They say when a celestial duelist draws their blade, the sky itself must flinch.
They weren't wrong.
The first time I saw Lucien unsheathe the Sun Blade, it wasn't light that cut the air.
It was authority.
Golden, absolute, and blisteringly arrogant.
He stood in the garden atrium of the floating court of Sol Varnes, where fireflowers bloomed and oracles chanted names of dead comets. His cape was white, trimmed in sunsilk. His eyes mirrored a dying star.
And when he spoke my name, it tasted like execution.
"Aetherion Vale. Chosen of the Rift. Traitor of timelines. I challenge you."
I should've refused.
But I didn't.
Because he said something else—something only a past version of me would've known to say.
"You left her to burn. You let Serai die."
I accepted.
They called it a Celestial Duel, which was a lie.
There was nothing duel-like about what happened.
It was war condensed into seconds.
Godfire and Riftflame colliding in pulses that broke reality's crust.
His blade—a streak of solar hatred shaped like a hymn—met my hand-forged Riftfang, which hissed with echoes from the broken kingdom below.
He moved like judgment.
I moved like memory.
"Why are you doing this?" I grunted, parrying a downward slash that shattered the air into molten glass.
Lucien didn't answer with words.
He answered with a prayer.
His lips moved in a language not meant for mortals.
And the sun obeyed.
The duel lifted us into the sky. Clouds peeled away like frightened ghosts. Stars blinked out of the way. We became meteors locked in orbit, streaking across the upper stratosphere as the world watched.
He cut open constellations just to reach me.
I bled pieces of yesterday just to survive.
I'd fought many things before.
Void-Wolves.
Time Shades.
My own past.
But Lucien was different.
Lucien believed he was right.
And there is nothing more dangerous than a man backed by holy certainty and myth-tier solar artifacts.
He landed a blow.
The Sun Blade scorched my chest—burned clean through armor, thought, and memory.
I spiraled.
Fell.
Cratered into the obsidian plateau of the Rift's edge.
Smoke filled my lungs.
I couldn't breathe.
I saw Serai's face again.
Smiling.
Burning.
"You could've saved me."
No.
No, I couldn't have.
Could I?
Lucien descended like the final sunrise. His boots didn't touch the ground. His blade hummed with the names of fallen kings. He didn't gloat.
He mourned.
That was worse.
"You used to be a prince of light," he said softly.
"Now you're just a shadow that remembers fire."
And then he moved in to finish it.
I heard the blade sing.
I closed my eyes.
But something in me refused.
Something older.
Something not Aetherion.
It snarled.
And the Rift answered.
I rose.
Eyes glowing.
Skin cracking—revealing constellations underneath.
I screamed a name that had not been spoken in this realm for a thousand years.
Not Aetherion.
Not Savior.
Not Doom.
But the first name.
The true one.
Lucien hesitated.
And that was enough.
I didn't kill him.
But I broke the Sun Blade.
Snapped it with my bare hands.
Golden light poured out like divine marrow.
His scream was pain—and reverence.
He fell.
I stood alone on the shattered plateau, my chest bleeding light, my hands trembling.
Alive.
But only barely.
Around me, the air shimmered with runes.
High mages from both courts watched from astral mirrors.
One by one, they turned away.
But I saw their expressions before they did.
Fear.
I was no longer just a player in this war.
I was becoming the storm.
As Lucien was taken away in chains of starlight, he looked back at me and whispered:
"You think this was your test? No, Riftborn. This was your summons."
And in the sky above—
The second sun began to open.