The eastern hill overlooked a city that had forgotten how to hope, but was learning again—slowly, painfully.
The Black Sun had shrunk to a faint, sullen point near the horizon—its violet rim barely visible, its hunger reduced to a distant ache. True daylight returned in earnest: pale gold at dawn, warm white at noon, soft rose at dusk. Rivers trickled again—thin at first, then stronger. Plants pushed green through ash and cracked earth. People moved—carrying water, sharing scraps, tending wounds, burying the fallen with quiet dignity. No celebrations. No songs of triumph. Just the soft, stubborn rhythm of survival.
Elias stood at the top of the hill—Lucian's grave at his feet—watching the slow return of ordinary light.
Elara stood beside him—shoulder brushing his, silent but present.
Behemoth loomed a few paces back—stone skin cracked and dull, but posture steady as ever.
Liora sat cross-legged on the ground near the mound—small hands resting on the earth, as though listening for something that might still answer.
No one had spoken for a long time.
The silence felt like the first real rest any of them had known since the obelisk cracked open.
Elias finally broke it—voice low, almost calm.
"He prayed at the end."
The words hung in the air—soft, final.
Elara looked at him—question in her eyes.
"Not the Church's prayer," Elias continued. "Not Lucifer's. His own. Simple. Honest. Just… asking for it to stop. For all of us to be let go."
He looked down at the grave—simple earth, simple stone, one dried flower still clinging to life.
"I think… that was the last prayer the world needed."
Behemoth rumbled—deep, quiet.
"Stone hears. Stone keeps."
Liora lifted her head—voice small but clear.
"He didn't pray for victory.
He didn't pray for power.
He prayed for rest."
Elara exhaled—shaky.
"And we're still here. Still breathing. Still hurting. Because he asked us to keep going."
Elias nodded—slow.
The Black Sun flickered once more—weak, distant—then dimmed 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 others—three survivors who had lost gods, friends, futures, and still chose to stand.
"We don't have to rebuild the world," he said quietly. "We just have to keep living in it. One day. One breath. One refusal at a time."
Elara reached down—placed her hand on the grave—then on Elias's arm.
"Then that's what we do."
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 tomorrow.
Perhaps not ever.
Not while someone still chose to live.
One step.
One breath.
One refusal.
At a time.
End of Chapter 46