Chapter 21: Olympic Disturbances

Blanche first smelled the sunny scent of the desert, mixed with lemon and a hint of pomegranate, even before turning around. She had to fight back a smile. When she finally did, she flinched slightly: Kiyan was standing there, eyes dark and stormy, dressed for swimming.

Frozen in front of the explosive combo “angry male and swim shorts” — which revealed golden abs that could rival the sun — she instinctively stepped back until she found herself pressed against the glass.

" Where’s Sean? " she asked, trying to sound somewhat normal.

Failed. Her voice had risen an octave, and she quickly averted her gaze, embarrassed.

"At the pool. I lent him some shorts, and I took the chance to change myself. But that’s not the question. Are you finally going to tell me what’s happening to you, yes or no?"

He crossed his arms and waited.

"Uh… no."

"By Babylon, Blanche! "he exclaimed.

He pressed his fist against his mouth to stifle his cry, then stepped forward, grabbing her by the shoulders.

The gesture was abrupt, almost desperate, as if he were trying to contain something far greater than a simple sound—an emotion too raw, too violent to be released. His fingers tightened briefly against his lips, his jaw clenched, his breath caught in his chest. Then he gave in to the movement, unable to remain still, closing the distance between them in a decisive step.

When his hands settled on her shoulders, the grip was firm, grounded in an urgency he didn’t even try to hide. Neither rough nor gentle—just necessary. As if he needed that contact to steady himself as much as to hold onto her.

He leaned slightly to meet her at eye level; his eyes, so intensely black that they erased all trace of white, captivated her.

The world seemed to narrow around that single motion. As he drew closer, he stepped into her space without hesitation, erasing any distance, any escape. His face aligned with hers, close—too close—unsettling, almost dangerous.

And his eyes.

They reflected nothing.

No light, no variation—only a total, absorbing depth, like two abysses opening onto something unfathomable. The black was so dense it swallowed every boundary, erasing even the faintest trace of white, leaving only a raw intensity that was impossible to escape.

They held her, locked onto her gaze without giving her any chance to look away. It wasn’t just visual—it was a hold. Silent. Absolute.

And for one suspended moment, she had the dizzying sensation that getting lost in them would be… inevitable.

Wow.

It was… breathtaking.

"Blanche, please, "he breathed, his voice hoarse. "I just want to help you."

She bit her lip, hesitant, eyes darting away.

She was about to make a mistake because she couldn’t resist him.

"I’m willing, but… you must promise me not to tell anyone. No one. And especially not my mother."

He released her, ran a hand through his hair, then sighed deeply before closing his eyes.

"Promise? "she insisted.

" I promise, " he replied softly.

She finally exhaled, unaware she had been holding her breath.

" I met someone… let’s say… who gave me a second chance," she admitted, scratching her head.

Every word weighed, calculated. No breaking the rules — and no lives lost.

"Where?"

"…In another world."

"Who?" he pressed.

She met his gaze and realized he had already guessed.

"A god."

Kiyan brought a hand to his face.

The gesture was slow, almost restrained, as if he were trying to contain something on the verge of spilling over. His fingers brushed his skin for a moment, lingering along his jaw, sliding toward his lips in a distracted, tense motion. His breathing seemed to hitch, almost imperceptibly, as if even the air had become too heavy to bear.

His amber eyes darkened, but remained bright.

The light within them shifted—deeper, denser, charged with an emotion he neither fully hid nor allowed to break free. The amber clouded, gaining intensity rather than clarity, like a fire smoldering beneath the surface, ready to ignite everything it touched. And yet, despite the shadow creeping in, they still shone, with a vivid, almost painful brilliance.

Blanche knew then that he knew. That he had understood what she had become, despite herself—the price paid to save his daughter.

The certainty settled without a word being spoken. It showed in the tension of his features, in the sudden rigidity of his body, in the way he looked at her without truly looking—as if he saw beyond, through her, straight to the truth she had never chosen.

He froze, still as a predator about to strike, before beginning to pace.

His body went rigid all at once, every muscle taut, perfectly still, as if suspended in a decision not yet made. The image was striking—that of a predator on the edge of action, barely holding back the force threatening to launch him forward.

Then motion returned, sudden, sharp. He began pacing, unable to remain still, his energy spilling into every movement. His steps were quick, controlled yet restless, echoing faintly with each contact against the floor. He ran a hand through his hair, turned, came back, turned again, trapped in a loop he couldn’t seem to break.

Each pass carried the weight of what he had just understood.

And with every passing second, the tension grew more palpable, heavier, until it filled the space between them entirely.

"You are…" he whispered, his voice pale." No… no, not now! It’s too soon! You’re only seventeen !"

Too late. And he knew it.

"So that’s how you… And you’ve slept three times since… your repeated nightmares… By the gods, you’ve just reached your specialization…"

Blanche stared, stunned. How could he know all that?

"You’ll arrive soon, " he suddenly exclaimed, nervous.

Arrive?

Where?

And who exactly was this man?

" Oh, Blanche…," he breathed, a mixture of relief and sorrow in his voice.

He grabbed her suddenly and held her so tightly she lost her breath.

"By Babylon… I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long, and now that we’re here, I don’t even know where to start…"

He released his grip, cupped her face in his hands like the day before, his eyes heavy with infinite sorrow. A tear slid down his caramel cheek.

The gesture, though familiar, had lost any trace of lightness, now weighed down by something deeper, heavier. His hands, large and warm, came to rest on either side of her face with an almost painful gentleness, as if he feared breaking her—or perhaps breaking himself just by touching her. His fingers adjusted slowly along her jaw, brushing her skin with a trembling precision, lingering a moment too long, as though trying to anchor himself in a reality he still refused to accept.

The tear, slow, traced its path along his caramel cheek, catching the light as it fell.

It followed a deliberate line, silent and unrestrained, as if he neither could nor wanted to stop it. When it reached the edge of his jaw, it lingered for the briefest moment, suspended—before finally dropping.

His breath faltered.

His lips parted, as though he were about to speak—to say something, anything, to break the unbearable silence—but no sound came. The words remained trapped somewhere between his throat and the truth he still refused to voice.

And still, he didn’t let go of her face.

As if that single point of contact was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

" Forgive me…, " he murmured.

Blanche, stunned, had never seen him cry. Kiyan? Cry?

"If I had known…"

" What do you mean? " she stammered.

"You are… finally, you know what you are, Blanche! You can travel through time. You came to see me. You told me everything: your life, your dreams, your hopes. But you never told me how you became what you are. If I had known, I could have prevented the accident! Why didn’t you tell me!?"