Chapter Text
Golden eyes flicker.
Disappointment.
When he went to sleep, he had hoped he would never wake again. Succumbing to his wounds would not be a dereliction of his duty. None of his ghosts would begrudge him if he met his end defending their people.
He knew wish was never going to be granted.
Even weakened and wounded, his existence will not be extinguished so easily. For better and for worse, he is unfailingly stubborn. There are few forces left in this dying universe that stand a reasonable chance at slaying him, and they have greater concerns than his Elysium.
The tides of the universal disaster hunger for them all.
And he will deny the all devouring darkness Teyvat until the universe’s Final Moment. The False Sky eternally forestalls Teyvat’s ruin…as he promised the Moons. His will is unbreakable; sheltered beneath his wings, his people will never know the end of days.
Raising a clawed golden hand, he does not hiss from the pain. His injuries remain far from healed—his wings tattered, his halo cracked, and his body dripping gold blood. Everything hurts…he’s been worse. Pain, the only friend he has left.
He is functional and that’s all that ever mattered.
The Heavenly Principles should summon the Shades.
The Eternal Throne of the Heavens has been dormant for too long already.
There are surly matters which demand the attention of the Heavenly Principles.
After all, it's been…almost five hundred years since the disaster? Provided the Ruler of Time hasn’t modified Irminsul’s records. Five centuries is a long time, and—predations of the cosmos aside—the greatest threat to his people’s ark has always been the arrogations of mankind and their divine shepherds. Why can’t the garden world he’s given them be enough?
Golden eyes slide shut. Judgement…
…He is so painfully tired of being the Heavenly Principles.
.
.
.
Teyvat needs a Heavenly Principles, the world doesn’t need him. Phanes will not be mourned.
“Deliverer? What does that mean?”
“You’ll be a hero worshipped by all! You will protect this world and save lots and lots of people from scary enemies with your sword. Do you like the sound of that?”
“But…”
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t want to be everyone’s hero! I just want to stay in the village with everyone I know!”
Golden eyes flicker.
A radiant throne room stretches out before heavy eyes. There are seven empty thrones spread out in a semi-circle in front of him, they stand out as a rainbow of color against a backdrop of white and gold.
The rest of his surroundings stubbornly refuse to come into focus. Vaguely, he is aware he sits upon a throne himself. His mind is full of fog. The memories he reaches for slip away from him like water.
He can’t remember…
He should be alarmed, but…he’s so tired.
The weight of an eternity presses down on him, soul deep weariness chaining him to his throne. Everyone is dead—there is no one left to wait for him. The world can wait a little longer, can’t it?
“I left for the holy city to seek the dawn after the black-robed swordmaster laid waste to my homeland. My wish as a Chrysos Heir has never changed—I just want to shoulder the hopes of others, chase the Coreflames, and build a new tomorrow for Amphoreus.”
The man stirs upon a throne.
Through the haze of sleep muffling conscious thought, a feeling of urgency prickles at the back of his mind. He’s supposed to be in the city doing…something. Something important.
He’s going to let everyone down.
Stand up.
Fight.
Golden eyes flash open as he fights to rise to his feet, but his body is as sluggish as his mind. His body feels distant, his limbs weighing him down like lead in water. His comrades are counting on him to resist—he can’t let the siren song of sleep pull his consciousness back under the waves.
Okhe…
“I am…the one who bears the world. I am the blazing sun, destined to rise!”
His sleep is not natural.
A sleeping tonic? A sedative spell? Phainon doesn’t know. Whatever is afflicting him is several orders of magnitude stronger than anything he’s experienced from Okhema’s healers, the Grove’s alchemists, or even Hyacine.
However, awareness does nothing to weaken the magic’s hold on him. Even now, Phainon teeters on the edge of unconsciousness. Titans, the call to rest his eyes is nigh on irresistible. The metallic taste of golden ichor floods Phainon’s mouth. The pain will keep him awake a few precious seconds more.
His friends' sacrifices will not be in vain.
His surroundings swim and spin as Phainon forces his eyes into focus. Beyond the seven lesser thrones, he can make out a pair of great arching double doors—open doors. A goal, an exit. Because Phainon cannot stay here.
Okhema needs him.
Amphoreus needs her Deliverer.
Determination burns bright even as the darkness swallows him.
“Are you ready, Nanook? I brought you destruction!”
A flare of anger ignites in Phainon’s chest—fury blazing through his veins like the roar of a dying star. Golden rage burns away the lethargy chaining him in place, fueling him as he wrenches himself free from the throne.
Standing on the dias, an indescribable anger surges through Phainon—a screaming destructive hatred. Then, as swiftly as it had come, the rage recedes, leaving behind a painfully empty void. The heart once alight with fathomless hatred, now aching with grief.
What happened? Phainon’s eyes sting—his tears turning to steam as soon as they are shed. Why is he crying?
Choked by sorrow, Phainon sinks to his knees. He can’t explain the emotions ripping through him like carving blades. Leaning against the base of the throne, Phainon notices the gold stains on the throne and surrounding floor. The golden ichor of a Chrysos Heir.
His blood? No. He’s unhurt.
Slowly the horrible feeling of loss recedes and Phainon can breathe.
The spell of sleep is broken, but his memories remain blurry. The last he remembers…he was heading to the Vortex of Genesis with Cyrene. The Theoros—wait, no. Cyrene is dead—murdered by the Flame Reaver. As deeply as Phainon wishes it wasn’t so, he was the only survivor of Aedes Elysiae.
Stelle is the Demigod of Time.
Closing his eyes, Phainon recalls racing to the Vortex of Genesis with the Coreflame of Worldbearing as the Flame Reaver pursued them. He remembers Mydei staying behind to hold off the dark swordsman…and he remembers the Flame Reaver catching up to them, with no Mydei in sight.
Mydeimos the Undying, Demigod of Strife.
A fresh wave of grief crashes over Phainon. The memories of his fellow Chrysos Heirs' fates tormenting him. Trianne, Professor Anaxa, Aglaea, Hyacine, Cipher, Mydei, Tribbie, and Trinnon. Dan Heng, too.
Lady Aglaea trusted him to lead the Flame Chase Journey after her death.
While Phainon remembers leaving Dan Heng behind in the baths with the Flame Reaver, everything after jumping into Trinnon’s Century Gate with Stelle is a blank. He doesn’t know what happened next—how everything ended.
Had Phainon failed or had he succeeded in ushering Amphoreus into the Era Nova?
Ascending as the Demigod of Worldbearing might explain the wings emerging from his lower back and the halo he can feel floating behind him. He can see them if he tilts his head back. His wings are different colors: his right is the brilliant gold of blessed blood and his left is the deep purple of Cyrene’s jacket. The halo—centered on the back of his head—moves with him, and from what he can glimpse without a mirror appears to be the sigil of Worldbearing wrought in gold.
Phainon is the Demigod of Worldbearing—he must be.
He cannot recall offering up the Coreflame to the Vortex of Genesis or undergoing the Trial of Worldbearing, but he had been in the possession of Kephale’s Coreflame when Trinnon opened the Century Gate. He also feels different. Despite the turmoil in his heart and the sleep he wrenched himself free from only minutes earlier, Phainon has never felt so strong. Golden power thrums under his skin, humming with divinity.
Could this be Era Nova?
Phainon can’t imagine delaying performing the Miracle of Genesis once he’d ascended as a demigod. Delivering Amphoreus into the new dawn of Era Nova was his purpose. Titans, please be true.
His comrades cannot have sacrificed themselves for nothing for Phainon’s failure.
But…if this is the Era Nova, then shouldn’t Phainon have taken Kephale’s place and become the Worldbearing Titan of the new era? In which case Phainon shouldn’t remember himself—he shouldn’t be himself.
Kephale was a colossal four-armed gollum.
Nikador was a war machine in the shape of living armor.
Aquila was a mechanical sky-bird monstrosity.
Was there something they had missed? A variable Professor Anaxa hadn’t accounted for in his unraveling of the truth behind the Titans, Chrysos Heirs, and the Flame-Chase Journey? To usurp and become a demigod meant the sacrifice of the self in the next cycle so Amphoreus can live anew.
Winged and haloed, Phainon remains himself.
Or could this be the Trial of Worldbearing? The Trial of Strife hadn’t granted its undertakers the power of a demigod during the test, but Stelle’s Trial of Time had been more puzzle than the pitched battle Phainon’s failed Trail of Strife had been. A Trial’s conditions might explain the gap in his memory.
Well if this is the Trial of Worldbearing then Phainon will usurp Kephale. He’ll offer up the final Coreflame to the Vortex, and he will deliver tomorrow’s dawn as the Worldbearer. There is no alternative with Amphoreus’ future on the line.
If this isn’t the Trial of Worldbearering…Phainon will figure it out. He’ll perform the Miracle of Genesis if he hasn’t already. Neither the Flame Reaver nor the Black Tide will stand in the way of Amphoreus’ deliverance.
And if this is Era Nova, he’ll seek out the Titans of the new age. Maybe his fellow Chrysos Heirs have retained their identities as Phainon has. Even if his comrades have forgotten him—are no longer able to remember even themselves—their bonds persist in Phainon’s memories. Stelle is his partner. Mydei and Castorice are his dearest companions. Lady Aglaea is his mentor and Professor Anaxa is his teacher.
Reunited in Era Nova.
Whatever the truth of Phainon’s circumstances, he cannot afford to assume his duty is done. Stelle could be facing off with the Flame Reaver to buy Phainon precious time within the Vortex. The Eternal Holy City of Okhema may still need him as its people stare down the end of days.
Stepping down from the dias, Phainon walks past the seven lesser thrones on his way towards the exit. The thrones are colorful—windy teal, earthen bronze, electric purples, verdant green, ocean blue, fiery orange, and icy blue. These thrones are clean of the blood painting the greatest throne. Phainon can sense massive power cores chained within each throne.
Glancing back, Phainon notes three elegant silver thrones positioned behind the white throne. Though they glisten like moonstones, there is no power trapped inside them like the colorful seven. Empty shells of a long dead grandeur.
Phainon looks away.
The thrones might be worth investigating later, but Phainon wants a solid grasp on his overall surroundings first. If Stelle was here…anyway his current goal is the exit. The throne room doors are already ajar.
Has someone else been here?
Filing that observation away for later, Phainon crosses the threshold and enters the hallway. Triquetras decorate the walls, gold inlaid in white stone. The three pointed knot is not an important symbol in any of Amphorean cultures to his knowledge, but the triquetra are too prominent and ubiquitous for it not to be a meaningful symbol to whomever built this place.
The building is large, Phainon discovered as he wandered its cavernous halls.
Spreading outward from the throne room is an orderly maze of rooms, hallways, and open-air atrium. Where the room of Phainon’s awakening had been in pristine condition, the rest of the palace is in a derelict state. The once gardens are overgrown with weeds and roots pushing through surrounding tiles.
A river of stars shine in the night sky above.
The decor is in an even worse state—all but the stone furniture rotted away and painted color chipped and faded to near nothing. Once upon a time, the palace had been a jewel of its age…but that was long ago. This place was abandoned by its people centuries ago—if not longer.
Was this place like Castrum Kremnos? A once prosperous people consumed by the Black Tide, Phainon speculates as he inspects a statue—a winged woman with horns emerging from her hair clasping a flower in raised palms. The desolation here is familiar; Phainon has walked the ashes of too many fallen civilizations. Yet, that conclusion feels…off.
He has found no evidence of violence.
It’s like the inhabitants simply left one day, never to return.
Not even the ruins of Janusopolis are this silent. The cracking moans and footsteps of titankin through those halls. The background hummed with long forgotten mechanisms. You might even hear the rare fluttering wings of a brave nymph. Janusopolis is hauntingly quiet, but never truly silent.
Not like here.
The ceilings are towering high—higher than most of Marmoreal Palace—and the halls are wider than Phainon’s newly acquired wingspan. By wing or by rocket, Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon could fly freely in here with room to spare. There’s a cracked and faded mural of a sun and three moons on the ceiling.
Phainon pauses when at bone dry basin. The ubiquitous white stone comprises the body, yet more triquetra carved into the base, and the rim is laden with tarnished gold. The construction reminds him of Okhema’s blessed fountains.
He doesn’t recognize the techniques used to craft the basin—certainly not Okhemian, Kremnoan, or even Styxian or Aidonian work. The translation between materials is flawless; a perfection beyond even Chartonus‘s masterfully skilled hands even if the end result looks almost Okhemian.
Actually, all the architecture here is reminiscent of the Eternal Holy City. Distinctly different yet drawing on a shaded design language. The white and gold is a familiar combination if missing the purple that would accompany them in Okhema. The columns are similarly shaped, but are unpainted and are often topped with wing-like carvings. If Phainon was feeling poetic, he might liken the place to Okhema’s fallen cousin.
Could that be Kephale’s Trial?
Using the power of Worldbearing to restore this place? Prove himself capable before rebuilding Amphoreus itself. Unlike his homeworld, Phainon has no memories of this place to base his recreation upon, but…
Worldbearing.
Gold ripples out from Phainon’s steps in waves. The stone greedily drinks in the gold, divine power spilling outward into the very land beneath the demigod’s feet itself. The sudden awareness of everything is heady as gold seeps into every crevice of the…sky island(?), the land eagerly absorbing everything Phainon gives it as if being fed for the first time in centuries.
Like sunlight trapped in stone, everything shines.
Before Phainon’s eyes, his surroundings are restored to pristine condition as if touched by Oronyx’s Miracle. The golden light continues blooming outward, and Phainon can feel it enveloping and restoring structures beyond the palace.
There are other sky islands surrounding the main island Phainon stands on. Four largish islands and a handful of lesser ones, once linked by now broken bridges. Restoring them is too easy. Phainon may not remember, but Celestia does. Phainon need only set the world to the pattern it provides him.
Beyond the palace, a golden aurora dances in the night sky.
Phainon frowned. Celestia is restored; however, the maybe-Trial does not end.
The awareness of Celestia that has bloomed into his mind tells him he’s alone here. There is not a soul on the sky islands save himself. He feels not a hint of even hidden titankin or Black Tide abominations waiting in ambush. It's strange—awareness of where everything is without the knowledge of what everything is. There are two lakes outside. The larger has a waterfall that feeds a small pool.
The seven colorful thrones from before burn as bright beacons.
Exploring had brought Phainon no closer to solving the mystery of his present circumstances than when he’d awoken. With the power within the thrones the only major point of interest on his mental map, perhaps they are the key to this puzzle?
Phainon turns around.
He has no need to retrace his steps—he knows exactly where he is in relation to the throne room. In any case, there’s a more direct route back he can take. Out of habit, Phainon keeps an eye out for nymphs. In better days the Trailblazer would trade them with the Garmentmakers. The long gone people of Celestia were fond of sun and moon imagery, Phainon sees as he walks the restored halls—almost as much as the ever present triquetra.
Suddenly a ruby presence appears in the throne room.
A person.
Phainon speeds up, not quite running but no longer walking. Another person could be a guide if this is indeed the Trial of Worldbearing—or otherwise be a source of answers if not. No, not a person—people. There’s another light next to the ruby.
And a third arrives before Phainon makes it back to the throne room.
The doors are ajar.
There are three women waiting when Phainon enters the room—he recognizes none of them. The closest to him is a blonde woman sitting on the orange throne like it belongs to her, and perhaps it does. Gold, Phainon mentally dubs her. For her hair and the golden helix halo floating behind her head.
The two other women—Red and White, for their clothing—stand before the white throne Phainon had woken up on. His restoration of Celestia did nothing to clean the blood staining the throne. Red and White fall reverently to their knees. These two can only be sisters—their faces are similar, their eyes are matching shades of gold, and their hair is the same white of untouched snow. Just like Phainon’s own actually. But why are they kneeling to him?
Because he’s a demigod?
He should take the initiative on introductions then.
“Hello friends, I am Phainon, from Aedes Elysiae,” Phainon introduces himself with a friendly smile, extending an arm in greetings. “May I have your names?”
White’s head tilts thoughtfully, bank politeness betraying none of her inner thoughts.
Red’s expression is of poorly concealed horror.
Gold‘s face, conversely, breaks into an utterly delighted grin. “How fascinating.”