Lucon’s heart still hammered from the brush with annihilation, but his mind—his wastrel’s mind—was already working.

  He’d been here before.

  Not here, surrounded by the corpses of wolves and men with a divine monster breathing down his neck—but close enough.

  He thought back to the noble halls and courtyards of his wastrel days, to the parties that ran past dawn, the endless flow of wine and laughter thick with falsity. Nobles who gambled fortunes for sport, who treated coin and people alike as trinkets to be toyed with. The arrogant ones had always been the same—domineering, fickle, hungry for attention but quick to rage if slighted.

  Lucon had learned how to handle them. Smile when they were cruel. Laugh when they boasted. And, when their tempers threatened to boil over, steer them back toward their vanity. Feed it. Let them think themselves clever, grand, untouchable.

  He’d experienced such turbulent waters before—he himself had been the same way before his life crashed and burned.

  Lucon inhaled slowly, steadying his voice as he returned to the moment—the Celestari and his power to kill them with just a wave of his hand.

  He bowed low, keeping his tone smooth and deferential. “My deepest apologies, great one, for our rude interruption of your…drinking. It was unthinkable of us to intrude upon your enjoyment.”

  The Celestari blinked, momentarily distracted. Then he scoffed, “Bah! Enjoyment?” His eyes drifting to the golden jar still by the Mana Alpha. “I am merely drinking to forget..."

  He trailed off, his gaze growing distant and troubled.

  The shift in his expression was subtle, but Lucon saw it—the flicker of pain beneath the arrogance, the melancholy returning to his starlight eyes.

  Lucon’s attention focused again to the halo. The cracks. The missing pieces. The dim light. And in that instant, understanding clicked into place like a key in a latch.

  It had been recent, Lucon realized. He’s recently Fallen.

  The sight stirred an unexpected pity in him, though the blood of his father’s men still wetting the floor sobered him.

  An idea formed.

  He softened his voice. “If I may be so bold...drinking in solitude is never a good idea. The sorrow only swirls inside, finding no way out. It only makes the heart heavier.”

  The Celestari’s head turned sharply toward him, his expression one of utter incredulity.

  "Do you dare," he whispered, the air crackling, "to think yourself worthy to drink with me?"

  Lucon immediately threw himself down, bowing low enough that his forehead struck the stone. “Of course not! Never! I am far beneath such an honor!”

  The Celestari exhaled through his nose, though his posture eased a fraction, a look of appreciation to Lucon’s prostrating. “At least you know how to show proper respect.”

  “Of course!” Lucon cried, daring a glance upward. “I would never presume to sit across from a being whose beauty, whose power, whose majesty defies mortal comprehension!”

  The Celestari frowned faintly. “Your flattery grows stale.”

  The expression on the his face said otherwise. There was the faintest hint of satisfaction in the curve of his lips, a faint upward twitch he clearly thought no one noticed.

  Lucon pressed on. “I would never dare to sit as an equal before you, but…”—he swallowed, heart pounding—“I humbly ask permission to serve you instead. To pour your drink. Should any of those spinning sorrows happen to be alleviated from you, it would not be to an equal, but merely to a servant unworthy of your notice.”

  The Celestari tilted his head, uncertain.

  Lucon reached into his belt pouch and drew out a small golden chalice—the one he always carried. It hadn’t held alcohol since the day he’d sworn to his family he’d quit drinking, after failing to become a monk.

  He held it out in unsteady hands. “If it pleases the great Celestari, may I serve you?”

  For a moment, silence hung heavy. Then the fallen divine gave a quiet sigh. “All this talk of drinking…It’s sobering me up. I need to return to it. Fine. You will serve me with this cup, despite your lacking existence.”

  Lucon dared to exhale in relief—until the Celestari’s gaze swept past him to the soldiers. His starlit eyes narrowed.

  “I don’t like crowds,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

  Lucon’s blood ran cold. Oh no.

  Panic seized him. His gambit had only bought time for himself. The lives of every other man here were still hanging by a thread.

  He forced a laugh—a hollow, panicked sound that echoed too loudly off the cavern walls. He waved a hand dismissively at the soldiers almost theatrically.

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  “Did you hear that?” he said, his voice a shade too bright. “You’re boring! Get lost, all of you! Can’t you see you’re ruining the mood?”

  He strode over to them, his back deliberately blocking the Celestari’s view of his face, which was a mask of frantic pleading. He kicked at the ground, sending a puff of dust toward them.

  “Can’t you see the elegant and dignified Celestari is busy? Go, go, before you sour the air further!”

  The men hesitated.

  “Move, damn you! Out of my sight! Must I fetch a whip to drive you out myself?”

  Kaeson sensed the desperation in Lucon. Understanding dawned in his eyes.

  “Enough,” Kaeson barked suddenly, straightening as if embarrassed by his own presence. “We’ve interrupted long enough. The Celestari deserves his peace.”

  He motioned for the others to follow.

  Mavor did not go with them. He instead took a step closer to Lucon, leaned in and whispered low, his voice dutiful. “I will not leave without you, Young Lord. It is my sworn duty to protect the Edelyn bloodline—no matter the cost.”

  Lucon’s heart twisted. “I know,” he whispered back. “I know, Captain.”

  Then he struck.

  [Flash Strike]

  His fist blitzed up—a monk’s unarmed technique. The blow landed squarely on the side of Mavor’s jaw, a burst of holy-augmented light sparking from the impact. The Guard Captain’s eyes went wide, then rolled back as his massive form slumped unconscious to the stone floor.

  “Get him out of here,” Lucon whispered to Kaeson, who stared in shock for a split second before nodding grimly. He hefted Mavor’s unconscious form over his shoulder. As he turned to follow the retreating men, Kaeson paused, his voice barely a breath. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Young Lord.”

  Lucon didn’t. He turned back to face his fate, his sweat soaking his clothes through.

  The Celestari was already lounging back against the dead furry Mana Alpha, arms crossed. His strange eyes fixed on Lucon, and a wave of pressure slammed into him, forcing his knees to buckle.

  “I’m waiting, human.”

  [Swift Missionary]

  Holy light flared along Lucon’s frame, quickening his movement. He shot forward, propelled by the speed-enhancing holy magic. He slid the last few feet, down on his knees and bowing his head to the stone when he came to a stop.

  “A thousand apologies for my unforgivable slowness, great one!”

  The Celestari waved a hand, the pressure vanishing. “Enough groveling. You promised to serve.”

  “Yes! Of course!” Lucon scrambled toward the golden jar, a glow shining inside like molten sunlight.

  “You are…well trained in flattery,” the Celestari murmured. “I would be lying if I said it didn’t please me.”

  Lucon forced a nervous smile. “I only speak the truth, my lord.”

  He gripped the jar—and nearly fell forward. It was heavy, impossibly so, as if the liquid within were made of iron.

  Holy light began to bloom around him again.

  [Protect the Weak]

  The strengthening blessing. It wasn’t much, but it lent him enough power to tilt the jar, trembling, and pour.

  The golden substance oozed thickly into his chalice, a syrup that shimmered with light as it flowed. The cup nearly floored him from its sheer weight. His arms burned with strain.

  The Celestari’s eyes flickered with interest, catching the golden glow of Lucon’s power. “That light you wield…we share a kinship of sorts. It is a pale, diluted echo, but it is related to the divine power of my home.”

  “I…I can never compare to your magnificence, oh great and powerful Celestari!” Lucon said through clenched teeth as he struggled to keep the cup steady.

  That earned him something rare—a genuine laugh. A sound that was surprisingly musical. “Your flattery is a true treat! I needed to hear something good after Nimbor—” He cut himself off, his expression darkening once more, the brief levity evaporating.

  Lucon’s watched him briefly. He knew the Celestari was about to mention Nimbora, possibly reason behind his expulsion from there. He lifted the chalice with both hands, glowing with holy strength, his arms shaking.

  “Your drink, my lord,” he offered.

  The Celestari took the cup from him easily as if it were filled with air. Just before the divine could bring it to his lips, Lucon, acting on an old habit from consoling drunken, despondent nobles, blurted out a hopeful toast.

  “To…to new and fruitful beginnings.”

  The air solidified. The pressure returned, a physical wall slamming into Lucon, driving the breath from his lungs and threatening to crush him into the stone. The Celestari’s starlit eyes narrowed into furious slits.

  You fool! Lucon cursed himself, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s a fallen divine, not a heartbroken Young Lord! Why did you open your stupid mouth?!

  But just as suddenly as it came, the pressure vanished.

  Herephyn chuckled—softly at first, then with growing warmth.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “To new beginnings. This isn’t a time to be dour.” He straightened, his expression shifting from fury to pride, his presence filling the cavern like a rising sun. “After all, I am still Herephyn—mightiest of the Celestari!”

  He threw back his head and drank deeply, the golden liquor pouring down his throat. The glow in his eyes brightened with every swallow. When the cup was empty, he exhaled in satisfaction, the sound like a breeze after a storm.

  “To new beginnings…” he repeated softly, almost to himself.

  Then he raised his hand upward.

  The air grew heavy once more. A nimbus of pure, blindingly white divine light enveloped his arm. With a soundless, effortless release of power, a massive section of the cavern roof—the size of a manor house—became debris and dust.

  Sunlight, bright and true, poured into the chamber, illuminating the carnage and the crystals in stark, beautiful relief.

  Lucon stumbled, falling to one knee as the radiant force swept over him, his eyes wide in awe. The Celestari’s power was unimaginable—godlike.

  Herephyn tilted his head back, closing his eyes as the sunlight fell over him. His white hair shimmered like spun silver, and for the first time since Lucon had seen him, he looked almost at peace.

  Then, with a faint noise of amusement, he glanced to the side.

  Lucon was once again straining with holy light to tip the golden jar for a refill, ready to please. The Celestari smirked.

  “Your actions amuse me,” Herephyn said, his voice languid. “You speak so well too. And here I had planned to obliterate you along with the insects waiting outside since I abhor your kind.”

  Lucon’s blood ran cold, but he kept pouring, his hands steady only through immense force of will.

  “But,” Herephyn continued, taking the freshly filled chalice, “you have convinced me otherwise.”

  “I am… eternally grateful, heavenly one,” Lucon forced out, bowing his head. Inwardly, his thoughts were turbulent.

  You maniac! He thought. You think of killing us all as easily as swatting flies?!

  Herephyn drank again, and this time his sigh was followed by a genuine, relaxed smile. “I have a good feeling about you, mortal.”

  “I am not worthy of such regard,” Lucon recited automatically in a courtly response.

  “Precisely. Which is why you would make a fine servant,” Herephyn stated, as if it were the most logical conclusion in the world.

  Lucon blanched, his heart seizing in his chest. “A…servant?”

  “Do not worry. I will not mistreat you.” Herephyn raised a single, elegant finger. A complex, burning glyph of white light—unrecognizable and pulsing with divine energy—appeared at its tip. He brought it slowly toward Lucon’s forehead.

  Lucon’s pulse thundered in his ears. His mind raced, searching desperately for some way out, some excuse—any excuse. But before he could form a word, Herephyn’s glowing finger pressed against his forehead.

  An overwhelming presence flooded into him.