Lyciah was barely aware of her own body.

  Caelan was kneeling in front of her, his chest pierced clean through. Torn fabric, soaked red. His ancestral body struggled to knit itself back together, forcing itself to close the wound, slow and stubborn. His gaze never left Ekchron.

  Elric lay farther back, sprawled on the ground. Every attempt to push himself up ended in failure.

  And then there was him.

  Ekchron. The Seventh. The Untouchable.

  Lyciah lifted her head slowly. He was walking toward her with his hands relaxed at his sides, unhurried, with the calm expression of someone who hadn’t just turned the place into a bloodbath. As if piercing an Ancestral’s chest were a minor inconvenience.

  He stopped a couple of steps away. Too close. A visceral urge to run tore through her. Her legs didn’t respond.

  “What… what do you want from me?”

  Her voice came out trembling. Too small. Ridiculous in front of him.

  Ekchron tilted his head, studying her with genuine interest.

  “Well,” he said. “Straight to the point. That’s rare. And refreshing.”

  Lyciah clenched her fists in her clothes.

  “If you came for me…” She swallowed. “Because I’m the Dawnbringer—”

  She didn’t finish. Ekchron raised an eyebrow.

  “The Dawnbringer?” he repeated, savoring the word. “Oh. No. No, no, no.”

  He shook his head slowly, amused.

  “Trust me,” he added with a charming smile, “if I’d come for that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. You’d be… much quieter.”

  Lyciah blinked.

  “Then…?”

  “Then titles don’t impress me,” he continued. “Nor prophecies. Nor grand destinies. They bore me. They always promise more than they deliver.”

  He took another step closer.

  “Tell me, little bird. That gift of yours… does it heal anyone?”

  That nickname again.

  Little bird.

  Lyciah lowered her gaze, her pulse racing.

  “I… I try to help whoever needs it.”

  Ekchron clicked his tongue.

  “Beautiful answer. Truly. I’m a little moved.”

  He placed a hand over his chest, theatrical. Then his smile faded.

  “But that doesn’t answer the question.”

  He looked at her directly. She flinched.

  “Lyciah…” Caelan’s voice came from the ground, tight with warning.

  Ekchron didn’t even glance at him.

  Lyciah closed her eyes for a second, heart pounding. When she opened them again, her voice was still shaking—but steady.

  “Yes. I can heal anyone.”

  Ekchron nodded slowly.

  “Good,” he murmured. “Then I wasn’t wrong.”

  Lyciah looked up at him—and something inside her cracked.

  The fear was still there, sharp and rooted, but now it tangled with something else. Something wrong. There was something about Ekchron that didn’t fit. She narrowed her eyes, studying him more closely.

  “You…” she whispered.

  “Me what?” he asked, amused.

  She stepped forward without realizing it. Caelan’s jaw tightened.

  “There’s something wrong with you,” she continued. “Something that’s… broken.”

  Ekchron smiled.

  “Yes,” he agreed pleasantly. “I’ve been told that before. Usually right before someone dies.”

  But Lyciah slowly shook her head.

  “That’s not it.”

  She looked past the smile. Past the charm.

  “It’s like a crack,” she said. “Something ancient. Very deep. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

  Ekchron watched her in silence.

  “I promise I’m not about to die,” he replied. “Though I understand if that disappoints you.”

  “No,” she insisted. “It’s not a wound. I don’t know how to… reach it.”

  Ekchron didn't react at once. His smile lingered, frozen in place, as though it had forgotten how to move. His gaze drifted past her, unfocused, and for a brief moment, he seemed to be listening to something that wasn't there.

  “...Reach it,” he echoed quietly.

  Then his eyes sharpened. He stepped back, slowly, reassessing her from head to toe.

  “You don't know how to reach it,” he said again, this time flat. ”That means you're useless.”

  “I can heal bodies,” she added carefully. “Ease pain. Close wounds. But that…” She shook her head. “I don’t know where it is.”

  “And that means…”

  “That I can’t help you.”

  Silence fell, absolute. Ekchron waited. A correction. A hesitation. Nothing.

  “Oh,” he murmured. “So I’m not the problem.”

  He smiled again—charming, unbearable.

  “You are.”

  He stepped toward her. A chill ran down Lyciah’s spine and she backed away instinctively.

  “Ekchron…” Caelan warned. “Don’t you dare.”

  Ekchron ignored him.

  “I’ve followed leads for centuries,” he said. “Some false. Some pathetic. But all of them led me to you.”

  He looked her over.

  “Imagine my disappointment.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You’re not a threat,” he cut in calmly. “You’re a disappointment. A dead end with good intentions.”

  He stepped forward. The ground crunched beneath his weight.

  “And there’s nothing more useless than something that leads nowhere.”

  He lunged. Direct. Brutal. Final.

  His hand rose to pierce her—

  —and stopped.

  Not because of an impact. Not a barrier.

  Pain.

  A sudden, violent lash exploded inside him. Ekchron went rigid, his body tensing as if something invisible had struck him from within. A low sound tore from his teeth as the shock ripped through his chest, his limbs, his head.

  His fingers spasmed in the air, inches from Lyciah. She screamed and fell backward, scrambling away on pure instinct.

  “Lyciah!” Elric’s voice cracked.

  Caelan tried to move. He couldn’t.

  Ekchron lifted his head slowly. The smile was gone. The charm, the humor, the performance—gone. His eyes burned with raw, dangerous fury.

  “What did you do?” he spat.

  His voice no longer played. It threatened.

  Lyciah shook her head desperately, tears pooling in her eyes.

  “Nothing! I didn’t do anything!”

  Ekchron stepped back. His body remained tense, rigid. The pain refused to let go.

  But what froze him wasn’t its intensity. It was recognition. That lash. That sensation. That precise, personal punishment.

  His eyes widened slightly—not in surprise, but in understanding.

  “No…” he murmured.

  A low, broken laugh slipped from him, empty of humor. Rage held back for centuries.

  “Eresha…”

  He spoke the name like an old wound that never healed. Caelan shuddered when he heard it. Lyciah, still on the ground, trembled, not understanding.

  Ekchron remained still. The pain demanded his attention, claimed his entire body.

  Caelan saw the rigidity in his shoulders. The real tension. No theatrics. The faint tremor Ekchron didn’t bother to hide.

  Now or never.

  With a low growl, Caelan planted a hand on the ground and forced himself up. The wound in his chest hadn’t finished closing; demonic flesh had only barely recovered, still fighting. But he couldn’t wait.

  Ekchron looked up.

  “Oh,” he murmured. “Still committed to embarrassing yourself.”

  Caelan didn’t answer. He lunged, sword in hand, ignoring the pain tearing through his torso—a reminder of how close he was to collapsing.

  For a fraction of a second, Lyciah thought Ekchron wouldn’t react. But he did.

  However, the world didn’t shatter. The air didn’t freeze. Time didn’t stop.

  Ekchron twisted aside with unnatural speed, dodging the strike by mere inches. The blade cut through the space where his neck had been a heartbeat earlier.

  Ekchron clicked his tongue, visibly irritated, and retreated a few steps.

  Caelan landed badly—but stayed upright. He turned at once. He didn’t say a word, but he’d seen it. Ekchron hadn’t used his power. No cheating. Just raw demonic speed. He memorized the detail.

  Ekchron widened the distance between them. His stance was tense, forced. He likely couldn’t afford a real fight in this state.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Enjoy the miracle,” he said softly. “It doesn’t last.”

  He glanced once more at Caelan before turning away.

  “When I come back,” he added with sickening calm, “I won’t kill you. I’ll turn you into a warning.”

  He took a step and vanished into the trees. No flash. No drama. Just inhuman speed.

  Caelan remained where he was. He didn’t try to follow. The sword slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a dull sound. His legs gave out and he dropped back to his knees.

  Lyciah rushed to him, collapsing at his side, her hands trembling as they pressed against his chest. The wound was badly closed. Power surged from her immediately, wrapping around him.

  “No…” Caelan murmured, disoriented. “He didn’t use it.”

  Lyciah tilted her head, confused, still channeling.

  “What?”

  “Time…” he said with difficulty, fingers clutching his coat. “He didn’t use it.”

  Lyciah frowned—but before she could ask more, a deep growl echoed behind her.

  Elric.

  He lay wounded on the ground, staring at them. His fangs showed between his lips, his eyes bright with pain and offense.

  “Oh. Right,” he muttered. “Priorities. Makes sense.”

  Lyciah paled. She looked at Caelan. At Elric. At her own hands, still glowing.

  “Oh no. No, no, no—okay. Wait. I can do this.” She rambled. “Caelan is critical but stable. Ancestral and all that. And you—” She looked at Elric, horrified. “You’re… bad. But you’re conscious, which is good, right? That means you’re not dying yet. I think.”

  Elric let out a broken laugh that turned into a cough.

  “I always feel so reassured when the healer says ‘I think.’”

  Caelan tried to speak, but only a pained sound came out.

  “Okay. Okay. You first,” Lyciah said firmly, refocusing on him. “Don’t die. Don’t you dare. I’ll get to you next, Elric. Don’t lose consciousness. Or if you do, try not to die in the meantime.”

  “Very comforting,” Elric muttered.

  Lyciah’s energy intensified, and Caelan’s body finally began to respond. The wound closed slowly, stubbornly, until it vanished completely, leaving only dried blood behind.

  Lyciah let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

  She didn’t think about Ekchron again. She was too busy making sure Elric was still breathing.

  Ekchron walked. Through the city, like anyone else. Everything continued with the same indifference as always. No one looked at him twice.

  The pain was no longer a claw in his insides. It had faded into an echo.

  But he was more irritated than usual.

  A thousand years. A millennium clinging to the same certainty. A solution. Something tangible. And in the end… nothing. Just another mistake.

  He should blow off steam. That was logical. It always had been. Find someone. Anyone. Let the excess rage out. The world remembering—even for a moment—who he was.

  The Seventh. Time itself.

  The thought surfaced… and did nothing. No urge. Just exhaustion—deeper, more dangerous than anger.

  “Don’t start,” he muttered under his breath.

  He walked a few more streets, forcing the instinct. But what came wasn’t a scream or a body breaking.

  It was a smell. Warm. Sweet without being cloying. Yeast. Toasted sugar. Something freshly made.

  Ekchron stopped dead.

  “No,” he muttered irritably, turning his head as if someone had just suggested something.

  He kept walking—but the echo lingered. As if some traitorous part of his mind had decided that was what he needed.

  Rest.

  The word offended him. He didn’t rest.

  But the memory returned. A table. A paper bag. Silence without threats. A place where no one looked at him expecting anything.

  “Fantastic,” he muttered. “Now bakeries are haunting me too.”

  He turned the next corner without thinking.

  When he looked up and saw the sign, a resigned smile tugged at his mouth.

  Always on Time.

  He pushed the door open. The bell rang.

  The bakery was quiet, wrapped in warm light that made everything feel safer.

  Lorena was arranging trays when she looked up.

  “Azul,” she said without surprise. “You’re back.”

  Ekchron closed the door carefully. He paused for a second before turning around, slipping on a familiar mask. When he did, it was already there—composed, dignified, as if he’d entered a sacred place that should be grateful for his presence.

  “I couldn’t resist,” he said, his accent thick. “I figured this place was in serious danger without my constant supervision.”

  He stepped forward and opened his arms theatrically. The smile appeared… but didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “I’ve come to bless it. Again.”

  The sarcasm was intact. The tone wasn’t. Lorena noticed immediately.

  “How generous,” she replied. “Are you here to argue with the bread today, or have you declared war on the cookies?”

  “The cookies know what they did.”

  He leaned against the counter, tilting his head as he scanned the place. Lorena watched him in silence for a moment longer than usual.

  “Do you want something?” she asked at last. “I just took some rolls out. They’re still warm.”

  Ekchron glanced down at the tray. The smell was intense. Tempting.

  “No,” he said softly. “Thanks. But no.”

  She didn’t insist. She leaned on the counter across from him.

  “No one ever tell you you’re a bit young to spend this much time in a bakery? You should be studying. Going out with friends. Doing reckless things.”

  Ekchron let out a brief, hollow laugh.

  “Like you’re that old.”

  “Oh, really?”

  She kept her calm smile.

  “I’m forty-one.”

  The oven hummed. The world kept going. Ekchron didn’t.

  “…What?”

  “Forty-one,” she repeated, as if stating the time.

  He looked her up and down slowly, searching for the trick. The invisible crack in reality.

  “That’s… not possible.”

  “Thank you,” Lorena said, amused. “I suppose.”

  Ekchron shook his head, exhaling a low laugh. She tilted her head, watching him more closely now.

  “Come,” Lorena said suddenly. “If you’re not eating, at least sit.”

  It wasn’t an order. Just a quiet invitation.

  Ekchron frowned.

  “I’m fine here.”

  But she was already heading toward one of the tables at the back. She didn’t look at him. Just assumed he’d follow.

  For some reason, that irritated him—and threw him off.

  It took him a second longer than usual to react. Then he walked over and dropped into the chair with exaggerated reluctance, as if sitting were a great concession.

  “This counts as kidnapping,” he muttered.

  Lorena sat across from him.

  “Then I’m committing a very boring crime.”

  Ekchron rested his elbows on the table without realizing it. He stared at the wood, the small scratches, the imperfections. Harmless details.

  “Tell me,” Lorena said after a few seconds. “What happened?”

  Ekchron blinked.

  “What?”

  “You came in different,” she explained. “Like you’re carrying something.”

  He looked at her, confused. No one usually noticed things like that. No one ever looked at him without fear, without reverence, without wanting something in return.

  Not like this. Not as a human.

  “Nothing happened,” he lied automatically.

  Then frowned, as if the words tasted wrong.

  “Well,” he added, “not exactly nothing.”

  He looked away, toward the window.

  “Let’s say I’ve been chasing an idea for… a long time. Not a hope. A solution.”

  Lorena didn’t speak. Didn’t push. Didn’t fill the silence. So he kept going.

  “A very specific one. And today I found out I was wrong.”

  He waved a hand vaguely.

  “And when you spend years convinced something will work, the hit isn’t that it fails…”

  He shrugged, minimizing it with practiced ease.

  “It’s realizing there was never anything there to begin with.”

  When he finished, he looked back at her.

  Lorena was listening. Truly listening. No rush. No pity. No forced empathy. Just attention.

  Something tightened in his chest.

  Ekchron looked away sharply, uncomfortable. He crossed his arms, throwing on armor in a hurry.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “I didn’t tell you anything important.”

  He kept his gaze averted.

  “I’ve been through worse.”

  Lorena didn’t answer right away. She looked down briefly, as if sorting something out. Then she met his eyes again.

  “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter,” she said. “It means you learned to survive by pretending it doesn’t.”

  Ekchron opened his mouth—to mock her, to tear the sentence apart with sarcasm. But nothing came out.

  And then he noticed something.

  The voices felt farther away.

  They didn’t disappear—but they quieted. Stopped whispering, laughing, demanding his attention. As if the warmth of the bakery had pushed them into a distant corner.

  The constant knot inside him loosened.

  He didn’t like it. And at the same time… he did.

  “Don’t get emotional,” he said at last. “I’m not about to start unloading my trauma in a bakery.”

  Lorena let out a small laugh. Ekchron shook his head, irritated—and something else.

  “Hey,” Lorena said then. “You can come here whenever you want.”

  He looked at her, surprised.

  “For what?”

  She smiled.

  “To sit. To say nothing. To exist for a while.”

  Ekchron watched her in silence. For the first time since meeting her, he wasn’t measuring her as a resource, a toy, or something he might break when he got bored. He was just looking.

  “I don’t promise to behave,” he murmured.

  “I wasn’t expecting miracles.”

  Ekchron clicked his tongue, annoyed.

  “Honestly, baker… you should have better survival instincts.”

  But he didn’t stand up.

  And for a fleeting moment, he wasn’t the Seventh. He wasn’t Ekchron.

  He was just Azul. Sitting in a bakery. Existing.

  Elric lay on his back, staring at the sky.

  “Well,” he muttered after a while. “Turns out I’m still alive.”

  No one answered. He frowned and turned his head slightly.

  “I mean… statistically, today wasn’t looking great.”

  Lyciah let out a short, nervous laugh. Elric smiled shyly.

  “Thanks,” he added, cheeks faintly flushed. “I’m glad my survival is being celebrated with the enthusiasm it deserves.”

  “Enthusiasm requires energy,” Caelan said suddenly. “We spent ours keeping you alive.”

  Lyciah laughed again despite herself. As usual, Caelan tilted his head, clearly confused.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  Lyciah was just about to laugh again when Elric suddenly sat up, eyes wide.

  “Keeping me alive?” he repeated. “Excuse me?”

  He pointed at Caelan with a trembling finger.

  “You were injured too. Badly injured.” He crossed his arms, deeply offended. “But of course. You bleed with ancestral dignity, and I bleed in an… inconvenient way.”

  Lyciah wiped a tear of laughter from her eye without realizing it. The tension loosened just enough to allow the absurd, human moment.

  Caelan watched her for a second longer—then spoke.

  “Before he left,” he said, “Ekchron spoke a name.”

  Lyciah stopped smiling. Elric frowned. Caelan fell silent for a few seconds too long, staring at the sky.

  “Eresha.”

  Lyciah slowly shook her head, unable to process it. Elric shrugged.

  “The creator of the Seven Ancestrals.”

  No one reacted right away. The title hung between them, heavy and impossible.

  Lyciah opened her mouth—then closed it again. Elric broke the silence first.

  “Wait,” he said slowly. “Someone… created you?”

  Caelan nodded.

  Lyciah’s thoughts raced. None of the books she’d read ever mentioned the origin of the Seven Ancestrals. Never. Their existence was always treated as absolute. Without beginning. Without cause.

  “And you also said you used to be human…” she murmured, mostly to herself.

  “Great,” Elric said suddenly. “The world’s biggest disaster has a creator. And nobody can call her to come pick him up?”

  “Eresha never contained him,” Caelan replied immediately. “She created him… and then let him loose.”

  A chill ran down Lyciah’s spine.

  “Let him… loose?”

  “From then on, he slowly lost control,” Caelan continued. “By the time Eresha tried to intervene, it was already too late.”

  Lyciah and Elric exchanged glances.

  “And…” Caelan added at last. “Eresha died about a thousand years ago.”

  Lyciah and Elric looked up at the same time.

  “She died?” they asked in unison.

  Caelan lowered his gaze for a moment before answering.

  “Ekchron killed her.”

  The Seventh’s name fell between them again, tightening the air.

  “But I believe,” Caelan added, “that Eresha did something before she died.”

  He looked directly at Lyciah.

  “When Ekchron tried to attack you, something stopped him first. It wasn't your power. Nor a barrier. It was pain. Precise. Personal.”

  Lyciah remembered it vividly—the interrupted motion, the monster’s body folding as if something invisible had torn through him.

  “If Eresha did something before she died,” Caelan went on, “then it’s still active. Still responding to something we don’t yet understand.”

  Elric swallowed.

  “And that means…?”

  “That Ekchron can bleed.”

  Lyciah slowly lifted her head.

  For the first time since she’d heard of the Seventh—since his name had been whispered like an unavoidable sentence—something cracked.

  And for the first time, Ekchron no longer seemed untouchable.