The dream had ended.
The laughter of her people, the soft echo of the spirit winds, the warm hand of her mother, Seraphine's smile — all of it dissolved into a mist that would not return.
Light, once golden and pure, folded in upon itself, like dying silk.
And in its place came stillness — endless, suffocating stillness.
Illyria floated through that silence. Not falling, not flying — simply drifting, like a thought unspoken, like a breath half-remembered.
The white petals that once bloomed around her dream turned to ash. They did not burn. They simply ceased to exist.
Even her heartbeat, that fragile proof of life, faded into the rhythm of a place beyond time.
And then—she saw it.
A light.
Dim, cracked, barely breathing.
It did not pierce the darkness; it only shimmered weakly, as though struggling to exist within it.
Illyria turned toward it, drawn not by curiosity, but by something older — recognition.
Her feet touched the ground that wasn't ground. Every step echoed as though it was happening inside her bones.
The closer she came, the more the void began to whisper.
A low hum — like thousands of broken wings trembling, like grief buried for eons.
And there, in the heart of that soundless prison, she saw him.
Chains hung from the void itself, heavy as planets, each link engraved with divine seals that glowed faintly blue.
They wrapped around a figure seated in darkness — not in majesty, not in defiance, but in ruin.
Hair as white as moonlight fell over shoulders stripped of strength. His body was scarred with symbols that pulsed faintly with divine fire — every pulse a wound reopening, every flicker a punishment renewed.
Azeriel.
The name slipped from her lips, though she hadn't meant to speak. It left her mouth like an invocation, like something that had been waiting inside her throat for centuries.
The god of the human realm.
The destroyer of the Spirit Kingdom.
The man she once called father.
Her body froze, her breath caught halfway. For a moment, the silence pressed too tightly against her — and then, the sound came.
It wasn't a roar.
It wasn't divine.
It was a whisper, tender, trembling, worn down by pain and memory.
"My child,"
"You have finally come to me."
The voice filled the void like a slow river flowing into her veins.
She couldn't move. The words touched something inside her — something old, something forbidden.
It wasn't the voice of a destroyer. It wasn't even the voice of a god.
It was the voice of someone who had once cared.
Illyria's hands trembled.
Her lips parted, but the air refused to come. Her throat felt torn — she wanted to speak, to scream, to demand answers, but no sound would form.
All at once, the memories flickered.
The battlefield of light and ruin — the burning citadels of the Spirit Realm — her people falling one by one.
Her mother's final barrier breaking.
The sound of the crystal towers collapsing into dust.
The color of blood — silver and blue — reflecting in the mirror of her childlike eyes.
And then, his hand.
Azeriel's hand.
Reaching down through the smoke, his voice calm, his eyes tender.
"Don't be afraid, little one. You'll be safe now."
Safe.
The word struck her like a blade.
That same hand had held her head when she couldn't sleep. That same voice had taught her how to read the human language, had smiled when she tried to draw the stars with trembling fingers.
He had held her hand when she took her first step outside the human palace.
He had told her stories about courage and faith.
And yet—
That same hand had commanded the destruction of her home.
That same voice had silenced her people.
That same face had turned away when the Spirit Queen fell.
Illyria's eyes burned.
She didn't know if it was anger or sorrow. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Her voice cracked, soft at first — the sound of something long sealed breaking apart.
"Why…?"
Her breath caught again. The word was too small. It couldn't carry the weight inside her chest.
She took a step forward, her bare feet echoing in the void. The light surrounding Azeriel flickered in response, as though startled by her nearness.
"Why did you destroy them?" she whispered,
"Why did you destroy my kingdom, my mother, my people… and still hold me like I was your child?"
Her hands clenched at her sides, trembling.
"Was it duty? Was it mercy? Or was it guilt?"
"You said I was safe — safe!"
The word tore from her throat like a sob strangled halfway.
Her knees gave out, and she sank to the cold ground. There was no warmth here. No sound but the low hum of the chains, moving slightly with every heartbeat — his heartbeat, still alive, still bleeding.
The god did not move.
He did not speak.
A tear fell from her cheek and turned to crystal before it hit the ground.
She watched it shatter. Watched the shards drift away, becoming stars again.
"Was someone controlling you?" she asked softly.
"Were you like me… just a weapon made to obey?"
The question trembled through the silence, and the void itself seemed to hesitate — as if it, too, wanted to answer but did not know how.
"Tell me…"
"Was it really you, or was it your responsibility?"
Her voice broke, falling into a whisper too fragile to be heard.
"Lord Azeriel… I know my birth was a mistake. I was never supposed to exist. So it wasn't your fault, right?"
The chains rattled faintly, like a sigh escaping metal. A faint shimmer crossed his expression — not quite grief, not quite peace, something that lived in between.
She rose slowly, her eyes glimmering with fury and ache, and yet, beneath it all, something softer — forgiveness, though she could not name it.
"Maybe it was your responsibility to make me your weapon," she murmured.
"Maybe you didn't have a choice either."
The silence deepened.
In that stillness, the void began to change — faint lights blooming like ancient stars long forgotten.
Her words echoed, touching the walls of the prison that had held him for eternity.
And then — a voice answered.
Not his.
Something older.
Something that sounded as though the universe itself had decided to mock her.
It spoke from nowhere, and yet it filled everything.
The sound carried no warmth, no mercy — only cold amusement, as though it had seen this play before.
"Why are you asking him?"
The voice rippled, soft yet infinite.
"He is nothing more than a pet of mine."
The words struck like thunder, yet there was laughter beneath them — laughter too hollow to be human.
"If a character does not follow the author's will,
he is bound to eternal prison.
Don't you know that, little heir of ruin?"
The light around Azeriel dimmed, shivering as though in obedience to the unseen power.
Chains groaned. The void itself seemed to bow.
Illyria's eyes widened. She could feel her pulse stop — not from fear, but from recognition.
The voice wasn't merely speaking to her.
It was speaking through her.
"This is the rule of the game," the voice whispered,
"the one you all agreed to before you were even born."
"Disobey, and you are not punished."
"You are erased."
The darkness trembled with laughter — slow, deliberate, cruel.
"So tell me, Illyria — now, do you hate him?"
"Can you even love him?"
Her breath came out in shallow gasps.
The air itself felt like a question she couldn't answer.
"He destroyed your everything," the voice hissed,
"and you still ask if it was his responsibility?"
"How dare you ask him?"
The voice grew louder, angrier — not out of rage, but out of disbelief, as though watching a broken puppet try to speak.
"Have you degraded this much, after one lifetime?"
"Do you still not understand?"
Illyria fell to her knees, clutching her chest as the air turned heavy, pressing against her heart like unseen hands.
Her vision blurred, and the faint glow of Azeriel's form grew distant — as though the void itself was pushing her away.
The voice lingered in her mind, each word leaving behind a wound.
"You were never meant to question him."
"You were meant to obey."
And then, silence — a deep, suffocating silence that swallowed everything, even the sound of her heartbeat.
When the world stopped trembling, Illyria looked up.
Azeriel was still there — motionless, his eyes half-closed, his face caught between pain and peace.
The divine chains shimmered faintly, their light flickering like dying stars.
He did not speak.
He only looked at her — a gaze filled with something wordless, a sorrow that even gods could not name.
"My child," he murmured softly,
"you have finally come."
And with those words, the light went out.
Illyria's body felt weightless, her soul unraveling into a thousand threads.
As the void consumed her once more, she thought she heard that ancient voice whisper again — faint, distant, like an echo through time.
"The game has only begun."
The mysterious sarcastic voice once again spoke from everywhere and nowhere, like time itself breathing through her.
"I have seen this many times."
"And still, you ask the same questions."
"I have given you power — to change the story, to rewrite what was broken."
"So why can't you?"
Illyria froze. Her pulse stopped.
"You ask why," the voice continued,
"but have you ever asked what you are?"
The darkness pulsed with light, like a heartbeat of the cosmos.
"You were not meant to exist.
You are the bane of equilibrium — the forgotten blood of the weapon that defied creation.
So tell me, Illyria, do you hate your father now?"
Her breath hitched. The words struck something raw inside her.
She wanted to scream — no! — but her lips would not move.
She wanted to cry — but the tears refused to fall.
Instead, she simply looked at Azeriel, who sat still, unflinching, his eyes half-closed as though he, too, could hear the divine voice.
He did not answer.
He only looked at her — the same look he once gave when she fell asleep as a child, wrapped in a blanket too large for her.
And in that gaze, Illyria felt everything collapse — hatred, love, grief, forgiveness — all folding into something too vast for her heart to contain.
Her fingers brushed her chest. Beneath her skin, her father's heart pulsed once — faint, eternal.
She closed her eyes,tears dripping from her face,
"I don't know," she whispered into the void.
"I don't know who to hate anymore."