Illyria walked slowly, her bare feet brushing over the pale grass of a forest bathed in soft silver light. Time had no meaning here; even the wind seemed to hum with a lullaby that had no beginning and no end. At first, it was all so beautiful—so impossibly serene—that she almost forgot. Almost.
Night lingered like a soft veil over the endless white forest.
Stars shimmered above, the rivers glowed beneath, and Illyria walked barefoot through the quiet dream. Her laughter echoed between the silver trees, light and innocent, untouched by war or memory. Around her, her clansmen sang. Her mother's voice hummed through the wind, and the blossoms danced, glowing faintly with divine warmth.
For a long time, there was peace.
It was the peace she had long forgotten how to dream of.
Seraphine walked beside her — tall, radiant, her eyes like ancient flame turned gentle. The two wandered together, through waterfalls that glittered like falling moons and bridges spun of glass and mist. They were explorers of eternity, two souls born for the sky.
"Do you think," Illyria said softly, "that this will last forever?"
She saw Seraphine , standing beneath the towering white trees that glimmered with dew like frozen stars. The dragon queen's presence was calm, timeless, and somehow impossibly close, yet always just beyond reach. Seraphine turned, her long hair cascading over her shoulders, and smiled softly. That smile carried years of unspoken words, the understanding that transcended time, age, and space.
Illyria's hand twitched. She wanted to reach out, to hold her, to feel the warmth she had never truly known. But her body, still bound by shadows of the past, did not obey. So she walked slowly, deliberately, and when she reached Seraphine, she lowered her gaze. Seraphine knelt and brushed Illyria's hair from her face, not her cheeks, not her hands, but the strands of silken light that carried memory and belonging.
Seraphine smiled. Her hand brushed Illyria's hair from her face.
"If it is our will," she said, "then even forever will obey."
"You will always find me," Seraphine whispered, her voice soft yet resonant, as if it could cross worlds. "Even if I am far, even if you are lost, even if the winds carry you away. You will find me. And I will find you."
Illyria nodded, unable to speak. Her throat was tight, her chest heavy with a weight she had long denied. Seraphine placed a necklace in her small hands—a single pearl glimmering with a light that seemed alive. "Carry this," Seraphine said. "It will carry me to you, always. And you… you must carry yourself."
The words were simple, yet heavy. Heavy with unspoken promises, heavy with pain and hope entwined. Illyria's fingers tightened around the pearl, and in that instant, she understood. It was not just a gift; it was a tether, a thread connecting them through all the fractures of time, space, and memory.
But the next morning, the wind changed.
A crimson light bled through the horizon — not from dawn, but from summons.
Seraphine's sister was calling from the Beast Realm. Duty's voice.
Her kingdom needed its queen.
Illyria stood at the gate of light, her small hands trembling. "You'll come back soon, won't you?"
Seraphine hesitated. The necklace around her throat shimmered — a single pearl glowing with deep blue essence, the heart of her flame.
She unclasped it and placed it around Illyria's neck. The pearl pulsed once, softly, like a heartbeat.
"This will always find me," Seraphine said. "Even if you forget my name, it will remember for you."
"Promise?"
"I swear it on my fire."
And when Seraphine stepped through the golden gate, the dream seemed to dim. The air grew still. Illyria stood alone amid the silver woods, the necklace heavy against her chest. The world was still beautiful — but there was an echo missing from its song.
Then, the forest began to fade.
It began with the rivers. Their glow flickered, turned gray, then black.
The white blossoms turned to ash in her palms.
And the singing — her people's singing — grew faint, like distant bells sinking under water.
"What's happening?" she whispered.
Her voice echoed. No one answered.
The sky fractured.
Through the cracks, crimson spilled. The Spirit Realm — her home — trembled as though pierced by invisible blades.
Flames rose where rivers once flowed. Palaces of crystal turned to dust. Her clansmen ran — and vanished before her eyes, fading like mist swallowed by the sun. The divine trees fell, one by one, their roots bleeding silver.
And in the distance — at the center of the destruction — she saw him.
Azeriel.
The man she would one day call father.
He stood in human form, his sword drawn, his army behind him. The humans advanced, greedy and bright, their banners glinting with gold and crimson. The Spirit Realm was not destroyed by hatred — it was devoured by want.
"Why?" Illyria cried, her voice trembling through the burning air.
But the dream only echoed her question back.
Why?
Why?
Why?
She ran through the ruin, barefoot and breathless. Her mother's silhouette appeared once — standing before the temple gates, her arms raised in prayer, sealing something within. And when Illyria reached her, the vision shattered into motes of light.
Her mother's final words drifted through the collapsing sky —
"My child… live free… even if it means forgetting us."
And then everything went silent.
No wind, no flame, no voices. Only her heartbeat — wild, terrified, breaking.
Illyria fell to her knees. The necklace clinked softly against her skin. Its faint blue glow pulsed — the only color left in the ruin. She clutched it to her chest, her tears falling like glass shards.
"I just wanted to live," she whispered.
Her voice was small — the voice of the girl she once was, not the weapon she became.
Around her, the ruins of the Spirit Realm began to dissolve into white mist again — as though the world could not bear to keep the memory alive.
She understood then: this was the truth buried deep inside her soul.
The thing she had chosen to forget.
It was not hatred that birthed the Hollow Dagger.
It was grief.
Grief that had nowhere to go, so it turned to silence.
Her hands trembled. The necklace glowed brighter, as if answering.
She closed her eyes — and for the first time since her birth as a puppet, she wept.
Not as a weapon, not as a goddess, not as a cursed creation — but as a girl who had lost everything.
Her tears fell onto the ash, and from that ash, a faint light rose. A feather — pure and white — drifted upward, glowing softly against the empty sky.
And the dream continued.
Somewhere far beyond the veil, time itself waited — holding its breath.
The phoenix had not yet awakened, but her heart had begun to burn again.