It was the next morning.
Elior dragged himself out of bed with eyes so dim they looked bruised.
Another night of barely any sleep. Another morning where he looked less like a young man and more like a drifting beggar who had forgotten what rest felt like.
He splashed water on his face, took a quick bath, threw on his clothes, and swung his door open-
THUD!
"Ow—!"
He staggered back, rubbing his forehead.
"Ahem."
A familiar voice cut through his groan.
"I think you're forgetting something."
Peter stood there with arms folded… and a level of disappointment only best friends could master.
Elior froze.
"Oh my goodness- Petey, I'm so sorry." The memory hit him like a slap. He had promised to hang out last night. Again. And again he'd come home exhausted and passed out.
"This is the third time this week, bro," Peter said, frowning. "I'm starting to think you take our friendship lightly."
"Come on, man… I said I was sorry." Elior tried a smile that begged for mercy. "Okay look- tonight. Eight. Game at my place."
Peter's frown didn't survive the offer.
"Fine. Eight sharp."
"Good." Elior squeezed past him. "I gotta run. We'll talk later!"
He stormed down the hallway waving a rushed goodbye.
---
Elior reached the restaurant door panting.
"Oof… oof… made it."
Old man Garrus was already outside, arms behind his back like a guard dog waiting for an excuse.
"You're lucky, lad," Garrus grunted. "Now get goin'. Don't keep me customers waiting."
WHACK!
Another strike to the head.
Elior barely reacted. At this point, the hits were part of the job description.
Inside, the place was already buzzing. Pots clanged, customers shouted their orders, and the entire building smelled like frying onions, burnt peppers, and the stubborn sweat of people who argued too loudly about nothing.
"Elior! Order for table six!"
"Boy! Did you forget the stew?!"
"Hey! We've been waiting ten minutes!"
He tied his apron tighter and dove in.
He dodged a cook carrying a boiling pot, weaved past a tray of fish almost falling to its doom, yelled apologies twice, and still managed to deliver three plates to the wrong tables.
By noon, he was basically a ghost drifting on fumes.
But somehow- somehow- he survived the day.
---
After clocking out, he didn't visit Mr. Jeremy's shop like usual. He had already told Jeremy he wouldn't make it tonight. Instead, he stopped at a kiosk on the way home, bought cheap bread that was more crust than food, and chewed it slowly as he walked.
When he finally reached his room, he collapsed into his crooked old chair- the chair seemed to be older than everything else in the room, well it had to be- afterall he met it there. The bed beside it was worn out- like it wanted to give up on life, and the cupboard creaked so loudly.
But the desk…
The desk was neat.
Always neat.
On it lay a single ink pen and his art journal... Elior always had a passion for drawing so In his liesure time this is what he did- the pages filled with dark, starry figures.
He reached for the pen… then froze.
The gold coin.
It glowed faintly from inside his pocket, like a heartbeat made of light.
"What…?"
He set it on the table. It wasn't hot. It wasn't humming. It was just glowing softly, as if breathing.
Then-
THROB!
A sharp pain stabbed through his head.
Elior gasped and grabbed the table for support.
The room spun.
The floor tilted-
And everything went black.
BANG!
He hit the ground.
---
He stood in a vast green pasture.
The air was warm. Butterflies drifted lazily around him. The sky shimmered like morning dew.
"Where… am I?"
Then he saw someone.
A figure shining in white, clothed in brilliance-gold, bronze, silver, diamond-woven together like living light. Six wings unfolded behind him, sweeping the air with quiet majesty.
Elior walked forward, heart pounding.
It was the hooded figure from yesterday.
But now, unveiled… glorious.
"Wh-who are you?" Elior whispered.
No answer.
"Where am I…?"
Still nothing. Only that gentle smile- too calm, too knowing.
Then a voice- not his, not the figure's-echoed across the field:
"Herald…
The city's hour is at hand...
Awake."
Everything shattered like glass.
Elior jolted awake on the floor of his room, breath trembling, heart in his throat.
"A… dream?" he whispered.
No. It didn't feel like one.
A knock snapped him out of his thoughts.
"Hey, you in there?" Peter's voice.
"Yeah- hold on!"
Elior snatched the coin, stuffed it into his pocket, and opened the door.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"So, are we doing this or what?" Peter asked, sounding half-impatient, half-hungry.
"Yeah," Elior said, pushing the encounter out of his mind. "Let's head out."
They stepped outside together.
But the moment they did-
Peter stopped.
His face drained of color.
"What the hell is that…?"
Elior looked up.
His breath caught.
The sky was bleeding red.