The eastern hill was quiet now.
The faint blue had spread further across the sky—thin, hesitant, but persistent. The Black Sun hung smaller still, its violet rim flickering like a dying ember. The city below stirred in slow, painful motion: survivors emerging from hiding, sharing water from cracked wells, carrying the fallen toward shallow graves dug with bare hands and broken tools. No songs. No prayers. Just the soft sounds of people refusing to stop.
Elias stood beside Lucian's grave—simple mound of earth and stone under the returning light. The boy's body had been laid to rest with care: silver hair smoothed, white linen folded neatly, the wilted flower and cracked stone marker resting on top.
Elara stood at Elias's left—silent, arms crossed tight across her chest.
Behemoth loomed behind—stone skin dull, but posture steady.
Liora sat cross-legged on the ground—small hands resting on her knees, staring at the mound as though waiting for something to happen.
Elias had not moved for hours.
He stared at the grave—eyes dry now, tears long spent.
Inside him, Abaddon was quiet—watching, waiting, no longer pressing.
The three consumed primordials—Leviathan's tide, Behemoth's mass, Belial's shadow—had faded to echoes: faint currents in his blood, faint weight in his bones, faint cunning in his thoughts. They no longer spoke. They simply were—part of him, like scars that still ached in cold weather.
Elias finally spoke—voice low, almost lost on the wind.
"He asked me to kill him.
In the cathedral.
In the monastery.
Every time he woke, he asked.
And every time… I couldn't."
He looked at his hands—black veins faint, golden cracks dulled to thin silver lines.
"I thought… if I just held on long enough… if I just refused hard enough… I could save him.
I thought refusal was enough."
Elara stepped closer—placed one hand on his shoulder.
"You gave him more than anyone else could have. You gave him time. You gave him choice. You gave him the chance to end it on his own terms."
Behemoth rumbled—soft, deep.
"Stone does not save. Stone remembers. He will be remembered."
Liora lifted her head—voice small but clear.
"He carried light and ruin in the same heart.
He chose to let go of both.
That's not losing.
That's… winning the only way left."
Elias exhaled—shaky.
"I keep thinking… if I had said yes once.
If I had let Abaddon finish it in the beginning.
If I had let Lucifer open the Gate.
If I had let the Black Sun drink everything…"
He trailed off.
Elara squeezed his shoulder.
"Then none of us would be standing here.
And neither would he.
But we are.
And he is… at peace."
Elias looked up—at the sky, now mostly blue again, the Black Sun a distant, fading shadow.
"He prayed," he said quietly. "At the end.
His own prayer.
Not the Church's.
Not Lucifer's.
His."
He closed his eyes.
"Lord of Light… whoever you really are…
if you're listening…
please… let it end.
Let us go.
Let him go.
Let Eli go.
Let it all… just… stop."
The words hung in the air—soft, final.
No answer came.
No golden light flared.
No rift reopened.
Only silence.
And in that silence, Elias felt something shift.
Not power.
Not victory.
Just… acceptance.
He opened his eyes.
The Black Sun flickered once—weak, uncertain—then shrank further.
Light strengthened—real now, warm.
Somewhere far above—beyond the fading void—an indifferent eye blinked once more.
Then closed.
For good.
Elias looked at the grave.
Then at the others.
"We keep going," he said—voice steady, quiet, certain.
"Because he asked us to.
Because he chose us to.
Because some things are worth the pain of continuing."
Elara nodded—tears silent on her cheeks.
Behemoth placed one cracked stone hand on the mound—silent vow.
Liora stood—small, but tall in her own way—and took Elias's hand.
They turned away from the grave.
They walked—down the hill, into the city that still breathed, still hoped, still hurt.
Behind them, the faint blue sky spread fully.
The Black Sun hung—tiny now, retreating into nothing.
The last light had not gone out.
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.
The end had not come.
Not today.
Not yet.
And perhaps—perhaps—not ever.
Not while someone still chose to refuse it.
End of Chapter 43