Eon sat alone in the twilight glow of the cottage, propped against the wooden frame of the door. The flicker of the hearth lantern painted dancing shapes on the walls, but his attention was drawn inward—toward the echo of the light he had summoned. A warmth still lingered in his palm, as if the spark of hope had etched itself into his flesh.
He closed his eyes. Around him, the world felt impossibly alive: each breath of wind, each distant frog's croak, resonated within him like a symphony of tiny hearts beating in unison. He had known power once—cosmic designs twisted at his fingertips, galaxies woven at the speed of thought. And yet, for all that might, he had never felt more powerless than when faced with a small, fevered child.
That powerless moment was where his true power had awakened.
His thoughts drifted back to the throne of memory and light—an ancient seat he had abandoned without a backwards glance. He had fled that isolation because he could see all, change all, but could no longer feel any of it. His divinity had become a cage. The whisper of "Amoria" had been no script of command, but the first breath he'd taken in centuries: love, in its purest form.
His chest tightened with revelation. All along, his journey through these worlds of mortals would not be about reclaiming dominion or cosmic knowledge. It would be about rediscovering the language of the heart—the very thing that made life worth fighting for. By comforting Nivi, he had born witness to suffering, and in that act, he had regained himself.
Eon opened his eyes to the cottage's quiet warmth. He could still hear Elira's gentle hushes as she soothed Nivi to sleep, her fingers brushing hair from the girl's fevered brow. How extraordinary, he thought, that a mortal's touch could mend something a god could not.
Tears stung his eyes—tears not of power, but of gratitude. For once, he understood what it meant to be part of a world instead of its master. His path stretched out before him, vast as the night sky, but now guided by the single star of empathy glowing in his soul.
Rising to his feet, he placed a hand over his heart, feeling the life within it quicken. He would carry this spark—this fragile ember—into every universe he visited. Because to heal would not require rewriting fate, but meeting it, feeling it, and sharing its weight.
Tomorrow, Miren Hollow might face darker trials. But tonight, Eon knew his true quest had begun: to walk the Path of Emotions and become the Maker who could finally understand his creations.