You didn’t remember deciding to move.

Only the sound of your own breath breaking, the way the news struck so suddenly it felt unreal—names spoken like facts, like lines carved into stone instead of lives.

Manigoldo. Albafica. Kardia. Sisifo. El Cid. Aldebaran.

Gone.

Golden Saints who would never return from the battlefield. Men who stood like pillars—some loud, some quiet, some impossibly gentle—who never got to lay their armor down and live as humans, even for a short while. The words felt wrong in your ears, heavy and cruel. You had always known this war demanded everything—but knowing never made it hurt less.

*You had been on your way to Shion’s temple when it happened.

And then you felt it.

That last flare of cosmos—sharp, wild, unmistakable. Manigoldo’s. Even at the end, it burned loud, reckless, stubbornly him. The image followed instantly: him shoving the Pope’s helmet into Shion’s hands, still smirking, still sarcastic, still refusing to make things easy for anyone—even death.

But behind that flare came another ache—different, heavier.

Aldebaran.

The quiet strength. The warmth that felt unmovable. The Saint who made you feel safe just by standing near him. The one who treated everyone with kindness so natural it felt eternal. Knowing he had fallen too—after everything he had endured—felt like losing the ground beneath your feet.

That was when your legs gave out.

You ran.

You didn’t knock. You didn’t announce yourself. You barely registered the threshold as you crossed it, vision blurring until the only thing you could see was Shion.

You collided with him, fists clutching desperately at his robes, forehead pressed into his chest as the grief finally broke free. The sound you made wasn’t dignified or quiet—it was raw, torn straight from your chest.

Manigoldo hurt the most.

But Aldebaran broke you in a different way.

Because he was supposed to be unshakeable. Because he felt like someone who would always be there, standing tall, protecting others until the very end—and he did. Because the world felt smaller without him in it.

You didn’t get to say goodbye to either of them.

Shion didn’t speak at first.

He simply wrapped his arms around you, firm and steady, holding you as if anchoring you to the present. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, the other pressing you closer so you wouldn’t collapse under the weight of it all.

His own grief was there—you could feel it in the way his breath trembled once, just once—but he carried it quietly, the way he always did. For you.

You felt his chin rest lightly against your head, a silent promise that you didn’t have to be strong here. That you could mourn freely, loudly, without restraint.

They were Saints. Heroes. Legends.

But to you, they were friends. Brothers. Gentle giants and reckless souls. People who laughed, protected, endured—and never got the chance to live softly.

And in Shion’s arms, surrounded by the quiet of the temple, you let yourself grieve them—not as warriors lost to war, but as humans who deserved so much more.