Julian remained on his knees, his hands still clasped together in a white-knuckled grip. He was drenched in a cold, shivering sweat, and his muscles were locked in a state of agonizing tension.

Slowly, the terrifying thrumming of the corrosion in his left eye began to recede, the violet stain draining away until only the clear, piercing blue remained.

​"Julian!"

​The shout was hoarse, raw from a night of frantic restraint.

​Julian’s head swayed to the side as his strength finally evaporated. Through the haze, he saw a dark shape charging across the transparent crystal floor, having broken through the knights that had been keeping him away.

Alaric looked like a man possessed; his hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, and his cloak had been discarded somewhere near the threshold.

​"Don’t... don’t burn it," Julian rasped. His throat felt like it was filled with glass, his voice barely a whisper.

​Alaric reached him in a second flat, dropping to his knees so hard the sound echoed like a gunshot in the dome.

He caught Julian just as the scholar began to collapse, pulling him against his chest with a grip that was almost bruising. Alaric’s heart was hammering a wild, desperate rhythm against Julian’s ear.

​"I have waited for you to wake up for hours," Alaric hissed into his hair, his voice trembling with a mixture of terror and relief. "I was a minute away from pulling this Sanctuary down stone by stone. I thought they had taken your soul. I thought the Light had destroyed you."

​Julian leaned into the familiar heat of Alaric’s neck, his lips curving as Alaric’s familiar concern gave him some calm.

"The church doesn’t take souls, Lucien," He whispered hoarsely. "I will... tell you.

Alaric held him closer, his breathing heavy and rough. Around them, the atmosphere was thick with a heavy, religious silence.

Pope Clement, along with the priests and the very knights who had spent the night blocking Alaric’s path, were no longer standing. They were all on their knees, their foreheads nearly touching the floor in a display of absolute, trembling reverence.

​They had seen it—the pillar of brilliance that had descended from the stars, swallowing Julian whole for hours. In their eyes, Julian was no longer just a Saint with great holy powers; he was a Saint who had successfully called out to the god of Light and been heard.

Something that had never happened before.

​The Pope looked up, his face pale and etched with awe. He didn’t even protest Alaric’s rough handling of the ’vessel’ of god. To the Church, Julian was now a living relic.

​Julian’s mind, however, was miles away from the kneeling priests. It spun back to the Light’s final words. The lover you fought to save.

​He looked at the Duke—this man who was willing to commit heresy and slaughter just to bring him back, this man who was willing to do just about anything for him—and felt a terrifying, silent recognition stir in his soul. He closed his eyes.

​The light had not been direct, but even those vague words were clear. Whatever he did a thousand years ago as Alias, whatever pushed him to betray the now fallen god, it somehow had something to do with Alaric. Or maybe... a lover from back then who shared this same soul.

​"I’m fine," Julian breathed, his trembling fingers clutching Alaric’s tunic. "Just tired."

​"I’m taking you back," Alaric growled, his gaze sweeping over the kneeling clergy with a look that promised violence if they so much as breathed in Julian’s direction.

​"Let him," the Pope whispered, his voice shaky as he stood. "The Saint must rest. He has walked where we cannot follow."

Julian felt they were being a bit much, but it’s not like they have never been much.

And especially given that he had just sat at a table with the god they served, though they don’t know that, and had a serious conversation about how he had been a divine and created strife with a fallen god, this level of reverence was earned.

​Alaric didn’t wait for further permission. He stood up, lifting Julian into his arms as if he weighed nothing.

As he strode out of the Sanctuary, the Holy Knights parted like a silver sea, bowing their heads as the two passed.

​Julian let his head rest against Alaric’s shoulder, the gray light of dawn beginning to bleed through the windows.

He had most of the answers he sought, but the cost was a burden he wasn’t sure he could carry.

Now for the final answer... would he be able to handle it?

He had so much on his mind. If he were still just Kim Jowoon, all of this would seem like a tale a student had cooked up to mess with him.

He wouldn’t have believed any of it.

But the facts kept coming one after the other, and he had witnessed too many bizarre things to doubt any of the things the god of light spoke.

How did he turn from being an ordinary high school teacher to a creator in a fantasy world? It was a lot to take in, even if he believed it. For now, he just needed to rest his head.

​When Alaric kicked open the heavy white doors to the Inner Sanctum, where Julian had been previously residing, Julian expected the quiet of a sleeping child and the steady vigil of the Northern knights set there to protect him.

But ​instead, the room was a hive of quiet, chaotic energy.

Sir Kaelen, in charge of protection, stood by the window, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, looking remarkably stressed. Lucius was sitting up in bed, rubbing his sleepy eyes, and standing right in the center of the room—rumpled but grinning—was a familiar head of chestnut-brown hair.

​"Castor?" Julian’s voice was dry as he called out.

​The boy turned around, his eyes lighting up. His white robe was covered in soot and dust, making it seem like he had crawled through a chimney and wrestled a laundry maid, but his spirit was entirely intact.

He raised two fingers in a cheeky peace sign and called out,

​"Julian. You look pale, like you’ve seen a ghost. Or a very bright lamp," Castor chirped, his grin widening despite the soot on his cheek.

Surely, he had heard from the guards whispering outside his room door that the Saint was calling out to the light; that was when he knew he had to come out.

Now, he was glad that Julian didn’t only come back, but his hair was still that raven black he liked so much.

​Julian blinked, trying to process the sight. "What are you doing here? Weren’t you... confined to the lower barracks? Under heavy guard?"

​"Barracks? Guards?" Castor waved a hand dismissively. "I escaped. Easy-peasy. Those guys are great at praying, but they’re not so great at locking second-story windows."