Fate/Thorns of Glory

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The sun refuses to set.

Leonas walks beneath an eternal afternoon—its golden warmth suffocating in its gentleness. The air is too soft. The light too clean. Even the shadows seem choreographed.

This is not Akrytos.

It is a portrait of Akrytos as painted by someone who never bled.

He moves past alleyways that once choked with beggars. They are now walkways of climbing roses and painted doors. There is no smell of rot. No ragged laughter. No crows circling the rooftops.

He pauses before a bakery. A man offers him a pastry, smiling.

"On the house, your grace," the man says.

Leonas does not take it.

He watches the man's hands. No scars. Too clean.

"Do you know who I am?" he asks.

The man blinks.

"Of course. You're Leonas. Our gentle king. You blessed this district with your kindness."

The words stick to his ears like syrup.

He turns and leaves. The pastry vendor does not stop smiling.

---

In the place where the Broken Ring used to sprawl—a hell of mud-bricked slums and dog-wars—there are now orchards. Neatly planted rows of fruit trees. Birds sing from above. Children skip rope beneath vines.

Leonas walks among them.

No one runs. No one hides.

A woman waves. She cradles two infants—twins, wrapped in linen stamped with olive branches.

"You gave us this," she calls. "You saved us."

He walks on.

Each step is agony. Because this isn't peace. It's taxidermy.

The wounds of the city have been stitched closed with silk, its scars erased—not healed. And in their place, lies bloom like wildflowers.

---

He finds her again—the child from the well.

She sits beneath a fig tree, drawing flames in the dirt with her finger. Alone, again.

He watches her for a while.

She notices him.

"They gave me a new papa," she says.

"Do you like him?" Leonas asks.

She nods. Then shakes her head. Then shrugs.

"He smiles too much. I think he's scared."

A beat.

"I keep dreaming about people burning. Screaming. I see someone standing there. Not helping. Just watching. But he looks like you."

Her voice lowers to a whisper.

"...Was it you?"

Leonas crouches beside her.

Brushes the dust from her drawings with the back of his hand.

"No," he says. "That wasn't me."

"That was a lie made to look like me. A version of me you'd find easier to forgive."

She frowns.

"Why?"

"Because pain is hard. People want stories that don't hurt. Even if they have to kill the truth to get it."

The girl looks down.

"But the fire was real."

He stands, placing a hand on her head.

"Yes. And the people who died deserved to be remembered."

"Even if it hurts?"

"Especially then."

He turns.

And as he walks away, the trees shiver.

One fruit falls from a branch, splits open on the ground. Not red pulp—ash. The illusion frays, if only slightly.

The girl whispers behind him, to no one:

"...Then I'll remember."

---

Above the city, the clouds begin to rot at the edges—just a little. The perfect sky warps at its seams.

The utopia trembles.

It knows what comes next.

The king of fire has returned—and he does not accept mercy offered by cowards.

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