Chapter 45: Memories
.. The ruined city sprawled like a wounded beast under a bruised sky, its crumbling spires and shattered avenues choked with debris and the remnants of forgotten lives. Two horses cut through the desolation, their hooves pounding against cracked cobblestones in a synchronized rhythm that echoed faintly amid the ruins. The lead horse bore a broad-shouldered male knight, his armor scarred and bloodied, with a young girl slumped before him in the saddle, her small form bundled against his chest as if shielding her from the encroaching doom. Trailing closely behind was the second horse, carrying a female knight whose fiery red hair whipped like flames in the wind, her matching red eyes narrowed against the grit-filled air; clutched tightly behind her was a boy, his limbs dangling limply in unconsciousness. The pair moved relentlessly toward the city's colossal walls, looming ahead like ancient sentinels draped in shadow, their massive stone faces pitted and scarred from battles long past. A thick, swirling dark mist crept in from the horizon, tendrils snaking over rooftops and alleyways, swallowing the city inch by inch in an unnatural gloom that seemed to pulse with malevolent intent.
Squinting her eyes, she could see from a distance, her vision almost fully impaired by the swirling dusts and smoke, the huge walls of the city. Relief and elation surged within her veins, almost bubbling in excitement, but restrained by the sacrifices made to arrive at this point. Her comrades, those who died and those who chose to, those who became monsters against their will, those who willingly chose to - the image of Lysander played in her mind.
It had been years ago, back in the sun-dappled courtyards of Avalon, during their days as pages in the knight's academy. She remembered the crisp autumn morning vividly, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and polished leather as young aspirants like herself hustled through drills under the watchful eyes of seasoned mentors. She was just a girl then, barely thirteen, her hands calloused from handling wooden swords and mending tack, her dreams filled with tales of glory on the battlefield. Lysander had been assigned to her training group that day, a lanky boy of fourteen with tousled brown hair and a quiet intensity that set him apart from the boisterous others. He wasn't the type to boast or seek attention; instead, he moved with a thoughtful grace, his eyes always scanning, learning.
Their first real meeting came not in the heat of sparring, but in the stables after a grueling session of mounted exercises. She had been struggling with a stubborn gelding, its mane tangled and its hooves caked in mud from the training fields. Frustration built in her chest as she tugged at the knots, her fingers aching. "Easy there," a soft voice had said from behind her, and she turned to see Lysander approaching, a bucket of grooming tools in hand. He didn't wait for permission; he simply knelt beside her, his movements calm and deliberate as he began working on the horse's flank. "They sense when you're tense. Breathe with them."
She had eyed him warily at first, unused to unsolicited help in a place where everyone fought to prove their independence. But there was no condescension in his tone, just a shared understanding born from hours spent in the same dusty arenas. "I'm Auria," she said finally, her voice steadier than she felt.
"Lysander," he replied with a small smile, not looking up from his task. As they worked side by side, conversation flowed unexpectedly easily - about the quirks of their mounts, the unfairness of certain instructors, and even the small freedoms they stole, like sneaking apples from the orchards at dusk. He shared how he had grown up in a remote village, learning to ride bareback on wild ponies before ever seeing a proper saddle, and she opened up about her family's modest holdings, where she had first dreamed of knighthood while watching her father mend armor by firelight.
Nearby, another page named Nyra joined them without a word, her short-cropped black hair and sharp features making her look older than her years. Nyra was known for her fierce competitiveness, but that day she carried a bundle of fresh hay, tossing it into the stall with a grin. "You two look like you're plotting a rebellion," she teased, leaning against the wooden beam. Lysander chuckled, a rare sound that warmed the air, and handed her a brush. "Join us, then. This one's got enough tangles for all of Eden..."
What followed was an afternoon that stretched lazily into evening, the three of them transforming the chore into something companionable. Nyra regaled them with exaggerated stories of her botched archery attempts, her laughter echoing off the stable walls, while Lysander demonstrated a trick for calming skittish horses by humming low tunes he claimed came from his village elders. Auria found herself contributing too, sharing a secret spot by the river where she practiced footwork alone, away from judging eyes. There was no grand gesture or dramatic revelation; it was simply the quiet forging of bonds amid the mundane - the scrape of brushes on hide, the soft nickers of contented animals, the golden light filtering through slatted windows. By the time they finished, the horse gleamed, and Auria felt a spark of genuine connection, a sense that these two might become more than just fellow pages. Lysander had looked at her then, wiping sweat from his brow, his eyes holding a quiet promise. "We'll make knights of each other yet," he said, and in that moment, under the fading sun, she believed him.
But now lost in the tides of death was he, hoping that he would survive those horde of undead and the approaching towering storm of dark fog, devouring the city bit by bit, was nothing short of a delusion, one her heart secretly held to, even if the realization of it made grief well up in her heart. Her hands clasped on the rope saddle of the horse, her other hand clutching the unconscious lad, who now seemed to be waking, for his body wavered now and then, which she had to correct - a distraction from the melancholy welling deep within. Looking back, she guessed the mist must have swallowed him by now, wouldn't it? Her eyes burned, tears threatening to spill. Lucien had been right all along. There was no hope for Eden.
There was no saving it; it was damned already. And the KnightLord hadn't yet sent a response. Was it that the message never went through, or had Avalon forsaken them? Both were terrifying conclusions she didn't want to think of.
The lad jolted, and again she steadied him. Her eyes wavered to Mennyx; he was upfront, blood dyeing his bandage scarlet. Seems the injury was deep, one that demanded adequate medical care.
But again, the priority first was escape. All things could wait.
She couldn't gauge the condition of the kid in his possession, for his broad shoulders offered no compromise.
Their horse raced past a forsaken tavern, its wooden sign creaking in the wind like a ghost's lament, windows shattered and doors hanging ajar, revealing overturned tables and scattered tankards inside - a stark reminder of the chaos eating up the city. She shut her eyes, a quick reprieve for a moment of recollection, inhaling deeply. But it seemed this itself was a mistake, for her eyes opened to the rhythmic touch of a torrent. It was raining. How? But it wasn't all; instead of noon, this was night. She was standing on her feet, feeling the coldness of the stone-slabbed floor on her bare soles. Not only was her horse and the lad nowhere to be found, but also her armor and clothing, for she could feel the cold wind brushing against her skin and the slithering of raindrops on her flesh.
Her eyes danced to her surroundings, illuminated by flames that seemed to flare on stone and wood alike, blazing even amidst the rain. Then they wavered to the crimson horizon and the pale moon.
Fear lodged in her heart.
This was Eden, wasn't it?
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The shriek of the horse was what forced him out of his comforting slumber. His eyes pried open, partially squinting under the gaze of the sunlight. He was outside - the statement rather posing as a question lodged in his mind, and what followed was confusion. He was in a cathedral; he was sitting in a pew, right? There were knights in front of him, and... the shriek of the horse yanked him out of his thoughts. He abruptly withdrew. He couldn't ride a horse, didn't remember getting on one. His frantic head collided with something hard, wincing, hands clutching his head.
He turned, his eyes scrolling from the armor - a hard metallic plate; now he understood why his head had hurt - then to the face of the bearer. He didn't know what to feel: relief, because it was the familiar knight who had saved him and his... then it struck him. His sister, Ruby - where was she? His desperation clouding his eyes, his heart palpitating violently like a frantic drum, his eyes scouring the entirety of his surroundings: dilapidated buildings and inns on both sides, their facades crumbling with vines snaking through cracked walls, faded signs swinging precariously over entrances clogged with rubble, shattered glass glinting in the dim light like scattered jewels amid the decay. Then forward, he caught a glimpse. There was another horse in front of him, galloping in a steady stead: a knight with broad shoulders, and... was that blood dripping from his arm? Was his sister with the injured man, or worse...
His thoughts interrupted by the collapse of the horse, sending him crashing against the stone-slabbed floor, his head connecting with stone. Pain shot through him; in that moment, all his thoughts were disoriented, his brain administering the pain. The female knight - she had fallen with him. He turned his head, his eyes sighting her laying on the stone-slabbed floor. His heart thumped in fright and freight: was she dead? Facing forward, the other knight's horse was still galloping away - the only ticket to see his sister, and the only way to help the gracious female knight who had saved them.
"Hey...!!!!!" his voice frantic and desperate, raspy and shaky but loud nonetheless. Then he waited. Should he scream again? His thoughts raced, but when he finally jolted back, the knight with broad shoulders had stopped and tilted his head towards him, his blonde hair flapping in the wind. He couldn't read the expression on his face, but he could tell from the way he swung the saddle, changing the direction of the horse towards them, that he had a sense of urgency. And what more, he caught the familiar silhouette of his sister, straddled upfront the coming knight, unharmed and sleeping, he concluded, squinting through the fog of dust and soot. Relief poured into him as he collapsed, sitting back on the floor.
Ruby was okay; now mom and dad had nothing to worry about. He heaved; she was safe.
The knight - Lady Auria - he helped himself up, crawling as fast as he could towards her. She couldn't be dead, could she? He crouched near her fallen figure, his eyes scanning her body for any vital signs of life. First her eyes: it was closed. Fear tore through him: was she really dead? He could have concluded that hadn't he noticed the up and down heave of her breastplate. She was alive; papa had said the chest heaves if someone was alive, so she was. He exhaled, wiping the tears that were on the verge of spilling.
Then was she sleeping? His eyes wandered across her figure to the source of the chilling cold that washed over him. His eyes went bloodshot: looming large above was a storm of dark mist, rapidly drowning the rooftops of the buildings, enveloping them in an eternal shroud, and it was about a few feet from them. He collapsed back, his heart thumping frantically against his chest, the sound of it drowning the footsteps of the broad knight as he walked towards his stuttering figure.
He felt a tap on his shoulder; his body jolted, instinctively his head swirled towards the source - or so he wanted.
He found himself on a rooftop, the wind threatening to force him off. He took a step aback: where was he? His thoughts dislodged into a frantic battle of questions. Then he heard growls - guttural, scary ones, like that of his pa when he became one of those walking monsters. He turned frantically; relief washing in when he noticed they weren't near, not on the rooftop with him. He exhaled, panic still curling in: that means those growling creatures were downwards. He gulped; he prayed they didn't make their way up. His eyes teary.
What then would happen to Ruby?
Then he felt a shimmer, then an explosion of brightness, like the sunset.
Yet instead of hope, what clawed his mind was fear - visceral and raw, that it pressed on his skin like a weight was pressed down on him, a huge one. He gritted, clawed his skin - a constant reminder he was still alive, even if whatever was behind him was burning with such ferocity. His heart ramping hard against his ribs, his senses thinning, the world fading into a blur. Then he tasted the coppery taste on his lips.
It was blood.
Then his world spun.
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She found herself before a tree so huge, so beyond her horizon, towering into the sky like a great monolith, a pillar breaching the dark heavens and the earth.
Its trunk was as huge as a multiple of cathedrals, its bark scaly, glittering in the moonlight; its roots dark and wooden, as huge as a house, spreading wide as far as she could decipher, casting a huge shadow in which her figure stood.
Awesome, grand, glorious - they all clawed at her mind as she gazed at the colossal tree before her, almost drowning her inquisition of why she was here. Was this the work of a god? Why then was it showing it to her? What was the situation in the real world? The kids, Mennyx - were they okay? Did they escape? Had she been left behind? Was this also Eden, for they bore same similarities? The questions clawed on her mind. And then the answer came.
With a shriek, one that seemed to tear her mentally, like the scream of thousands, wrecking havoc on her subconscious - more like it was coming from within her head. Yet the ground beneath her quaked, not wildly but mildly, almost tousling her out of balance.
"Eden...!!" the screaming voices chorused in a compressed terrifying note.
Pain shot through her skull, destabilizing her sanity; her eyes bloodshot. Was this the proclaimed hell? Her legs gave way, crashing on the stone-slabbed floor, gritting her head in pain.
And when it felt like she had reached her limit, insanity creeping in, she felt a tug, and like she was pulled by an invisible hand, the world around her narrowing, contracting into a tunnel of swirling shadows and fleeting lights, as if reality itself was folding inward, drawing her through a vortex that compressed time and space until she emerged on the other side.
When at last the invisible hand stopped, she found herself crouched down, blood dripping from her mouth, the familiar metallic taste, a colossal pressure mounted on her shoulders like she was being crushed. Her mind coherently incapable of forming thoughts. Then she felt the eyes like glowing suns, one that emitted visceral fear and terrific soul-numbing pressure. The Abomination that had plagued Eden... she had seen it before in flashes back at the cathedral... she had seen it... herself being killed... and her hair... her eyes, barely conscious and focused, caught a glimpse of her hair in the moonlight... it was... White...