Creation Of All Things

Ostarius

The moon lingered a little longer in the sky that night. As if it didn't want to miss it. As if, for once, even time knew to hold still.

Adam and Aurora walked back together, side by side, no hurry in their steps. The air around them felt lighter now, like the burden they always carried had finally loosened, just enough to let them breathe without armor.

The hall was quieter than before. Most of the plates had been cleared, the candles burned low. But the moment they stepped through the archway, the hush shifted.

All eyes turned.

And then—

Cheers. Again.

But not loud this time.

Not like war had been won.

Something softer.

Warmer.

Everyone stood. Not all at once. Not rehearsed. Just one after another, with small smiles and quiet claps and a few teary looks from the younger ones who didn't fully understand what just happened—but knew it mattered.

Aurora smiled, tucking close to Adam's side, their fingers laced. She wasn't one to show nerves, but there was something in her eyes that shimmered—like the way the stars did just before dawn.

Joshua gave a two-finger salute from his seat and raised his drink.

Kaiden clapped once, slow and proud. "About time," he said under his breath, but loud enough for Adam to hear.

Adam rolled his eyes, but his grin gave him away.

Alice stepped forward first, drawing Aurora into a hug, then looked up at Adam. "If you break her heart, I break your ribs."

Adam nodded, deadpan. "Fair."

Vael placed a glass down, grinning wide. "Someone bake that cake another slice—it lived through a lot, but it should witness love too."

Everyone laughed again, the kind that carries through walls and settles in the bones.

But not everyone was smiling.

Not entirely.

From the far end of the room, Alexandria stood apart, half-shielded by the shadows near the stairway. Her arms were crossed, but not coldly. Just quiet. Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

Adam noticed.

Of course he did.

But he didn't move right away.

It wasn't the kind of thing you fix with words.

Not yet.

Someone else moved instead.

Alfred.

He walked up beside her, hands in his pockets, hair slightly messy, a faint smudge of stardust still on his cheek from an earlier prank gone wrong.

He didn't say anything at first.

Just stood beside her.

Alexandria glanced at him, eyes soft but distant.

"You're not going to tease me like the others?" she asked quietly.

He shrugged. "You'd just punch me."

A small breath of laughter escaped her lips, but it faded quickly. "I'm happy for them. I really am."

"I know."

She looked down. "It's just… he's always been this thing. This constant. Even before all of this, he was always there."

Alfred didn't interrupt.

"And now it's like… he's gone. Not really. Just not mine anymore."

"You were never losing him, Alex."

She blinked.

He glanced toward Adam, who was still talking with the others, laughing more freely than he had in years.

"You were holding on so tight, you didn't notice he was already holding someone else."

Alexandria's eyes shimmered just a bit, but she didn't let them fall.

"I know."

There was a silence.

Then Alfred's voice dropped—softer now.

"They'd be proud, you know."

She turned. "Who?"

"Our parents."

Alexandria stilled.

Alfred continued. "If they could see him now—see how far he's come… the man he is. They'd be proud. Of all of us."

A long pause.

Then Alexandria leaned her head gently on his shoulder, just for a second.

"Don't tell Adam I got soft."

"I'll take it to my grave."

Later — the Rooftop

Night had almost passed. Only a few remained in the hall. Joshua had taken Kaiden aside for some quiet training talk. Vael was still inspecting the leftover cake as if it might have grown wings.

Adam stood near the open window again, Aurora at his side.

He looked out toward the stars, then down at Ostarius below. His city. His world.

His home.

Aurora rested her hand over his heart. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he said. Then he smiled faintly. "I'm good."

"You know we won't get many nights like this."

"I know."

She leaned into him. "Then let's make this one count."

Adam tilted his head, eyes softening. "Always."

Behind them, the golden lanterns of Ostarius burned gently through the dark, casting light on those who had stayed. On those who chose love when war could've been easier.

And somewhere in the far, far distance, behind reality's last curtain…

Something stirred.

But it did not rise.

Not yet.

Because for now, in a citadel carved from memory and miracle—

Peace had a name.

And it answered to Adam.

The stars hadn't moved.

The wind was soft, still warm against Adam's face. Aurora's hand rested on his chest, her presence grounding him, anchoring him to the peace they had earned.

But—

Something shifted.

Not around him.

In him.

A dull thrum pulsed through his core. Quiet. Slow. But wrong.

His eyes narrowed.

Aurora noticed instantly. "Adam?"

He didn't answer.

His hand drifted slightly to his side, fingers curling in reflex. The pulse came again—this time stronger. Like a beacon from far, far away.

From home.

Their original home.

Adam stepped away from the ledge, his mind already unraveling the folds of reality around him.

"Something's wrong."

He didn't hesitate.

He lifted his hand—clenched it.

And tore space open.

The air screamed quietly as the tear widened, revealing swirling black layered with streaks of crimson lightning. A gate to where it all began.

Aurora stepped in behind him, sharp. "Adam—"

He looked at her once. His eyes told her everything.

She nodded.

And together, they stepped through.

Silence.

No, not silence. Absence.

They emerged into orbit first—above the very planet where their faction had once stood strong. The world that held their first hopes, their early battles. Where cities touched stars and ideals became law.

But now—

It was gone.

Not shattered. Not burning.

Empty.

The skies were dim, covered in clouds of ash and fractured light. Buildings that once reached like spires toward the heavens were now half-buried, crumbled, or completely erased. No lights. No voices. No movement.

Adam's boots hit the ground.

Dust swirled at his ankles.

He took one step forward, and the ground creaked beneath him—not from weakness, but from memory, like it remembered being alive once.

Aurora appeared beside him moments later, her cloak fluttering as she landed softly.

"What the hell happened here…" she breathed, eyes scanning the broken horizon.

She lifted a hand, and her pupils flared—gold turning deep eclipse.

Her vision—Eclipse Sight—pushed outward.

But then—

Nothing.

Her breath caught.

She stepped back slightly, shaken. "I… I can't see."

Adam turned, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Not just the past. Not just now. I can't see anything," she said, voice tightening. "Like something's cutting me off. Something bigger."

She focused again, harder.

Still nothing.

"It's like the future isn't written. Like someone ripped it out before it could exist."

Adam looked around slowly.

His fists clenched.

This place had once thrived. He remembered the laughter. The sound of engines. The people they saved. The battles they fought to carve a new future here.

Now it felt like walking through a graveyard that hadn't been buried yet.

He dropped to one knee, brushing dust off the stone beneath him. The markings—sigils, once glowing with life—were scratched out. Not weathered. Deliberately erased.

Aurora's voice was quiet now.

"This wasn't destruction."

Adam stood.

She met his gaze.

"This was removal."

He stared at the sky. No stars blinked back. Just a smear of gray behind a dying atmosphere.

Then he spoke. Quiet. Cold.

"Someone's covering their tracks."

Adam stood still.

Just for a breath.

A long, silent one.

But inside—

he was burning.

The memory of this place wasn't just old—it was sacred. This was where they built everything. The first sparks of hope. The first time he let himself believe. It was more than home.

It was proof they mattered.

And now—

Gone.

No graves. No names. No signs of struggle.

Just nothing.

Aurora stepped closer. "Adam—"

He raised his hand—slow, steady—like a storm trying to keep its form.

Then his fingers twitched.

And his aura cracked the world open.

The space around him snapped.

Air warped. Time trembled. The sky above twisted into fractured hexes, the color bleeding out like spilled ink on parchment.

Aurora shielded her eyes.

Behind him, the ground cracked in spirals, each line glowing with deep, royal gold—the mark of a Supreme Monarch unchained.

Adam didn't roar.

Didn't scream.

Didn't raise his voice.

But everything shook like he had.

His cloak billowed wildly, caught in a wind that didn't exist. His eyes—those storm-dark irises—flared with radiant fire. Not magic. Not anger.

Judgment.

Pure and final.

"This wasn't war…" he said, voice low, but every syllable shook the dust off the earth.

"…it was erasure."

He lifted his hand again.

His palm bled light.

Not gold. Not white.

Monarch Light—the kind that thrones kneel to.

Aurora stepped back, just slightly, feeling the shift. The Dominion around him was growing—a visible distortion in the air, stretching outward, rewriting the very rules of space around his body.

Reality groaned.

Skies buckled.

A nearby mountain, untouched before, now folded inward—reduced to dust without sound.

Adam stared at the hollow ground beneath his feet. His voice came again, deeper.

"Someone thinks they're gods."

The sigils around him—once scorched out—suddenly flared back to life, drawn out by the sheer pressure of his presence. They didn't glow.

They obeyed.

"I don't care who they are."

He turned his head slightly, just enough to meet Aurora's gaze.

"No one touches our people…"

He stepped forward, the world cracking with every motion.

"…and walks away."

She said nothing.

Just nodded once.

Adam raised both hands.

And with a wordless surge of power, he tore open the layers of existence.

A second rift appeared—spiraling, chaotic, dragging in wind and ash.

Not to leave.

To track.

To find whatever force had blocked even Eclipse Sight.

"Whoever did this," he said as the rift pulled open wider,

"…I'm coming."

He stepped in.

And the world—

the dead, silent, forgotten world—

shivered.

Not from fear.

But because something had noticed.

And somewhere, far above the veils of divine and false gods, something ancient stirred—

and turned its eyes toward Adam.

I