Arthur carried the lifeless body of his brother Damon in his arms.
As he walked through the streets of the kingdom, soldiers and civilians reached out to Damon—outstretched not just to a fallen warrior, but to a symbol of courage.
Arthur looked around.
He saw people's faces—weeping, grateful, changed.
And in that moment, he understood: Damon's dream, though dangerous and filled with danger, had always been rooted in courage and love for others.
A man stepped forward and offered him a horse.
Arthur mounted it, Damon resting before him, gently carried. The crowd parted as he rode slowly through them. One by one, the soldiers raised their swords in salute, until the swords became a sea pointing skyward in silent tribute.
At the great gate of the city, two figures stood waiting.
One had fiery crimson hair.
The other his silent shadow.
They said nothing.
But their eyes, fixed on Damon's body, were filled with deep respect.
Words were not needed.
Damon's legacy—his sacrifice, his fight, his heart—was already written on the faces of a free people.
As for the sorceress Caitlyn, she had fled the kingdom the moment the revolt began.
She headed deeper into the Spirit Wood, where shadows whispered through the trees, and reached a small, crooked house—the home of the old teacher, Daria.
Inside, Caitlyn stood face to face with a woman of almost unsettling beauty. As Caitlyn tried to speak, she suddenly felt a cold presence behind her.
A tall, pale man—almost two meters tall—with long black hair stood silent. His eyes were empty, his voice deep and hollow. "Where is Daria?" he asked.
Caitlynةdidn't answer.
She steadyed herself and asked, "Who are you? How did you get in here?" He repeated, more forcefully, "Where is Daria?"
Caitlyn recoiled, fear blooming in her chest.
But before she could move, the man's hand was already on her face.
A chill rippled through her bones.
Then—the mirror before her shuddered with terror.
She watched her worst nightmare come true.
Her skin shrivelled.
One by one, her teeth fell out.
Her thick black hair grew young, then white, then fell to the floor in clumps.
Wrinkles carved deep furrows into her once-youthful face.
She was aging rapidly—decades passing in seconds.
And she could only scream as her beauty, her pride, her very identity dissolved before her eyes.
The man left without a word.
He didn't kill her.
He gave her something worse:
He left her alone with her greatest fear—ugliness.