures. No scolding. Just moving.

Eventually, the citadel's towering silhouette faded behind them.

And before them—

Molten Slices.

The sign flickered with divine-grade neon—oversaturated reds and golds—and beneath it stood a building that looked hilariously ancient.

Wooden panels, carved stone entryway, and glass windows so fogged they may as well have been cursed relics.

It was retro. Like someone said, "Let's recreate the year 1307," and then made it greasy.

James pushed open the heavy wooden door with a grunt, guiding the boy inside.

Warmth hit immediately—heatstone floors, fire-forged ovens, and a few scattered booths lined with stained crimson cushions that might've been red... once.

It smelled like sin and tomato sauce.

Perfect.

They approached the shade behind the counter—a wispy humanoid thing, half-solid, flickering like it was held together by spite and kitchen grease.

James pointed at the nearest glowing menu slab.

"Pepperoni. One slice. Extra cheese."

The shade blinked with its non-eyes.

"And a cola."

The creature buzzed slightly, nodding.

Then James added, "Also—wine."

The shade paused.

James narrowed his eyes. "Red. Aged. Actual wine. Not shadow syrup. Not mimic juice. Wine."

The shade flickered, making a low, annoyed hum.

James leaned forward. "If you say 'grape substitute' I swear I will glass you with holy law."

The boy behind him just stood there.

Still silent.

Still watching.

But for the first time—

His head tilted.

Just slightly.

Toward the smell.

They found a booth near the window—cracked, fogged glass offering a view of the glowing sky lanes between islands.

James sat down with a quiet grunt, still glaring at the lack of wine like it personally betrayed him.

He slid the cola across the table.

The boy climbed up across from him, small fingers curling around the bottle awkwardly. He stared at it like it was an alien artifact.

Didn't open it.

Didn't drink.

Just fiddled with the cap—nervous, mechanical, detached.

James leaned back, arms crossed.

He followed the boy's gaze.

Far off in the corner, past the flickering booths and grease-stained walls, was a play zone—clearly an afterthought during Evodil's construction spree. A padded pit of outdated toys, climbing net, plastic golems with blinking eyes and chipped paint.

But it was… something.

Something soft. Non-threatening.

The boy kept glancing at it.

Then down. Then back.

James exhaled.

Slow. Long. Reluctant.

He nodded once toward the play zone. "Go."

The boy blinked.

James gestured again. "Go on. You're not chained to the table."

Still no movement.

James leaned forward, elbows on the table.

"You've been cold, almost dead, dragged through a portal, dropped into a crater, and now you're in a pizza place run by a flickering ghost."

He paused.

"That thing—" he pointed at a deflated bouncy blob in the corner, "—is probably the safest thing you've seen all day."

Another pause.

"Go play."

This time, the boy hesitated.

Then—slowly, carefully—he slid out of the booth and padded across the floor toward the play zone.

Didn't look back.

Just walked.

James leaned back again, watching him.

No wine.

No peace.

No clue what he was doing.

But for once…

He didn't stop it.

Thirty minutes.

Somehow, they waited.

James stared down the shade once or twice. The shade stared back with the eternal apathy of a creature made entirely out of smoke and fryer grease.

The boy, meanwhile, remained in the play zone—poking at a rubber cube like it owed him answers.

And then—

Finally—

The pizza arrived.

A single plate.

Steam rising.

Grease pooling in obscene amounts.

Pepperoni curled like battle scars. Cheese sliding off one side like it had given up.

James stared at it.

Offended.

"This is a crime against food," he muttered.

But before he could even blink, the boy had slipped back into the booth, eyes wide as the plate landed.

He didn't hesitate.

No ceremony. No second thoughts.

He grabbed a slice and bit—burning his mouth immediately, but not caring.

James watched him.

No more flinching.

No more darting eyes.

Just chewing.

Fast.

Efficient.

Like someone trained to eat before it was taken.

A few minutes passed in quiet. The boy was halfway through his second slice.

James took a breath.

"...You got a name?"

The boy looked up.

His chewing slowed.

Then stopped.

He swallowed hard. Then opened his mouth for the first time since the crater.

"...Seventeen."

James blinked. "That's a number."

The boy didn't react. Just looked down again.

"From the camp," he added, quieter. "It's what they called me."

James exhaled through his nose.

He leaned back.

Stared at the boy—Seventeen—and felt something sink in.

This wasn't just some stray.

This was something made. Numbered. Discarded.

And now…

He was James's problem.

James stared across the table.

The boy—Seventeen—devoured the rest of the slice like he expected it to vanish. Grease smeared across his cheeks. Hands shaking slightly, but not from fear anymore.

Just hunger.

Residual instinct.

James leaned on his elbow, watching him in silence.

This was stupid.

This was unnecessary.

This was one child. One scarred piece of humanity in a sea of infinite lifetimes. A number, not even a name. Just a flicker of life in the endless stretch of his immortal existence.

But—

If he couldn't handle this—

A child. A single, broken soul—

Then what good was all that power?

What was the point?

He inhaled slowly.

Then spoke.

"Not anymore."

The boy looked up, confused.

James sat straighter. His tone sharpened. Not harsh—just… final.

"You're not Seventeen."

The boy blinked.

James continued. "That's not your name. That's a label."

He waited a beat.

Then gave it to him.

"Jasper."

The word hit the air with weight. Divine. Real.

"The disciple of the sun," James added, more to himself than the child. "My son, now."

Jasper froze.

Eyes wide.

Mouth slightly open.

Like he didn't know how to process the word.

James didn't smile. Didn't soften.

But his voice was quiet. Firm.

"You're not a number anymore. You're mine."

And just like that—

The law of the sun changed.

Forever.

Jasper stared across the table, hands still hovering near the last crust of his pizza.

He hesitated. Then asked, quiet but direct—

"Who... are you?"

James blinked.

The kid's eyes flicked toward the far window—back toward where the Citadel loomed in the distance, ghostly behind mist and floating stone.

"And the other two... the ones in the big white building. Who were they?"

James leaned back in the booth, exhaling slowly.

"Gods," he said simply. "All of us."

Jasper's eyes widened, but James kept going.

"I'm James," he continued, gesturing to himself. "God of War. Of Law. Of Heat. I know every battle ever fought, every strategy ever used. I am war—refined, disciplined, written into the bones of the world."

He tapped the table once, and the drink in Jasper's bottle warmed slightly—perfect temperature.

"I can bend the law. Not just the rules you know—the laws of existence. You name it, I can enforce or erase it. Gravity, silence, mortality. It's all... negotiable."

Jasper didn't move.

James went on, pointing vaguely back toward the Citadel.

"The tired-looking one, with the glasses? That's Noah. God of Minerals, Knowledge, and the Moon. He can make any material he's seen before—stone, metal, even some divine-grade substances. Limited daily use, though. Keeps him from turning the planet into a sculpture garden."

"And the other one?" Jasper asked.

James sighed.

"Evodil."

The name left his mouth like a bad taste.

"God of Chaos. Of Hate. And Shadows. He's... a problem. Thinks like a child, fights like a monster, and talks like a drunk poet. Nearly omnipresent—if there's a shadow, he can be there. And he can summon beings made from shadow too. But only if he knows their makeup. Like... every atom."

James scowled slightly.

"He can destroy anything. Instantly. No questions asked. But the more he destroys, the weaker he gets. And naturally, that never stops him."

He rubbed his temple.

"Evodil exists to break things. I exist to keep the pieces from becoming a weapon."

Jasper looked down, processing everything. Then back up.

"And me?"

James looked at him.

Not with pity.

Not with fear.

Just certainty.

"You?" he said. "You're Jasper."

"My son."

He stood.

"We'll figure out the rest from there."