The door burst open with a deafening crack, and the cold night air swept into the room, washing over Rowenne's face. She froze, her breath caught in her chest. No one appeared—only silence and the echo of her pounding heart.
Then she saw it—shadows stretching across the floor, cast by the silver light of the moon. They moved closer, slow and deliberate. For a fleeting moment after she had jolted awake, she had forgotten why they'd fled to the hut. But as the silhouettes crept nearer, the memories came crashing back—the chase, the screams, the forest. The hand that had clutched her shoulder. The voices. The terror.
She tried to piece it together—what had happened before, what came after—but the thoughts tangled in her mind like knotted threads.
And then, the figure stepped into view.
He filled the doorway—tall, broad, and unnervingly calm. His face was half-buried in shadow, his body bare save for a twisted wrap of animal hide. The leather sandals wound up his legs like serpents, and the stench of death—of old blood and rotting flesh—rolled into the room with him.
He smiled.
It was a crooked, predatory smile—the kind that could drain warmth from a man's soul. The beard that veiled his mouth only made it more grotesque.
But this time, Rowenne did not cower. Her eyes met his, hard and unflinching. She had faced horrors far darker than a bandit in flesh and blood—and though she had not escaped them alive, she had not died alone.
The man stepped forward, spinning the spiked flail in his grip like a cruel toy. He barely crossed the threshold before his smile faltered. His body went rigid—and then collapsed face-first to the floor with a heavy thud.
Rowenne gasped, startled, staring at the body sprawled before her.
A shadow filled the doorway once more.
This time, it was a familiar face.
"Draven."
"Are you okay?" Draven asked.
She only nodded, still lost for words. The day had been overwhelmingly eventful for her.
"I think we should get moving immediately," he said, urgency threading through his tone.
"Yes, but unfortunately, Alaric and Edmund are still unconscious. We either have to wait a bit... or carry them ourselves."
"You sure about that?" Draven asked, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond Rowenne.
"What do you mean?" she began—but he didn't answer. Instead, a faint smile crept across his face as he lifted a hand to wave.
"Hi, lads."
Rowenne turned sharply—and froze.
There they were: Alaric and Edmund, both sitting up, smiling weakly and waving back at Draven.
Her eyes welled up instantly, excitement and grief colliding in her chest as tears blurred her vision. To her, it felt like reuniting with her sons after a storm—well, in truth, that was exactly what it was.
She lunged forward, gathering the boys into her arms, clutching them tightly as she let out a shaky sigh of relief. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks. Alaric and Edmund wrapped their arms around her in return, their own tears falling.
The dangers of the night, the fear of loss, the weight of everything—they melted away in that single, long embrace.
Draven stood quietly at the door, watching.
It was a wholesome moment, and even he could feel the warmth of it.
Yet beneath the tenderness, he sensed something… wrong.
Something had changed.
He couldn't tell what exactly, but he knew—whatever had happened out there—it was pivotal.
He didn't know Rowenne well, but he knew her well enough to recognize one thing: she wasn't a woman easily shaken.
And yet, in that moment, he sensed fear.
Not the kind born from bandits or danger, but something deeper… familiar, though he couldn't place why.
And it was growing—rapidly—the longer they stayed locked in that embrace.
"I don't know what may have happened," Draven finally said, his tone low but firm. "But we really need to go, my lady."
"Yes... yes, you're right," Rowenne said softly, disentangling herself and wiping her tears away.
"And the bandits?" she asked.
"All taken care of," Draven replied, gesturing to the motionless body at their feet.
She nodded and helped Alaric and Edmund to their feet. Together, they moved swiftly toward the exit, stepping over the large body that lay sprawled on the floor.
But just before Rowenne crossed the threshold of the hut, a thought struck her—cold and sudden.
Could he be trapped in the forest as well?
She turned back to glance at the bandit one last time before finally stepping out into the night.
Outside, the air was still thick with the scent of iron and smoke.
Rowenne stepped out of the hut—and froze.
The bodies of the bandits lay piled neatly atop one another, their faces twisted in eerie calm. Not a single drop of blood stained the floor. Not even a streak.
"Neat work you've done here," she said with a faint grin.
Draven bowed his head slightly. "Thank you. Is it to your taste, my lady?"
"No. Unfortunately, your design is flawed," Rowenne replied, pointing to one of the bodies.
"That one's hand is out of place."
They both chuckled quietly, the sound oddly out of place amidst the stillness.
"What happened when you entered the hut?" Draven asked at last.
"Why? Did you notice anything strange?"
"No," he said, eyes narrowing. "But something changed—with you and the boys. The kind of change that doesn't just happen. It's the sort that's… influenced by something."
Rowenne smiled faintly. "Your perception is impressive. But it's a long story. One best left for when we reach Myrridral. You're coming with us, right?"
"Yes, my lady. I'll see you safely there—and depart at first light."
"Good. Then you'll hear the details then."
They walked on in silence, watching Alaric and Edmund ahead of them. The boys said nothing, each lost in his own mind. No one could guess what the other was thinking—or what they had seen in that hut—but somehow, Rowenne and Draven both knew it must have been terrible.
"Pardon me, my lady," Draven said suddenly, breaking the silence. "Sometimes my curiosity gets the better of me."
Rowenne sighed. "What is it this time?"
"It's… related to what you said earlier, but a different question," he replied.
"Go on," she said, exhaling in reluctant submission.
"From the time you entered the hut to when I reached you—the interval was too short for anything to have happened. So I believe whatever took place inside wasn't… natural."
"Well, you're not wrong," Rowenne murmured.
Then she stopped walking. The look in her eyes shifted—something had just clicked.
"Say that again," she said quickly.
"Which part? That it wasn't natural?"
"No—before that."
"The timing was too short?"
"Yes. How long did it take you to reach us?"
"I don't know—maybe two or three minutes at most," Draven said, confused.
Rowenne froze. "Three minutes? That can't be right. We were in there for more than three hours. It felt like… eternity."
Draven frowned, realizing the implications.
"I've heard of such phenomena before," he said slowly, "but my knowledge of it is… limited."
"Well, then it's a good thing we're headed to a place where we can find answers," Rowenne replied.
They continued through the grass, their boots crushing leaves and snapping twigs in the quiet. For a while, everything seemed calm again.
Then—Rowenne stopped.
Her instincts screamed.
She turned just in time to see an arrow slicing through the air toward her throat. The world slowed. She saw the arrow's spiral, the moonlight spinning of its tip. In one swift motion, she sidestepped and caught it cleanly in her hand.
The others froze.
She dropped the arrow to the ground and turned to Draven—but the stunned faces around her said it all. They had seen what she had done.
A silence hung heavy in the air.
Even Draven, trained and disciplined as he was, couldn't mask his astonishment. She had done something few knights could ever achieve. She hadn't just sensed the arrow—she had seen it in the dark, under nothing but pale moonlight. And somehow, in a single motion, she had dodged and caught it mid-flight.
"Who are you?" Draven asked, his voice low but edged with awe.
Rowenne only forced a faint smile in response. She lifted a trembling hand and pointed to her left. In the distance stood a lone bandit—his build identical to the one who had fallen in the hut earlier. Her suspicion was confirmed: he, too, was trapped in the forest earlier.
Before Draven could turn to see who she was pointing at, the bandit nocked another arrow and loosed it. The shaft sliced through the air, past Rowenne and Draven—aimed straight at Edmund.
Panic flashed across Rowenne's face. She was too far to reach him. Edmund barely noticed the movement, and even if he had, there was no chance of dodging in time.
Rowenne and Draven froze, horror tightening their chests as the arrow closed in.
Edmund saw it only at the last heartbeat—its sharp head glinting inches from his face. He shut his eyes and braced for the impact. But the pain never came.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. The arrow hung there—suspended in midair, its tip hovering a breath away from his skin. He stumbled back in disbelief, staring at the impossible sight before him.
Then he saw her. Rowenne stood with her arm extended toward him, her two middle fingers curled into her palm while the others pointed straight ahead.
Every gaze turned to her—Draven's, Alaric's, Edmund's—all wide with disbelief. There was no question. She had stopped an arrow.
Anger surged through Rowenne like a storm unleashed. With a flick of her hand, the arrow spun midair and shot back toward the bandit—piercing through his chest with a force greater than any bow.
Draven's voice broke the silence, rough and stunned.
"You're… a mage. A female mage."
"Mother…" Alaric whispered, his voice trembling as he stared at the woman he thought he'd known all his life.
Rowenne turned to him, a half-smile cutting through the tension.
"I told you I was better with a sword," she said. Then she faced Draven.
"Now's not the time. You know what comes next. We need to run."
"Right." Realization dawned across Draven's face.
"Why?" Edmund asked, still shaken, brushing dust off himself.
"You could stay and find out," Rowenne said sharply, "but believe me—you don't want to know."
The warning barely left her lips before the air shifted.
It began as a cold wind—subtle at first, then rising into something unnatural. It carried with it a weight, a darkness that pressed against their chests. Every instinct screamed to run.
They did.
But the chill followed, deepening with each step. The air thickened, and shadows twisted at the edges of their vision. The faster they ran, the closer the darkness came—like something unseen was hunting them.
Then, through the veil of trees, they saw it.
Myrridral.
From shadow they ran, into a light they could not yet understand.
Every second felt like they were gaining, closing in with relentless pace—until they reached the Eclipsera Gate. And just as suddenly as they had appeared, the shadows vanished.
They stopped to catch their breath.
Before them stood the gate itself—a door made of clouds, its edges gleaming faintly brighter than the rest. The corners joined to form a perfect rectangle, a threshold between worlds. From it emanated a pulsing wave of energy so strong they could almost feel the air vibrating against their skin.
"Welcome to Myrridral," said Draven, pointing to the shimmering veil.
"It's just fog," Alaric said skeptically.
"Until you see it from within," Draven replied, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "Some beauty is best admired from afar… and some ugliness, best seen from within."
"Like Eryndral," Alaric murmured, his face falling. "Beautiful from afar."
"Exactly."
"Where's the entrance?" Edmund asked, stepping closer.
Without waiting for an answer, he reached out—and his hand passed cleanly through the mist. A rush of energy surged through his arm, flowing deep into him, engulfing his entire body in a strange, exhilarating warmth. He drew a sharp breath and stepped through completely.
Alaric followed. Then Rowenne. Then Draven.
On the other side, the sight that met them was nothing short of breathtaking.
White buildings stretched endlessly in every direction, pristine and uniform. Their walls were adorned with intricate patterns of blue, green, and gold that shimmered faintly in the strange light. From the Eclipsera Gate, they could see the full expanse of the city—clean, graceful, and regal beyond imagining.
At the heart of it stood a tower of gold, tall and perfectly round, its design both elegant and ancient. Bands of blue, yellow, and green coiled up its surface like living ribbons of light, twisting in perfect harmony. Beside it rose another structure—white, massive, and distinctly royal in bearing. It appeared to have been built and designed by one who possesses knowledge far beyond their time.
There were no torches nor lanterns, yet everything shone with ethereal brilliance. The golden tower and its companion seemed to radiate light of their own, bathing the city in a perpetual glow. The smokey flames along the streets burned with the hue of the moon, casting both light and warmth.
Though the city lay veiled beneath mist, the sky above was clear, an ocean of stars sparkling brighter than they had ever seen. The sight stirred something deep within them—a strange nostalgia, a warmth that felt like memory.
"Like from within," Alaric whispered in awe, "Myrridral is beautiful."
"Exactly," Draven said again, smiling.
They continued forward, wonder written across their faces.
"Feels like home," Rowenne murmured.
The others smiled in quiet agreement.
They passed through the inner gates into the heart of Myrridral, where the people moved with a grace that transcended nobility. Every motion seemed deliberate, refined—an elegance woven into their very being. Even the air carried an aura of serenity.
Though it was late, the streets were alive and warm. But the moment Rowenne, Alaric, and Edmund appeared, the hum of activity ceased.
All eyes turned to them.
At the front stood Zyrelle, flanked by Celine, Seraphine, and Veyra.
As Rowenne stepped into the open, her cloak began to glow—then shifted, unraveling into a flowing white gown embroidered with golden patterns that shimmered in the starlight. Her eyes changed too, deepening into molten gold.
Draven froze, staring in stunned silence. Then, as realization dawned, he moved gracefully to stand beside Celine, behind Zyrelle.
And one by one—every soul in Myrridral, from the highest seer to the humblest villager—fell to their knees.
The golden tower flared brilliantly, and the smokey flames across the city blazed higher, flooding the streets with radiant light.
Alaric and Edmund stood motionless, overwhelmed.
Their mother—no, something far beyond their mother—stood before them, glowing with divine light.
In that instant, they understood: the woman they knew was only a fraction of who she truly was.
And everyone else already knew it.