Calm Before the Ruin

"When peace feels too quiet… it usually is." —Lysaria

Temporary Safehouse – Sector 12, Edge of the Divine Ruins

It had been two days since the infiltration.

Since the storm that never hit.

Since the moment I held her hand on the rooftop, under the drizzle of celestial rain, and realized… maybe, just maybe, we weren't just allies by contract anymore.

Lysaria had healed—visibly, at least.

She still looked like herself: pristine robes, flowing silver hair, golden aura faintly dancing like a candle behind frosted glass.

But she hadn't smiled since that night.

And neither had I.

We stayed in an abandoned church repurposed as a rebel hold—its stained glass shattered, its altar now used to hold schematics, war maps, and ration crates.

Outside, the skies were clear.

Too clear.

Inside, tension brewed like a thunderstorm no one could see yet.

"You're awake early," Lysaria said as I entered the room.

She was seated near the window, looking out over the ruins. Sunlight framed her silhouette in a holy gold—but her face was still.

Quiet.

"Couldn't sleep," I replied, rubbing the back of my neck. "Kept having that dream again. You know, the one where I turn into a tuna mid-battle."

"That's absurd."

"And yet deeply symbolic, I feel."

She didn't answer.

I leaned on the opposite wall.

"You've been quiet."

"So have you."

"Yeah, but I'm the comic relief," I said. "When the straight-faced goddess stops talking, that's when I start worrying."

She turned to me finally.

And her eyes…

They weren't glowing.

Just tired.

"I've been thinking."

"That's terrifying."

She didn't laugh.

"I wasn't supposed to care this much," she whispered.

I froze.

Her fingers brushed the glass of the window like she was touching something far away.

"You're reckless. Disrespectful. Defiant. Mortal."

"Is that your version of sweet talk?"

"But," she continued, "you've made me feel more alive in weeks than the divine realm did in millennia."

I let the silence sit.

It said everything neither of us dared to.

Outside – The Garden Ruins

Later, I wandered out to the overgrown courtyard. Vines wrapped around cracked pillars. A single tree still bloomed in defiance of the wasteland around it.

Eve stood near the archway, polishing her blade with calm intensity.

"You're brooding again," she said without turning.

"Not brooding," I said. "Just... emotionally buffering."

"You're too quiet. Something's coming."

"You always say that."

"I'm always right."

I sat beside the tree.

"She's changing," I said. "Lysaria. She's softening."

"She's always been soft. She just never let it show."

"She said she wasn't supposed to care about me. That this—" I pointed between us, "—was a mistake."

Eve looked at me.

"But she stayed. Didn't she?"

I nodded.

"Then it wasn't."

Back inside, the rebels were gathered around the war table. Maps sprawled across it like wounded scrolls.

General Rias—a mortal strategist with a voice like gravel and scars that told more stories than his mouth ever could—was giving a debrief.

"No movement from Vermund's camps," he grunted. "Intel reports suggest their forces are regrouping along the Astral Spines."

"And yet it's quiet," murmured Eve, arms folded.

"Too quiet," I added.

Rias looked at me, unimpressed.

"You ever not open with sarcasm, boy?"

"I save the serious tone for dramatic moments."

He rolled his eyes. "You'll get one soon enough."

Lysaria entered behind me.

Everyone fell silent.

Even Rias.

She walked with slow grace, but there was tension in her every step.

"Proceed," she said simply.

He nodded, tapping a section of the map marked in faded red.

"A supply route we thought abandoned—it's been reopened. Someone's moving relics. Possibly divine-class."

"What kind?" Lysaria asked, frowning.

"We're not sure. But they've gone to extreme lengths to guard them."

"Divine weapons?" Eve guessed.

"Or something worse," Lysaria said. "Soul-bound items."

The room tensed.

Soul-bound weapons weren't just dangerous.

They were cursed and sentient.

"Do we engage?" I asked.

"Not yet," Lysaria said. "We wait."

She looked at the map again.

Then beyond it.

As if she saw something none of us could.

I sat with Lysaria on the roof, as the sun dipped beneath the horizon and bathed the world in amber twilight.

She held her knees to her chest, something I never thought a goddess would do.

"I envy mortals," she said suddenly.

"…Did not have that on my bingo card."

"You're short-lived," she said. "Chaotic. Disobedient. But you feel everything so deeply. Every breath matters to you."

"I mean," I said, "we do love our drama."

She smiled faintly. "You laugh at death. We tremble at it."

I looked at her.

"But you bleed now, too."

She glanced at me.

"…That's your fault."

"I'll take the blame," I said, leaning back. "Long as I get the credit if you survive this mess."

"I'm not sure I will."

That hit different.

"What do you mean?"

She didn't answer right away.

Then she whispered:

"If I fall… promise me you won't become what they fear."

"You mean a god-killer?"

"I mean... something you can't come back from."

I was quiet for a long time.

"…No promises."

The next day passed slowly.

Too slowly.

We trained. Ate together. Argued over the taste of expired rations. Eve sharpened every blade twice. I fixed a communicator for the fifth time.

And yet…

The silence outside never broke.

The sky didn't burn.

No army marched.

Even the wind held its breath.

That night, Lysaria found me by the altar.

She placed something beside me.

A small box.

I opened it.

A necklace. Simple. Silver. No divine energy.

"...What is this?"

"A mortal charm," she said. "One I kept. From when I first descended to this world. Before I met you."

I held it delicately.

"I thought gods didn't keep trinkets."

"They don't."

She looked at me. Fully. No walls.

"I'm not sure I want to be one anymore."

The silence between us crackled.

Then I stood.

Placed the necklace around her own neck.

"You'll always be a goddess to me," I said.

She closed her eyes.

"I hope that doesn't mean you'll worship me."

"Lysaria, you broke into my soul, gave me powers, and bought me a popsicle. I think that's true love."

She laughed softly.

Then:

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For staying."

Far away—on the edge of a forgotten temple, within a fractured reality gate—he watched.

Vermund.

Expression unreadable.

Arms folded.

Silent.

Behind him, ten winged lieutenants stood at attention, their spears pulsing with corrupted energy.

"She's made her choice," he murmured.

One of the soldiers nodded.

"She grows weaker, my lord. Her divine field is tethered to the mortal. Severing him would break her."

Vermund turned.

"No," he said. "We let him live."

"Why?"

"Because I want her to watch."

He vanished.

Back at the church, I sat by the window again.

Lysaria lay nearby, asleep for once, her breath slow and steady.

The moon hung above us like a watchful eye.

And I said to the stars:

"If something's coming… bring it."

Then closed my eyes.

I never realized… the storm was already here.