Night did not come as the end of a day—
it came as the burial of a world.
The sky cracked open like shattered obsidian, spilling a deep red glow that churned like boiling blood. Through its fractures, inhuman faces shifted and dissolved, as though the heavens had become a mirror for creeping death. The earth fared no better: the soil dried, split, and exhaled a gray mist that reeked of iron and charred flesh. The wind carried the cries of children, the whimpers of women, and the growls of formless beasts.
In the center of that dying world stood two figures—
a speck of light and the heart of darkness.
Aurelia, the last witch, stood like a lone candle in a roaring storm. Her cloak was torn, her magic reduced to scraps, her breaths ragged. Blood trailed down her temple, mixing with the blackened ground that seemed eager to swallow its color. Even though every inhale felt like drawing death into her lungs, she remained standing—because if she fell, the world fell with her.
Before her hovered Morvath, the king of shadows. His body was wrapped in swirling black fog where tiny, distorted faces writhed; charred hands appeared and vanished within the haze. His eyes reflected nothing—
they devoured whatever dared to look into them.
His voice rose from cracks in the earth and the folds of darkness, sounding like a thousand souls singing the hymn of extinction.
"Look at yourself, Aurelia Crimsonheart," he whispered.
"A dying candle trying to defy the void."
Aurelia lifted her cracked staff. "As long as I stand, you do not win."
Morvath smiled, and the shadows behind him sharpened into dark blades—hundreds of them, slithering like starving serpents. They lunged from every direction. Aurelia summoned a shield of light, fractured like golden glass; the collision thundered like two stars collapsing into each other. The force threw her to the ground, but she rose again, trembling painfully.
She retaliated with a scythe of light that sliced through Morvath's fog; the shrieks of smaller creatures echoed as they dissolved. The fog parted…
but Morvath did not move an inch.
"You kill many only to scratch me," he said.
"But I still scratched you," Aurelia answered.
Morvath's gaze narrowed. The shadows on the ground twisted into an ancient sigil—
a summoning circle.
Black hands clawed upward, followed by eyeless heads calling Aurelia's name in voices born from nightmares. They surged. Aurelia burned dozens, but a hundred more followed.
Morvath drifted past the creatures calmly, like a king approaching his final throne.
"Aurelia," he murmured. "Fall."
Shadows gripped Aurelia's legs, pinning her frail body. Blood dripped from her lips, yet she stared at Morvath—not with fear, but with exhaustion and unyielding resolve.
"If the world must die with me…" she whispered, "…then I refuse to die even one second early."
Red-gold light burst from her body, ripping the shadows away. She rose once more, though her form looked like a hollow shell held together by sheer will.
Morvath watched her—
not with anger, but with curiosity.
"What do you cling to so desperately?"
Aurelia raised her staff.
"For a world that can no longer stand for itself."
---
Aurelia felt her joints strain like frayed rope ready to snap. Her breath came harsh, but her eyes remained fixed on the gaping abyss before her—the ancient wound where darkness breathed. Everything rotten, hungry, and forsaken gathered there, waiting for the world to surrender.
She knew her moment had come.
With trembling hands, she drove her staff into the cracked ground. The crystal whined, and ancient runes ignited like letters of fire roused from centuries of slumber. Light seeped into the earth—not like a beam, but like blood rejoining the veins of the world.
Morvath watched the ritual, his fog tightening like a beast sensing danger. Something flickered in his eyes—not only rage, but fear of a power beyond his dominion.
"So this is how you erase yourself?" he whispered bitterly.
"Sacrifice is an illusion created by those desperate to be remembered."
Aurelia did not answer. She breathed with the rhythm of old magic—three beats, seven pulls, then words that had vanished from human scripture. Her chant opened doors of light and forced the shadows back.
From the abyss, dark creatures thrashed. Shapeless hands reached for her, calling her name in fractured cries that cracked the sky even wider. Aurelia felt a pull—not only on her body, but on her memories: the children she saved, the laughter gone too soon, the promises left unfinished.
A voice from the earth whispered, "Give. Give what you are."
Aurelia lifted her glowing face.
"I am giving everything."
The ritual peaked. Pillars of light surged skyward, crashing into the abyss like roots of radiance pushing darkness back into its origin. Morvath tried to smother it, unleashing a tide of venomous shadow. But Aurelia poured her soul into the strands of light, weaving a binding between the world and her final tranquility.
She screamed—not from pain alone, but because every memory was turning into fuel. The light shredded the fog, and Morvath roared, his shadows splintering wildly. The creatures trapped within him writhed as if dragged home against their will.
"You will disappear!" Morvath cried, desperate.
"You will be erased from existence!"
Aurelia smiled faintly.
"If I disappear… let the world breathe again."
She pressed the staff's core into the sigil. The crystal shattered, and the light shrieked skyward, turning into soft rain that blanketed the land. The abyss shrank. Shadows retreated—not destroyed, but returned to where they belonged.
Aurelia's body began to fade.
Not dramatic.
Not violent.
She vanished like a candle snuffed by a gentle breeze.
Her hair settled softly.
Her face was peaceful.
But before the final light dissolved, Aurelia whispered:
"I will be born again… someday."
Her radiance scattered as dust across the earth, healing it. Cracks closed. For the first time in ages, the world exhaled.
Morvath stood motionless, robbed of something far greater than victory. A small fracture appeared within his shadows—one that resembled grief.
Across the land, surviving children gazed at the slowly mending sky. They did not know what had been lost, but they felt a small warmth in their chests—an unspoken promise.
Hope, fragile yet alive, was reborn that night.
---
Dawn had not yet risen when the night wind slithered through the cracks of Castle Salverin's stone walls. The air was as cold as a blade of ice, and the outside world seemed to hold its breath. No birds, no wolves, no whispering forest—
as though nature feared what was about to be born.
In a damp, forgotten chamber below the castle, a single candle struggled to stay lit. Its flame trembled nervously, casting restless shadows along the walls.
On a thin mattress, a young woman writhed in agony.
Marena.
Her face was pale, hair soaked with sweat. Every contraction bent her body as if it would break her. The old midwife beside her whispered words of comfort, though terror flickered in her own eyes.
"Hold on… just a little more."
But the night was too silent, too heavy, too wrong.
Marena bit her lip until it bled to keep herself from screaming.
"If they hear… they will come…"
And with one final, wrenching push—
the child was born.
Its cry was unlike that of any human infant.
Clear. Pure.
Like crystal ringing through frozen air.
The candle froze.
The shadows stopped moving.
The world held still.
The midwife lifted the newborn… and went rigid with shock.
The baby already had hair—soft, delicate, and colored a pale rose.
A color no human child should possess.
A color found only in legends.
"…the Curse of Duskbirth…" she whispered, barely breathing.
Marena sobbed softly. "She… she is not a curse…"
CRACK!
The door burst open.
Duke Halstein Salverin stepped inside—the father of the child, though unspoken. His cold eyes settled on the infant, and for a moment… a single fleeting moment… a tremor crossed his expression. He recognized the color.
"Whose child is this?" he asked, his voice sharp as steel.
With her fading strength, Marena whispered, "She… is yours…"
Silence pressed down on the room.
Halstein closed his eyes briefly. Then he spoke—without mercy:
"This child will never enter the main hall.
Never bear the Salverin name.
But because she was born on my land… I will not kill her."
He approached.
He looked into the baby's ruby-soft eyes—eyes far too calm for a newborn.
"Her name… is Liora.
Because the light dimmed the moment she arrived."
The candle bowed, as if disliking the name.
The duke turned.
"Dispose of the mother before sunrise."
Marena was dragged away, her hands grasping at empty air.
"My child… Liora…"
The door shut.
Her voice never returned.
The midwife carried the baby to a cold, barren room—a space for a child the world did not want. She laid her down carefully, though her hands shook.
"What kind of infant… are you?"
Liora opened her eyes.
They were not empty—they were deep, ancient, and quiet.
As though another soul breathed within her tiny body.
A soul that once saved the world.
A soul that once defied darkness.
A soul once named Aurelia Crimsonheart.
Outside, the night wind passed by gently, carrying a faint whisper:
"…I will be born again…"
Liora did not hear it.
Not yet.
---