Her body stiffened before she slowly shook her head. Valroth sighed. He could force her to go on—the Asmodeus way—but was she still worth the effort?
After a moment, he patted her shoulder and stood before her.
"Alright. I'll let you go."
Valroth extended his index finger, gently tracing Elara's ankle—the place where her mark had once been. Turning his right palm toward her forehead, a single drop of blood seeped from her skin and returned to his hand. His pupils stretched unnaturally to the sides, flickering briefly with fire before the glow vanished, leaving his eyes as they were before.
When he glanced back at Elara's ankle, it was empty. The mark was gone.
"This is your reward."
He brushed a fleeting kiss against her lips before straightening up and nodding at her. Elara met his gaze in confusion, holding it for a few seconds before something in her expression shifted—understanding. Slowly, she stood and turned toward the door, stepping outside, then toward the depths of the forest. Her pace quickened, and soon, she was running.
As the last glimmer of her silver-white hair disappeared into the mountains, a voice filled with displeasure broke the silence.
"Just now, you said she wouldn't leave. And yet you let her go? What about your promise to me?" Aya's tone was sharp with accusation.
"Relax," Valroth murmured, his voice carrying a hint of exhaustion. "There will be another.
Rain soaked Elara to the bone as she ran, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Finally, she collapsed beneath a massive tree, her trembling fingers digging into the wet earth. It was only now, in the icy embrace of the downpour, that the reality of what she had done truly sank in—she had chosen to leave.
But the first thing she felt wasn't relief.
It was pain.
A crushing, suffocating agony gripped her chest, forcing her to clutch at her heart as though she could hold it together with her bare hands. The love she had clung to so desperately had dissolved in an instant, leaving behind only the unbearable weight of abandonment and loss. The pain overwhelmed her, driving her to her knees in the mud, her hands covering her face as broken sobs wracked her body.
She hated her own weakness. Hated herself for running away.
And so, she turned back.
She ran, faster and faster, retracing her steps like a lost dog frantically searching for its master. But as she neared the house, her feet hesitated.
Valroth was there.
He sat on a large stone, his elbow resting on his knee, his chin propped against his palm. He seemed deep in thought, staring into the distance as the rain dripped from his hair and traced solemn paths down his face.
In that moment, Elara hated the rain.
She stood frozen, watching him from afar, unable to take another step closer. She could not forgive herself. Not for her betrayal, not for letting go of her love so easily in the face of mere physical pain. Her mind filled with memories—his gentle hands tending to her wounds, combing her hair, the last kiss he had given her.
Her first kiss.
Tears blurred her vision as she slowly backed away.
Some time later, after the rain had passed, Valroth found Elara's lifeless body sprawled upon the wet grass. A thick wooden branch had impaled her through the chest. The rain had washed away the blood, leaving not a single trace behind.
"So this… is the power of the mark," Valroth murmured. With a flick of his wrist, fire consumed her corpse, reducing it to ash.