Epilogue: Shadows

Somewhere in Tokyo, tucked between glass towers and the noise of the everyday, a small café sat half-forgotten in a narrow alley lit by the haze of a flickering lantern. It was a place with no name on its sign and no real crowd to speak of—the kind of establishment that survived on whispers rather than reviews. It was definitely not Café La Lumière, not that anyone had claimed it was.

Inside, in the farthest corner where the light barely reached and conversation dropped to a respectful hush, two men sat across from one another at a chipped wooden table. The server had just placed their drinks—a pair of tall glasses filled with questionable concoctions that made her raise an eyebrow before retreating without asking questions.

One of the drinks shimmered slightly under the dim light, not because it was magical, but because no sane person would ever mix caramel syrup, banana pulp, and citrus juice in one blend. The other looked no better—a cloudy strawberry-orange tea that smelled like melted hard candy left in the sun. Neither man flinched as they took a sip.

The atmosphere hung heavy between them, the kind of silence filled with quiet tension rather than comfort. A single bulb buzzed overhead, casting more shadows than light.

The first man set his glass down quietly. He was in his early forties perhaps, or maybe just worn early by the kind of work that never had a name. A flicker of light caught on the edge of his watch, but not much else could be seen of his features.

"Has the letter been delivered?" he asked, voice low and measured, as if even here—especially here—walls might have ears.

Across from him, the second man nodded once, his fingers curled lightly around his glass. He was younger, sharper in appearance, though the edges had dulled with familiarity to the world.

"Yes," he said simply. "She believes it completely."

A short silence settled between them, filled only by the distant clink of dishware and muffled street noise filtering through the grimy windows.

"Good," said the first man—the Watchman. "Without it... she would've kept fighting. And without the Hero, Elarion is doomed."

The second man did not immediately respond. His expression barely changed, features composed into the practiced neutrality of someone who had learned long ago that reactions were luxuries he couldn't afford.

"You really think the legend is true?" he asked, voice level. "The prophecy, the summoning, the so-called Hero?"

"I don't," said the Watchman with unsettling finality. "And I won't risk being proven wrong."

A drop of juice slipped down the side of his glass, tracing a crooked path across the worn table. He ignored it, eyes never leaving his companion's face.

"Still..." the Watchman continued, leaning forward slightly, "Owen. That guy. He's noticed her."

The second man looked up. This time, his gaze lingered, something flickering behind his eyes—not quite doubt, but the shadow of a calculation being rechecked.

"Yes," he said, as if confirming something already too late to change. "Which means part of the legend has already happened."

Silence hung between them like dust in the lamplight.

"She wasn't supposed to be seen—until the Hero saw her. That's how she crossed over. That's how she became visible to this world." He paused, weighing his next words. "Not that she wasn't human to begin with... but now the rules have shifted."

"Then we act," the Watchman replied without hesitation.

He leaned back in his chair, as though the decision had already been weighed and filed away with all the other necessary evils he'd committed to memory.

"Delay isn't enough," he continued, voice hardening. "Sooner or later, they'll realize something's wrong with the letter. If he gets too close to the truth—"

"We take care of him." The words fell between them, heavy and final.

"Exactly."

The café hummed around them with low jazz from a dusty radio in the corner. The table between them held only two glasses of unnatural drinks and a small ashtray no one had yet touched.

The Watchman raised his head slightly. Light caught on something metallic at his cuff—perhaps a button, perhaps something else entirely. His expression remained carefully neutral, but his eyes had gone cold.

"After all," he said slowly, deliberately, "a dead hero can't save anyone."

The second man didn't speak immediately. He reached into his coat pocket, drew out a cigarette, and lit it with the sort of practiced care only long habit gives. He took a drag, then exhaled slowly, smoke curling upward into the dim light like a spectral messenger.

"Then again," the Watchman added, his voice carrying the faintest trace of something almost like admiration, "you really have done well, Rei."

The man across from him didn't flinch at the name. His eyes narrowed just enough to change the temperature at the table, cold calculation replacing professional detachment.

Rei Voltaire took another sip of the bizarre drink, his mouth curling slightly—not from the taste, but from the weight of a name said aloud in a place where names were currency.

"Thirty years," he said, voice quiet but unnervingly steady. "Thirty years in this world. Fooling the King of Alaric. Just for this moment."

He set the glass down with deliberate gentleness, the sound barely audible over the café's ambient noise.

"The letter was real, at first," Rei continued, his gaze distant now, seeing something far beyond the cramped café walls. "The King and Queen sent their daughter here... not to save them, but to save her. They believed in her. Still do." His voice dropped lower. "They thought she might find a way to realize the miracle. They thought if the prophecy is real... she could make it happen."

The Watchman watched him carefully, searching for cracks in the perfect mask Rei had worn for so long.

"And they still believe it?"

"They do," Rei confirmed. "Enough to tell her to keep going. To find someone—anyone—who could help her fulfill the prophecy."

"And that's exactly why we had to act," the Watchman muttered, fingers tapping once against the table's edge. "If there's even a sliver of a chance—"

"—We cut it at the root," Rei finished, voice cool as winter water.

They said nothing after that. The moment thickened, long and bitter like the aftertaste of a lie too well-crafted to detect until it's far too late.

The Watchman stood. He adjusted his collar with the practiced efficiency of a man whose appearance was just another tool in his arsenal. The light above them flickered once, then steadied.

"We should move quickly," he said, his voice quieter now. "Before he realizes the truth."

He walked away without another word, without a backward glance. No one looked at him as he passed through the café. He was the kind of man designed to be forgotten the moment he left your field of vision.

Rei remained seated for a moment longer. He looked down at his drink—caramel, banana, and citrus—and raised it one more time to his lips. He didn't grimace at the bizarre combination. Some things, you simply grow accustomed to.

Outside, the city moved. Unaware. Unready. Tokyo's nervous system of trains and traffic lights and convenience stores continued its relentless rhythm, blissfully ignorant of the poison being measured in a forgotten café.

And somewhere not too far from that corner café, Owen and Lilith were beginning to piece together something like a normal life again. Learning to move forward in a world where saving everything was no longer the goal—just saving each other, day by day, moment by moment.

They didn't know.

Didn't know that shadows don't sleep.

Didn't know that somewhere nearby, someone was already planning the next move in a game they didn't even realize they were playing.

Didn't know that the curtain hadn't closed.

Not yet.

Not even close.

                                                                                                               THE END