Ash sat on the couch, head tilted back, half-asleep, half-floating in that weird limbo where time felt like it wasn't real. The late morning light came in through the windows lazily, stretching across the room like it didn't want to do its job. Ken was lying on the floor for some reason, tossing a spoon up in the air and catching it like it was a sacred weapon. Kesher, legs crossed on the chair beside him, was holding a book upside down—not because he didn't know how to read, but because he said he liked "to let the words fall into him."
It was calm. Too calm.
Ash's phone buzzed. He blinked at the screen.
Dev.
Weird. They had just seen each other a few hours ago. He glanced around, then lifted a hand and said, "Shut up for a sec."
Ken froze mid-spoon toss. "Is it God?" he whispered dramatically. Kesher closed the book slowly.
Ash picked up the call. "Hey."
Dev's voice came through, brisk and tired. "I forgot to tell you. There's a mission next week. You and me. Nexus event. Big one. I'll send details later."
Ash rubbed his forehead. "Alright."
"Cool. Happy birthday again. Out."
The line cut. No small talk.
Ash lowered the phone and set it on the table. He hadn't even processed the call when a spoon hit Kesher on the chest. Ken stood tall on the couch like a dictator in his own empire. "Bow to me, poet. I am the bringer of chaos. The god of destruction!"
Kesher blinked slowly, picked the spoon off his chest, and looked at it like it had just confessed a crime.
"Destruction?" Kesher said with mock-seriousness. "Your chaos is limited to burnt toast, Sergeant Ken. Kindly return your divine license."
Ken, not missing a beat, raised a fork this time like a scepter. "I shall build my kingdom on sarcasm and spaghetti."
"I have read better insults scratched on bathroom stalls," Kesher replied. "At least they knew when to end."
Ash let out a small laugh, but it died quickly. His mind was pulling him back in. The silence felt louder. Everyone had left. The War Gods, Dev, the whole party. The laughter and noise had distracted him, made him forget—for a while.
He stared blankly at the wall, thoughts swirling like smoke. That night at the statue. And that sword? What was it really? He remembered it pulsing in his hand like a living thing. And then the creature who had given it to him.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry and closed his eyes, trying to make sense of it. The Demigods of Insanity. The Colosseum. That void-covered version of himself. Was that him?
And then that being—the one wrapped in gold and something brighter than fire.
Creator?
He felt sick thinking about it all. Every piece just made the puzzle worse.
"Hey," Kesher said softly, noticing the shift in Ash's eyes. "You okay?"
Ash blinked back to the room, nodded once. "Yeah... just tired."
Ken sat beside him now, less chaotic, more like a friend again. "You've been through hell, man. It's okay to sit in it for a while. But just don't stay there."
Ash gave him a look. "That... was oddly profound for you."
Ken grinned, shrugging. "Even the court jester drops truth bombs sometimes."
Just then, Ash's phone rang again. He almost ignored it, but something in him told him to pick it up. He hesitated. Then slowly pressed the green button and raised the phone to his ear.
"Hello?"
A voice on the other end, warm, aged, familiar.
"Happy birthday, son."
His father.
Ash managed a quiet, "Hey... Dad."
"I'm sorry I didn't call sooner. Work's been... well, you know how it is. But I didn't forget. You doing alright?"
Ash looked around the room. "I think so," he said. "Yeah. I'm okay."
There was a long pause on the line.
"I'm proud of you," his dad said. "Even when I don't say it."
Ash smiled softly. "Thanks."
They talked for a few minutes more—about nothing and everything. When the call ended, Ash sat in silence again.
Ken flopped down beside him, handing him a deformed spoon-tower like it was a golden trophy. "Here. My finest creation."
Ash raised an eyebrow. "Is this... is this a shrine?"
"It's a monument to resilience. Like you," Ken said with a wink.
Kesher sighed dramatically. "If that structure survives gravity for more than three minutes, I will write a ballad to its strength."
Ash chuckled. Maybe that's what birthdays were for. A pause. A breath. A chance to feel human before diving back into the madness. And soon, he'd dive again. Nexus events. Visions. Things he didn't understand. But for now... this moment was enough.
**
Ken was already up. Or more accurately, he was half-awake and pretending to be busy in the kitchen. He had stayed here with Ash and Kesher for three days now. He stood over a pan that hadn't been turned on.
"I swear to God, Kesher, if you touch my eggs again I will challenge you to a duel. A real one. At dawn. Shirtless. Rain optional," Ken said, waving the spatula around like he was Shakespeare with anger issues.
Kesher, who was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter wearing one of Ash's hoodies for some godforsaken reason, sipped from a coffee mug that read "World's worst Poet." He looked unimpressed, maybe even a little amused.
"Your eggs are undercooked like your threats," Kesher replied calmly, his voice smooth as silk. "And if we duel at dawn, bring better insults. I don't fight children."
"You dress like one," Ken snapped back without missing a beat. "That hoodie's two sizes too big. You look like a lost elf trying to gentrify."
Ash walked into this scene like someone arriving late to a very strange play. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching them like it was better than any show on TV.
"I feel like I woke up in a sitcom," he muttered.
"You did," Ken said, flipping an egg that wasn't even on heat
Ash smirked and sat down at the table. There was something about mornings like this—pointless, lazy, chaotic in the best way.
Kesher jumped off the counter and walked toward the bookshelf like he was on a mission. He pulled out a battered old journal, one Ash had seen before but never touched. It was full of messy handwriting and song lyrics scratched in margins. Kesher opened to a page near the end, tore it out, and handed it to Ash without saying anything.
Ash read it slowly, quietly. It was a short poem—no title, no fancy words. Just something about loneliness and stars.
Ash didn't say anything. He just folded the paper, kept it in his pocket, and nodded. That was enough.
Ken, still unaware of the emotional depth happening two feet away, finally noticed the stove wasn't even on.
"...Okay, I'm gonna be honest. I've been threatening imaginary chefs for twenty minutes and forgot to cook," he admitted.
Kesher raised his coffee mug. "Honesty. The rarest seasoning in any kitchen."
Ash laughed, a full-body laugh that surprised even him. Ken looked back and forth between the two of them like a dad whose kids were conspiring behind his back.
"Oh no. You're bonding. Don't do that. He's weird and poetic and I'm fragile," Ken said, mock serious.
"You're more dramatic than me," Kesher said, stretching. "And I quote: 'I am the god of destruction'—you shouted that while throwing spoons the day before yesterday."
"They were war spoons," Ken defended. "And you deserved it."
Ash shook his head, still smiling. He looked down at his phone, scrolling aimlessly. No calls, no texts, just a few messages from Dev reminding him of the mission next week and something about bringing spare socks.
Suddenly, Ken stood straight, his expression serious. "Alright. I have a plan."
Ash looked up, concerned. "Oh God."
Kesher narrowed his eyes. "Here we go."
Ken pointed at the door like a general. "We're going out."
"Where?" Ash asked.
"Anywhere. I've been stuck inside with cryptic sad poetry and his—" he pointed to Kesher, "—Shakespearean nonsense. I need fresh air. Or I'll become one of you."
They ended up at a small diner a few blocks down. It was quiet, with cracked booths and the smell of burned toast and bad decisions.
Ash sat near the window. Ken ordered pancakes and coffee and immediately spilled the syrup. Kesher brought a notebook and started sketching a song on a napkin.
"You ever write anything happy?" Ken asked, watching Kesher scribble.
Kesher didn't look up. "Once. But the paper caught fire. Took that as a sign."