[Third Person Pov]

The sun slowly rose from the horizon, its golden disk emerging with a regal slowness. Light spilled outward in shimmering waves, sweeping across the vast ocean until the water glittered like polished glass at the first break of dawn. With every passing second the morning sun climbed higher, stretching its warm rays farther and farther until the glow washed over distant trees, slid between their swaying leaves, and finally crawled across the soft soil of an isolated island hidden from mortal eyes.

The sunlight drifted over a small mound of earth marked only by a simple wooden headboard—humble, unadorned, but placed with reverence. Beneath that mound, deep under the cool embrace of the soil, Lucian’s pale corpse lay utterly still, wrapped tightly in the legendary Golden Fleece. Around his unmoving chest a single point of crimson light pulsed faintly, rising and falling like the weak echo of a forgotten heartbeat. But as the first rays of morning fully touched the mound, the red glow flared with sudden intensity, rising to its zenith—and Lucian’s transformation began.

His lifeless skin began to darken, shifting from its ghostly pallor to a deeper, richer tone,. Tattoos crept slowly along his body like living ink, etching themselves into his reforming skin. The red sun once painted on his chest, over his heart, traveled upwards, repositioning itself to the very center of his forehead, glowing like an ember ready to ignite. His once-black strands of hair paled strand by strand, bleaching into a stark, snowy white that contrasted sharply with his changing complexion.

Though his skin deepened in color, a strange pallor still clung to him, giving him an otherworldly, ethereal quality. Then the Golden Fleece encasing him responded, its woven threads bursting into radiant warmth. It pulsed powerfully, humming with the ancient magic of rejuvenation. Under that healing glow Lucian’s complexion shifted again, taking on a healthier, vibrant sheen.

Outside the burial mound, everyone watched in awe as the earth itself reacted. Blades of grass lengthened and bristled with new life. Flowers budded and then burst into full bloom around the makeshift grave, their petals stretching wide as if drawn toward the magic pulsing below. The air grew fragrant, filled with the unmistakable scent of rebirth.

“It’s happening…” Annabeth whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of disbelief and hope. “Lucian is being revived…”

…

Elsewhere—far removed from mortal shores, in the home of the Three Fates—the sisters continued their eternal work guiding the threads of destiny. Their dwelling was quiet, illuminated only by the celestial tapestry that served as their ceiling. The roof above them resembled the night sky itself, an endless canvas of flickering stars shining like scattered fragments of crystal, each one shimmering in a different shade of cosmic color.

All three sisters paused to gaze upward.

“Clotho… if you will,” Atropos said, her tone carrying the weight of inevitability.

“Of course.” Clotho lifted her hands toward the swirling heavens. “You know,” she began thoughtfully, “mortals believe every person has a star in the cosmos representing them. And the truth is… they are not entirely wrong.”

As if responding to her words, a crimson flare ignited among the countless lights. A brilliant red star detached itself from the cosmic tapestry and drifted downward, descending slowly into Clotho’s awaiting hands. When it settled in her palms it pulsed with sharp, vibrant life.

She closed her hands around it, tightening her grip until the crimson glow spilled out through the cracks of her fingers. When she finally opened her hands again, the star had been refined into something small—a single spark, a fragile point of light resting delicately between her thumb and index finger.

Lachesis and Atropos stepped closer, eyes narrowed in fascination.

“A spark…” Lachesis murmured.

“Yes,” Atropos replied, her voice low and certain. “And a spark is all Lucian will need. When he awakens, he will not be fully divine—not yet—but this tiny ember will live within him. It will be his task to feed it, to nurture it, until it grows into a blazing inferno capable of consuming everything in his path.”

Clotho turned and walked toward her spinning wheel, the tiny spark gleaming faintly in her grasp.

“Lucian is now reaching the halfway point of his journey,” Lachesis said as she moved toward the other side of the great wheel, her expression unreadable.

Clotho placed the tiny crimson spark upon the worktable in front of her with careful reverence. Its glow flickered gently, like a newborn heartbeat. She slid her foot into position, pressing it to the pedal of her great spinning wheel, and began to pump it rhythmically. The wheel responded instantly, creaking at first, then spinning faster and faster until its motion became a smooth, hypnotic whirl. As it turned, the spark quivered—and then unraveled.

Thin threads of red light stretched outward, unwinding from the spark’s core. It elongated into a shimmering crimson filament that looped itself around the rotating wheel, each revolution giving birth to more thread. The air hummed faintly with magic, vibrating with the potential of a destiny not yet realized.

“It starts with a spark…” Lachesis murmured as she lifted her hands. She didn’t touch the thread directly; instead, she guided it through mere gestures, her fingers weaving gracefully through the air. The crimson thread obeyed her motions, slithering through the space between them like a living ribbon. “And as that spark is nurtured… shaped… refined… a True Demigod will be born.”

The thread spiraled around her as she moved, her robes shifting and brushing the floor with every subtle turn. Lachesis continued, her voice soft yet resounding with ancient authority, “From that Demigod, in time, will rise a Saint… an existence that stands at the threshold to the divine. The closest any mortal-born being can ever hope to reach.”

Her body rotated in a slow, deliberate circle, guiding the crimson filament around her in grand arcs. The thread responded gracefully, swirling around her form like a cosmic serpent. “And from that Saint,” she intoned, “an Angel will rise—one who steps beyond the boundary of mortality. A deity… albeit one still on the lower rung of the celestial spectrum.”

By now the spark had fully transformed into thread, the final wisp of red light stretching out and spinning into the wheel. Clotho lifted her foot from the pedal and rose, brushing off her hands as she exchanged a brief, satisfied nod with Atropos. Together, they walked toward Lachesis, who was still directing the crimson thread with two steady fingers held elegantly in front of her.

“That deity will continue to evolve,” Lachesis said, her voice rising as the thread’s glow intensified. “It will grow. It will ascend. And from that ascension, a God will emerge… a Monarch… unlike any the realms have ever seen.”

The string finished its rotation around Lachesis, closing the loop. As soon as the thread connected, a radiant pulse burst outward. The sound it made was unlike anything found on Earth—half the deep toll of a ceremonial gong, half the delicate chiming of glass wind bells in a summer breeze.

Under Lachesis’ final gesture, the red circle began to rise, lifting itself from the air around her and hovering above her head. Her sisters stepped close, watching intently as the circle shrank slowly. It compressed and condensed, shrinking smaller and smaller until it became no more than a crimson halo—perfect, unbroken, glowing softly. Then the halo drifted down into Lachesis’ waiting palms.

“Woah… how pretty…” Clotho whispered with genuine awe, leaning in alongside her sisters.

“So this is Lucian’s new Fate…” Atropos breathed. Her lips pursed slightly with an unreadable emotion—half admiration, half something else.

“Yes,” Lachesis replied in a mystic, echoing tone. “A Fate with no beginning… and no end. A paradox given form.”

Clotho tilted her head, noticing Atropos’s sulking expression. “Upset you won’t be able to cut it?” she teased lightly.

“A bit…” Atropos admitted, biting at her thumbnail as her eyes stayed locked on the glowing halo. “I mean just look at it. This… this might be your best work yet.”

“…” Clotho stared at her for a long, quiet moment as Atropos fidgeted with her scissors, opening and closing them repeatedly with a sharp metallic snip-snSnap—snip—snap. “You have a serious problem,” Clotho said flatly.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep