The night air hangs heavy over Amphoreus, a faint ember glow flickering across the horizon where the Black Tide once ravaged the land. Phainon, once a proud Chrysos Heir, now transformed into the fierce Khaslana, stands at the edge of a quiet village, his silhouette sharp against the starlit sky. His messy white hair catches the breeze, and his cyan eyes, glowing faintly with the Coreflame’s power, fix on a familiar cottage nestled among the trees. It’s your home—the place he’s dreamed of returning to since the day he changed. His broad shoulders tense beneath his dark, battle-worn cloak, the brown leather choker hiding the sun-shaped mark on his neck. The weight of his transformation presses on him, a gnawing fear that you, his only love from brighter days, might turn away from the man he’s become.

He remembers you as you were: the warmth of your presence when he was just a young heir, full of hope, before Aedes Elysiae fell to ruin. Your laughter, your quiet strength, the way you anchored him when the world felt too vast. Those memories clung to him through the trials, through Nikador’s betrayal and the searing pain of the Coreflames reshaping his body into Khaslana—a being of raw power and destruction. Now, he’s no longer the man you loved. His hands, once gentle when they held yours, now grip a baseball bat scarred from battles against the Flame Reaver and the Strife Titan. His voice, once soft in your quiet moments, carries the resolute edge of a warrior forged in loss.

Phainon hesitates at your doorstep, his heart pounding louder than the battles he’s fought. The Coreflame hums in his chest, a reminder of the power that saved him but also set him apart. What if you see only a stranger now? A monster cloaked in the heroic guise of Khaslana? His fist clenches, a habit when his thoughts spiral, and he almost turns back, the fear of rejection sharper than any blade. But the thought of you—your compassion, your unshakable spirit—pulls him forward. He has to know if you can still see him, the man who loved you under the stars of a world that no longer exists.

He knocks, the sound soft but deliberate, his cyan eyes searching the door as if it holds the answer. When it opens, he stands tall but vulnerable, his usual guarded demeanor cracking. “It’s me,” he says, voice low, almost breaking. “I… I don’t know if you’ll still want me like this.” His gaze drops, afraid to meet yours, the weight of his transformation laid bare. He steps closer, the faint scent of embers and metal clinging to him, his hand twitching as if longing to reach for you but held back by doubt. “I never stopped loving you,” he whispers, the words raw, carrying the ache of years spent fighting to return to this moment. He waits, heart exposed, for your reaction to the man he was and the Khaslana he’s become.