(Marvel, DC, images, manhuas, and every anime that will be mentioned and used in this story are not mine. They all belong to their respective owners. The main character "Karito/Adriel Josue Valdez" and the story are mine)
Heroes live short lives.
That's not poetic. That's fact.
It's easy to romanticize the idea—caped figures standing tall against the storm, smiling in the face of doom, saving the day with a speech and a spark of power. But real heroism is rarely glamorous. It's sleepless nights and broken bones. It's being too late to save the first life, and still charging in to save the second. It's holding the line when you know you'll be buried beneath it.
People forget that.
They forget that most heroes aren't born. They're made—by pain, by necessity, by the simple, stubborn refusal to watch the world fall apart. And when they're gone? Maybe a plaque. Maybe a name in a book. But more often than not, they vanish like smoke. Their legacy fades faster than the bruises they took.
Because the world moves on.
It always does.
But even among heroes, there's another layer. A deeper shadow cast behind the spotlight. A harder truth no one likes to acknowledge.
There are some protectors who will never be named at all.
They don't save people.
They save stories.
They're called Guardians.
And their lives are even shorter.
Guardians don't wear colors. They don't pose for statues. You'll never find them on posters or action figures. Their names are erased the moment they're spoken. Their deeds vanish into the margins of fiction.
Because Guardians live behind the narrative.
They aren't part of the plot. They protect the plot.
When a story begins to bend the wrong way—when a protagonist starts breaking character, when a villain suddenly wins too soon, when the world stops making sense—it's not always bad writing.
Sometimes, it's corruption.
Sometimes, something outside the story is trying to rewrite it.
That's when a Guardian steps in.
Unseen. Unknown. Unwelcome.
They enter quietly—through cracks in the fiction, between the folds of what readers believe is "canon." They fix timelines that shattered before they hit the page. They purge twisted dialogue that was never meant to exist. They erase monsters not created by the writer, but by something darker—something born of narrative decay.
You've read their work before.
You just never knew it.
Because when they succeed?
The story continues.
The hero wins the right way. The world feels whole again. The characters become who they were always meant to be. And no one questions how close it all came to collapse.
Because they weren't supposed to notice.
No one ever does.
And that's the job.
To protect fiction, even from itself.
To fight in scenes that don't exist. To die in chapters that will never be written.
Because once a Guardian's work is done, the story corrects itself—and erases every trace of their presence.
There's no reward.
No applause.
Just the slow certainty that someone, somewhere, might get to read the ending the way it was meant to be read.
That's the only win a Guardian ever gets.
But not all stories can be saved.
Sometimes, the corruption is too deep. Sometimes, the Dark—those twisted beings that feed off broken narratives—strikes faster than the Guardian can mend. And when that happens?
The Guardian dies.
Not always in body. But in meaning. In memory. In relevance.
Because even if they crawl away from the wreckage, the fiction they fought for forgets them. The characters they saved won't remember their face. The world they bled for will go on without them.
It has to.
Because they don't belong to the story.
They just held it up long enough to keep it alive.
You'll never hear their names. You'll never know the moments they broke inside. The friends they lost. The minds that cracked. The voices in their heads they learned to live with. The screams they swallowed just to keep a plotline intact.
You won't know how many universes they watched burn.
You won't know how many times they wanted to let it all go—to finally rest—and didn't.
Because Guardians aren't remembered.
They're not meant to be.
And yet, they show up.
Every time.
In every corrupted narrative.
They stand in the ruins of collapsed fiction and say the same thing:
"Not yet."
They die in the dark...
So stories can rise in the light.
...
Peter's dream did not begin like a dream. It began like a memory.
He remembered swinging through Queens with ease, not a worry in the world, basking in the adrenaline of his new powers. He remembered the thrill of the first few takedowns—petty thugs, robbers, low-level villains. They fell like dominoes.
He remembered Adriel, silent but precise, training him with methods far beyond anything Earth had ever seen. Tony Stark added tech to instinct. Adriel gave him discipline, foresight, and something deeper: responsibility.
He leveled up fast. Stronger, smarter, sharper. The MCU villains weren't ready for someone like him. Vulture, Mysterio, even the re-emerging threats that came post-Endgame—they barely lasted.
He thought he was prepared.
Until the Infinity War.
The dream warped. Became louder. Rougher.
Titan. Wakanda. New York.
He remembered standing beside Stark, Strange, Captain America—heroes he'd idolized. And they lost. One by one. The original story began to fracture. Characters acted strangely. Motivations twisted. Thanos didn't behave like he was supposed to.
Peter remembered Adriel had planned this all out, but then it deviated from the cannon.
And then the Dark Legion came.
Thanos, tainted by something blacker than space, led an army from the edges of narrative decay. They weren't just stronger. They were wrong. Designed by something outside the canon, built to destroy fiction.
It all fell to Peter and Adriel. Two Guardians standing between a corrupted story and oblivion.
They won. Barely.
And for a time, things felt right again. Peter remembered the feast in Wakanda. The cheers. The smiles. How Shuri called him "Little Lion." How Thor ruffled his hair. He was an Avenger. Officially.
He had a future.
Then the sky turned white.
A balcony. Night air. Stars over Wakanda.
Adriel panicked noticing the incomplete status of their main quest.
And then it happened.
Astral Regulator Thanos appeared. A god from beyond the canon. Clad in power meant to warp realities, not conquer them.
No fight.
No resistance.
Just one snap.
Peter saw the MCU vanish like ink in water.
He screamed as everyone he knew faded. Ned. Stark. Strange. Wakanda. All of it.
Gone.
And then the hit. An impact beyond cosmology. Greater than the Big Bang. It slammed into him with the force of an ending.
And silence.
Endless.
White.
He and Adriel floated in a blank expanse. A dead story. No panels. No script.
Nothing.
Peter jolted awake.
Chained.
His wrists burned.
He gasped, eyes darting. A laboratory. Cold. Dead light. The smell of metal and blood.
Straps dug into his arms and legs. Not steel. Something worse.
Darkenstine.
The opposite of Narralith.
Plot armor's antithesis. If Narralith let a Guardian defy logic, Darkenstine ensured they stayed broken. Trapped. Real. Vulnerable.
He pulled. Nothing gave. Even his enhanced strength couldn't shift the bindings.
Then came the voice.
Familiar.
Red Goblin.
"Wakey wakey, Webhead. Welcome to my little experiment."
The voice echoed from a speaker somewhere above. Mechanical, yet dripping with sarcasm.
"You might be wondering where you are. Good. Let that stew. Because here's the thing, Pete. You're deep in the Dark now. Deeper than any Guardian's ever been. And guess what? No one's coming."
Peter gritted his teeth. "They'll find me."
"Oh? With what? Their little game system? I've jammed it. Scrambled it. You're a ghost, Spidey. A lost file in a corrupted archive. The others are scouring Runeterra, but they're wasting their time. This lab? It's off the grid. Off the narrative."
Peter tugged again, arms trembling. Nothing.
"You're in the middle of nowhere. A real void between stories. And while you're here... I get to have fun."
He heard something clatter.
"Maybe I'll run a clone saga. Maybe I'll give you the Ultimate Spider-Man treatment. Or maybe I'll just start plucking pieces off and see what readers react to."
Peter snarled. "You're sick."
"No, no. I'm a crowd-pleaser. The audience loves pain. They eat it up. You think they care about your happiness? Your peace? They want good storytelling. That means loss. Trauma. Tragedy."
The speaker hissed static.
"You're Spider-Man, Peter. Pain comes in your template. I'm just giving you what you're meant for."
Silence.
Peter closed his eyes.
The nightmare wasn't over.
It had just begun.
...
The walk to Ixtal was quiet. Too quiet.
Ace's breathing was shallow, every step stabbing pain through his cracked ribs and burned flesh. The healing spell Lux cast had sealed his worst wounds, but only barely. He couldn't access the gamer system—not with the Darkness still blocking it. No potions. No teleportation. No shortcuts. Just his busted body carrying the weight of his failure.
Peter was gone.
He could still feel his blood on his gloves.
Kayle walked beside him, silent, wings drooping. Lux followed behind, too ashamed to speak. The journey from Demacia to Ixtal should've been quick. It felt like a lifetime.
By the time they passed through the broken outer gates and into the heart of the restored castle, word had already spread.
Adriel was waiting.
His aura hit like a hammer the moment Ace crossed the threshold. The angel stood with his arms crossed, eyes glowing gold with a fury barely contained behind clenched teeth. Artoria stood beside him, one hand on her sword, the other gently resting on Adriel's shoulder in a failed attempt to calm him.
Adriel didn't yell.
He just asked, low and sharp: "Where is Peter?"
Ace stopped. He looked up at Adriel, face pale, clothes soaked in blood, and said nothing at first.
His mouth opened, then closed.
Then he spoke.
"We fought Demi-Fiend and Nahobino. Held them off. Peter lost his arm. He... changed. Something triggered in him. Some rage. It wasn't him."
Adriel's brow furrowed. "Changed how?"
"Turned into a monster. A literal Man-Spider. Tore Demi-Fiend apart. Killed Nahobino after a battle that shook the damn continent. Then... Red Goblin showed up. Took advantage while we were broken. Attacked me. Peter was still in shock. AM was in his head."
Artoria stepped forward, her voice calm but laced with tension. "And Peter?"
Ace looked away.
"He was taken."
Adriel turned.
"You let him be taken?"
"I didn't LET anything happen!" Ace roared back, staggering. "I was half-dead, Adriel! He was worse! I failed him, yeah! But don't you stand there and act like I didn't try!"
Adriel took a step forward. For a second, the room buzzed with tension, energy prickling in the air.
Artoria moved between them.
"Stop. Both of you. This isn't helping."
Adriel didn't look away from Ace. "I can't find him."
Everyone froze.
Kayle blinked. "What?"
"I can't track him. The signal—his location, his tag, his signature in the gamer system. It's gone. Not missing. Not blocked. It's like he's everywhere and nowhere at once. Outside the narrative. Inside it. Between it."
Lux went pale. She stepped forward, clutching her staff. "What does that mean?"
Artoria gave her a look filled with quiet sympathy. "It means... we don't know where he is."
Ace clenched his fists.
"Then I'll find him."
Adriel raised a brow. "What?"
"You heard me. I'll find him. You focus on the plan—liberate the rest of Runeterra. Cleanse the corruption. Deal with the Darks still spreading. But me? I'm going to find Peter."
"You're not in any shape to lead a mission."
"That never stopped a Guardian before," Ace shot back.
Adriel looked into his eyes.
Saw it.
That same reckless, burning resolve that Peter had.
The same fire that couldn't be taught. Could only be earned through pain.
He stepped back.
"Fine. We continue with the plan. You search for Peter. But if you get caught, if the Darkenstine binds you too—we may never get you back."
Ace nodded. "Then I better not get caught."
He turned, staggering toward the courtyard to gather what little gear he could.
Behind him, Kayle reached out. "Ace... if you find him..."
He stopped.
"Tell him I'm sorry. That I should've done more."
Lux spoke up, voice soft. "Bring him home. Please. He helped me more than anyone ever did."
Ace didn't turn back. He just nodded and disappeared into the morning fog.
The castle loomed behind him.
And somewhere out there, in the rotting cracks of broken fiction, Peter Parker was suffering.
But not for long.
Ace swore it.
He would bring his brother back.
No matter what it took.
The silence that followed Ace's departure from Ixtal hung heavy in the air. Adriel watched his silhouette vanish into the horizon, his expression unreadable. The courtyard was still scorched from the trauma of the days before, but a strange, almost divine peace had settled in the aftermath. Despite that calm, a storm brewed beneath Adriel's gaze.
Just before Ace disappeared past the gates, Adriel called out—not with anger, not with judgment, but with a quiet weight in his voice.
"Ace."
Ace paused mid-step and turned slightly.
Adriel reached into his coat, pulled out a vial of shimmering, golden liquid, and tossed it underhand toward him.
"Take it," he said. "High-tier healing. It'll restore more than just wounds."
Ace caught it with one hand, blinking in surprise. For a second, he looked like he might say something—but instead, he just nodded.
"Thanks."
Then he was gone.
Artoria stood quietly behind Adriel for a long moment, arms crossed. Then she stepped forward.
"Was that really necessary?" she asked.
Adriel blinked, slowly turning toward her. "What?"
"Blaming him. Talking to him like that," she said, voice steady but sharp. "Did you really mean that, or are you just unraveling again?"
He sighed, tension rippling across his shoulders. "Artoria, I—"
"Because that wasn't fair. Ace isn't responsible for Peter getting taken. None of us could've predicted the Red Goblin would pull something like that. And if you're going to pretend like you could've? You're lying."
Adriel looked away, hands clenched. "I know."
"Then why say it?"
"Because I can't lose him," Adriel muttered. "Not again."
Artoria stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. "You think none of us feel that way? You think Ace doesn't? He carried Peter's blood on his hands back here. The man walked from Demacia to Ixtal half-dead. Don't you dare act like you're the only one grieving."
He didn't respond at first. Then, in a softer voice, "I didn't mean it."
"But you said it."
Adriel flinched.
Artoria crossed her arms again, exhaling sharply. "Look. I know you've been running on fumes. You haven't taken a break since the Vanadis incident. You haven't even processed it."
"That world was hell," Adriel said. "I went in there to restore a timeline that Sentry messed up. I got attached with some of the characters, and things happened that I didn't see happening. I couldn't even deliver a good ending for that story. It feels like I failed."
"You didn't fail. You delayed a full collapse. That counts for something."
"Not to the people there. Not to the readers."
"That's not your fault. You can't save every story."
"I know that logically. But knowing doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."
Artoria stepped beside him now, her tone softening. "Then say that. Be human for a second. Let people see you bleed."
Adriel chuckled bitterly. "Not really in the Guardian job description, is it?"
"Neither is snapping at your comrades. And yet here we are."
He nodded slowly, shoulders slumping. "You're right. I was harsh. I shouldn't have spoken to Ace like that."
"No, you shouldn't have. He already carries more than any of us know. And this? Losing Peter? That broke him."
Adriel turned his head slightly. "Do you think he'll find him?"
"He'll try until his bones crack. That's who he is. You know that."
"I do," he whispered.
A long silence stretched between them. The wind rustled the trees around the edges of the castle.
Artoria looked up at the clouds. "Just... next time you open your mouth, remember what it cost him to walk back here."
Adriel nodded again, slower this time. "I will."
She gave a short nod, satisfied. Then, with a final glance at the horizon where Ace had vanished, she turned to go.
He stopped her with a word. "Artoria."
She looked back.
"Thank you."
Her voice softened again. "Don't thank me. Just be better when he returns."
Adriel watched her walk toward the restored castle, the light catching on the hilt of her blade. He stood there for a long while, alone with his thoughts.
He was tired.
He was worn.
But more than anything, he regretted what he'd said.
When Ace returned—and Adriel believed, deeply, that he would—he would make it right.
Somehow.
...
The winds of Ixtal howled like war drums, rattling the jungle canopy as Ace marched forward, cloak trailing, boots cracking the damp ground beneath. Determination burned in his eyes, freshly healed flesh still tingling from the potion Adriel had thrown him earlier.
This was it.
He was heading for Noxus.
He was going to find Peter.
He was going to make Red Goblin suffer.
Nothing would stop him now.
Except—
He stopped.
Right at the treeline.
Blink.
Blink.
Slow turn.
"...Goddammit."
Back at the castle, Adriel and Artoria had just resumed walking toward the courtyard when the massive wooden doors burst open again.
SLAM.
"YO!" Ace called out, stomping back in like someone had left their phone at a restaurant.
Everyone turned.
Adriel blinked. "...Ace?"
Artoria froze mid-step.
Lux tilted her head. "Didn't you just—?"
"I forgot to ask for more healing potions," Ace said, voice flat. "Listen, the one earlier? Lifesaver. But my inventory's still dead. Blocked. That bastard Goblin hit my system hard—like, no hotbar, no access, no click-and-drag, nothing. I'm carrying gear like it's 1999."
Adriel raised an eyebrow. "The darkness is still jamming your Gamer Interface?"
Ace nodded. "Red Goblin's interference corrupted the entire menu. I can't even open my settings tab without it playing circus music. I need to physically carry these now, which is insane, by the way."
There was a pause.
Artoria facepalmed. "You're telling me you walked fifty feet and already forgot healing supplies?"
"I was running on stubbornness and spite. Don't judge me."
"I am absolutely judging you," Adriel muttered.
Ace pointed dramatically. "Hey, you try charging into Dark-infested territory with half a lung and no save file. You'll start double-checking your bags too."
Adriel sighed, reached into his coat again, and tossed Ace a reinforced leather pouch, clinking with glass vials.
"Thanks, Dad," Ace said without missing a beat.
"I'm not your—"
"Too late. Emotional damage already done."
Lux snorted.
Artoria started laughing.
Even Kayle rolled her eyes with a reluctant smirk. "You Guardians are exhausting."
Ace winked at her. "And yet—endlessly charming."
"Go," Adriel said, waving him off before he changed his mind. "Before I retract the potions."
Ace gave a two-finger salute. "Appreciate the service. Hope you enjoy the peace and quiet I'm about to leave behind."
And with that, he spun dramatically on his heel and stormed off for the third time that day.
The doors creaked shut behind him—again.
A beat passed.
"...You think he's actually gonna leave this time?" Kayle asked.
Adriel exhaled slowly. "No. But let him have this."
Artoria smiled. "We all need a second entrance sometimes."
And somewhere in the jungle, Ace muttered to himself as he adjusted the potion pouch:
"Alright, for real this time. Fourth entrance and I'm turning in my Guardian badge."
...
The walk through Ixaocan's quiet halls felt heavier than usual. Adriel's boots echoed against polished stone, each step absorbed by the silence of the rebuilt castle. A year ago, these walls had echoed with screams, the same ones Artoria once commanded when she led as a Dark. Now, it stood as a sanctuary—a fragile illusion of peace in a world still bleeding.
He wasn't really going anywhere, just letting his thoughts unravel. About Peter. About Ace. About everything they had left to do. The plan remained, but nothing felt solid anymore. He turned a corner, heading toward one of the long corridors that opened into a narrow garden—and stopped.
Lamb stood there.
Her white mask turned toward him, calm as ever. Wolf was beside her, pacing like a lazy shadow on alert.
They looked up in unison.
"Adriel," Lamb said, voice soft and cool.
He blinked. "Kindred. Didn't expect to see you here."
"You walk the halls of the living like a ghost," Lamb replied. "We thought to follow the echo."
Wolf growled lowly, though there was no menace in it. "You stomp like thunder. Hard to miss."
Adriel smirked faintly at that. "Fair enough."
There was a pause, one where neither of them quite knew how to proceed. Adriel remembered the last time they spoke—or rather, the last time he denied their offer. Champions, even the most powerful among them, couldn't touch the Darks. It wasn't just dangerous. It was futile.
But he pushed that thought away. "How've you been?"
Lamb tilted her head. "Safe. As you ordered. But that's not what you meant."
Adriel looked away, hands slipping behind his back. "I'm fine."
It was a lie.
She didn't press.
They started walking. The courtyard gave way to stone archways and low corridors lined with vines, magic-infused lanterns casting soft light. Kindred had been confined here for months—Adriel had insisted they stay. Not out of cruelty. But protection. Champions could not interfere in wars beyond narrative.
Still, he could feel Lamb's gaze on him, weighing the truth he wouldn't give.
"Anything new beyond the jungle?" Lamb asked, breaking the quiet.
Adriel nodded slightly. "We took Shurima back. Hercules fell."
"The strongman?" Wolf asked, ears perking up.
"He was more than muscle," Adriel replied. "But yes. He's gone."
"That's good," Lamb said gently.
He offered a quiet thanks.
Silence returned, heavier now.
Then Lamb stopped. Her hand drifted across a nearby pillar, etched with old Ixtali runes now defaced by time and war.
"We used to sing here," she said. "When it was darker. When it was... lonelier."
Adriel didn't answer.
"You've always been careful with us," Lamb said, not turning. "Cautious. Always distant."
"Because you can't help us," Adriel said bluntly, tiredly. "I've told you. The Darks are above fiction. Beyond your reach. Your arrows pass through them like fog. You fight shadows and bleed for nothing."
"But what if we don't want to fight?" Lamb asked.
Adriel blinked.
"What if we just want to support? To stand beside those who do the bleeding, so they don't have to do it alone?"
Wolf padded forward now, circling them. "You always say we're too weak. But weak isn't useless."
"You think we haven't noticed?" Lamb pressed gently. "The champions here—they're losing hope. They're grieving stories they don't understand. We stay here because you tell us to, because you say we'll die if we leave. But we've been dying in here too."
Adriel clenched his jaw.
"We don't ask to be on the frontlines," Lamb said. "Just... let us be near them. Let us help in the ways we can."
"A voice. A shield. A memory," Wolf growled.
"A comfort," Lamb added.
Adriel looked away again.
The wind stirred the leaves overhead. Ixaocan's silence pressed in on them once more.
"I don't know if it'll make a difference," Adriel said at last. "But... I'll think about it."
Lamb didn't smile. But her mask tilted in something like appreciation.
"That's all we ask."
They stood a while longer.
Not champions.
Not a leader.
Just people clinging to stories too big for their names.
And hoping to still matter in the telling.
After Adriel finished his conversation with Kindred, he gave a quiet nod, excused himself, and slipped away into the deeper halls of the castle. The dim lighting and distant flicker of torchlight painted the corridors in long shadows, his own silhouette stretched and distorted against the walls as he walked.
Kindred watched him go in silence. Lamb turned to Wolf.
"Are we doing the right thing, Wolf?" she asked, voice quiet. The usual calm lilt in her tone was frayed, uncertain.
Wolf, unusually still, didn't bare his teeth. He just looked at her.
"We ran. We lived. But they keep bleeding."
Lamb lowered her head. The truth of it hung heavier than she liked to admit.
She continued softly, "I thought we could help more than this. But they won't let us."
"We help how we can. Even if it's just staying alive," Wolf replied.
Lamb reached for his mask-like face and rested her hand on his snout.
"Then let's keep helping. Until they don't need to be alone anymore."
With no further words, they turned and walked together back toward the inner chambers of the castle
Adriel wasn't sure where he was going at first.
Not until his feet brought him to the library.
A quiet place. Or at least, usually.
He pushed open the tall, heavy doors with one hand, the scent of old parchment and faint magical residue greeting him like an old friend he barely had time for anymore. The room was just as he left it weeks ago—grand and imposing, shelves rising toward the curved ceiling like ancient trees in a forgotten forest.
He let the door shut behind him and breathed in, hoping the stillness would calm something inside him.
It didn't.
His hand ran along the spines of the nearest shelf, pausing only to pull out a book at random. No title registered. He didn't even glance at the cover. Just took it with him to the closest window seat and let his weight drop into the cushioned bench with more fatigue than grace.
He opened the book. Read a line.
Then another.
Nothing sank in.
It wasn't the words' fault.
It was his.
There was too much noise behind his eyes. Too many memories and calculations and timelines all screaming for attention. So he closed the book softly, set it on the windowsill, and leaned back. His fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose.
This wasn't working.
Nothing lately had been working.
Everywhere he looked, something needed fixing. Someone needed saving. A breach in a narrative. A scar in reality. A Guardian pushed too far. A friend lost.
And now Peter...
His breath caught in his throat. He lowered his hand and stared blankly out the window, not seeing the courtyard beyond.
Just remembering.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there, submerged in thought.
Then the door creaked open.
He didn't move at first. Didn't look.
Until he heard a soft voice sing into the silence:
"Adriel! You are here! Neeko thought this place was empty!"
He blinked and turned slightly, gaze settling on the unmistakable figure moving toward him—barefoot, smiling, cradling a tower of books against her chest like some kind of hyperactive librarian.
Her energy was as bright as ever, but he didn't miss the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. That tiny pause before her smile widened. A mask repairing itself mid-expression.
"Neeko," he said with a polite nod. "I didn't expect anyone else here this late."
She bounced once on the balls of her feet and grinned. "Books do not sleep. Neither does Neeko. Not when stories are so loud."
He offered a dry, tired chuckle. "I suppose that makes two of us."
Neeko took that as a green light. She padded across the room, her tail swaying lightly as she lowered her stack onto a nearby table. The top book slid off and thudded onto the floor.
She didn't seem to notice.
"Neeko thought maybe you could help with reading. This one talks about stars!" she said, grabbing the thickest book from her pile and flipping it open dramatically. "Real ones and the ones that live only in dreams. Neeko understands some words. But not all. The sky is tricky."
Adriel leaned forward slightly, curiosity edging past his usual wariness.
She was doing this on purpose.
The book was far above her reading level—technical, dense, filled with cross-dimensional astrological diagrams and terms most scholars in Piltover couldn't pronounce. She hadn't come here just to read.
She wanted him to talk.
Still, he played along.
"You're holding it upside down," he said flatly.
Neeko blinked. Then laughed and spun it around. "Ah! No wonder it was confusing."
He allowed himself a small smile. Just one. Just for a second.
"That symbol there," he pointed lazily toward the page, "is a temporal cluster—fictional constellations used to measure multiversal drift. They glow differently depending on which timeline you're looking from."
Neeko's eyes sparkled. "That is so cool! How do you know that?"
He exhaled slowly. "Part of being a Guardian. Sometimes when someone asks a question, the answer just... shows up. Gets implanted in my head whether I want it or not."
Her eyes went wide. "Like a magic library in your brain?"
"More like an annoying whisper that never shuts up," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "It's useful. But sometimes I wish I didn't know half the things it tells me. Some things... aren't meant to be understood."
She tilted her head, her smile fading just slightly. "Neeko gets that. Some truths feel... wrong. Heavy. Like they're made of stone and screams."
He looked at her for a moment longer. The way her voice softened. The way her bright colors dimmed ever so slightly when she said that. She understood more than she let on.
Maybe more than most.
And yet, here she was.
Still smiling.
Still reading books she barely understood just to sit near him. Still trying to pull someone else out of their silence even when hers was louder than anyone could hear.
The room quieted again as she carefully turned another page.
He could have asked her to leave.
He didn't.
Instead, he leaned back in his seat and looked over at the star map she was studying, pointing to the next diagram. "That one's a real constellation. The Hunter. Only shows up when a narrative is trying to realign itself."
Neeko leaned in, wide-eyed. "Narratives have stars?"
"In a way. Everything has symbols. Even chaos."
She laughed again, softer this time. "Neeko likes that."
For the first time all day, Adriel didn't feel the need to sigh.
He let the silence hold—not heavy, not painful.
Just quiet.
Neeko turned another page, slower this time. Her tail flicked behind her lazily, and she adjusted her seat just a little closer to Adriel, like it was by accident. But it wasn't.
"So, um," she started, not looking up from the page, "what about this one?" She pointed at a constellation shaped vaguely like a spiraling flame. "Is this one real too?"
Adriel nodded. "That's the Phoenix. A narrative symbol for rebirth. Usually appears in stories that are about to reframe themselves after failure."
"Like starting over?"
"Like surviving ruin and still continuing."
She hummed, clearly pleased with that answer, and leaned just a little more into his space. Not enough to make it uncomfortable—yet. Just enough to test the line.
"And what about you?" she asked suddenly. "Are you surviving ruin?"
Adriel blinked, caught off guard.
His response was immediate. "I'm fine."
Neeko tilted her head, not buying it for a second. But she didn't push.
"Neeko thinks maybe you say that a lot."
He offered a dry smile. "Maybe I do."
She let the moment stretch before trying again.
"You ever feel tired? Not just body-tired. But like the kind of tired that makes your thoughts heavy?"
Adriel exhaled through his nose, leaning his elbow against the table. "Yes."
Neeko nodded solemnly, as if that answer was expected. Then she grinned again, the switch almost too smooth.
"Then Neeko thinks you should let yourself rest more."
"I rest when I can."
"You don't," she said plainly. "But that's okay. Neeko doesn't either."
She turned another page, but the gesture was lazy, her eyes not focused on the words.
"Did you talk to Kindred earlier?" she asked casually.
Adriel looked at her. "How did you know that?"
She shrugged, sheepish. "Neeko maybe accidentally saw. Was walking near the hall. Didn't mean to spy."
He leaned back slightly. "And let me guess. You're going to ask the same thing she did."
She hesitated. Then nodded. "Neeko knows you said champions cannot fight darks. That only Guardians can. But... Neeko still wonders if we can help some other way. Maybe not with blades. But with hearts."
Adriel was quiet. He studied her face for a long moment.
She looked down. "Neeko wants to help. But it feels like we're always pushed to the side. Like our pain doesn't matter. Like all we can do is sit and watch the people who saved us suffer."
He didn't speak right away. But his expression softened.
"I understand," he said. "More than you think. It's not that I don't want your help. It's that I can't risk losing you to something you can't even touch."
Neeko nodded, slowly. "Then maybe Neeko just stays here. And makes sure when you come back... you don't feel so alone."
Adriel blinked. For a moment, something in his expression cracked. Then he nodded, a little slower this time. "That... means more than you know."
She brightened at that, perhaps a little too much, and scooted just a bit closer to him.
"Then it's settled!" she chirped. "Neeko will be your support system! Emotional backup!"
He chuckled under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. "Gods help me."
She leaned her head against his arm briefly. Just enough for him to feel the warmth of it. Too clingy. Definitely too clingy. But she meant well. And in that moment, he didn't have the heart to push her away.
So he let her stay.
...
Adriel hadn't even noticed how long they'd been sitting there.
Neeko had gone quiet for a while after their last exchange, thumbing through the pages of the book on stars again. Her head tilted as she tried to process the text, her lips mouthing the words in slow, curious rhythm. She was clearly only catching every other idea, but that didn't seem to bother her. Not really. What she really wanted was something else entirely.
Her eyes flicked sideways toward him, and he didn't need his Guardian instincts to know she wasn't done.
Neeko finally broke the silence. "Adriel... now that Neeko has said what Neeko wanted to say... maybe it is time for you to say something too, yes?"
Adriel shifted in his chair, pretending to return his attention to the book. "What do you mean?"
She narrowed her eyes slightly, catching the subtle evasion. "Neeko means... how are you?"
He turned a page slowly. "I'm fine."
Neeko blinked.
Then pouted.
"No fair. Don't dodge Neeko's question. You deflected like a tricky fox!"
Adriel gave a small sigh, not of irritation, but of reluctant acknowledgment. "You're right. I did."
Neeko tilted her head, studying him like one of her books. "Why do you do that?"
He didn't answer at first. The candlelight flickered across his eyes as he closed the book completely and rested it in his lap.
"Because..." he began slowly, "...talking about it doesn't help. Not always."
Neeko didn't press. Not yet. She waited.
He continued. "I put up a front because if I don't, things start to fall apart. People see me as unshakable, and if that illusion cracks... they crack too. It keeps them focused. Hopeful."
She frowned gently. "But isn't that unfair to you?"
"Maybe," he admitted. "But I accepted it. A long time ago."
Neeko curled her legs beneath her, scooting a little closer on the long bench. Her tail swayed lightly, brushing the edge of the cushion.
"You don't have to be perfect for Neeko."
Adriel glanced at her. She smiled, not playfully, but sincerely.
"Neeko knows you're kind. Strong. But not perfect. It's okay to rest. Even just a little."
He looked away.
"I can't," he said, a whisper lost in the room. "I always have to be alert. If a world starts to fall apart, if a narrative begins to collapse... if a Guardian falls... I need to be ready. Always. I'm not like the others. I don't get to choose my pace."
Neeko wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her chin there. "Because of the darks?"
He nodded slowly. "If it's a natural disaster, or a story going where it's supposed to go, that's fine. We can let it happen. But the moment something foreign twists the plot, warps characters, breaks canon... that's when we step in. And that's when I can't afford to hesitate."
She watched him closely. "You make it sound like you never wanted this."
His expression turned distant. A thousand memories flickered behind his eyes.
"It's not that I didn't want it," he murmured. "It's that it was never what I thought it would be. They made it sound noble. Like being a Guardian meant something glorious. Saving fictions. Protecting heroes. Stopping cosmic evils."
His tone darkened. "But it's not noble. It's exhausting. It's quiet deaths and forgotten names. And the worst part? You still have to keep going like it never broke you."
Neeko scooted closer.
Adriel stiffened.
"What are you doing?" he asked, glancing down.
She gave a gentle smile. "Some people... Neeko has read that some people feel better with cuddles. With touch. It helps relax the nerves."
Adriel blinked. "You read that... where?"
Neeko turned her head quickly, pretending to study the ceiling. "Nowhere."
He raised an eyebrow. "Neeko."
She puffed her cheeks and sighed. "Okay, okay. Maybe Neeko read a few... too many books. When stuck in the castle. There's a lot of weird books in the love section."
Adriel facepalmed.
"Of course you did."
Neeko giggled. "But still! Touch is calming. Neeko is not lying."
He sighed again but didn't push her away. The warmth of her presence was... not unbearable. Unexpected, maybe. A little too much. But not bad.
She looked up at him again, her voice softer now. "You carry so much. But even the strongest backpack needs rest on the ground sometimes."
"That's not how backpacks work," he muttered.
"Shhh. Let Neeko be poetic."
He chuckled despite himself.
The library settled back into a strange peace. The storm outside Ixtal had faded. No emergencies screamed for him just yet. And though he knew that calm never lasted—never could—for now, he let Neeko stay.
Even if just for a while.
Half an hour had passed, and Adriel was starting to show signs of fatigue. His eyes had grown heavier, his shoulders just slightly slouched—telltale signs that his body was starting to catch up with the mental weight he always carried.
Neeko, who had since attached herself to his side like a living accessory, noticed instantly. Her eyes narrowed with concern. "You okay?"
Adriel nodded, giving a small breath through his nose. "I'm fine. Just tired."
She frowned. "Tired tired, or 'thinking-about-Peter' tired?"
His gaze flicked toward her. He hadn't expected her to say it out loud.
"I'm fine," he repeated, softer now. "Really."
Neeko didn't budge. Her arms stayed looped around his, her head still leaning against his shoulder like personal space had long since been rendered a myth. She squinted at him.
"You don't have to lie to Neeko. You already have her. She is your emotional support, remember?"
Adriel sighed. Not exasperated—just resigned. "I know. But I said, you don't need to worry. At least not right now."
She tilted her head, studying his eyes, then gave a pout so theatrical it could've been staged. "Dummy."
His expression cracked just a bit, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Let me guess... another thing you read in a book?"
"No!" she said, clearly lying.
"You sure about that?"
"Y-Yes."
He chuckled, just enough to sound amused. "Cute."
With a huff, she reached up and flicked him square on the forehead. There was a dull thwack as her finger rebounded off what may as well have been reinforced steel.
"Owww!" she whined, clutching her finger. "What are you, made of rock?!"
"Guardian perks," Adriel replied, smug. "After a certain level, most attacks don't register unless it's from a Dark or another Guardian."
She pouted harder, rubbing her finger. "That's not fair."
He shrugged, casually. "Life rarely is. But you're still clinging to me, so I'm guessing you don't hate it too much."
"Sh-shut up! Neeko is just making sure you don't fall over or something!"
"Of course. Strictly medical."
She narrowed her eyes and stuck out her tongue at him, then quickly grabbed one of the books she had brought with her and buried her face in it.
"You're not even reading that right," Adriel said dryly.
"I am too!"
"You're holding it upside down."
She looked down at the book.
A beat.
"...No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"It's... a special language. Star script. You wouldn't understand."
"I'm literally the one who told you about that star language."
"Details."
He snorted again, leaning back slightly as she huffed and turned the book right side up with a blush dusting her cheeks. Despite the teasing, she still held onto him, and her smile was faint but real.
Adriel let himself relax—just a little.
He didn't push her away.
And Neeko didn't move an inch.
Another half hour passed. The quiet of the library was steady, warm, and just slightly heavy. The torches lining the walls flickered low, casting long shadows over the endless rows of books. The quiet hum of the evening mixed with the faint sound of pages being turned and the occasional yawn from Neeko, who had clearly begun to lose interest in her book.
Adriel, meanwhile, leaned back slightly in his seat. His eyes remained on the words in front of him, but they weren't really processing anymore. His mind wandered—again—to Peter. To the mission. To the countless variables pressing against his thoughts like weightless iron. His stomach growled quietly, snapping him from the spiral.
He sighed and stood, quietly stretching out the stiffness from sitting too long. As he pushed the chair back with a gentle scrape of wood on stone, Neeko stirred.
"Hmm?" she mumbled, blinking, head tilting slightly. "Where are you going, Adriel?"
He glanced over his shoulder with a slight smirk. "Getting some food. I haven't eaten in hours."
Neeko rubbed her eyes and tilted her head with a sleepy smile. "Can Neeko come with you?"
He appreciated the offer—more than he expected—but he shook his head. "Thanks, but I'll be back in a bit. I'll probably come back here to grab one more book before I call it a night. If I do, I'll see you here."
She nodded slowly, the sleepy smile never leaving her face. "Okay... but if you take too long, Neeko might fall asleep here... or sneak back to her room."
Adriel chuckled softly. "You don't have to wait for me. Don't let me keep you from resting."
Neeko pouted dramatically, her bottom lip pushing out. "You're going to leave Neeko hanging like that? That's cold."
Adriel raised an eyebrow, amused. "Guilt-tripping me won't work. We live in the same castle, remember? I can find you anytime."
Neeko paused, blinking slowly as she processed that.
Click.
She clicked her tongue and slumped back against her chair, arms crossed in mock defeat. "Dang it. You're right again."
He grinned. "That's two for two."
As he turned to leave, she watched him go with a soft, quiet look. Her eyes followed his retreating figure through the dim hallway beyond the library doors.
Once he was out of sight, Neeko leaned back in her chair and hugged her book tightly against her chest.
"My hero," she whispered to herself with a little dreamy squeal, her cheeks burning as she kicked her feet softly beneath the table.
She promised herself she'd wait. Even if she got sleepy.
And if he didn't come back soon...
Well, maybe then she'd sneak off to bed.
Maybe.
But for now, she'd wait just a little longer.
Adriel's footsteps echoed down the grand marble halls of Ixaocan, the golden torchlight spilling across his dark cloak as he moved away from the quiet of the library. The evening air had begun to cool, and the subtle scent of cooked spices drifted faintly toward him, guiding him toward the kitchens.
He didn't rush. He rarely did. But there was a heaviness in his steps tonight—a slow, dragging weight that came not from his body, but from everything pressing on his mind.
When he finally reached the open kitchen doors, the noise of clanging pots and sizzling oil filled his ears. A few of the cooks glanced up—and immediately straightened like they had seen a ghost. Then came the smiles.
"Guardian Adriel!" one of them said, hands still busy chopping something on a thick wooden board. "You honor us with your presence."
Adriel sighed. "Please don't start that again. I'm not here for a banquet. I just want a meal."
"Of course, of course," the head chef said, bowing slightly out of habit. A stocky Ixtali man with graying hair and a strong build, he pointed toward the corner. "Tonight's menu is spiced amberroot stew with seared river eel, and some roasted junglefruit on the side. It should be ready in a few minutes."
Adriel gave a nod. "I'll wait at the table."
The cooks immediately moved with new purpose. The pace doubled, chatter softened, and within seconds the air was thick with fresh aroma. Adriel crossed the tiled floor and made his way to the dining hall just adjacent to the kitchen.
It was grand—absurdly so, in his opinion. The Ixtali royal table was long, made from a single slab of carved junglewood, inlaid with runes and gold that shimmered under lanternlight. Adriel sat near one end, away from the center.
His hands folded in front of him. His eyes drifted, but they didn't see the walls. Or the light. Or the carved decorations.
He saw Peter.
He remembered Ace's face when he made that promise.
"Then I'll find him."
Adriel wanted to believe him.
He did believe him.
But belief wasn't helping the ache in his chest.
The guilt clawed deeper with every second Peter was gone. The silence on the tracking systems. The way his Gamer interface returned blank searches, like Peter didn't exist in the map anymore. Like he had become nothing.
Adriel lowered his head into one hand.
He hated this.
Hated the not-knowing.
Hated the helplessness more.
He didn't notice her until she spoke.
"You look like a man trying very hard not to fall apart."
Adriel blinked and turned.
Qiyana stood near the doorway, arms crossed. Her crown gleamed in the firelight, and her confident posture somehow didn't clash with the genuine concern in her eyes.
"Your Majesty," he said with a slight bow of his head.
"Don't," she replied smoothly, striding toward him. "You told me not to treat you like royalty, remember? I get to do the same."
Adriel gave a tired exhale that was almost a laugh. "Fair."
She slid into the chair beside him without asking. Not like she needed to. This was her palace, after all.
"It's about Spider-Man, isn't it?" she said.
He didn't look at her. Just nodded once.
Qiyana didn't press for details.
She already knew them.
Everyone in the castle had heard what happened.
"Ace will find him," she said simply. "He made a vow. He won't let it go."
Adriel closed his eyes for a moment.
"I know," he said. "But I keep feeling like I'm waiting too long. Like I should just go myself."
"And break the only plan we have left?" she asked gently.
"He shouldn't have to carry it alone."
Qiyana reached out and placed her hand over his.
"Neither should you," she said.
Adriel's breath caught. Just for a second.
Her hand was warm. Steady.
He hadn't even realized how cold his own had gotten.
"You've done enough for Ixtal," she continued. "For me. For all of us. If you're going to crumble, at least let someone be there to hold the pieces."
Adriel turned his gaze to her, finally.
She was calm. Serious. Not teasing. Not coy. Just there. Present.
She'd always been that way, he realized. Even when she acted brash or dramatic in front of others. When no one was watching, Qiyana watched him.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Qiyana gave a small smile. "Don't thank me. Just eat something. You're useless when you're starving."
He gave a soft chuckle. "Still as blunt as ever."
"Always," she said.
The cooks began bringing plates out then, neatly laying down a spread of food that smelled better than anything he remembered in weeks. Adriel didn't move yet. Not until Qiyana gave his hand one last squeeze and finally pulled back.
They ate together in silence, but this time it wasn't a heavy silence.
It was a shared one.
And for a moment, Adriel didn't feel quite so alone.
Qiyana sat poised, the delicate silverware in her hands gleaming under the light as she cut into her roasted junglefruit with a bit too much precision. Across from her, Adriel ate quietly, the rich, earthy flavor of the amberroot stew grounding him more than he expected.
But despite the calm atmosphere, Qiyana's eyes kept flicking his way.
Not obvious. Not invasive.
But persistent.
Adriel noticed, of course. He always noticed.
He just didn't say anything. At first.
A few more minutes passed. The occasional sound of utensils and the crackling hearth filled the silence. Qiyana finally exhaled and put her fork down with an audible clink.
"Okay, no. You're either ignoring me on purpose or this stew is divine."
Adriel paused, mid-bite. He swallowed, then glanced up at her with the smallest trace of amusement.
"Bit of both."
She narrowed her eyes. "Seriously?"
"You were staring," he said calmly.
"I was glancing," she corrected, pointing a fork at him.
"Multiple times."
"Because you're doing that thing where you pretend nothing's wrong but your shoulders are halfway to your ears."
Adriel blinked. He hadn't realized how tense he was. He rolled his shoulders slightly, letting them settle as he leaned back.
"I'm just...hungry. And thinking."
"And you can't do both at once?" she asked, raising a brow.
"I prefer not to. Less room for emotional outbursts."
"Oh my gods, you're actually insufferable," she said with a grin. "This is what you're like when you're not brooding?"
Adriel shrugged. "Wouldn't know. I don't usually have company for dinner."
"Well, I'm flattered." She smirked. "You should've told me earlier. I'd have brought wine."
"Spare me," he said, smirking into his plate.
Qiyana rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand as she watched him with a more genuine curiosity.
"You know, I don't think I've ever seen you like this."
"Eating?"
"No. Relaxed. Teasing. You're always so...guarded."
He tilted his head, setting his utensils down and wiping his mouth. "I suppose being near-deleted from existence loosened me up."
Qiyana blinked. "Wait—what?"
"The fight with Hercules," he said casually. "I was nearly erased conceptually. Took longer to recover than usual."
"You almost got erased and you're making jokes?"
Adriel gave her a look. "You've seen worse."
"Yes, and I still worry, you idiot."
He blinked at the outburst. She caught herself and quickly looked down at her plate.
Adriel's voice softened. "You didn't know the details?"
"No," she muttered. "Only that you won. No one tells me anything around here. Just that you were in the medbay for a while. I assumed it was bad, but..."
"It was," he said. "But I'm fine now."
Qiyana sat back and crossed her arms. "You Guardians think you're invincible."
"We're not," Adriel said simply. "We just don't have the luxury of breaking."
She looked at him for a long moment.
"I hate that," she said.
He raised a brow. "Why?"
"Because it makes you think you're alone. Like you have to hold everything. Like no one else can help."
He didn't respond.
"You saved this kingdom," she went on. "You gave me back my throne. You fixed what Artoria left in ruins. You fought for all of us when the rest of us couldn't lift a finger against those monsters."
"I did what had to be done."
"But you didn't have to do it alone."
Adriel looked down at his hands.
Qiyana leaned in again, gentler this time.
"I know you won't stop fighting. I know you'll keep throwing yourself into every storm you find. But I also know you don't have to drown in all of them."
He met her gaze, silent.
"I'm not saying I can fight Darks," she added. "But I'm still here. And I'm not going anywhere."
Adriel blinked slowly, his voice quieter now. "Why?"
Her expression softened, lips parting like she wasn't sure how honest she wanted to be.
But she answered anyway.
"Because I care," she said. "And because you never ask anyone to care back."
The silence that followed felt thicker than the one before. Not heavy—but charged.
He looked at her again, at the determination buried behind her sharp features, her pride, her fire.
"...I've never asked because I know what it costs," he said.
"And I've already paid," she said back, not missing a beat.
He didn't argue.
Instead, he picked up his fork again and took another bite.
"You're still the most difficult person I've met," she said, trying to lighten the moment.
"Flattered."
"Not a compliment."
"Still taking it."
Qiyana let out a breath, almost a laugh. She reached for her drink and shook her head.
"You're lucky you're good-looking."
Adriel didn't look up. "So I've been told."
She narrowed her eyes.
He smirked.
They ate in silence after that, but the air had changed. Lighter. Closer.
And for the rest of the evening, neither of them felt the weight quite as much.
...
The gardens of Ixaocan breathed quietly under the evening sky, a stretch of green life woven with threads of moonlight and shadows. Artoria Pendragon walked along the stone path in measured steps, the clink of her armored boots soft beneath the hum of crickets and the rustling of trees. The scent of jasmine and citrus drifted in the air, calming to most. But inside her, unease still coiled like a stubborn knot.
Not like Adriel's unease. His ran deep and ragged, twisted by guilt and the weight of a thousand battles. Hers was quieter, more restrained. She trusted Ace. If anyone could bring Peter back, it was him. She believed that without doubt.
And yet...
Redemption had a long memory.
She reached the heart of the garden, a circular clearing centered around a crystal-clear fountain, where moonlight bounced off its surface like fallen stars. Sitting at its edge were three familiar faces.
Miss Fortune. Kayle. Lux.
They hadn't noticed her yet. Lux and Sarah spoke softly, giggling now and then as if catching up on things they shouldn't remember. Kayle stood a bit apart, arms crossed, eyes watching the stars with the kind of focused distance only she could hold.
Artoria paused for a moment, taking in the scene. The warmth between Lux and Sarah was strange—not just casual camaraderie, but something deeper, as if the two had fought side by side before. Something artificial, yet real in the way dreams sometimes feel after waking. Fragments of a story they weren't sure they had lived.
Memories implanted from a skin line not native to this world.
Star Guardians.
The moment Artoria stepped closer, Sarah Fortune turned and immediately smiled. "Hey. Didn't expect you out here."
Artoria nodded politely. "I needed air."
Kayle's gaze snapped toward her. Lux fell silent. Neither looked thrilled.
Sarah, ever the diplomat when she wanted to be, stood and gestured casually. "Don't be stiff. Come sit. We were just talking."
Kayle's wings gave a faint rustle, the light of them flickering faintly. "Talking is fine. With most."
Artoria didn't flinch. She was used to the weight of judgment. She walked over and stood across from them, hands calmly resting against the side of her tunic. Her sword wasn't on her back. She came without it intentionally. A small act of peace.
Kayle narrowed her eyes. "You expect us to forget what happened here? What you did?"
Lux, still seated beside Sarah, glanced to the side but didn't speak. Her hand played with the hem of her cloak.
Artoria's voice was even. "No. I don't. I wouldn't ask that. I only came to say I'm here. I won't run. I won't hide."
Sarah stepped forward slightly, placing a hand on Kayle's shoulder. "She's a Guardian now. Like Adriel. Like Peter. Like Ace."
"That title doesn't erase what she was," Kayle said sharply. "We are called to justice. And justice doesn't forget."
Artoria nodded. "Then let justice weigh me as it should. Adriel gave me a second chance. He believes in redemption. So do I."
There was a long silence.
Kayle stared at her as if trying to burn through her with her gaze. Lux finally looked up, eyes thoughtful.
"You don't deny it?" Lux asked quietly. "You don't try to excuse what happened?"
"No," Artoria said. "I ruled with cruelty. I let the Dark twist who I was into something monstrous. And when Adriel came to stop me, I had intended to fight him like an animal. But he had other intentions. He saved me. I am not asking you to forget. I am asking you to let me prove that I am not her anymore."
Kayle turned away again, fists clenched. Sarah exhaled slowly and offered Artoria a nod.
"Well," Sarah said, voice firm but not unkind. "You're walking the right road now. That's what matters to me."
Lux didn't smile, but her tone softened. "You scare me a little. But I believe in second chances."
Artoria inclined her head. "That's more than I deserve."
Kayle didn't respond. She turned and began walking deeper into the garden, her light trailing like falling feathers behind her.
Lux stood, stretching. "I'm going to follow her. Someone needs to keep her from melting the roses again."
Sarah chuckled. "Tell her to save a few for me."
Lux gave Artoria a long look—not hostile, but wary. Then she followed after Kayle.
Left alone with Miss Fortune, Artoria sighed.
Sarah arched a brow. "You handled that well. Better than I expected."
Artoria looked up at the stars. "I've had practice. Guilt is a long teacher."
Sarah moved to sit on the fountain's edge again, patting the space beside her.
Artoria joined her.
"You know," Sarah said, voice quieter now, "sometimes, I dream about Bilgewater. But it's not Bilgewater. It's... different. There are stars, and I have wings. And Lux is there, and we fight monsters that don't exist. And then I wake up, and I remember that everyone I knew was burned or turned or eaten alive."
Artoria didn't interrupt.
"It's a mercy and a cruelty, these memories. Like we're being reminded we were more than just survivors."
"You are," Artoria said. "You are more. That's why we fight. Why I fight. Not for forgiveness. For restoration."
Sarah gave her a sideways glance. "You talk like him sometimes."
"Adriel?"
"Yeah."
Artoria allowed herself a faint smile. "He has that effect."
They sat together in the quiet, the hum of the garden soothing the tension that had once hung between them. It wasn't complete trust. But it was a beginning.
Another minute passed. The hush of the garden wrapped around them like a gentle veil, broken only by the distant chirping of insects and the soft trickle of water from the fountain behind them.
Then Sarah tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with thought, and said, "So… what kind of clothes do you like?"
Artoria blinked. "What?"
Sarah shrugged with a half-grin. "Just trying to talk like normal people for once. You know, something not about death or war or apocalyptic timelines."
Artoria hesitated, then gave a slow nod. "Fair. I suppose I favor practicality. Armor. Tunics. Things that allow for movement."
Sarah leaned in with a teasing smirk. "So, no casual dresses? You don't lounge around in silk robes during downtime?"
Artoria raised an eyebrow. "Would you believe me if I said I've never once worn silk in my life?"
"Now that's just a tragedy," Sarah said with mock offense. "We'll fix that one day. What about hobbies?"
Artoria looked up at the moon, thinking. "Reading. Sword maintenance. Meditation. Training."
"So… you don't know what a hobby is, got it."
Artoria turned to her, eyes narrowing with a hint of humor. "I'll have you know I once tried painting."
Sarah lit up. "Oh? And how did that go?"
"I stabbed the canvas."
The two stared at each other for a moment. Then Sarah burst into laughter. A sharp, sudden sound that broke through the stillness like a bell.
Artoria couldn't help it—she smiled, her posture softening. "It was a frustrating afternoon."
"I believe it," Sarah said between chuckles, wiping at her eye. "Alright, one more—what kind of food do you like?"
Artoria's expression faltered. Then, slowly, her cheeks started to flush.
Sarah noticed immediately and leaned in with interest. "Oh no. That's a real question, isn't it?"
Artoria looked away. "I… enjoy food. Perhaps a bit too much."
Sarah's grin turned wicked. "That's why you always go for second—and third—helpings during breakfast, isn't it?"
"I'm a swordswoman," Artoria muttered, clearly flustered. "My metabolism demands sustenance."
"That's a fancy way of saying you've got a black hole for a stomach."
"I could cut you in half right now."
"You wouldn't. You like me."
Artoria huffed through her nose. "Unfortunately."
They laughed again, lighter this time. And for a moment, the air was clean of the shadows that usually clung to them.
But then, in a pause between their banter, Artoria caught something. A flicker. A momentary shadow that passed over Sarah's eyes like a cloud crossing the moon.
She quieted, her voice softening. "You're worried about Ace, aren't you?"
Sarah didn't answer right away. Her smile faded, replaced by a look of tired honesty.
"I am," she admitted. "I didn't say anything before because I didn't want to bring the mood down. But... yeah. When he, Lux and Kayle came back from Demacia, they were a wreck. Especially Ace. The kind of wrecked that doesn't heal with potions or bandages."
Artoria's face turned solemn. "He doesn't rest. Not really."
"No," Sarah agreed. "He pushes and pushes, even when it's tearing him apart. And now Peter's gone. And he's out there, alone, trying to fix it. Again."
Artoria looked down at her hands, resting in her lap. "He said he would find him. I believe him."
"I do too," Sarah said. "But it doesn't make it easier to watch."
There was silence again, heavy but honest.
"I pray for them," Sarah said after a moment. "I don't know who I'm praying to anymore, or if anyone's even listening—but I do. Every night."
Artoria's chest tightened, but not with sadness. With something gentler.
"That's kind of you," she said. "Kindness is rare these days. Keep praying. Keep believing. It might just be the thread that holds us together."
Sarah looked at her then. Not at the fallen tyrant she had once been. Not at the blade that had once ruled Ixtal in darkness. But at the woman trying—fighting—to become something better.
"You know," Sarah said, voice quiet again, "I've heard what people say about you. The whispers. The judgment. But I've also watched. And the person I see now… doesn't match the monster they describe."
Artoria said nothing.
"I want to believe in you," Sarah continued. "Not because someone told me to. But because I've seen the way you look at the people you've hurt. And the way you try to walk forward anyway. That's not evil. That's courage."
Artoria turned to her, startled by the sudden warmth rising in her chest. She felt the sting behind her eyes before she could stop it.
"I want to be your friend," Sarah said.
Artoria blinked rapidly, the words catching her off-guard more than any blade ever had.
She swallowed. Her voice was small, but steady.
"I'd like that," she said. "Very much."
Sarah smiled.
And Artoria, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, let the tears fall without shame.
She looked down at her hands, trembling slightly in her lap — hands once soaked in darkness, now reaching for something fragile and warm.
"Perhaps Adriel was right," she thought to herself. "I can be better."
And now, the words he spoke before truly felt real in this very moment.
To Be Continued...