The morning sun slipped through the curtains, painting pale gold across the penthouse floor.
Sky rolled his shoulders experimentally — the ache had dulled, his ribs knitting back into place faster than even Felix predicted. He stood at the counter, sipping coffee, while Felix and Est sat across from him… both very obviously not going anywhere.
He frowned. "Don't you two have jobs?"
Felix didn't look up from the glowing rune circle flickering above his phone. "We're working."
Est raised his hand, grinning. "Guardian detail. Supreme's orders. We're guarding the Guardian."
Sky stared at them flatly. "That's not a thing."
"It is now," Felix said, tapping the rune shut. "He told us to make sure you 'stay put.' His words, not mine. And I like being alive, so—"
Sky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He can't keep doing this."
Est poured him more coffee, unbothered. "You almost died. He can and will."
Felix nodded. "Also, William will probably vaporize us if you sneak out. So… drink your coffee, wolfie."
Sky groaned, half in defeat, half in secret amusement. "I hate all of you."
Felix smiled sweetly. "That's the recovery talking."
----
The Council Chamber
The chamber was built in the oldest layer of the city — stone carved before human civilization, etched with runes that glowed faintly like veins beneath black marble.
At the center of the long crescent table sat the throne of the Supreme.
Nani hadn't spoken since the meeting began.
He didn't need to. His silence carried more weight than most men's fury.
The elders filled the chamber with whispers and accusations, their voices overlapping like the hiss of serpents.
"The attacks increase every night—"
"Entire packs vanish without trace—"
"And still you refuse to summon the Court of Blood—"
"The Supreme does nothing while the world burns!"
At that, one elder — tall, draped in dark velvet — rose from his seat, bold enough, or foolish enough, to face the throne.
"With all respect, my lord," he said, voice oily, bowing just enough to feign courtesy, "perhaps the centuries have dulled your vigilance. The Guardian's light has returned, and yet you—"
The sound that followed wasn't loud — just the soft snap of air freezing.
But it silenced every voice in the room.
Nani's gaze lifted — slow, deliberate. His eyes, luminous gold, caught the torchlight like twin suns behind storm clouds.
The elder's throat locked mid-sentence.
He couldn't breathe.
The shadows behind the throne began to shift, stretching, alive.
"I was listening," Nani said quietly. "Not neglecting."
His voice was soft — almost gentle — but the pressure in the room thickened until the air trembled. The ancient torches flickered, bowing toward him as if in worship or fear.
"Forgive me, Supreme—"
The elder's words choked off, his knees buckling. A drop of blood slid down his lip — not from a wound, but from the weight of Nani's presence pressing against his veins.
And still, Nani hadn't moved.
Only when another elder tried to rise, panic flickering in her eyes, did William intervene.
Enough.
The word wasn't spoken aloud — it rippled through the air like the shiver before lightning strikes.
In an instant, the oppressive silence cracked. A gust of unseen wind flared outward, forcing every elder back into their seats. The torches burst higher, blazing white-gold.
William stepped forward, eyes glowing faint amber — not as bright as his master's, but potent enough to make the floor itself hum.
"Mind your tongues," he said, voice low but carrying through the chamber like thunder layered in silk. "The Supreme's patience is not your shield. You mistake his calm for permission. It is not."
For a heartbeat, no one dared to move.
The air smelled faintly of scorched stone and iron.
Then — slowly — Nani lifted one hand.
Just that small motion was enough for the weight of his presence to retract, easing from the room like a tide pulling back from the shore.
His tone, when he finally spoke, was serene. Too serene.
"Order," he said. "Return to your seats."
Every elder obeyed without hesitation.
Nani's gaze swept across them — unreadable, eternal.
"The Guardian's return has unbalanced the veil," he said softly. "Creatures crawl from forgotten holes, feeding on chaos. You panic because you are weak — not because I am absent."
No one breathed.
"In three days, the continental leaders arrive," he continued. "Until then, you will stand down. No hunts. No summons. No councils without my word."
He leaned back in his chair, one pale hand resting against the carved armrest.
"If any of you forget that order…" His gaze sharpened, burning gold. "You will join the Mara in extinction."
The room seemed to shrink under his words.
William bowed faintly beside him. "My lord," he said quietly, "shall I prepare the wards for the summit?"
Nani's eyes softened — just barely. "Yes. And double the protections near the northern border. The creatures are changing."
"As you command."
They turned to leave — the Supreme and his shadow — their steps echoing across the silent chamber.
No one dared to look up until the great doors sealed behind them.
Only then did one elder whisper, voice trembling,
"If the Guardian's light burns again… perhaps even the Supreme cannot stop the prophecy."
And in the lingering silence, the scent of ozone and ash still clung to the air — reminder of what true power looked like when provoked.
---
The city was quiet under the silver hush of moonlight.
From the study window, the world looked distant — lights bleeding through the glass like constellations drowning in fog.
Sky stood there, barefoot, still pale but steady. His eyes followed the moon's curve above the skyline, the reflection soft against his skin.
He'd wandered into the study without really meaning to — drawn by the quiet, by the strange pulse in his chest that always found its rhythm near Nani.
The room smelled faintly of cedar and rain.
Shelves lined with old tomes and relics from civilizations long dead filled the space — ancient daggers, clay tablets, gold coins worn thin by centuries of touch.
Yet not a single photograph. Not a single trace of time shared with anyone.
A life eternal, but utterly alone.
Sky's fingers brushed the spine of a book etched in symbols older than language.
"Everything here looks like it's been here forever," he murmured to no one, his voice soft, almost reverent.
Then he went still.
The air shifted — like a ripple through invisible water.
A familiar warmth ghosted along his back before he even turned.
Nani.
He didn't say a word at first. He simply watched from the doorway — the moonlight framing Sky's outline, silver catching on the faint shimmer of his guardian mark. There was something hauntingly beautiful in the sight — light and shadow, blood and moon, standing in the same beam of night.
Quietly, Nani crossed the room. His presence filled it effortlessly, but his touch was gentle when he reached Sky — one hand finding his waist, the other resting just above his heart.
Sky stiffened, but only for a heartbeat.
Then he exhaled — the tension easing from his shoulders — and let himself lean back slightly into that hold.
They stayed like that, saying nothing, watching the moon rise higher between the skyscrapers.
"You always look at the moon as if it's calling you," Nani murmured, voice low against Sky's ear. "Does it still feel like home?"
Sky swallowed. "Sometimes it feels like… it's warning me."
A faint smile touched Nani's lips — sad, tender, knowing too much. "Then let me be the one who answers it."
He turned Sky gently, just enough for their eyes to meet — golden and storm-gray, reflections of two worlds never meant to touch.
"In three days," Nani said, "the continental leaders will gather here. The oldest of their kind — strong, cunning, hungry. Some nearly as old as I am. They'll smell everything that doesn't belong — power, bloodline, weakness."
Sky's brows furrowed, his voice barely above a whisper. "You think they'll know about me?"
"They will if you use your power," Nani said firmly, his hand tightening slightly on Sky's waist. "You're too bright, too wild. The moment you shine, every creature in the room will know who you are."
Sky looked down, guilt flickering across his face.
"I didn't mean to— last night—"
"I know." Nani's tone softened instantly. "You never mean to. You only ever try to save someone. That's who you are."
Something inside Sky twisted painfully. His hand came up, hesitated, then rested lightly over Nani's where it still lingered on his chest.
"Then what am I supposed to do?" he whispered. "Pretend to be something I'm not?"
Nani leaned closer, his breath brushing Sky's temple. "Pretend to be mine," he murmured. "At least until this storm passes."
The words hit like a quiet promise — or a plea.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Outside, the city sighed beneath the moon. Inside, their hearts beat in the same broken rhythm — bound by something older than life, deeper than fate.
Sky finally nodded, just once, his voice barely a thread of sound.
"I'll stay close."
Nani's eyes softened with something that looked too much like relief. He pressed a small kiss — not to Sky's lips, but to his hair, just above his mark — and whispered,
"That's all I need, Guardian."
They stood there a little longer, wrapped in moonlight and silence — two souls who'd found each other a thousand times, only to lose again.
And for tonight, that was enough.