Silence lingered like a shroud over the ruined chamber.
The ritual circle no longer pulsed with power. Its light had gone out, leaving only dust, fractured glyphs, and the scorched remains of ambition.
The war was over.
But peace had not yet arrived.
Ash still drifted from the shattered ceiling. Red light from the setting sun filtered through the cracks above, illuminating the battlefield in solemn hues.
At the center of it all, Hohenheim's body lay still. Edward knelt beside him, face bowed, fists clenched on his thighs. He hadn't spoken in minutes. Neither had Alphonse, who stood just behind him like a monument — a towering figure of iron, unmoving, grieving in silence.
Greed leaned against a broken pillar, one arm pressed to his ribs. His face was bloodied, scorched, but he still smirked faintly — as if daring the silence to last too long.
And into that stillness… Aeon returned.
His feet touched down on the fractured edge of the ritual circle.
A faint ripple followed — not magic, not force, but something older, more true. The residual corruption recoiled from his presence like smoke retreating from wind.
His divine blade faded from his hand.
He looked around — at the shattered floor, at Father's broken form twisted near the glyphs, at the fallen Homunculi, their corrupted husks finally still.
And then he looked at Edward and Alphonse.
The brothers rose as one.
Edward wiped at his face, trying to hide the red around his eyes. "You came back," he said hoarsely.
Aeon nodded. "It was never a question."
Alphonse stepped forward. His armor clanked with the motion, but the gentleness in his voice softened it. "Is it over?"
Aeon's gaze drifted to the ritual's core, where faint embers still glowed. "The Shadow is gone—for now. But it was never just here. It moves between places. Between people."
Edward stepped beside his brother, arms crossed. "And what about you? You said it was a part of you."
Aeon met his eyes. "It still is."
They stood in quiet for a long moment. Then Aeon moved closer to Hohenheim's body. He knelt slowly, touching two fingers to the old man's chest.
"His soul has moved on," he murmured. "But his last act will echo. He shielded you with the last of his light."
Edward's throat tightened. "He never stopped trying to fix what he broke."
"None of us do," Aeon said softly. "Not really."
From the corner of the broken circle, the remnants of the Homunculi began to stir. Not physically — their bodies had disintegrated — but the alchemic lattice beneath them shimmered faintly.
Lust.
Wrath.
Envy.
Pride.
Their echoes appeared — translucent forms shaped from memory and regret. They watched Aeon silently, their faces no longer twisted by sin, but marked by the hollow clarity of what they had been.
Aeon turned toward them.
"You were born from need," he said gently. "From pain. From everything we tried to forget."
One by one, they nodded — not in guilt, but in release.
And then they faded.
Edward broke the silence again. "So… what now?"
Aeon stood fully, facing the heart of the ritual.
A line of light shimmered in the floor — a threshold opening in the fractured circle. It pulsed gently, calling him onward.
"My time here is ending," he said.
"Are you going to stop the Shadow in the next world?" Alphonse asked.
Aeon turned. "I'm going to face it. Piece by piece."
He stepped closer to them. "This world is strong. Because its people don't give in. Even when they're broken. Even when they lose everything."
Edward gave a hollow laugh. "We've lost plenty."
Aeon studied him a moment.
Then he said quietly, "Not everything."
He raised his hand and pointed toward the edges of the ritual — toward where Alphonse's body had once been trapped between this world and the Gate.
"The Gate is still there," Aeon said. "Your connection to it… wasn't destroyed. Only displaced."
Alphonse's eyes widened behind his helmet.
"You're saying—?"
"I can't give you what was taken," Aeon said. "That would break more than it heals. But…"
He glanced back at the circle, where the symbols of truth and equivalent exchange had been warped but not erased.
"There's a path," he murmured. "If you understand the balance… you may not have to sacrifice again. Only trade something forgotten… for something remembered."
Edward stared at him, then slowly said, "Like trading the Gate itself."
Aeon didn't confirm.
He didn't have to.
Alphonse whispered, "Thank you."
Aeon gave him a faint smile.
Greed watched from the pillar, arms crossed. "So that's it? You pull a miracle and walk into the sunset?"
"I didn't pull anything," Aeon said. "I corrected the odds."
Greed snorted. "Whatever helps you sleep."
But his eyes were softer than his tone.
Aeon turned toward the threshold.
The light pulsed.
He took a step, then paused.
"There will be more battles," he said. "For all of you. But now you have a chance to write the end yourselves."
Edward raised a hand in farewell.
Alphonse mirrored him.
Aeon stepped through the light.
And the circle went still.
The brothers stood in the quiet, watching where the threshold had been.
Alphonse looked to Edward.
"We could find it," he said. "The Gate. Use what he left us."
Edward nodded.
"We will."
They turned back toward the light breaking through the cracks above.
Toward home.