The holographic credits of the Human Age rolled silently in the living room. Isolde remained curled up on the sofa, eyes glued to the screen, analyzing the statistical growth of the human economy.

  But the air in the room felt heavy.

  Amara and Nara stood up, stretching their limbs. "I need air," Amara said. She walked to the large glass sliding doors and pushed them open.

  They stepped out onto the Endless Grassland—a pocket dimension Valerius had created to mimic the feeling of a perfect summer afternoon. The "sun" was warm, the breeze carried the scent of wild oats, and the horizon stretched on forever, never meeting a wall.

  Valerius lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching his sisters, then followed them out.

  They sat in the tall grass, watching the artificial clouds drift by.

  "What would happen if we were mortals?" Amara mused, plucking a blade of grass and twirling it. "Like Dorian and Serena?"

  "We wouldn't live this long, for one," Valerius replied quietly, staring at the horizon.

  "But physically, I'm only twenty-two!" Nara protested playfully, leaning back on her hands. "I could go to musical concerts! I could eat real macarons, not just code-simulated ones!"

  "Or..." Valerius said, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with unsaid words. "We might finally be free."

  Nara stopped smiling. Amara looked up.

  Valerius looked down at his hands—hands that held the power to delete worlds, yet couldn't unlock the door to their own exit.

  "I am sorry," he whispered. "For bringing you all here. For trapping you in this eternity with me."

  He squeezed his eyes shut. "I should have been able to handle this power alone. You should have had lives. Endings."

  He sat down heavily on the grass, his shoulders slumped under the weight of eons.

  Nara and Amara didn't hesitate. They moved in sync, sitting on either side of him and wrapping him in a warm, crushing hug.

  "It was our choice too, Val," Amara said softly, resting her head on his broad shoulder. "Even Isolde’s. We love you. We are here because we want to be."

  "We won't abandon each other," Nara added, squeezing his hand. "Not for a concert. Not for anything."

  Valerius opened his eyes. He looked at his sisters, then back at the house where Isolde was likely yelling at the TV. A small, genuine smile broke through his melancholy. He hugged them back tightly.

  They sat there in silence for a long while, simply existing together in the golden light, three timeless beings finding comfort in the only thing that made eternity bearable: each other.

  "Hey! Emotional support group!"

  Isolde’s voice rang out from the living room, shattering the moment. She was standing in the doorway, holding a bowl of snacks.

  "You guys might want to come back inside," she called out, pointing a thumb at the screen. "The Humans are boring now—just baking cookies and signing treaties. I want to see my giant."

  Valerius sighed, the moment passing, but he stood up lighter than before. He offered a hand to Amara and Nara, pulling them up.

  "Duty calls," Valerius said.

  They returned to the cool air of the living room. Valerius walked to the hologram table and waved his hand.

  "Focus Shift: Sector 4 - The Northern Wastes."

  The warm, golden light of the Human Lands vanished. The room was bathed in a harsh, icy blue glow.

  On the screen, the camera panned over jagged peaks of black rock covered in thick snow. The wind howled through the speakers.

  High in the Frozen Peaks, the city of Frosthold was carved directly into the living glacier. It was a city of titans—doorways stood twenty feet high, and the streets were wide enough to march a legion abreast.

  Halin, the High Diplomat of the Giants, sat in his massive stone study. He held the letter from Dorian in hands the size of shovels.

  "Peace," Halin breathed, the steam from his breath clouding the air. "The humans have chosen trade over blood."

  Inspired by the stability of the West, Halin had spent the last year modernizing his people. He looked out his window at his greatest creation: The Central Treasury. It was a fortress of black iron and ice, designed to hold all the food, ore, and medicine in the city.

  "The State collects, the State distributes," Halin muttered, quoting a human philosophy. "No more hoarding. No more fighting."

  But as he looked down at the streets, he didn't see happy citizens. He saw long lines. He saw Giants shivering not from cold—which they were immune to—but from the weakness of empty bellies.

  Three nights later, a blizzard screamed through the canyon, blinding the sentries.

  Two shadows, massive but quiet, scaled the walls of the Treasury. They didn't head for the gold vault; they broke into the Medical Wing.

  Halin was awake, reviewing supply ledgers, when the alarm bells tolled—deep, resonant gongs that shook the snow from the roofs. He grabbed his weapon: a massive, custom-built Heavy Crossbow, modeled after human ballistae.

  He rushed to the courtyard just as the thieves were fleeing.

  "Halt!" Halin roared, his voice louder than the wind.

  The thieves panicked. They scrambled toward the wall. Halin reacted on instinct. He raised the crossbow and pulled the trigger. A steel bolt the size of a spear slammed into the leading thief, pinning him to the icy ground instantly.

  The second thief froze, looking at his fallen comrade, then at Halin’s reloaded weapon. He dropped his sack and fell to his knees in surrender.

  The next morning, the sky was a brutal, clear blue. Halin stood before the gathered clans in the execution square.

  "Theft strikes at the heart of our survival!" Halin shouted, his voice echoing off the glacier walls. "To steal from the Treasury is to steal from everyone. We must send a message."

  He signaled the executioner. The great axe fell. The surviving thief was silenced.

  It was only after the crowd dispersed that the Head Healer approached Halin, holding the sack the thieves had dropped.

  "My Lord," the Healer said softly. "You should see this."

  Halin looked inside. There was no gold. No gems. Just bundles of Frost-Moss—a common herb used to treat 'Elder-Lung,' a respiratory disease that affects old Giants.

  "They were twins," the Healer explained. "Their grandmother is dying in the Lower District. They applied for medicine three times, but the Distribution Office said they didn't have enough 'Social Credit' to qualify."

  Halin felt the blood drain from his face. He looked at the blood on the snow. He hadn't killed greedy criminals; he had killed desperate grandsons trying to save their family.

  Guilt sat on Halin’s chest heavier than any armor. He had built a police force, he had built a court, but the crime didn't stop because the hunger didn't stop.

  Desperate, he wrote a letter to the only man he knew who understood governance.

  “Dorian. I have enforced the law, but I have murdered justice. My people steal because they starve. How do I police hunger?”

  Weeks passed. Then, a human messenger arrived, shivering in furs, bearing a reply.

  “Halin. You cannot police hunger. You must trade it away. You sit on a mountain of frozen water. Down here, our meat rots in days and our milk sours in hours. We have food, but we cannot keep it. You have ice. Send us your winter, and we will send you our harvest.”

  Halin lowered the letter. He looked around his city. Ice was everywhere. It was their floor, their walls, their ceiling. To them, it was dirt. To the humans, it was time.

  Six months later, the road between the Human Lands and the Frozen Peaks was the busiest trade route in the world.

  Huge sleds, pulled by teams of mammoths, slid down the mountain passes, carrying massive, crystal-clear Blocks of Ice.

  In the Human markets, these blocks were placed in "Ice Houses," allowing meat and vegetables to stay fresh for weeks.

  And coming up the mountain were wagons laden with Smoked Meats, Grains, and Vegetables.

  Halin stood on the balcony of the Treasury—now converted into a Trade Hub. He watched a Giant family walking home, carrying baskets full of bread and dried beef. They weren't hiding in the shadows. They were laughing.

  Crime had vanished. Not because of the axe, but because of the bread.

  "Dorian was right," Halin whispered to the wind, watching the mammoth sleds descend. "We don't need walls. We need bridges."

  For the first time in history, the Giants were not just surviving the cold; they were mastering it.

  Deep in the Jungle, the Tree of Life was no longer just a sanctuary; it was a factory of miracles. The "Crystal City" had grown into the upper branches, a sprawling network of white-wood platforms and glowing bridges.

  Arin walked through the Solar Forge. There was no black smoke here, no ringing of hammers on iron. Instead, Elven smiths worked in silence, using focused beams of sunlight magnified through crystals to shape the metal.

  "The arms race has begun, my Lord," an artisan said, handing Arin a slender longsword. "Though the other races do not know they are racing yet."

  Arin drew the blade. It didn't ring; it hummed. He swung it, and a trail of magical fire lingered in the air, hot enough to sear flesh without touching it.

  "And the armor?" Arin asked.

  "Mithril-weave," the artisan replied, gesturing to a mannequin. "We have enchanted the links to reject gravity. It is as hard as human steel, but weighs no more than a silk robe."

  Arin nodded, pleased. He walked to the testing range. A soldier stood with a spear carved from the Iron-Wood of the great tree. The soldier threw it with blinding speed. The spear pierced a target fifty yards away, and then, with a flick of the soldier's wrist, the spear reversed gravity, flying backward to snap perfectly into the soldier's hand.

  "Infinite ammunition," Arin mused. "Elegant."

  He moved to the transport deck. Here, the Elves had solved the problem of logistics. There were no horses or oxen. Instead, sleek wooden Wagons floated a few inches off the ground, humming with a low violet light.

  "They are keyed to the driver's aura," a logistician explained. "They follow the movement of the Elf they are bonded to. Where the soldier walks, the supply train follows automatically."

  But the greatest invention was waiting in Arin’s private observatory.

  He approached a table made of polished silver. On it lay a piece of parchment that looked blank. Arin waved his hand over it, channeling a pulse of mana.

  Ink bloomed across the paper. It drew the jungle in real-time. But more importantly, it showed dots of light.

  "The Bio-Map," Arin whispered.

  "It detects the 'Life Essence' of any creature larger than a rat within ten miles," his advisor said. "We can see the lizards hunting. We can see the giant ants marching. No one can ambush us, for we see their hearts beating before they even draw their weapons."

  Arin looked at the map. He felt invincible. He had weapons that returned to him, armor that floated, carts that drove themselves, and eyes that saw through trees.

  "The world is dangerous," Arin said, watching a cluster of red dots (predators) moving on the map. "But we are the apex."

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Deep in the Southern Jungle, the Fairies had abandoned their hiding spots. They no longer feared the shadows, for the shadows now answered to them.

  On a mossy ridge, a Great Grey Wolf—the size of a horse—emerged from the brush. It didn't snarl. Instead, it lowered its head submissively as a Fairy scout dismounted from its back.

  "The perimeter is clear," the scout reported to the Elder, stroking the wolf’s thick fur. "The Bears are guarding the river crossing, and the Great Hawks are watching the canopy. Nothing moves in this jungle without us knowing."

  Because the Fairies used their magic to accelerate the growth of fruit trees and heal wounded animals, the beasts of the jungle had sworn a primal loyalty to them.

  "Feed them," the Elder commanded, gesturing to a pile of magically grown, oversized berries and fresh meat. "The pack eats first. We protect them, they protect us."

  The Fairies had become the Beast Masters. They didn't need walls like the Humans or invisibility like the Elves. They had the teeth and claws of the wild.

  In the center of the sanctuary, Juna sat in a circle of white stones. Floating before her was the Fruit of Life.

  It was no longer just a chaotic swirl of energy. Under Juna’s guidance, the violet shadows (the monsters) and the emerald light (her father) were held in a delicate, spinning equilibrium.

  Juna didn't look like a child anymore. Her eyes were sharp, dark with lack of sleep, and filled with calculations.

  "It is a sponge," Juna muttered, scribbling notes on a large leaf parchment. "It consumes life force to maintain the seal. My father died because he tried to feed it all from his own candle."

  She looked up at the ten young fairies sitting around her. They were the "Talented Ones"—the strongest magic users of the new generation.

  "Listen to me," Juna commanded, her voice stern. "The Fruit is hungry. If you try to control it alone, it will drink you dry until you are dust. We do not use our life force. We channel the ambient life."

  She raised her hand. "Link your minds. Draw from the roots. Draw from the wind. Push it into the Fruit... gently."

  The young fairies closed their eyes. The air hummed. Streams of pale green light flowed from the earth, through their bodies, and into the Fruit. The violet shadows inside the Fruit hissed but were pushed back by the influx of fresh power.

  "Hold it..." Juna coached, sweat beading on her forehead. "Don't let it snap. Balance. Balance!"

  The Fruit glowed brightly, stabilized not by one sacrifice, but by the shared strength of a coven.

  "Release," Juna breathed.

  The students slumped, exhausted but alive. Juna caught the Fruit as it drifted down into her lap. It was warm, pulsing with a steady heartbeat—her father’s heartbeat.

  "You did well," Juna whispered, stroking the rind. "One day, we will be strong enough to open the door and pull him out. But until then... we keep the cage locked."

  Deep beneath the earth, far below the roots of the jungle, the air tasted of rotten eggs and excitement. Brog’s Goblins were digging.

  They were following a vein of sulfur, their iron pickaxes ringing against the stone in a rhythmic, deafening chorus.

  "Hard rock!" a goblin miner named Sniv complained, wiping soot from his eyes. He raised his pickaxe and struck a patch of unusual, crumbly stone.

  It wasn't grey. It was a bright, angry orange.

  Spark.

  The iron tip of the pickaxe grazed a piece of flint embedded in the orange dust.

  BOOM.

  A fireball erupted, blasting Sniv and three other goblins backward. The tunnel shook, dust raining down from the ceiling. A cloud of black smoke filled the shaft.

  Brog, the Goblin Chief, rushed in from the main cavern. He didn't check for survivors. He sniffed the air, his large ears twitching. He looked at the scorched walls and the crater where Sniv used to be.

  "What..." Brog whispered, a grin spreading across his face, revealing his jagged teeth. "...was that?"

  The next few weeks were a disaster for goblin safety standards, but a triumph for science. They gathered the Orange Dust in clay pots. They didn't understand chemistry. They didn't know about oxidation or combustion. They only knew one simple equation:

  Dust + Fire = Big Boom.

  "It’s not magic," Brog declared, watching a test explosion obliterate a boulder the size of a house. "Elves need whispers and wands. We just need a match."

  He looked at his advisors. "We need more. Mine it all. But... be careful. I don't want to blow up the mountain while we're living under it."

  Brog was crazy, but he wasn't stupid. He knew that one day, this power might turn on them.

  "Build a vault," Brog commanded, pointing to the deepest, coldest part of the cave system. "Reinforced stone. Thick doors. We keep the Boom-Dust there. No torches allowed inside. If you bring a light, I cut off your hands."

  He paused, looking toward the dark underground river. "And dig a tunnel. West. Toward the water. Just in case the boom gets too big, we need a back door."

  In the Northern Sands, the war did not begin with a roar, but with a ripple.

  Ronan, the Guardian of The Haven, stood atop his watchtower. He expected General Magnus to march through the narrow "Serpent’s Pass"—a choke point Ronan had spent weeks trapping with rockfalls and pits.

  But the pass remained empty.

  Instead, the alarm bell rang from the East. Ronan spun around to look at the Great Salt Lake, a massive, stagnant body of water bordering the oasis.

  Emerging from the night mist were flat-bottomed barges, silent and ghostly. Magnus hadn't marched; he had sailed.

  "He bypassed the traps," Ronan cursed, gripping the railing. "We have no defenses on the water."

  "They are landing!" a sentry screamed. "The Elite Guard!"

  Ronan looked at his militia—starving skeletons armed with sharpened ribs and rusted scimitars. They couldn't hold off Magnus’s iron-clad veterans.

  "Retreat to the bunkers!" Ronan commanded, his voice cracking. "Civilians first! Seal the vents!"

  As the women and children scrambled into the underground salt-mines-turned-bunkers, Ronan stayed behind with a small volunteer rearguard. He ran to the edge of the plaza, where an ancient, rusted Cannon sat half-buried in the sand. It was a relic from the First Era, pitted and heavy.

  Magnus’s forces hit the beach. They moved with terrifying discipline, their shields locking into a wall of steel.

  Ronan loaded the last round iron shot. He lit the fuse with a piece of flint.

  "For the Haven," he whispered.

  BOOM.

  The cannon roared, kicking back so hard it cracked its own carriage. The iron ball screamed through the air and smashed into the sand ten yards in front of Magnus.

  It didn't hit the General, but the explosion of sand and shrapnel forced the Elite Guard to break formation and scatter.

  "Go!" Ronan shouted to his rearguard, dropping the match. "Into the dark!"

  He sprinted for the bunker entrance, diving in just as Magnus’s soldiers breached the city walls.

  Magnus swept through The Haven like a sandstorm. He kicked open doors, expecting ambushes, expecting resistance.

  He found nothing.

  The huts were empty. The cooking fires were cold. There was no gold, no grain silos, no weapon caches. Just the wind whistling through rib-cage wind chimes.

  "It’s a ghost town," his Lieutenant reported. "Sir, we should burn it."

  "No," Magnus said, raising a hand. "They are hiding. Set up camp in the square. We wait for dawn."

  When the sun rose, a single figure emerged from the ground. It was Ronan, holding a white flag tied to a spear.

  Magnus walked out to meet him, his hand on his sword. "You surrender, Guardian?"

  "I wish to parley," Ronan said. He didn't bow. "Come with me. See what you are conquering."

  Magnus, confident in his strength, nodded. He followed Ronan down into the dark, damp tunnels of the salt mine.

  He expected to find a rebel army plotting treason. Instead, the light of his soul-lantern revealed a cavern filled with huddling masses. Elderly skeletons with cracked bones. Mothers holding infants wrapped in rags.

  Magnus stopped. The air here was thick with misery.

  Behind him, his soldiers began to whisper.

  "Uncle?" one of Magnus’s elite guards gasped. He dropped his sword, the clang echoing in the silence. He rushed forward to an old skeleton missing an arm. "Uncle Harek? We thought you died in the mines years ago!"

  "Brother?" another soldier cried out, spotting a familiar skull shape in the crowd.

  Panic turned to reunion. The "Rebel Army" was made up of the brothers, sisters, and parents of the King's own soldiers. They hadn't fled to be traitors; they had fled because they were starving under Ezra’s taxes.

  Magnus stood frozen. He looked at a starving child who was chewing on a piece of leather. He realized with a cold horror that he wasn't fighting a war. He was conducting a slaughter.

  "If we fight them," Magnus whispered to himself, "we kill our own kin."

  He looked at Ronan. The Guardian simply nodded. "This is why we rebel, Magnus. Not for power. For survival."

  An hour later, Magnus emerged from the bunker. His face was unreadable.

  He turned to his army. "Anyone who found family... stays here. I will report you as killed in action."

  A ripple of shock, then gratitude, went through the ranks. Thirty of his best men stripped off their armor and ran back into the tunnels.

  Magnus ordered the rest of his supplies—food, oil, and spare cloth—to be left at the bunker entrance. Then, he turned his remaining force back toward the desert.

  Back at the Capital of Mortis:

  King Ezra sat on his sandstone throne, eager for news. "Report," Ezra commanded.

  Magnus knelt, his head bowed low. "The Haven is destroyed, My Lord. The rebels fled into the Deep Desert. Between the heat and the sandstorms... they have perished. There is no one left."

  Ezra smiled, a cruel, satisfied expression. "Excellent. You have cleansed the sands, Magnus."

  He stood up and pinned a Medal of Obsidian onto Magnus’s chest armor. "I name you High General of Mortis. You are the right hand of my legacy."

  Magnus looked at the medal. It was heavy, cold, and sharp. He looked up at his King—the father of the newborn Quentin, the builder of walls.

  "Thank you, My Lord," Magnus said. He didn't smile.

  Inside his ribcage, where a heart would be, there was only a cold, calculating resolve. He touched the medal, not as a badge of honor, but as a reminder of the lie.

  The High General was no longer the King's man. He was the people's secret.

  Back in the divine living room, the holographic screen showed a montage of construction: Elves growing trees, Goblins digging holes, and Giants stacking ice. It was impressive, but visually repetitive.

  Nara let out a yawn that cracked her jaw.

  “Still no sight of something interesting,” she complained, rubbing her eyes. “Just... developing. It’s like watching paint dry on a continental scale.”

  She stretched, her joints popping, and walked toward the stairs.

  “They are preparing, Nara,” Isolde said, eyes still glued to the economic charts. “Civilization needs time to bake.”

  “Well, let me know when the cake is done. I’m going to sleep.” Nara waved a hand over her shoulder. “Good night, everyone. Try not to destroy the world while I’m napping.”

  “Good night, Nara!” Valerius called out from his armchair.

  Silence settled over the room. Amara and Isolde exchanged a glance.

  “Don’t you want to go to sleep, Amara?” Isolde asked, her voice innocent but her eyes dancing. “You’re usually the first one out.”

  “I’ve slept a lot already,” Amara said quickly, turning away to hide a smile. “I’m... fully charged.”

  Valerius lowered his book. He looked at Amara, who was wearing a surprisingly elegant tunic instead of her usual lounge wear, and then at Isolde, who was trying too hard to look busy. He knew exactly what was happening.

  “Well,” Valerius said, standing up and gesturing to the pile of retro game cartridges on the floor. “Since we finished your marathon, Amara, someone has to carry these back to storage.”

  He turned to Isolde. “Since you played with us this time, surely you wouldn't mind helping Amara carry the heavy box upstairs?”

  Isolde paused. She calculated the move. If she helped, she cleared the room for Amara. If she didn't, she’d be the third wheel.

  “Fine,” Isolde sighed dramatically, standing up. She grabbed a box of cartridges. “Come on, Amara. Let’s clean up your mess.”

  At the top of the stairs, out of Valerius’s earshot, the dynamic shifted.

  Isolde handed the box to Amara. “It’s your turn now,” she whispered, nudging her friend.

  “Do you have any recommendations?” Amara asked playfully, checking her reflection in the hallway mirror.

  “Just be confident,” Isolde advised, leaning against the doorframe. “And don’t let him control the pace. You’re a hunter, remember? Hunt.”

  “Okay, okay,” Amara laughed. “I’ll try my best. Thank you, Izzy.”

  Isolde retreated to her room with a smirk, leaving the stage clear.

  Amara walked back downstairs. She didn't come empty-handed. In her grip was her Ceremonial Bow—a weapon of white wood and gold inlays, unstrung but beautiful.

  “Valerius,” she said softly.

  Valerius looked up. He saw the bow. He saw the dress.

  “I heard you’ve been practicing your conjuring,” she continued, stepping closer and blinking her eyelashes rapidly. “My aim has been feeling... rusty lately. Can you help me remember the basics?”

  Valerius raised an eyebrow. “You? Rusty?”

  “Terribly,” Amara lied effortlessly. “I can barely hit a mountain.”

  “Is that why you dressed properly today?” Valerius asked, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “To shoot mountains?”

  “One must look professional to learn properly,” she laughed softly, a sound like wind chimes.

  Valerius shook his head, amused by her antics. He knew she could shoot a fly off a dragon’s nose from a mile away. But if she wanted a lesson, he would give her a lesson.

  “Okay,” Valerius said, conjuring his own bow—a construct of pure starlight—in his left hand. “Let’s go outside. The wind is good tonight.”

  He opened the glass doors to the endless grassland, and Amara followed, looking like the luckiest being in the universe.

  The artificial sun was beginning to set over the Endless Grassland, painting the sky in hues of digital violet and gold. A gentle breeze rippled through the grass.

  Amara stood in position, conjuring three arrows made of shimmering pink energy—her "Love Arrows." She turned to Valerius with a playful glint in her eyes.

  “Can you teach me to control the arrows after firing?” she asked, handing one of the glowing shafts to him.

  Valerius took the arrow. It hummed with potential energy. “Sure, but show me your style first. I will teach based on your habits.”

  He conjured three floating targets in the distance. “Fire at will.”

  “Actually,” Amara murmured, knocking an arrow, “I think I can do it every time I need. But I just want to make sure my love arrow can hit every target I want.”

  She released the string. Twang.

  The arrow split into two, hitting the first and second targets perfectly. But instead of dissipating, they ricocheted, curving sharply through the air straight back toward Valerius.

  He didn't flinch. He simply side-stepped with mathematical precision, letting the arrows whiz past his ear. Amara reached out and snatched them out of the air.

  “See?” Amara teased, stepping closer to grab his arm, though she hesitated at the last second. “It bounced.”

  Valerius didn't look at her immediately. He watched the targets fading.

  “I think...” he said thoughtfully, turning to face her, “you are just too scared to focus on new targets. You hesitate at the moment of impact.”

  “So, what should I do?” Amara asked, her voice dropping.

  “Hesitation leads to a miss,” Valerius said, smiling gently. He waved his hand, resetting the targets. “Try again. Confidently. Don't ask for permission to hit the mark.”

  Amara took a deep breath. She drew the string back to her cheek, her eyes locking onto Valerius for a split second before shifting to the targets.

  Loose.

  The arrow screamed through the air. It pierced all three targets in a single line—thwack, thwack, thwack. But it didn't stop. It looped in a tight arc and flew directly at Valerius’s chest, moving faster than before.

  Valerius dodged, blurring with high speed. The arrow corrected its course, banking hard to follow him.

  “Aggressive!” Valerius laughed. He snapped his fingers, opening a small Magic Portal in the air. The arrow flew into it and instantly reappeared in Amara’s quiver with a soft clink.

  “See?” Valerius smiled, dusting off his hands. “Now you can do it. Focus and intent.”

  Amara walked up to him and finally grabbed his arm, holding it tight.

  “But I still didn't hit the last target,” she pouted, looking up at him through her lashes.

  Valerius looked down at her hand on his arm. “For the arrow... that is about strength and speed.”

  He gently took her other hand, leaning forward until their faces were inches apart. Amara’s breath hitched.

  “But for the other topic,” Valerius whispered, “I haven’t mastered it either.”

  He leaned back, breaking the tension, and began walking back toward the house.

  “Hey!” Amara shouted, jogging to block his path. She crossed her arms, trying to look bold. “What if I just kissed you here?”

  Valerius paused. He looked at her, then back at the field. “Just see the last arrow. It chased me until I had to break reality to stop it. A kiss might be... similarly catastrophic.”

  Amara blushed, not sure if that was a rejection or a confession. "Can you teach me more?"

  “We can learn together,” Valerius said, his voice soft with care. “But right now, you need to rest. You haven’t slept your usual hours. Your draw weight was lighter than last time. I can see the fatigue in your aura.”

  “Fine,” Amara sighed, defeated by his logic. “But... how can you never sleep? Is it just a God thing?”

  Valerius tapped his temple. “I don’t use only a biological brain to process. I have a Microcontroller Unit fused to my neural cortex.”

  Amara blinked. “A what?”

  “A computer,” Valerius explained matter-of-factly. “It helps me process data faster and connects me to electronic devices directly. It also regulates my biological functions—balancing hormones, flushing toxins, and repairing cells using magic. I don't need sleep because my system runs a maintenance cycle while I’m awake.”

  Amara stared at him. The romance was dead, killed by technical specs.

  “Okay, okay, never mind!” she interrupted, covering her ears. “Too much science! I’m going to bed!”

  “Good night, Amara,” Valerius chuckled.

  She rushed past him into the house. Valerius watched her go, his mechanical heart beating a steady, rhythmic thrum. He shook his head, smiling, before sitting down in the grass to resume his lonely, sleepless watch over the world.