The void had grown silent. Every fragment of the world outside had been paused, held at the mercy of the power she now bore. The chains that bound her body, her mind, her spirit, had shattered. Kaelus, her father, now nothing more than the weapon that had once been his essence, had fallen to the void's ground, leaving behind only the inheritance of his heart, his will, his power.
Illyria's own body swayed as if waking from centuries of numbness. Every heartbeat felt like a drum long forgotten, echoing through her chest, reminding her that she was alive—not a puppet, not a weapon, not hollow anymore, but herself.
She lay upon the ground of that unending void, yet the surface was both real and unreal, solid and fluid, holding her like a cradle woven from shadow and light. The energy around her pulsed gently, responding to her breath, her heartbeat—or the closest approximation her body could give to such. She had accepted it all. She had accepted the fire, the storm, the unrelenting tide of creation. And now, exhausted beyond mortal reckoning, she let herself drift.
And then, the darkness around her began to dissolve—not with light, not with fire, but with memory. A soft, almost imperceptible glow emerged, seeping from the edges of her perception, painting the void in silvers and whites, whispering of something she had long been denied: freedom.
She fell. Not like a falling star, not like an uncontrolled body—but like a leaf descending into an endless sky, tumbling with the delight of release. The void welcomed her as a cradle, soft and endless, and she let herself drift, every fragment of tension in her body unraveling. The first whisper of dream stirred her senses: a familiar scent, a faint warmth brushing her mind, a hint of laughter carried on winds that did not exist.
And then, the dream bloomed.
Her dreams came softly at first, like ripples across a still pond. Shapes formed in the void: green light, silver leaves, the delicate shimmer of white forests untouched by destruction. A warmth spread across her chest she had not felt in centuries. And then, the figures appeared.
Her mother, Serenia. Standing tall and gentle, her eyes holding all the love and kindness that the girl had never known. She reached out, and though Illyria could not move, could not speak, she felt the caress of her mother's hand, the assurance that here, there was no threat, no weapon, no obligation.
And then he appeared—Kaelus, but not as the weapon, not as the father who had sacrificed everything, but as he had once been in memory and in essence: calm, strong, tender, smiling with a warmth she had never expected. Though she could not move to him, the heartbeat within her chest recognized his presence. She had inherited everything he had given, yet here, in this dream, he was whole, he was not yet gone, and she could feel the echo of the life that had nurtured her beyond chains.
And then another figure—the dragon queen Seraphine, radiant and powerful, yet gentle, a presence of wild freedom. Her laughter was light as wind through the white leaves of the forest, her wings brushing the sky with quiet grace. She beckoned to Illyria with a smile that was both intimate and liberating, a recognition of the girl's true self, not the weapon she had been called.
She was running through a forest bathed in white light, leaves like silver feathers fluttering with each breath of wind. The snow beneath her feet was soft, malleable, and somehow warm, singing beneath her touch as if the earth itself rejoiced at her freedom. Her arms flung wide, hair streaming like molten silk behind her. She laughed—a sound raw and clear, unbound by duty, unclaimed by war, untouched by the hollow years of obedience. For the first time, she ran not from orders, not from life, not from herself, but toward something she did not even need to define. She was free.
Ahead, she saw figures waiting, beckoning her. Seraphine, her soulmate, danced upon the branches of the silver trees, wings unfurling in arcs of pure light. Every movement was effortless, joyous, a living testament to power tamed by freedom. Illyria's heart surged. She ran faster, her steps echoing against the crystalline rivers that ran through the forest. Seraphine laughed, calling her, and her voice was like water falling through sunlight. Illyria's laugh mingled with hers, two spirits chasing the wind, unshackled, unbroken.
And then, her clansmen emerged. Faces she remembered only in fragments—shapes of children, adults, warriors, healers, all living freely, smiling, unburdened. They ran beside her, shouting, laughing, calling her name. She did not hesitate. She embraced them, touched them, felt the warmth of life she had never been allowed to know. They were not soldiers here, not pawns, not subjects—they were her family, her people, living in joy and unity. She twirled among them, feeling the connection she had been denied for centuries. Every step, every laugh, every breath made her heart swell. She felt almost as if the emptiness of her past—five hundred, a thousand years in the speed trail—had melted away, leaving only the spark of what it meant to be herself.
Serenia appeared then, her mother. Not distant, not cold, but radiant with a love Illyria had long been denied. She knelt in the snow-white grass, arms open, inviting Illyria to rest, to breathe, to simply exist in warmth. Illyria ran to her, pressed her face against her mother's chest, and for the first time felt safe. No chains, no orders, no burdens—only the pulse of life, only acceptance. Her chest heaved, lungs filling with air she had not realized she had been deprived of, and for a moment, she could have believed she had always been this way.
Then, Seraphine was beside her again, offering her hand. Together, they leapt into the air, soaring above the forests, above crystalline rivers that sang under their feet, above mountains carved from light. Illyria's laughter was free, unrestrained, carried on wings of wind that she did not need to command. Here, she was nothing and everything at once. Here, she was a child again, a spirit again, a being reborn from the ashes of manipulation and war.
The sun—or what passed for sun in this dream—dipped low, casting long, golden shadows that stretched across the forests and rivers. Illyria watched, feeling the warmth, tasting the freedom, understanding for the first time what she had lost, and what she had regained. Every laugh, every touch, every glimmer of light reminded her that life was not obedience, that existence was not merely survival—it was joy, connection, and choice.
Time stretched. Centuries could have passed. Minutes could have passed. In the dream, it did not matter. Illyria ran through fields of white blossoms, Seraphine chasing her, the clansmen weaving circles around her, singing songs she had never known but felt as though she had always remembered. She rested beneath waterfalls that glowed with moonlight, her fingers tracing the curves of stones and streams, feeling the pulse of nature echoing the pulse in her own chest. Every sense was heightened, sharpened, alive. She had power coursing through her veins—her own, and the inheritance of her father—but here, it did not dominate. It simply existed alongside her joy, alongside her freedom.
She sat by the riverside, watching the reflection of her mother and Seraphine in the water. She reached out, trying to grasp the images, and though they shimmered and shifted, she felt their warmth, their love. She felt the echoes of laughter, of play, of tenderness she had been denied for centuries. Her heart, long hollowed by manipulation and duty, trembled—not from pain, but from recognition. I exist. I am here. I am free.
The wind whispered secrets she could not name, carrying scents of jasmine, of frost, of sunlight, of rain. She breathed them in, letting them seep into her soul. Her body, her mind, her spirit—everything was hers to hold, hers to feel, hers to claim. She no longer ran on instinct, on command, on survival alone. She ran because she could. She played because she could. She laughed because it was hers.
The dream deepened. Snow-white forests gave way to gardens of silver trees, rivers of liquid crystal, skies where light bent in impossible arcs. Illyria danced through it all, her hands brushing against streams of energy, feeling them respond, bending around her without command, as if acknowledging her presence. Here, in this timeless space, she was no weapon, no puppet. She was herself, the culmination of centuries of pain, endurance, and finally, choice.
Seraphine leaned close then, whispering words she could not hear but somehow understood. Words of encouragement, of promise, of companionship. And Illyria, unthinking, unafraid, responded with her own laughter, her own presence, feeling it weave through the air, through the forest, through the dream. She was no longer hollow. She was not yet fully awakened, but she had tasted freedom—and that taste was enough to sustain her, to nourish her, to prepare her for the world she would soon return to.
Night deepened, though even night was meaningless. Stars shimmered, rivers glowed, trees whispered. And Illyria lay down in the softest bed of white blossoms, Seraphine curling beside her, her mother behind her, her clansmen surrounding her in a circle of warmth and protection. She closed her eyes, not in sleep, but in surrender. Here, in this timeless void, here in this dream, she had found herself. She had found joy. She had found love. And she had found the first glimmer of hope that she could, one day, live as herself—not as a hollow dagger, not as a weapon, but as Illyria, as a child of freedom, of spirit, of heart.
And yet, even in the sweetness of the dream, her heart recognized the remnants of loss. It whispered faintly: the absence of pain, the impossibility of harm, were both gifts and questions. The shadow of her father's sacrifice was behind it all, the quiet weight that had allowed this place, this timelessness, to exist. She did not weep. She could not. But her chest swelled with the power that was hers, and in that swell, she knew she had been given a chance to remember who she had been before the world had claimed her body and bent it into obedience.
Seraphine laughed again, looping through the sky. "Come, Illyria. Do not linger behind shadows."
And she followed. Her laughter joined hers, light and unclaimed by grief. The wind wrapped around them, the white leaves brushing their skin. The rivers shimmered like glass, the trees bending as if to welcome them. In this dream, they were explorers of their own world, and she felt, for the first time in centuries, like she had a choice.
The forest stretched beyond horizon, and the sky was infinite. Birds with feathers like silver and sapphire darted between trees, leaving trails of light. Illyria chased them, ran through the rivers, floated over waterfalls, feeling the raw joy of movement that had been denied to her for ages. She felt her father's power, now hers, singing beneath her skin, yet tempered by the dream's serenity. It did not hurt. It did not overwhelm. It simply existed. And she existed within it.
Night fell, though here night was different, softer, unhurried. Stars stretched across the sky like rivers of crystal. She lay on the ground, her hands tracing patterns in the snow-white leaves. Seraphine curled beside her, warm and tangible in the way only dreams could offer. Serenia held her from behind, the mother she had never known fully embracing her without question. And in the silence, Illyria felt her first true heartbeat of home.
Years could have passed—or minutes. Time no longer mattered. And she let herself sink fully into the void of sleep, her body finally still, her mind finally quiet, her spirit finally unbound. Every pulse of her father's gift, every echo of her own awakening, settled into her chest.
She did not awaken to vengeance. She did not awaken to war. She did not awaken to anger, to duty, to orders. She was free to exist, and the void, still endless, still timeless, held her like a promise: that one day, when she rose, she would know herself fully.
And so, she drifted, her breath steady, her chest calm, her spirit unbroken. Time had no hold here. Power had no dominion. War had no claim. Only she, only the dream, only the infinite white forest of her rebirth. A phoenix slumbering, gathering strength, rising from chains long broken, awaiting the day she would awaken fully.
And the white forest of memory, of love, of laughter, stretched before her, infinite and unending, ready to teach her the meaning of her own life.