("The wind blew with the echo of past events, but the red moon had not yet revealed its last secret...")
✦Thread of Fate.
The wind whispered through the curtains of the dark room, brushing against strands of Aisha's hair as she slept. Her face, though serene, held the shadow of secrets that haunted her. But that calm was only an illusion.
A sudden chill swept through the room, sinking into her bones. Her sleep deepened, pulling her into a place beyond the human.
The landscape unfolded in a flash. A desolate horizon stretched before her, where the stars were nothing but distant sparks and the air smelled of ash. The silence was thick, oppressive, as if the world itself had stopped.
In the distance, a figure walked slowly.
Varek.
He moved with calculated steps, holding the hand of a small girl. For a moment, a fleeting tenderness flickered in his eyes… until he let go of her hand. His face hardened.
"Always looking for answers, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice laced with a disdainful irony. "You should learn to tell good from evil."
Aisha tried to speak, but her voice didn't exist. Her feet were anchored to the ground, and a storm of emotion churned in her chest. Varek's presence filled her with something strange—a haunting blend of nostalgia and danger.
The air vibrated.
A distant thunder cracked through the void—an echo of ancient power. Luciano appeared behind Varek. His very presence extinguished the last traces of light. And when he spoke, his voice sounded like judgment:
"Don't confuse her, Varek. She's not ready to understand."
The world shattered.
Now she stood in a clearing bathed in full moonlight.
Sanathiel was there. His still figure radiated an infinite sadness. His shoulders bore the weight of centuries. He held the lunar medallion between his fingers, as if clinging to the last piece of himself.
"Always chasing what you can't have," Aisha thought, a knot tightening in her chest. Guilt. Desire. Confusion.
A cold whisper brushed the back of her neck.
"I hate you, Aisha."
The air froze. She turned—and there was Sariel.
His silhouette was a living shadow, and his eyes, hollow, pierced through her like blades.
"Everything you touch turns to dust," he whispered. "Rasen… me… we've both been consumed by you."
The shadows stirred. Only then did Aisha see it: Sariel moved within the body of Rasen, like a shadow that wasn't his.
From the darkness, Luciano emerged once again. The night seemed to halt with his presence. With a slow gesture, he stepped between Aisha and Sariel.
"Rasen no longer exists," he thundered. "What remains is only a beast trapped in its own hunger."
Aisha tried to pull away, but the ground beneath her feet turned to liquid, as if reality itself were melting.
Voices—dozens, maybe hundreds—began murmuring around her. Male, female, old, young—all repeating the same phrases:
"Don't forget who you are." "Remember the first thread." "Love can be a cage. Or a key."
The voices were echoes of her other lives. Other Aishas. Other endings.
Then one final voice cut through her like a knife:
"It's not your heart that weighs you down, little Nevri. It's your bloodline."
The darkness enveloped her. And then… the world expelled her.
She woke up gasping.
The air was thick, charged. Her chest rose and fell with erratic breaths. The room was silent, but her skin remained cold, beaded with a chill sweat.
She forced herself to move. Each step felt foreign, as if she were still walking between worlds. She crossed the room to the balcony, where the night breeze bit into her skin like a warning.
She looked at the blue rose between her fingers. Its touch no longer felt warm.
She hesitated. Then simply let it go.
She watched it float through the air and land softly on the ground—like a broken promise.
"If I have to take control of everything… I will," she whispered.
There was no fear in her voice. Only resolve.
Sanathiel. Varek. Sariel.
They were more than names. They were an ancient echo pulsing through her blood.
An inevitable truth.
The moonlight bathed her skin, and with it, her promise scattered into the wind.
Aisha was no longer a spectator of fate.
Now, she had to shape it… or be consumed by it.