Creation Of All Things

Ostarius – The Heart That Waited

The wind pulled gently at their cloaks as the portal snapped open behind them, crackling once before fading into silence. The Rift was behind them now—fractured, echoing, no longer screaming. The fight was over.

For now.

Adam, Joshua, and Aurora stepped through the veil and into Ostarius.

And the world changed.

The moment their feet touched the ancient stone floor, the air shifted. Warm. Familiar. No pressure. No gods whispering in the corners of space. Just light—soft and gold, spilling through wide windows that lined the sky-carved citadel.

Laughter echoed from somewhere deeper inside.

Joshua raised an eyebrow.

Adam sighed, slowly easing off his cloak. "They're throwing a feast."

Aurora tilted her head. "How do you know?"

Adam smirked. "Because I smell something that wasn't cooked by any of us."

They stepped through the main hall—arched and wide, the walls marked with runes that pulsed faintly in their presence. Torches flared to life as they passed. Their boots echoed in rhythm with the quiet hum of distant voices.

Joshua muttered, "If I see one banner with my name on it—"

"You'll smile and eat," Adam cut in.

Aurora smiled faintly. "We all need it."

They reached the central gate, and it swung open before them—not with force, not with magic. It opened because it wanted to. Because Ostarius knew its own.

The scent of roasted meat and spice flooded out to greet them.

Laughter grew louder.

Voices rose, then fell.

Inside—warmth.

A long table stretched across the grand chamber, lined with dishes and pitchers, candles and laughter. Everyone was already seated.

And as the trio walked in, the noise died for just a second.

Then erupted in cheers.

Chairs scraped back. Smiles broke free.

Arms reached out. Words stumbled over joy.

Adam didn't say anything at first.

He just looked around.

There they were—all of them.

Safe.

Laughing.

Whole.

Joshua chuckled under his breath. "Guess you were right. They did prepare something."

Aurora leaned into him with a soft smile. "You're still bleeding, you know."

"I'm bleeding for flavor."

That earned a laugh from someone at the table.

At the far end, a chair scraped as one figure stood and held out a large plate. The food stacked on it defied architecture.

Adam sighed again. "Vael. Of course."

Joshua shook his head. "You invited Vael to cook?"

"I didn't invite him," Veyrion said. "I mentioned hunger and existence in the same sentence. That's all it takes."

They moved through the crowd, weaving between greetings, half-hugs, shoulder taps. Everyone wanted to say something. Nobody wanted to interrupt the moment.

Adam paused beside the table. His eyes scanned the spread.

Bread baked in cosmic flame.

Soup laced with starfruit and herbs that didn't grow on any known continent.

Roasted beast from a realm none of them remembered leaving alive.

There was even something that looked like cake—but blinked when Joshua stared at it too long.

Adam raised an eyebrow at the blinking slice.

Vael appeared at his elbow, grinning. "It's friendly."

Adam shook his head. "You've been inside my pantry again, haven't you?"

"I would never—" Vael began.

"Yes, you did."

"Fair," Vael admitted. "But it was for the greater good."

Joshua muttered, "That cake's looking at me again."

Aurora sat first.

She didn't say anything.

She just sank into the seat and closed her eyes for a second.

Peace wasn't loud.

It didn't announce itself.

It just settled.

Adam sat beside her, shoulders relaxing for the first time in days. He glanced around the table. No grand speeches. No toasts. Just clinking utensils and laughter building again.

Joshua, for once, didn't complain.

He sat across from them, grabbed a plate, and stabbed something that may or may not have still been breathing.

"Whatever this is," he said, "it tastes like victory."

Aurora blinked. "How does victory taste?"

"Like too much salt and not enough guilt," he replied.

More laughter.

More food.

Outside, Ostarius stood still beneath a calm sky. No storms. No rips in reality.

Just the gentle glow of distant stars, and the quiet beat of something older than war—belonging.

Inside, as the feast stretched on, stories began.

They were exaggerated.

Twisted.

Ridiculous.

Nobody cared.

Joshua mimed getting flung across ten dimensions. Adam shook his head, correcting him, saying it was only seven. Aurora claimed credit for three impossible kills. Someone else swore they saw the Spiral cry.

And somewhere in the middle of it all—

Adam looked around again.

Not for danger.

Not for prophecy.

But to see them.

The ones he fought for.

The ones who stayed.

His people.

His home.

He caught Aurora's eyes. She smiled, tired but still burning.

Across the table, Joshua raised his glass. Not to make a point.

Just to drink.

And Adam leaned back, exhaling.

No visions.

No voices.

No weight.

Just food.

Laughter.

And the quiet breath of a moment earned.

They didn't know what would come next.

But for now?

This was enough.

The feast slowed as the stars climbed higher. Laughter dimmed into soft conversation, and plates once full now held only crumbs and stories.

Adam stood quietly, untouched wine in hand, his gaze drifting toward the high archways at the back of the hall—toward the cliffside balcony where the moonlight danced.

Aurora caught his glance.

No words.

Just the look.

She stood slowly and followed as he slipped out of the hall, boots light against stone, cloak trailing like shadow behind flame.

They walked in silence down the corridor, lanterns lighting up one by one as they passed. Ostarius seemed to know where they were going. It always did.

When they reached the balcony, the wind greeted them first—soft, cool, threading through Aurora's hair. Below them, the world stretched wide. Valleys. Rivers. The threads of stars weaving through the sky like silk.

Adam stopped at the edge.

Hands in his pockets.

Aurora stepped beside him, close enough to hear his breath.

"This view never gets old," she said quietly.

"It's not the view," Adam said, eyes still forward. "It's who's in it."

She turned to him, brows raised. "You're being poetic now?"

"I'm being honest."

He faced her fully.

The wind stilled.

Aurora watched him—studying the way his eyes softened, how the usual storm behind them was still. Just for her.

He reached into his coat slowly. Pulled out a small, silver thread-like band—simple. No gem. Just something forged from starlight and silence.

She blinked.

"Adam…"

"I don't want peace without you," he said, voice low but steady. "I don't want victories where you're not there to make fun of my bad ideas. I don't want a world saved… if it means losing the one person who makes it feel worth saving."

She didn't speak.

She just looked at him.

And the stars pulsed overhead—quiet witnesses.

"I love you," he said. "I have for a long time. I'm done hiding it behind war and survival. So if you'll let me… I want to make this forever. Not fate. Not prophecy. Just… choice."

He held the ring out.

The silence between them stretched—long, warm.

Then Aurora stepped forward.

She didn't take the ring.

Not yet.

Instead, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him in, forehead resting against his.

"I would've said yes before you even asked," she whispered.

He smiled, finally, and slipped the ring onto her finger.

It shimmered briefly—then settled. A perfect fit.

They stood there for a long moment, wrapped in starlight and wind, two silhouettes carved into the sky.

And above them—

The moon glowed brighter.

As if blessing something even the gods had no say in.