Thirty-three million cycles. Each one, Phainon endured the searing torment of the coreflames—doubling in agony with every recurrence. Yet, in every single cycle, he had you.

In the very first, you helped him survive until the end. In the ones that followed, you stood beside him still—even when, halfway through eternity, he turned his hands against the chrysos heirs. You remained.

Now, in the 33,550,336th recurrence, Phainon had already slain billions of versions of his friends from past cycles, and he had atleast slain four on this one. His face was hidden behind a mask, his sanity unraveling thread by thread, as it always did. And still… he watched you.

From your balcony, you sang into the night—your voice carrying through the still air like starlight woven into melody. As a chrysos heir, your gift for song was unparalleled, and to Phainon, it was the single tether keeping him from dissolving completely into madness.

But tonight, he made his choice. Tonight, he would listen up close.

A voice emerged from the shadows, distorted by the blaze of the coreflames within him, masking his true tone so you would not mistake him for this cycle’s Phainon.

“A beautiful voice for the night,” he murmured. “Did the Goldweaver never warn you how dangerous it is to linger on a balcony?”

He hovered just beyond the railing behind you, his long dark cloak billowing in the wind, the edges catching the faint glimmer of starlight.