The Black Sun had shrunk to the size of a second moon—still dark, still hungry, but no longer swallowing the world in gulps. Its violet rim pulsed erratically now, as though wounded. Light returned in thin, hesitant threads—enough for shadows to form again, enough for people to see each other's faces, enough for the last survivors to crawl from cellars and ruins and begin the slow work of breathing.
Elias carried Lucian's body through the silent streets.
No one stopped him.
No one spoke.
The few who saw—hollow-eyed, dust-covered—only watched. Some bowed their heads. Some turned away. No one prayed aloud. The words had been burned out of them.
Elara walked at his left—shoulder against his, steadying him when his steps faltered. Behemoth followed at a distance—stone skin dull and cracked, but still upright. Liora kept pace on the right—small, silent, eyes fixed on the boy in Elias's arms.
They walked toward the eastern hill—toward the place where the monastery had once stood, now only rubble and memory. Toward the place where the world had almost ended twice.
Elias laid Lucian down on a flat slab of broken marble—the last remnant of the cathedral's outer wall.
The boy looked peaceful—silver hair catching the faint returning light, face unlined, small hands folded across his chest.
Elias knelt.
He placed one hand over Lucian's heart—where the last golden spark had flickered out.
No pulse.
No breath.
Only stillness.
Elias closed his eyes.
Inside him, Abaddon was quiet—watching, waiting, no longer pushing.
The three others gathered close—Elara kneeling at Lucian's head, Behemoth standing guard at his feet, Liora sitting cross-legged at his side.
No words were spoken for a long time.
Then Elias spoke—voice low, raw, final.
"You carried him longer than anyone should have to carry anything.
You prayed when no one listened.
You fought when no one saw.
You chose mercy when everything else chose fire.
And when the end came… you chose to end it your way."
He looked up—at the sky, at the Black Sun, at the faint blue returning at the edges.
"Thank you."
He leaned forward—pressed his forehead to Lucian's—once, gently.
Then he stood.
The others rose with him.
Elara placed a small flower—wilted but stubborn—on Lucian's chest.
Behemoth laid one cracked stone beside it—like a marker, like a promise.
Liora let the last of her shadows curl around the boy—soft, protective, fading.
They stepped back.
The Black Sun pulsed once—slow, uncertain—then dimmed further.
Light strengthened—thin, pale, but real.
Somewhere far above—beyond the shrinking void—an indifferent eye blinked.
Once.
Then closed.
For now.
Elias looked at the others—three mortals who had lost everything and still stood.
"We keep going," he said quietly.
Elara nodded.
Behemoth rumbled agreement—low, steady.
Liora smiled—small, tired, but real.
They turned away from the grave.
They walked—together—into what remained of the world.
Behind them, the faint blue sky spread slowly.
The Black Sun hung—smaller now, retreating.
The last light had not gone out.
Not yet.
And the boy who refused to let it die carried the memory of the one who helped him keep it burning.
One step at a time.
Into whatever came after.
End of Chapter 41