Sylas lay in a field of flowers.
The petals curled like stars. The wind hummed soft as silk. And somewhere, faintly, a lullaby threaded the air—
—the kind that felt older than memory. The kind that made his chest ache.
It was the fairytale of Esmareth, the hero who was forgotten.
He opened his eyes.
His head rested on the lap of a woman.
She was someone he didn't recognize. But something in her gaze made the world slow. She looked at him like she had always known him.
She leaned down and kissed his forehead. Her lips were warm. Like morning sun.
"Remember, dear," she whispered.
And just like that, everything returned—
—Escelius. Kael. Mercy.
Their names echoed through him like shards of light. Faces blurry, just out of reach, slipping like dreams at dawn.
He blinked again.
He was sitting up now. A massive green field stretched around him, endless, almost too vibrant. He turned—
—but the girl was gone.
Then came the haze. A fog rolled in like breath on a mirror. Cold and thick. It swallowed the horizon. It swallowed everything.
From it, a hand emerged.
Without thinking, Sylas reached out.
The grip was gentle. It tugged, not with force—but with familiarity.
And through the mist, he followed.
Laughter echoed through the air—children's laughter—not cruel, not mocking. Pure. Untouched.
And the melody played again.
No strings, no flute, no wind. Just…sound. Soft and holy. Like something that had never been played by human hands.
But then—
—nothing.
The hand was gone. The laughter faded. The mist stopped pulling him.
And from the quiet came her.
Mercy.
Younger. Peaceful. Almost glowing in the twilight.
Sylas stared, breath caught. "Mother… you're here. So we're in heaven?"
His voice cracked. A boy again.
Mercy shook her head, gently.
He blinked—
—and the field had changed.
Now, the sun had begun to set. The grass was brushed in hues of amber and dying gold. A wind carried the scent of old earth, like autumn refusing to end.
Mercy sat beside him. She looked tired—but not broken. Not like before.
"Sylas," she said softly. "No matter what happens. You are my child."
Tears welled. His lips trembled.
"Will I ever see you again?"
His voice was quieter now.
"Will someone ever love me like you did?"
Mercy smiled and ran her fingers through his hair. Her touch was everything he remembered—warmth, safety, the promise of sleep.
"You will be loved," she said. "I didn't even love you enough. One day, you'll love someone... and forget me."
He tried to laugh. It came out a sob.
"Then… when that day comes—can you name me?"
His voice was shaking. "Please."
She pulled him close. Her embrace felt real. Too real.
"Sylas," she whispered. "Please... forget me."
His breath caught.
He pulled away, staring into her eyes. They held no pain now. No fear. Only peace.
"I can't," he said. "Don't ask me that."
She smiled again. Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with something deeper. Something like grace.
"Forgive me, dear," she said.
And just like that—she shattered.
Not into glass, but into wings.
Hundreds—no, thousands—of butterflies erupted from where she had sat. Wings of gold, ivory, and light. They flew, spiraling into the amber sky, vanishing beyond the sunset.
Sylas sat alone.
He looked up, unsure of what he had become… or what he was becoming.
The sky darkened.
The sun dipped. Clouds churned.
The rain began as a whisper.
Then a rhythm.
Then a storm.
It wasn't rain—it was grief.
Each drop a memory. Each drop a name.
His body twisted. Hair lengthening, turning pale, then streaked with black. His arms trembled, flesh warping like wax near flame. Wounds reopened. Then vanished. Then reappeared in new places.
His left eye burned red. Then green. Then neither.
It flickered like a dying ember trying to decide if it would be fire again.
Scars danced along his body. Then disappeared. Then returned.
He was being rewritten. By something cruel and divine.
The melody played again—but now it felt hollow. Strained. As if heaven itself was breaking.
Sylas lifted his hand to the sky.
"One day," he whispered. "I'll reach the heavens. I'll find you, Mercy."
He paused. His voice cracked like dry bone.
"No… Mother."
He blinked.
And he was somewhere else.
---
Stone walls. Cold as death.
A ceiling too low. A door bolted with iron. The world reeked of rot, rust, and silence.
This wasn't a dream.
This was a cell.
Outside, beneath a flickering torch, he saw them—
—his daggers.
One broken.
The other cracked, scarred, but intact.
Silent as corpses.
A voice came from the dark hallway.
"You're finally awake."