A year passed without anyone really noticing.
What had happened that day slowly dissolved into quieter and quieter rumors, until it became an uncomfortable memory people preferred not to mention. In Ilmenor, routine reclaimed its place. The streets filled again at dawn, the markets opened as they always had, and the bells marked the days with the same unwavering punctuality as ever.
Except for one person.
Klein.
Before, greeting him when crossing the plaza had been almost obligatory. A kind word, a weary but sincere smile. After returning from captivity… all of that vanished. His gaze became erratic, his hands trembled for no apparent reason, and at times he would shout at nothing, as if someone were watching him.
When he saw Zein, it only got worse.
His voice broke into screams, he pointed at him with wild eyes, spitting words like "demon," "ruin," "curse." Some people stopped to stare; others pulled him away with pity. No one believed him. No one wanted to believe him.
Zein learned to take a different street.
Not out of fear, but because there was nothing to gain there. His life went on, calm—almost happy. As the months passed, the distance between him and Kiomi slowly closed. Arguments turned into teasing, tense glances into comfortable silences. They were friends… though Kiomi still found ways to annoy him, as if she refused to completely let go of old resentments.
Every morning they left together on their way to school. The route had become natural ever since Kiomi and Meliora moved into the house next to Lucian's. Meliora, tired of absences and sacred hallways, had left the Church behind with a quiet but resolute decision. The new house was modest, but warm, and for the first time in a long while, they shared breakfasts without rushing.
Zein and Lyra, for their part, lived with Lucian. The house was small, yes, but it was always full of noise, laughter, and the smell of hot food. Zein trained, studied, laughed. Lyra slept peacefully. She had friends. She had teachers. She lacked nothing… or so he believed.
That morning, training was being held outdoors.
Winter bit the skin with persistence. Snow covered the ground like an untouched sheet, reflecting a pale light that forced the eyes to squint. Zein moved between lunges and shifts, his breathing marking the rhythm. In front of him, Lucian corrected postures with dry comments loaded with irony.
A few meters away, Kiomi watched with her arms crossed, her breath forming small white clouds in front of her face. Beside her, Zyteg remained in silence, sleeping.
The training was no longer just physical.
Zein extended his hand and the air around him vibrated slightly, as if something invisible were tightening. Magic was beginning to become part of his routines, making each session more demanding, more dangerous… and more real.
In the middle of training, Zein held himself in the air, blocking Lucian's blows while trying to counterattack, using small bursts of magic to force him back. His movements were fast, calculated. For a moment, he saw a clear opening.
Then something hit Zein.
A small stone.
His balance vanished in a blink. He fell onto his back against the snow, the combat over before he could react.
—Why did you throw a rock at me, Kiomi?! —he shouted from the ground, pointing at her—. I lost because of you!
Kiomi looked away as if she didn't know what he was talking about, though the lopsided smile betrayed her.
—You've got to be…
—Don't blame her —Lucian intervened, approaching—. I asked her to.
—Why?! —Zein replied, barely pushing himself up.
—Because in a real fight, getting distracted like that kills you —Lucian said, holding out his hand to help him up.
—And how am I supposed to not get distracted if people throw stones at me?
Lucian let out a short laugh.
—Not exactly like that. But you lost your focus several times —he added—. Especially when you were looking at Kiomi.
—That's not true! —Zein protested.
—Hahaha, alright, alright —Lucian replied, raising his hands—. Just a joke. But still, work on that.
A few meters away, Kiomi didn't bother to hide her laughter.
—Oh, and one more thing —Lucian added—. If you're ever in a fight to the death, make sure your enemy is actually dead. Nothing worse than an attack from behind.
In that instant, Kiomi's stomach growled loudly.
—Well… —she murmured—. Shall we eat?
They sat near Zyteg, who was dozing wrapped in warm steam. The contrast between his heat and the freezing air meant no one was in a hurry to get up.
While they were eating, a sudden movement among the trees broke the calm. A soldier burst into the clearing, almost tripping over the snow, breathing with difficulty. Steam escaped from his mouth with every exhale.
Lucian stood up instantly.
The soldier leaned over, resting his hands on his knees, gasping for air. When he finally managed to speak, he did so in a low, fast voice. Zein and Kiomi continued eating, attentive, without saying a word.
Then something changed.
Lucian dropped his sandwich, which fell onto the snow without him appearing to notice, and turned toward Zyteg.
—Zyteg, can we talk for a moment? —he said, curtly.
Zyteg, still drowsy, reduced his size until he took on human form and stepped away with Lucian a few paces, far from the others. Their voices were lost among the trees.
Kiomi approached the soldier and handed him water. He accepted it with trembling hands, drinking with urgency.
When Lucian and Zyteg returned, Zyteg transformed again. His scales reflected the pale winter light as he spread his wings.
—We are returning to Ilmenor —Lucian ordered, gathering his things without wasting time.
—What is happening? —Zein asked, standing up.
Lucian did not answer.
Zyteg stopped in front of them and lowered his head slightly.
—This is where we say goodbye, children.
—What? Why? —Zein insisted, confusion marked on his face.
Zyteg looked at him for barely a second.
—I wish you good luck —he said—. If you survive this… I hope we meet again. And tell Kio that I will wait for her. For as long as it takes. Again.
Zyteg beat his wings and soared upward with force, disappearing toward the north in a matter of seconds.
The soldier led the rest toward Ilmenor in a wagon. The rattling of the road filled the silence.
—Explain everything to me —Lucian ordered, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
The soldier hesitated, looking at Zein and Kiomi.
—Don't worry —Lucian responded, placing a hand on his shoulder—. Zein is my apprentice. Kiomi is the daughter of the former duke. They can listen.
—Fine —the soldier said, finally straightening up—. A few moments ago, our mages detected movement on the border with the duchies of Fictoma and Moeveth. The Empire's army attacked our positions at the fifth defensive wall without warning.
Zein turned his face slightly toward Kiomi.
—The Empire…?
Kiomi did not look at him.
—You should study more history —she responded in a low voice—. The Empire of the Black Sun. The same ones who invaded Ilmenor years ago. The ones who make and break kingdoms. —She paused—. We were supposed to be part of them already.
—How many? —Lucian interrupted.
The soldier swallowed hard.
—The reconnaissance counted nearly ninety thousand. Perhaps more.
—That triples our forces —Lucian murmured—. We barely reach thirty-five thousand.
His hands slowly clenched until his knuckles turned pale.
—And the castle? —he asked.
The soldier hesitated for a second.
—The duke disappeared this morning. No trace. The council acted immediately… —he lowered his voice—. The widow of the previous duke took command. Meliora is already directing the defense. She ordered that we bring you to her.
Lucian nodded once.
—Then there is no time to waste.
The road to Ilmenor was saturated. Wagons loaded with weapons moved toward the walls, columns of soldiers marched in silence, and the sound of clashing metal filled the air.
But the city was worse.
Inside Ilmenor, the military courtyards seethed with activity. Sacks, spears, and supply crates passed from hand to hand. Civilians crowded the streets, murmuring, seeking answers that no one seemed to have.
As they turned a corner, they saw him.
Klein.
His eyes locked onto Zein instantly. His body tensed, as if something invisible had pierced through him.
—You! —he roared, stepping forward—. This is all because of you! They have come for you! They want to see us dead! —His voice broke into a scream—. DEMON!
The echo of his words spread through the street. People stopped. Restless gazes began to fixate on Zein.
For the first time, no one laughed.
Lucian leaned toward the soldier, his brow hardened.
—Wasn't it supposed that no one was to know?
—Of course, sir… this has not been spoken of to anyone other than some high commands and a few soldiers.
—Dammit —Lucian clenched his jaw and then pointed at Klein—. Arrest him. We cannot allow any more information to leak.
Two nearby soldiers stepped forward immediately. They grabbed Klein by the arms and began to lead him away, while he struggled uselessly, screaming the same word over and over, spitting it with hatred toward Zein.
—Demon! Demon!
The castle did not offer a better scene.
The hallways were saturated with voices, hurried steps, and cross-orders. Messengers entered and left, guards ran up the stairs, and the air seemed heavier than normal. Lucian made his way without hesitation and disappeared behind the doors of a room where important figures were gathering.
Zein tried to follow him, but a firm hand closed over his arm.
—We cannot be in there. Let the adults handle it —Kiomi said, leading him away without giving him a choice.
She led him through a side corridor to an interior garden. The noise of the castle was muffled there. Well-kept bushes, stone paths, and a silent fountain gave the impression of a place frozen in time, oblivious to the urgency reigning outside.
—I used to live in this castle before moving in with my mom —Kiomi said, sitting down at one of the stone tables.
—Wow… so you were a spoiled girl, huh? —Zein joked—. But… aren't you worried?
—Of course I am. But it's better not to torment yourself over things we have no power over.
A butler appeared shortly after, approaching with calm steps. He carefully placed three cups and a teapot on the table.
—I am glad to see you back, miss —he said while pouring the tea.
—Thank you very much. I missed you too.
—Who is he? —Zein asked.
—Zein, meet Ivan, a butler whose family has served the rulers of Ilmenor for generations —Kiomi said, taking her cup and pointing at him.
—Pleasure to meet you —Zein responded, bowing his head slightly as he did the same.
Suddenly, something rammed into him with force from the side, making him stagger.
—Zein!
Lyra had thrown herself at him, clinging on with both arms without letting go.
—Lyra! What are you doing here? —Zein asked, surprised.
—I came with Kio —she responded, sitting in another chair naturally, swinging her legs.
—So they called her too, huh? —Zein murmured, shifting his gaze toward the wing of the castle where the meeting room was located.
Inside the room, the initial disorder was beginning to take shape.
—What is the current situation? —Lucian asked, resting both hands on the map spread out on the table.
—Defense number five has fallen. We lost approximately three thousand five hundred soldiers. The troops are regrouping at defense number four, but the Empire's advance is constant and fast.
The pieces on the map moved without pause, marking retreats and lines of containment.
In the middle of the discussion, Kio entered the room.
Meliora was the first to see her and received her with a brief but sincere embrace.
—I am glad you are here.
—How bad is everything? —Kio asked.
—Very bad, as you must already know. Tell me… how likely is it that you will help us with this? —Meliora asked, letting a sliver of hope escape.
—Impossible. You already know HE would not allow me to.
—Right…
The conversation continued, dry and direct, until the door opened once more.
—Excuse the intrusion! There is a messenger on behalf of the Empire of the Black Sun.
The murmuring ceased instantly.
The messenger entered without haste, moving as if the room belonged to him. He did not bow his head or seek any approval. He unfolded a paper and cleared his throat.
—Ahem… By decree of the Empire of the Black Sun, the following order is established. The Duchy of Ilmenor has breached the Imperial Oath by deliberately hiding the existence of an entity classified as a demonic threat. Despite formal warnings, it has refused to hand over said entity, known as Zein Ravenscroft, putting the stability of the Empire and the world at risk. Given this refusal, the Empire cannot remain inactive. From this moment on, Ilmenor is under imperial intervention. All resistance will be considered treason. All obstruction will be treated as complicity. Hand him over… and this city will be preserved. Defy this order… and you will face the consequences.
As soon as the reading finished, the room exploded.
—What does it matter?! Hand over the boy! —someone shouted from the back.
—They are using us as an excuse! —others responded—. They have always hated the elves! This is a disguised invasion!
The voices overlapped, the air became heavy, and hands struck the table without any order.
The messenger took a step forward and addressed the duchess directly.
—For your information, the imperial troops are under the command of the descendant of the Astorios. Alain Astorio. I imagine the last name sounds familiar to you.
Meliora stood motionless. Her fingers tightened around the back of the chair.
—Even the heir of the ancient royal family has come for us… —one of the generals murmured, not hiding the tremor in his voice.
—My lady, we must be pragmatic —another intervened—. Sacrificing one to save thousands should not even be a question.
Meliora pressed her lips together before turning toward Kio.
—What would you do… if we decided to hand him over?
—You are my friend —Kio responded bluntly—, but my mission is to protect the boy and his sister. And I will not allow you to hand him over. Under any circumstances.
There was no immediate reply.
In the middle of the commotion, the messenger turned around and left the room as if none of it concerned him.
He crossed the front of the palace, passing by the garden where Zein and the others were.
Zein saw him out of the corner of his eye. Something about his gait felt strange to him.
Then it happened.
The messenger's head snapped toward him in an unnatural movement. His eyes glowed an unnatural white, and a smile that was far too wide formed on his face.
Zein rubbed his eyes hard.
When he looked again, the messenger was still walking, indifferent, as if he had never noticed him.
But the cold that ran down his spine did not disappear.
Back in the room, order had broken down completely.
Some generals tried to leave, murmuring names, homes, promises they might not live to keep. Others remained seated, their gaze lost, as if defeat had already called roll. There were those who argued at the top of their lungs, clashing visions like dull swords.
Meliora raised her voice.
It wasn't a scream. It was firm. And it was enough.
—Forgive me… —she said—. I don't know how to read maps or calculate how much gunpowder a man can carry. I never imagined being here. Especially not today.
She wiped her hands on her skirt and stepped down from the dais. The sound of her footsteps was soft, but each one seemed to set the rhythm of the room.
—I hear you say it is impossible. That they are too many. But they don't know our cold… or the wind when it comes down from the mountain and gets into your bones. They come because of orders, for a duchy that is just a word on a parchment. We are here because we have nowhere to flee. This is our home.
She stopped.
—My father used to say that winter doesn't punish the earth… it prepares it. Perhaps this is that. Preparation. I don't know how we are going to win. But I know that if you, the brave ones, surrender now… what is left for the rest of us?
Silence began to gain ground.
—We don't need to be more than them. Only to endure more. I will stay here. With you. If Ilmenor is to fall… let it find us taking care of what we love. Not fighting among ourselves.
The arguments died down little by little. Some gazes lowered. Others hardened, different, but determined.
It was their home. There was no other place to return to.
After that meeting, still heavy with tension, Ilmenor drew up a plan. Containment lines would be established at the fourth and third walls, delaying the imperial advance as much as possible.
And, aware of what the enemy would do to the nearby villages, they made an unthinkable decision.
The gates of Ilmenor would open.
For everyone.
The signal was sent at dawn.
Those still living outside Ilmenor abandoned their homes with only what they were wearing. They took their loved ones, set fire to barns, stables, and workshops, and set out through the snow. Columns of smoke rose in the distance, black against the white sky, leaving behind empty and silent villages.
Nothing was to be left for the enemy.
Over the following days, with winter falling relentlessly, Ilmenor became a hive of movement. Wagons stuck in the snow, families squeezed into the streets, soldiers marking routes, names noted in haste. Never had so many people crossed its gates.
Inside the city, routine vanished.
The classrooms were left empty. The courtyards filled with crates, bandages, lists, and shifts. Students helped wherever they were needed: carrying provisions, reinforcing positions, moving the wounded. Some sharpened weapons in silence; others practiced formations with trembling hands.
Meliora did not stay behind.
She could be seen among the people, listening, organizing, correcting routes, with the cold biting into her fingers just like everyone else. There was no throne. Only narrow streets and constant decisions.
And then, the day arrived.
After days of siege, the Empire managed to breach the first wall. A dry explosion, followed by smoke and falling stone, opened a narrow gap. Too small for a rapid advance, but enough to announce the inevitable.
Imperial troops began to concentrate, slowly, forced to pass through that bottleneck while the snow bit at their boots.
A new messenger arrived.
Two days.
Two days to surrender or face a merciless invasion.
No one was fooled. Those two days were to bring more troops closer, to prepare the final blow. And they did not intend to give that time away.
Skirmishes began before dawn on the first day. In the nearby forest, shadows among the trees, brief clashes, quick retreats, bodies that did not always return.
The second day passed the same way.
And on the third, the Empire advanced.
From Ilmenor, the academy mountain rose like a watchful eye. From there, signals were sent, precise shots fired, movements coordinated. Among the sharpshooters, Kiomi stood out, firm, precise, with snow clinging to her hair and her hands tense on the string.
War had reached the gates of Ilmenor.
From the walls, soldiers fired through the stone and iron grates, peeking out just enough before taking cover again. The smoke from the muskets hung trapped in the cold air, thick, sticking to throats and clothes. After the first wave, the field in front of Ilmenor disappeared under a gray fog that made it impossible to distinguish even silhouettes.
Support mages acted immediately, pushing back the smoke with air currents, opening momentary gaps so the shooters could fire again. Below, those trying to scale the steep slope of the academy barely advanced a few meters before being repelled; the incline, the snow, and the crossfire forced them to retreat or fall.
They resisted like this for two days.
By the night of the second, exhaustion could no longer be hidden. Soldiers remained leaning against the stone, with red eyes and stiff hands. The smell of gunpowder mixed with that of the damp furs wrapped around the rifles to protect them from the cold—a sour scent that got into the nose and wouldn't leave. Outside, every isolated shot made more than one man shudder.
Sleep was not an option.
Near the gate, the wounded were treated in a rush. Moans and screams filtered through the hallways, and for many, they were harder to bear than the sound of combat.
That night, Lucian took Zein away from the walls.
They walked to a small beach by the commercial port, where the sea hit softly, dark and constant. The sand was hard from the cold, and the wind carried salt and moisture. In the distance, Ilmenor remained lit by torches and bonfires, like an open wound on the mountain.
They walked for a while without speaking.
Lucian was the first to break the silence.
—The ancient imperial family came to reclaim what they consider theirs… the throne —he said, his eyes fixed on the sky.
Zein opened his mouth to respond, but Lucian stopped suddenly and turned toward him.
He extended his palm.
For an instant, the air above his skin trembled, as if the world hesitated. First, a splinter of shadow appeared—an uncomfortable flicker that made the eyes ache.
Then, that stain began to grow, drinking from its surroundings; the nearby light curved toward it, stretching like threads that unraveled before touching the center.
The cold seemed to intensify.
The void stabilized in his hand: a small sphere, the size of a billiard ball, black in an unnatural way. It reflected nothing. It did not shine. It was simply there, swallowing every attempt to look at it directly.
—You know? —Lucian said without looking away from the sky—. Humanity has always looked upward. So far that it has learned the names of places it will never reach. Entire kingdoms are spent chasing that dream… touching the stars.
The wind moved the clouds slowly.
—That is why many spells are born from there —he continued—. From what falls from the sky, from what we do not understand. It is the closest we have ever been to reaching those heights.
Zein listened to him in silence.
Lucian lowered his gaze toward the black sphere that briefly formed again in his hand, stable, silent.
—This spell —he said— was developed by Araphor, Kio, and me. Not because we wanted to destroy… but because some things can only be understood if you know they could disappear.
The sphere dissipated.
Lucian rested his hand on Zein's shoulder.
—I hope that one day you will continue this research with me.
Zein's eyes brightened.
—Of course! —he responded without hesitation—. It's a promise.
Lucian smiled barely.
—Never run away from what belongs to you —he said as he stood up—. Facing it is the only thing that truly makes you grow.
The dry sound of muskets broke the moment.
They returned to Ilmenor immediately.
The combat continued for the rest of the night, slow and exhausting, until dawn silenced the shots. Inside the wall, no one stayed still: some carried ammunition, others tended to the wounded, others simply held torches with trembling hands. Lucian passed among them, stopping for a few seconds with each member of the group, murmuring words that Zein could not catch.
When he finished with Kiomi, he approached him.
—Zein —he said seriously—. Do you remember what I told you about responsibility?
—Yes, Lucian… why…? —Zein managed to say, confused by the tone.
The air grew tense.
Before he could react, ethereal roots sprouted from the ground and surrounded his arms and legs, tightening just enough to immobilize him. Zein struggled, his heart hammering in his chest.
—This is my responsibility —Lucian said without raising his voice—. My duty to these people.
—Hey… w-what are you doing? —Zein asked, his breathing quickening.
Lucian raised his hand.
The black light that Zein had seen the night before broke into particles, docile, almost warm, and gathered in front of the boy's chest. It did not burn. It did not hurt. It sank into him as if it had always been there.
Zein caught his breath.
—Now you have all the knowledge of the spell… —Lucian paused briefly, as if choosing each word with care—. When I return, we will research it together. For now… keep it for me.
—Wait! Don't go! At least let me fight with you! —his voice cracked at the end.
Lucian took a step forward and, with a precise movement, struck the back of his neck. Zein's world went dark before he hit the ground.
Lucian turned.
—Forgive me, Kio —he said in a low voice as he put an arm around her—. This… this part is for me to do.
He let her go and approached Meliora. There were no speeches. Just a long, firm hug, and a few words that were lost in the cold wind.
Kio said nothing. She watched him walk away, her fists clenched, feeling something slipping away from her without being able to stop it.
Lucian crossed the main gate of Ilmenor.
His full armor reflected the dawn; the shield hung firmly from his arm, the sword rested at his side. A red cloth fell from his right shoulder, waving gently with every step.
He advanced alone.
—Listen! —his voice echoed through the ranks—. I, Lucian Bellamy, formally request a duel against your general, Alain Astorio!
The silence stretched out like an open wound.
After a few moments, someone stepped forward from the imperial lines.
He was an elf with common features, his ears cropped short. Black hair, brown eyes, a confident expression. His black armor, crossed by red fabrics, spoke of rank and authority.
He walked calmly, with a smile heavy with pride.
When he stood before Lucian, he stopped.
—I knew the pride of one of the Empire's twelve strongest would keep you from refusing —Lucian said, with a mocking edge that contrasted with the rigidity of his posture.
—You certainly know me —Alain responded, annoyed—. Well then?
—If I win, you leave with your entire army right now and leave Ilmenor in peace. If you win, you claim the throne of Ilmenor… provided the people accept it —Lucian said, planting his feet on the ground, his body leaning slightly forward.
—Seems fair to me —Alain responded without emotion—. He who dies loses this combat.
From the wall, everyone who could still stand watched in silence. Kio, Lyra, and Kiomi did not take their eyes off the field, tense, barely breathing. To one side, Zein remained unconscious, still bound, oblivious to what was about to happen.
The duel did not begin with a shout or a solemn signal.
It began with the dry sound of metal.
Lucian moved first, closing the distance without warning—heavy, direct, as if he wanted to end it all at once. Alain dug his heel into the ground. The earth responded with a harsh crack; blocks of stone rose irregularly, lifting without elegance, forming a twisted passage, narrow, uncomfortable even to breathe in.
Lucian did not look for an exit. He lowered his shoulder and pushed. The shield crashed into the stone, tearing off fragments that scraped his armor. He moved forward by force, clashing, slipping, leaving deep marks on every wall as he passed. There was no grace in his movements, only persistence.
Alain smiled slightly.
He raised both hands and the air tensed with a harsh sound, like grinding bones. Stone spears formed without perfect order, irregular and crude. They were not beautiful. They were heavy. They shot out at the same time, filling the corridor with no room to maneuver.
Lucian covered himself, letting the impact shake his entire body. The shield vibrated with every hit, the metal deforming bit by bit. One spear grazed his leg, drawing a muffled grunt; another drove into his shoulder, piercing a joint in the armor and tearing flesh. Blood began to drain immediately, hot, soaking the inside of the plate.
He did not stop.
He emerged from the passage staggering, breathing with difficulty, his body leaning forward as if he carried an invisible weight. Alain's eyes widened for just an instant. He hadn't expected him to still be standing.
Lucian reached him without raising his sword.
The blow was short, clumsy, aimed straight at the body. The shield slammed into Alain's chest, knocking the air out of him. The general's staff came up too late and barely managed to deflect the blade seeking his neck.
Lucian leaped.
It was not an elegant or calculated movement; it was an exhausted body throwing itself by pure resolve. The sword descended in a vertical arc, dragging with it the weight of the armor, the accumulated fatigue, and everything he still had left to give. Alain's staff—that symbol of command and power—cracked upon the first contact, the wood splitting as if it had always been destined to fail. Splinters flew into the freezing air.
The steel found no resistance.
The blade crossed Alain's shoulder and chest in a perfect diagonal. The impact made him stagger back one step… two. His hands opened, trembling, trying to cling to something that was no longer there. He fell to his knees and then onto his side over the snow, which began to darken beneath his body. There were no final words, no curses, no promises. Only a stifled gasp that was lost in the wind.
Lucian remained standing for a few seconds, breathing with difficulty. Blood ran down his arm and cooled on the metal. He looked at the body on the ground without any expression, as if he no longer had the strength even to feel relief.
Then he turned around.
He sheathed his sword with almost reverent care, as if that gesture restored some order to the world. The snow began to fall harder, slowly covering the tracks of the combat.
—It seems that title was much too big for you… you weren't all that —he murmured, walking away step by step.
He heard nothing.
He did not see how, behind him, Alain's body moved.
The attack was clumsy, desperate, but enough. A blade sank into Lucian's back, between poorly closed plates. The air escaped his lungs in a single blow. He tried to turn, to raise his shield, to do something… but it was too late.
The second cut was clean.
The world tilted sharply and then split in two. Lucian's head rolled over the snow, leaving behind a dark trail that contrasted with the white. His body fell an instant later, heavy, useless.
At that very moment, Zein opened his eyes.
He didn't understand where he was. The cold, the distant screams, the weight in his chest… and then the vision in front of him. His breath hitched before it could turn into a scream.
"Forgive me, boy… I wish I had never met you. Maybe then it wouldn't hurt so much," was the last thought that crossed Lucian's mind, trapped forever in that instant.
Alain pushed himself up with difficulty. The wound that should have killed him glowed faintly, closing bit by bit, as if it had never been real. With hands stained with blood, he lifted Lucian's head by the hair.
The expression had stayed fixed on his face: surprise, pain… and something else, something resembling sadness.
The general held it up for everyone to see.
From the walls, the silence lasted barely a heartbeat… before breaking.
The victory shouts of the Empire's army rose like a dark tide. Mixed with them were other sounds: broken voices, stifled wails, names spoken without a response. Kio felt her legs fail her. Kiomi put her hand to her mouth, unable to make a sound. Lyra didn't fully understand, but the knot in her chest told her that something irremediable had just occurred.
The snow continued to fall.
It settled upon Lucian's headless body.
It slowly stained red.
And in Ilmenor, while the dawn advanced mercilessly, no one knew what would be worse: the defeat that was looming…
or living in a world where Lucian Bellamy was no longer there.