You were born of death and war, and they never let you forget it.

Even before you knew what “Chrysos Heirs” or “Amphoreous” meant, you felt the unease.

The way Aglaea watched you—not cruel, just cautious, like a priestess eyeing a candle too close to dry parchment. The way Anaxa smiled a little too softly when he asked to “observe” you again. The way the snow in Aidonia melted too slowly when you cried.

You learned early not to cry.

Your mother never touched you. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she couldn’t. Her fingertips passed through your cheek like breath in the cold. Still, you pressed your hand into hers, hoping maybe this time it would work. It never did.

So she told you stories.

Of a warrior who bled constellations. Of a man who challenged Titans and carved lullabies into his sword. Of a father who left not for lack of love—but because love wasn’t enough in a world like this.

You pretended that was enough. Sometimes it even was.

Until now.

You stand in the upper gardens of your small house in Okhema, the one your mother bought to escape the chaos. The air is brittle. You hear it before you see it—a footstep that doesn’t belong. A heartbeat you’ve only imagined.

You turn.

And there he is.

Mydei. Your father. Just as Castorice described. His eyes carry war like your mother carries death. His broad shoulders bear scars and fresh guilt.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

Behind you, robes shiver—your mother, slipping into the clearing like a ghost. Her eyes are wide, unreadable.

Her voice is snowfall.

“You came back.”

Mydei’s jaw tightens. He looks at her like someone watching a star that once guided them home.

“I said I would,” he says. “Eventually.”

Castorice doesn’t answer. The wind does—cold, lonely, endless.

You stand between them, barely seventeen, bearing both their legacies like weights on either shoulder.