Days blurred into a haze of sterile white walls and the rhythmic beeping of medical equipment. Ethan lay in the hospital bed, his body a battlefield of pain, his mind a storm of questions. The bullet, a cruel messenger, had torn through his flesh—a brutal, undeniable end to the illusion of safety.
He reached for his phone, his fingers trembling, and dialed a number. The informant, a snitch with a voice like gravel, picked up on the third ring.
"Well, well, if it isn't the ghost," the informant rasped. "Thought they buried you."
"Who?" Ethan growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Who pulled the trigger?"
A moment of silence, thick with hesitation. "You ain't gonna like this, hermano. It was… Maka."
The name hit him like a physical blow, a cold, sharp blade twisting in his gut. Maka. His brother. His friend. The one he trusted.
"Impossible," Ethan whispered, his voice laced with disbelief. "He wouldn't..."
"Wouldn't he?" the informant chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Money talks, amigo. And they paid him well."
Ethan slammed the phone down, his hand shaking. The betrayal was a bitter pill, a poison seeping into his veins. He closed his eyes, the image of Maka's face, a mask of playful charm, now twisted into a cruel mockery.
Then, a presence filled the room—a subtle shift in the air, a ripple of something unseen. Not footsteps. Not the creak of a door. Just... a knowing.
He opened his eyes.
Maka stood by the window, the city lights casting long, slanted shadows across his figure. He looked the same, yet different—his usual easy smirk replaced by something heavier, something unreadable. His eyes, once filled with mischief, now held an eerie, ancient knowing.
"You," Ethan hissed, his voice raw with anger and pain.
Maka took a step closer, his movements slow, deliberate. "Surprised to see me, hermano?"
"Surprised you had the guts," Ethan spat, his hand clenching into a fist. "Why?"
Maka sighed, running a hand through his hair. "To protect you, Ethan. From your fate."
Ethan let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Protect me? You shot me! You betrayed me!"
Maka's expression softened, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. "A necessary redirection," he said quietly. "Your path, as it stood, led to a brutal end. A death in the shadows, at their hands."
Ethan shook his head, the words hitting but not sinking in. "And you decided to play god? To decide my fate for me?"
Maka's silence stretched. Then, he reached into his pocket, pulling out something small, something that seemed to pulse with an unnatural glow. An artifact. Not of this world.
"This," he said, holding it between them, "was the catalyst. It triggered a summoning. A spell woven in desperation, five years ago. The plea of a dying wizard seeking the Moon Goddess. Your mark… it resonated. It answered the call."
Ethan stared, his mind scrambling to find reason where there was none. "What mark?"
Maka's lips pressed into a thin line. "The mark of Malyari."
Ethan's breath hitched, his thoughts colliding in a violent storm. "Malyari? The moon goddess?" He scoffed. "That's only a story, folklore my lola spoke of, merely a bedtime tale." The word felt foreign on his tongue, like an echo from a world he had no place in. A cruel joke. A mistake too absurd to be real.
Maka smiled—a sad, knowing smile. "It is your fate now. A fate where you will live in a body having two souls, an ancient power, or a crown."
The words sent a chill through Ethan's bones. "Her? Who is she?"
Maka's gaze darkened.
"I was already rejected from the body," Ethan said, his voice low and edged with frustration. "That's why I'm here—as Ethan, not Antoinette. I was never meant to be her."
His fingers tightened around the hospital sheets, his breathing uneven. The more he spoke, the more the truth felt like chains wrapping around his ribs, squeezing tighter. If the goddess had rejected him, then why had she summoned him at all? Why had he been pulled into this fate, only to be cast aside?
Maka's eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Because the body—Antoinette—rejected you. Because the goddess of the moon saw hesitation. You were granted a path, but you wavered, and so she let you go—for now."
Ethan swallowed hard. He wanted to argue, to deny it. But the doubt clawed at him. Did he hesitate? Had he resisted, even in the moment he should have surrendered?
Maka stepped forward, closing the space between them. Without a word, he raised his hand and pressed two fingers against Ethan's forehead. A sudden rush of energy surged through Ethan's body—a sensation both weightless and overwhelming. Maka's voice echoed in his mind, distant yet firm.
"It is not rejection, hermano. It is delay. A choice you must now make."
A second voice layered over his. Softer, ancient, and inescapable. The Keeper of the Moon.
"The hands of fate do not force—they only offer. Will you walk forward, or will you turn away once more?"
The world around Ethan twisted, colors bleeding into one another, the sterile hospital room vanishing in an instant. Darkness enveloped him, then the scent of seawater and incense filled his lungs. When his eyes fluttered open, he found himself lying in an ornate coffin, surrounded by flickering candlelight and the hushed murmurs of mourners.
Gasps erupted around him as he sat up, the thick fabric of a funeral shroud slipping from his shoulders.
"By the gods—!" someone choked out.
"Princess... Antoinette?!" Another voice, trembling, on the edge of hysteria, filled with disbelief and awe. The Keeper of the Moon's presence lingered in the echoes of fate, unseen yet undeniable.
The stunned silence shattered as whispers turned to cries, and cries turned to panicked movement. Courtiers stumbled backward, some making signs of warding as if they'd seen a ghost. The priest, mid-prayer, dropped his censer with a sharp clatter.
A heavy thud echoed through the hall.
King Theodore had fainted.