Ekchron was certain of one thing: Lorena would kiss him.

  Not because he wanted it, but because there was no other possibility. Nothing resisted him; everything eventually happened without him having to ask. Lorena was just another thing that would give in, like all the others.

  Her husband, the ring, the perfect life she had… None of it was truly solid. Everything broke.

  He pushed the bakery door open with the same confidence one has when entering a place they already consider their own.

  “You're early today,” Lorena remarked from behind the counter, looking up with a smile.

  Ekchron tilted his head as if studying an endearingly naive creature.

  “I didn’t want to make you wait,” he replied. “I thought maybe you were counting the minutes.”

  Lorena let out a brief laugh while arranging some trays.

  “Of course I was.”

  “Don’t pretend,” he added, leaning on the counter with complete confidence. “It’s obvious that my prolonged absence causes anxiety. And a slight existential void.”

  She shook her head, amused.

  Ekchron’s eyes swept across the shop with his usual speed, but quickly returned to her. Lorena had flour on one cheek, and her apron was slightly askew. She looked tired.

  “Also,” he continued, lowering his voice a little, “it would have been cruel to arrive late knowing you’d be happy to see me.”

  Lorena looked over the trays, one eyebrow slightly raised.

  “All this because of what I said the other day?”

  “When you show up, my day feels a little less heavy,” Ekchron imitated, bringing a hand to his chest.

  She sighed, feigning annoyance.

  “My day impr—”

  He didn’t finish. Lorena tapped him on the head with one of the trays.

  “Ah.”

  Ekchron brought a hand to his forehead and stepped back, as if he’d just taken a mortal blow.

  “I never thought it would end like this,” he murmured. “Betrayed in a place of trust. Gratuitous violen—”

  “I made muffins. Want one?” she interrupted.

  The word muffins cut his speech off abruptly.

  “No.”

  It was an instant response. A defensive reflex.

  “Ah.”

  Lorena lowered her gaze slightly as she placed the tray of muffins on the counter, as if the response had hurt more than expected.

  “That’s a shame…” she murmured. “I made them this morning thinking of you.”

  Ekchron blinked. His left eyebrow tensed, then the right.

  “And I added orange zest,” she added. “Very little. Just to give them some aroma.”

  Ekchron’s gaze flicked to the tray… and immediately back to the floor.

  “They also turned out very fluffy. Look.”

  She broke one in half.

  “See? Not dry. I hate it when they’re dry.”

  Ekchron’s eyelid twitched.

  “I’m not hungry,” he murmured, with very little conviction.

  “Right…” she replied. “I just thought it would make you happy. I thought something homemade…”

  Ekchron pressed his lips into an almost nonexistent line.

  Lorena looked at him with that pleading expression, holding the muffin as if it weren’t a weapon, and he was giving in.

  “If you don’t want it, it’s fine,” she finally added. “No need to feel obliged.”

  He didn’t understand why seeing her disappointed tightened something in his chest.

  He looked at his useless stomach with deep resentment. Then at the muffin. Slowly, with the solemnity of one accepting a death sentence, he extended his hand.

  “Give me one.”

  Lorena’s face lit up instantly. Ekchron, on the other hand, looked like a martyr about to be thrown to the lions.

  She handed it to him carefully. Ekchron studied it for a few seconds, suspicious. He knew perfectly well what would happen next… yet he bit into it.

  The taste was… unsettling. Warm. Sweet without being cloying. Something he hadn’t tasted in centuries. He chewed slowly, mentally calculating which dark alley he would have to purge this act of weakness in.

  Lorena watched expectantly.

  “Well?”

  “Acceptable.”

  She smiled as if she’d received the highest compliment.

  “You always say no,” she remarked suddenly. “To anything food-related. Muffins, bread, pastries… and we’re in a bakery, Azul.”

  Ekchron crossed his arms instantly, defensive.

  “I’m here for other reasons.”

  “And those reasons are…?”

  Ekchron clicked his tongue. He ran a hand through his hair, uneasy.

  “I know you like me coming,” he finally said. “It’s obvious. My presence brightens the place. Adds charisma. It would be selfish to deprive you of that.”

  Lorena brought a hand to her mouth to hide a laugh.

  “Oh, right. You come for altruism.”

  She studied him a few more seconds, calm as always, seeming one step ahead.

  “I was going to say you only come for me.”

  Ekchron reacted as if someone had dumped ice water over him.

  “For you?!” he exclaimed. “Please. Don’t take credit where it’s not due.”

  She said nothing. Just looked at him, arms crossed. The silence pushed him to speak.

  “I come because I want to,” he added, pointing to his chest. “Because I can. Because I’m irresistible to you.”

  “Irresistible… huh?” Lorena repeated.

  Before he could react, she came around the counter and stepped closer. Too close. She invaded his personal space without asking, dangerously near. Ekchron felt her presence instantly: the slight movement of her breathing, the warmth, the soft perfume mixed with something sweet, the calm with which she watched him.

  She stared at his face. Very intently.

  Ekchron, nervous, averted his gaze. To the counter. To a wall. Anything but those brown eyes locked on him.

  When he looked back, she was still there, smiling.

  A faint blush crept up his cheeks.

  “I admit it,” Lorena finally said. “You’re attractive.”

  The blush deepened.

  “You have nice features,” she added, leaning slightly closer. “And that expression of ‘I’m unbearable and I know it’ has its charm.”

  “I-I don’t need your approval,” he stammered, clearly affected. “I know exactly how I look.”

  “And that hair…”

  She lifted a hand and, naturally, ran her fingers through it, messing it up gently.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “That color isn’t seen every day. It suits you very well.”

  The blush exploded. Ears included. Whole face red, impossible to hide.

  He opened his mouth to say something… but nothing came out. Only a clumsy, stifled sound as he desperately looked away.

  Lorena let out a small laugh at the sight.

  “But not that impressive,” she concluded lightly. “In the end, you’re… a little short.”

  Silence. One second. Two. He just stayed there, processing.

  “….”

  Lorena began to worry at his lack of response. Ekchron’s expression was unreadable. He closed his eyes tightly. Opened them again, looking at her with theatrical hostility.

  “Excuse me?!” he finally erupted. “I’m 159 centimeters! That’s perfectly within an acceptable range!”

  He pointed at himself, red as a tomato. Outraged.

  “Besides, height is irrelevant when you have presence,” he added. “And charisma. And an intimidating energy.”

  “Uh-huh,” Lorena nodded, holding back laughter. “Plenty of energy.”

  “I’m not short!” he insisted. “I’m… compact.”

  Lorena couldn’t hold it any longer. She laughed openly. Warm, genuine laughter.

  Ekchron stared at her.

  Yet something happened that he wouldn’t admit even under torture.

  He liked it.

  He liked seeing her laugh like that. Liked being the cause. Liked that closeness, that absurd familiarity, that way she could touch both his ego and his heart with the same ease.

  The blush didn’t fade.

  “You’re laughing at me,” he murmured, not very convincingly, his Greek accent more pronounced than ever.

  “A little,” she admitted. “But lovingly.”

  Ekchron looked away, annoyed with himself, frowning… and a clear crack forming where only pride had been.

  “Wonderful,” he murmured. “Ridiculed. Discredited. Attacked by a baker armed with smiles.”

  “Don’t overdo it,” she said, stepping back to the other side of the counter. “It suits you.”

  That made him look at her, confused.

  “Suits me...?”

  She smiled softly, resting her elbows on the counter and her chin on her hands.

  “Being... like this,” she answered. “More… real.”

  Ekchron froze completely, as if his brain had just short-circuited.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said after a moment.

  “The mask you wear,” she replied softly. “You always come so confident, so proud… and suddenly you blush, get angry, get nervous. It’s nice.”

  Ekchron clenched his jaw.

  “It’s not nervousness,” he corrected. “It’s a logical reaction to constant provocation.”

  She didn’t reply. She only smiled. Not with ridicule, but with something that struck him far harder: affection.

  “I like it when you let your guard down,” she added. “When you’re not trying to impress anyone.”

  Ekchron didn’t know what to say. This was getting out of hand.

  He turned silently.

  “I’m leaving,” he said at last, composing himself as best he could.

  There was no reason. He just needed to get out.

  Lorena let out a low laugh, as if she knew what was running through his mind.

  “Take care, Azul.”

  Ekchron stopped with his hand on the doorknob. He didn’t turn around.

  “Things aren’t taken care of. They’re preserved… until they’re no longer useful,” he thought.

  “See you later, baker.”

  Without another word, he left. The bell chimed softly.

  He walked down the street without looking at anyone, head down, mind still trapped in that laugh.

  It was then he heard a voice behind him.

  “Ekchron.”

  He stopped instantly. Not from fear, but because that name existed for no one.

  “Bad start,” he murmured. “Saying that name is a very efficient way to ask me to tear your guts out.”

  He slowly raised his head and turned.

  A man stood a few meters away. Thirty-something, maybe forty. Discreet, dark clothing, meant not to draw attention. His posture firm.

  “I’ve been following you for years,” the man said with a foreign accent. “Your patterns. Isolated appearances. Impossible scenes. Corpses no one wants to look at twice.”

  Ekchron tilted his head, intrigued.

  “Oh. You mean my art?”

  “I mean your signature,” the man corrected. “The latest news here, in Spain. The police saying they didn’t know if it was you or an imitator.”

  Ekchron let out a brief nasal laugh.

  “How cute. I love it when they doubt my authorship.”

  The man took a small step forward.

  “I confirmed it recently,” he added. “Someone very well-informed assured me it was you. That you were here. And how to recognize you.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Ekchron burst into laughter.

  “No way,” he said between laughs. “Don’t tell me it’s him again.”

  The man frowned.

  “Did the First send you?” Ekchron asked. “Just like that? With a pat on the back and a ‘good luck, champ’?”

  The hunter ignored the comment and brought a hand to his jacket, pulling out a gun. The shot rang through the street.

  The bullet cut through the air… and stopped.

  Ekchron didn’t even bother to freeze time. He just extended a hand and caught it between his fingers with insulting precision.

  He looked at the bullet for a moment, then raised his gaze to the man and smiled. A confident, deliciously indecent smile.

  With his other hand, he formed a gun with his fingers, aiming theatrically.

  “Bang.”

  The bullet shot forward at impossible speed.

  The impact was dry, brutal. The hunter’s leg gave out immediately, and he fell to the ground with a stifled scream, writhing.

  Ekchron began walking toward him, calm and relaxed.

  “Years following me,” he commented. “Traveling. Researching. Dangerous contacts. And all for this.”

  He stopped in front of him, looking down.

  “You should have asked for an autograph.”

  The hunter looked up, pale.

  Ekchron extended a hand, ready to finish him, but a voice stopped him.

  “Enough.”

  The deep, firm voice reached him from behind, unmistakable.

  Ekchron clicked his tongue, annoyed, still not taking his eyes off his prey.

  “Really,” he commented, without turning. “Today is International Day of Sneaking Up from Behind. It’s getting exhausting.”

  He turned slowly, smirking.

  Calean was there.

  “You’re still in my territory,” he said flatly. “You should have left.”

  Ekchron raised an eyebrow, amused.

  “Oh, yes. Spain. The Eternal Knight’s fiefdom,” he extended both arms theatrically. “Very sober. Very serious. Ideal for solemn speeches.”

  Calean stepped forward. He didn’t return the mockery.

  “You came thinking the Dawnbringer could free you,” he continued. “From whatever Eresha did to you.”

  Ekchron’s smile didn’t fade, but his gaze sharpened.

  “Wow,” he murmured. “So perceptive. I feel observed.”

  “When you tried to harm her,” Calean went on, “something inside you stopped you. It punished you.”

  Ekchron tilted his head, studying him as if he were an interesting curiosity, not a threat.

  “The Dawnbringer cannot help you,” Calean stated. “And you cannot kill her. You have nothing left to do here. Leave my territory.”

  Ekchron let out a low chuckle and shook his head.

  “What a lovely line,” he said. “It always sounds better when a hero says it. Weighty. Vocational. Limited-edition morality.”

  He strolled a few steps, slowly, as if on an invisible stage.

  “I imagine you practicing it in front of a mirror,” he added. “Back straight, deep voice, brow just right… Works especially well with a sheathed sword.”

  He stopped next to the wounded hunter and looked down at him.

  “You always arrive at the perfect moment,” he continued. “Just when the scene screams for a savior.”

  He raised his gaze to Calean again, smiling.

  “I show up, screw everything up, break something important… and then you enter. The eternal knight. The martyr. And then the—”

  In an imperceptible movement, before he could react, the hunter’s head rolled across the ground with a wet sound.

  “…the villain does his part,” he finished, as though it were a mere formality.

  He turned to Calean, hands stained red, smile intact.

  “Without me, your role loses its charm. No one to stop. No one to hate. No story.”

  For the first time, something cracked in Calean’s expression.

  “This wasn’t necessary.”

  Ekchron looked at the body, then the head, thoughtful.

  “To separate the head from the body… yes,” he replied. “Quite necessary.”

  He let out a short laugh and gave the head a light kick.

  “Relax. It won’t complain.”

  Calean didn’t react. His gaze pierced Ekchron, cold, as if that monster didn’t deserve a reply.

  “Courtesy of the First, by the way,” Ekchron added lightly. “He has this nasty little habit of sending me humans to annoy me… and I return them in pieces.”

  Calean gripped the hilt inside the sheath. There was no chaotic rage on his face, only something ancient and cold. Violent stillness, as if calculating exactly where to strike.

  Ekchron noticed and smiled even more.

  He turned slowly, unhurried, without fleeing: closing the scene at his whim. He began walking down the street calmly, like someone leaving a boring conversation.

  “And no,” he said over his shoulder. “I won’t leave your territory.”

  For a moment, Calean’s eyes stopped looking human: too deep, too ancient, filled with anger rarely seen.

  “Every corpse you leave here is a debt,” he said, voice restrained. “And when I decide to collect… there will be no time, no game, no smile to save you.”

  Ekchron stopped only to laugh.

  “Ah, martyr… relax. I’m untouchable.”

  He continued down the street, waving carelessly, saying goodbye like someone leaving a mediocre performance.

  Calean didn’t follow. He remained still, sword still sheathed, fresh blood on the ground… and the unbearable certainty that he couldn’t do anything.

  The low branches brushed his shoulders as he passed. Sorian moved through them without pushing them aside, letting them bend around him. His white hair stood out even in the dim light, catching what little sun filtered through the treetops. His blue eyes, cold and alert, didn’t stray from the path, though his mind was far away.

  He stopped abruptly.

  Between the trees, the mirror stood. The portal separating the human world from Elyndra.

  The man walking with him stayed by his side, not too close to the mirror. He just watched, his red eyes calm.

  “Once we cross,” he said, “there’s no turning back.”

  Sorian didn’t respond immediately. He lifted his gaze, letting the portal’s clarity illuminate his face.

  “I know,” he finally replied.

  “You still have time to stop.”

  Sorian let out a brief, humorless laugh.

  “I’ve spent my whole life stopping. Obeying. Believing.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, voice unwavering.

  “Lyciah still believes in the sky as if it was never taken from her. And I won’t fail her again.”

  He stepped toward the portal. Its liquid surface stirred, recognizing him. A Lumen. A general. Someone who had sworn loyalty too many times.

  “Let’s go,” he continued, not looking back. “I won’t keep calling a cage a refuge.”

  He extended his hand to the mirror, touching it.

  “And when the quee…,” he corrected himself with disdain, “Heliora crosses our path, it will be the end.”

  The portal stopped reflecting the forest, and the other world began to emerge. The passage was open.

  “I gave her my loyalty. Today, I’ll give her death.”