Chapter 4: Chapter 3: I Warned You

“Wait—!” Birgitta hurried after Deimos. “Those guys... they were talking about you, weren’t they?”

Deimos didn’t answer. His irises still glowed white as he focused, trying to hone in on the faint hum of his lance.

“Shit—you really are the Sun Tarot?! The entire town of Hawthorn—no, the whole country of Dol Marne knows about you. You’re basically a legend!” she exclaimed.

Deimos paused and glanced back at her.

“Earlier, in the hospital, you said you didn’t know who the goddess Eirene is…”

“If you don’t know about her,” he said, turning a corner and stepping into a busy street, “then how do you know about me? I was created by her.”

“Uh, well, I’ve mostly just heard theories from other people. A lot of folks think it’s weird that the goddess Lirael created a Moon Tarot but not a Sun one—and when you think about it, they’re kind of right.”

“But you were created by a goddess named Eirene?” she asked, brushing past people as she tried to keep pace. “Was she related to Lirael?”

“Lirael is no goddess,” Deimos said, his brows drawing together. “Or at least, she wasn’t. She was a vessel—one Eirene used to interact with humanity without overwhelming them with her true form.”

He looked ahead, voice lowering.

“But something must have gone wrong. Lirael’s awakened for some reason... and I don’t know why.”

“That’s…” Birgitta stopped, her breath catching as she tried to process Deimos’ words. “So you’re saying we’ve been lied to? Brainwashed? Every night I’ve prayed to a goddess who isn’t even ours?”

Her voice trembled as Deimos stepped onto the rung of a nearby store’s exterior ladder and started to climb.

“Wait—if Lirael’s not our true goddess, and this Eirene is… then what happened to her? I need answers!” she called after him.

Deimos turned, one hand gripping the railing. “Listen,” he said, his voice steady but tired. “I’m just as confused as you. I only woke up in this world a couple of hours ago.”

He looked away, gaze distant.

“The only thing I’m certain of is my purpose: to protect humanity. And to save Lirael.” He hesitated, the weight of the truth pressing down.

“But the more I learn… the more I wonder if Lirael is really the one I’m supposed to be saving—”

His eyes briefly flickered pink.

Eris’ faint laughter danced at the edge of his mind.

“—or stopping.”

“Your job is to save a goddess? What the hell does a deity need saving from—?”

“Look.” Deimos cut her off, his eyes shifting toward a group of guards patrolling nearby.

“I need you to alert the authorities about those people we saw in the alleyway. One of them is a dragon,” he said calmly.

Birgitta’s heart dropped. “A—A dragon? O-okay, but… what are you going to do?”

Deimos muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing.

“The same thing I’ve been trying to do from the start.”

Get my damned lance.

Without another word, he vaulted up the ladder and onto the roof, vanishing from sight.

Birgitta stood there, blinking. “Wha—You can’t just not finish your sentence and mysteriously run off!” she shouted after him, flustered. “Honestly, what kind of Tarot are you?”

Grumbling, she sprinted off toward the nearest group of soldiers.

Deimos bounded across rooftops, the wind whipping through his hair as he scanned the streets below. People walked, laughed, haggled in marketplaces—clueless. All of them, living peacefully under the illusion of a benevolent goddess.

“Did Lirael do this herself? She must have…” he whispered to himself. “But why? What could’ve gone so wrong that she awoke on her own?”

His thoughts spiraled as he followed the low, constant hum that tugged at his chest—calling him, guiding him.

The sound led him to the city square.

It was packed.

Children chased each other through the crowds. Families shared food under shaded pavilions. Music played softly in the distance. And at the center of it all stood a towering statue—its arms outstretched in welcome, its long stone hair flowing like a waterfall down its back.

A broad, serene smile adorned its face.

Lirael’s smile.

Tears carved down from her closed eyes, flowing gently into the pond at the statue’s base, where birds bathed and fish swam in slow, contented circles.

Deimos stood frozen at the edge of the rooftop, watching it all.

At the far end of the square, a stage buzzed with activity—props scattered about, and people in extravagant costumes darted behind the curtains. From somewhere beyond, the faint ringing of the lance echoed.

Deimos’ gaze fixed on the stage, his body coiled to leap from the building. But before he could move, a sudden weight of Arkhaios energy crushed the air behind him, dense and suffocating. His muscles locked up in an instant. He tried to twist, but—

“Everything was going according to plan, until a massive wave of Arkhaios energy swept over the entire town—like a suffocating tsunami. Foreign. Oppressive.”

A voice hissed behind him, claws sharp and cold pressing into his neck, the threat of them piercing his skin with any sudden movement.

This feeling… Deimos thought. It’s the dragon woman from earlier.

“Another of my kind? No... this is different. A Tarot,” she whispered, her claws digging deeper. Blood seeped from the wound. Deimos reacted instinctively, his Signature flaring as he manipulated his superposition. An afterimage appeared, but it faltered—glitching before dissipating entirely. He stumbled.

“Tch...” he muttered, just as the woman closed in, but then she paused. Her gaze flicked to the dense air around him. His Soul’s Core. She could feel it, the presence of something more within him. She recoiled, her attack faltering. She jumped back, eyes narrowing.

“What was that?” she murmured, as she steadied herself, her hood fluttering in the wind.

She studied him carefully. “You can’t use your Signatures at full capabilities until you’ve regained the essence from that lance, can you?”

Deimos’ eyes flickered. “Who are you?”

Her lips twisted into a faint smile, the blood on her finger catching the light as she observed him. “Your Soul’s Core… its essence is familiar, yet distant.” She didn’t answer his question.

“You’ve seen this world before—the world, before it was reset, haven’t you? Tarot of the Sun.”

Deimos’ mind raced. “How do you know who I am?”

“Irelya sees and remembers everything—even things erased, things forgotten.” Her eyes glowed red beneath her hood as she studied him, her cruel smile widening. “I can see your soul. Straight to its core.”

“As children of the World Tree,” she continued, her voice thick with disdain, “even half-dragons like me can sense that same familiarity. We are not fooled by this illusion of a false god.”

Deimos’ gaze hardened. “So you’re aware that Lirael is—”

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“Is merely a vessel,” she interrupted. “For something greater. Though I’m not entirely sure what it is.”

Deimos pressed. “So you don’t know of the goddess Eirene?”

Eirene? she thought.

“That name feels familiar… but no. Irelya’s wisdom passes through me as instinct—intuitions, not knowledge. As a mortal, I’m still under Lirael’s spell. But because of Irelya, I’m aware that I’m under it,” She smiled.

“My own interpretations help me read in between the lines and find out everything else, eventually.”

Deimos’ mind churned, the fragments of his memories stirring. That vague sense of déjà vu she’s talking about... It’s exactly how I'm seeing things.

Whatever Lirael did, It brainwashed everyone—even me to some extent, but why would she do something like this— He mused.

“It’s… been a pleasure talking with you, legendary Tarot of the Sun.” She smiled thinly, then gestured toward the horizon. “But it seems you’re setting. And with that, I must leave.”

“What? Hey— You can’t just confront me and expect to walk away.” Deimos stepped forward. “What are you planning at the festival? Why do you need my lance?”

“Your lance is just a symbol. The people of Hawthorn see it as peace, as harmony. I'm only using it to draw everyone in.”

She raised her hand. Smoke coiled upward, swirling until it formed a rough humanoid shape. Deimos braced, expecting an attack. But as the smoke faded, something solid remained—someone.

“Birgitta!” Deimos shouted.

Her limp, bloodied body hung in the woman's arms.

“I was going to kill you too, but…” she said coldly. Her eyes flicked to Deimos’ Core.

There’s something inside him… something I’ve never sensed in any Tarot, no, in anybody I’ve ever seen. she thought, shivers crawling across her skin.

Its presence… It feels like I'm standing before Lirael herself. Is that whoever ‘Eirene’ is? Is the body of a goddess hiding inside him?

Even without his lance… if I fought him now…

Deimos exploded into motion—a flash of light. She dodged, startled, leaping back. But when she looked down—

Birgitta was gone.

She looked up. Deimos stood still, eyes glowing white, Birgitta held carefully in his arms.

“H-huh?” she muttered.

Deimos pressed his fingers to Birgitta’s neck. “She’s still alive.” A breath of relief escaped him. Then he met the woman’s glare.

She stood silent, fists clenched in frustration.

“...Do not come to the festival tonight,” she said flatly. “If you do—next time, I'll make sure your friend is dead.”

Then before Deimos could reply, she vanished.

Deimos gritted his teeth and, without a word, launched himself from the rooftop, leaping across buildings like a streak of light, racing back to the hospital.

He burst through the empty corridors, sprinted up the stairs, and pushed open the door.

“Eek—!” Elizabeth yelped, startled mid-manicure. The nail polish bottle flew from her hand, shattering on the floor as Deimos rushed in, setting Birgitta gently on the bed.

“Wha—what happened?!” she shouted, running over.

“She was attacked…” Deimos began, but Elizabeth shoved past him, her focus locked on Birgitta’s bloodied, unconscious face.

“Attacked? By what?!” she cried, steadying her hands over Birgitta’s chest. A green light radiated from her palms as she began healing her.

Deimos stepped back, watching. Her hair, once bright blonde, began to fade to gray, strand by strand.

“It—it was a dragon,” he said.

Elizabeth blinked, her breath catching. “A dragon? That’s impossible. Dragons can’t pass through the barrier. What’s one doing in Hawthorn?”

“Not a true dragon,” Deimos said. “A half-blood.”

He turned back toward the bed. Birgitta’s wounds had vanished, but Elizabeth kept channeling her energy. More of her hair dulled to gray. Deimos moved forward and grabbed her wrist.

“She’s healed,” he said firmly.

Startled, Elizabeth stopped. Sweat streaked her forehead as she looked between him and Birgitta. Then, reluctantly, she deactivated her Signature.

“What the hell were you two even doing near a dragon?” she asked, voice trembling with confusion and fear.

“It’s my fault,” Deimos said quietly. “I left her alone. She nearly died because of me. I should’ve been more careful.”

Elizabeth shook her head, still trying to process it, clinging to Birgitta’s hand. “I don’t get it. Why was it after you and her?”

Deimos paused. “Because it knows I’m the Sun Tarot.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Wait—you’re actually a Tarot?”

Deimos nodded and stood. “I need to go.”

“Go where?” she asked sharply.

“You and Birgitta need to get out of Hawthorn before the festival begins,” he said. “The dragon will be there, and it most likely will try to hurt a lot of innocent people—but I'm going to stop it.”

“No,” Elizabeth snapped. “It’ll kill you if you fight it alone. Even half-bloods are usually stronger than Tarots, aren’t they?”

She stood, voice firm now. “You need to find General Amelia. She’s the only one nearby strong enough to help. She might even be able to get you some armor.”

Amelia… Deimos thought.

“Right,” he said. “I’ll try to find her. Thanks, Elizabeth.”

She nodded. In a flash of white light, he vanished out the door.

The streets were nearly empty now. Most of the town had already gathered at the central square. Those still en route wore flowing black, gold, and grey garments—adorned in elegant accessories, faces glowing with celebration.

Above, the sky dimmed to near-black. The outline of the upper Fifth Layer loomed faintly overhead, suspended like a phantom world, its edges lit by distant starlight. The sun hovered just below the horizon.

Deimos moved swiftly, feet pounding the stone as he made his way toward the square, eyes narrowed with purpose.

“I don’t understand… what is she planning?” he muttered, running through possibilities.

As he neared the square, he found it packed with cheering citizens gathered around the statue of Lirael, now glowing faintly against the encroaching dark.

He spotted a cluster of guards posted near the edge of the crowd.

I should warn them. Get them to evacuate the square. He stepped toward them.

“Excuse me, I—” he began, but froze. A pulse shot through his body—sharp, electric, and wrong. His Core buzzed like an alarm.

The guards turned, watching him closely.

“What’s wrong?” one asked.

Deimos hesitated. “Nothing…” he muttered, backing off quickly.

Behind him, the guards whispered.

“That’s gotta be him. His orb thing’s glowing white.”

“It’s called a Soul Core, idiot. But yeah, that’s him.”

One of them held a half-empty vial of blood, swirling it. “Tasted awful, but damn—dragon blood works. I can see through his body like it's made of glass.”

Deimos kept walking, faster now. They’ve all drunk her blood...

He passed more guards, each turning to follow him silently. The crowd swallowed them, but Deimos could feel their eyes tracking him.

Are all the guards in on this?

Then—Humming.

“Helios…” Deimos whispered. He turned toward the distant stage.

“He’s going for the lance!” one of the guards shouted.

“Shit—grab him!”

The crowd stirred, guards pushing past civilians, closing in. One reached out, but Deimos flickered. His body flashed white, projecting a decoy. The guard’s hand passed through the afterimage—then Deimos struck, spinning and smashing the man’s helmet with a clean blow. The guard dropped instantly.

The others hesitated.

The humming grew louder.

On stage, a man stepped to the microphone. “Welcome—welcome, everyone—”

Two more guards flanked Deimos from the sides.

“To the Annual Hawthorn Sun Festival!” the announcer called. The crowd erupted into cheers.

One guard lunged with a dagger in hand. Deimos caught the blade mid-swing. That version of him flickered—locked in place—while the real Deimos ducked low and uppercut the man beneath his guard. He folded.

The second charged. Deimos weaved every strike, his knuckles igniting with white flame.

He launched forward, punching straight through the man's chestpiece. The guard collapsed, gasping.

Another came from behind—silent, dagger aimed at Deimos’ Core—

—but was intercepted by Amelia.

She twisted the weapon from his hand, then struck him with its hilt. The guard dropped.

“Deimos!” she called.

He turned, stunned. “Amelia—you’re here! Listen—”

She raised a hand. “I’m aware. Elizabeth already told me everything.”

Deimos blinked. “You went back to the hospital?”

She nodded. “I went to go check on you, but found Birgitta instead.” Her jaw clenched. “How could I have been so careless… not to notice a dragon hiding among us.”

Deimos placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself. We still have time to stop her before she hurts anyone else.”

Amelia nodded. Deimos turned toward the stage, the humming of Helios louder now behind the curtains.

“My lance. I need it.”

“Wait,” Amelia said. She pointed to a raised mini-stage before the main one—where the princess sat on a golden throne. “Princess Elvira is seated right there. I’ll teleport us straight to her.”

“When we land, you go for the lance. I’ll guard the princess.”

Deimos nodded.

Amelia grabbed his arm.

Smoke engulfed them.

“Before we begin, everyone please make some noise for the princess and future heir to the throne—Princess Elvira Ardelys!”

The crowd exploded in cheers. Elvira stood and waved, her expression soft, poised. Her long black hair shimmered with violet highlights, and her glowing violet irises glinted beneath the stage lights. She wore regal black robes lined with gold—matching the uniforms of the surrounding guards.

Then, in a sudden swirl of smoke, Amelia and Deimos appeared before her. The princess turned sharply, startled.

“Amelia? Where were you—” she began, but Amelia stepped in close, her voice low.

“Princess, we need to leave. Now.”

Onstage, the announcer's voice rang out uninterrupted.

“For the past 498 years, since Hawthorn was first founded as Dol Marne’s capital, we’ve celebrated this extravagant Sun Festival to honor Dol Marne’s hope, optimism, and freedom—personified through the legendary Sun Tarot!”

The crowd roared again. Deimos shifted uncomfortably.

“These people… are cheering for me,” he murmured, glancing around, then at Amelia, who nodded at him as she helped Elvira off of the throne, steady and calm.

“Let’s hope this is close enough,” Deimos muttered. He walked forward as the stage curtains parted, and with a smooth mechanical roll, Helios—his lance—was brought into view.

“I present to you all,” the announcer cried, “the legendary Lance of Divinity! The very weapon wielded by the Sun Tarot himself—a relic of prosperity and peace!”

He gripped the lance, trying to lift it, barely managing to raise it an inch from its pedestal.

“E-er… jeez, this thing gets heavier every year, hahah…” the announcer chuckled awkwardly.

I can feel it… Deimos thought. A silver light began to emanate from his skin.

Then—Helios flared to life.

Its segmented frame pulsed with radiant silver light, mirroring the glow now radiating from Deimos. The hum of its core shifted, becoming a clear, harmonic chime.

The crowd hushed.

Deimos began to rise, his body suspended in midair like a rising star, drawn toward the lance.

“Wh-what’s going on?” the announcer stammered, stumbling back.

Deimos descended before the pedestal. He turned, eyes glowing white, and grasped the lance.

The moment his hand touched it, the broken fissures lining its surface sealed with a flash. Helios renewed itself instantly, synchronized with its rightful wielder. His full power had returned.

Before them stood not just a man—but a legend made real.

The Sun Tarot.

Deimos raised Helios high above his head, its tip piercing the sky like a beacon.

The crowd stared, unmoving. Reverence filled the square.

Then—

A guttural, low rumble rolled out from behind the stage.

Heads turned.

From behind the curtains, a silhouette rose—massive, burning, ancient. Wings spread wide, eyes molten with fury.

A dragon.

Screams erupted. Deimos shoved the announcer aside and braced himself.

The dragon lunged, its mouth wide, rows of glistening teeth descending.

All Deimos could see were fangs and horns. Then—impact.