The loops had begun to blur for Hine. Every death, every rebirth, every scream swallowed into the void melted into a haze of pain and fractured moments. Fire, ice, suffocation, crushing pressure. Over and over. Her body had grown more resilient in each cycle, but her mind trembled on the edge of collapse. And yet, every time she opened her eyes again, one thought anchored her.
I have to find her.
It was that desperate, unshakable promise that kept her from breaking. Even when the world itself screamed for her surrender.
But someone else had begun to take notice of her defiance.
Far beyond the confines of the looped battlefield, in the quiet folds where time itself pooled and twisted, Istaroth stood still. She never moved unless she willed it. Every second bent to her whims, every heartbeat paused or stretched until it snapped back into the flow of reality.
She had been watching Hine since the first loop. At first, the observation had been casual curiosity. Another soul tossed into the merciless hands of Ronova's design, a mortal flame expected to snuff out within the first few tries. But Hine did not break. Even when her bones shattered. Even when the agony hollowed her eyes. She burned forward, undeterred.
Now, Istaroth leaned closer, her presence brushing against the seams of time itself.
"Why?" she whispered, though no one could hear her. "Why do you persist?"
The girl was no warrior, not in the way most heroes were forged. She stumbled often. Her strikes were clumsy, her stance imperfect. But with every loop, her movements grew sharper. Naberius had begun teaching her in the intervals between lives, the ruler's soft voice and patient hands molding her into something less fragile. And Istaroth, ever the observer, took in every detail.
When Hine blocked a strike instead of taking it head-on, Istaroth saw it. When Hine adjusted her grip on the blade Naberius had given her, she marked the change.
When Hine smiled through the blood and pain, whispering her sister's name, Istaroth felt something she had not felt in eons — the faint, tremoring ripple of curiosity turning into fascination.
In the battlefield, another loop began.
The void roared. Darkness shattered into light, and Hine's feet met the scorched earth. Her blade trembled in her hand, but she steadied it, breathing through the pain. Across from her, Ronova's gaze was colder than frozen stone, sharp with venomous intent.
"You are still here," Ronova sneered. "Pathetic little insect."
Hine did not answer. She had learned that words were wasted in this place. Instead, she tightened her grip and focused. The first swing came from the right, the familiar slicing arc of the blade that had cut her down dozens of times. She ducked lower this time, the motion instinctive, the result of countless rehearsals in the cycle of death.
The blade missed her by a fraction.
Ronova's grin tightened, more predator than ruler. "Good. You are learning to prolong your suffering."
Hine ignored the barb, stepping forward, countering with a strike that clanged against Ronova's weapon, the shock of the impact rattling her arms. She staggered but did not fall. Naberius's lessons echoed in her mind — keep your center low, never lock your knees, let the blade move with your body, not against it.
She fought until her strength gave out. And when death came again, sharp and final, she did not scream.
In the folds of time, Istaroth tilted her head, the soft light of her domain spilling over her timeless features. She had seen countless souls pass through the layers of existence. Some begged for mercy. Some cursed the heavens. Some simply faded, erased by despair. But Hine…
"She moves forward," Istaroth murmured. "Even when everything tells her to stop."
Around her, time stilled. The rushing tides of infinite seconds froze mid-motion, a thousand moments suspended like delicate glass beads. It was her nature to control the flow, but rarely did she halt it so completely. Rarely did she care enough to.
From the edge of the timestream, she extended her sight, brushing the edges of Hine's loop. She traced the edges of each death, each rebirth, every flicker of growth. And she began to wonder, for the first time in ages, if perhaps this mortal child carried something far heavier than she let on.
The next loop began with the chill of frost biting Hine's lungs. She gasped against the sudden sting, forcing her legs to move even as the icy wind tore at her exposed skin. This loop was new — Ronova's cruelty had shifted again, crafting an arena of frozen plains where footing betrayed her at every step.
She slipped once. Twice. By the third, she steadied her stance, breath coming in sharp, controlled exhales as she pressed forward. Her blade sang through the frozen air, the strike missing its mark but landing closer than before.
Every small victory mattered now. Every inch gained was a step toward her sister. She clung to that as tightly as she clung to her blade.
"You think you are becoming something," Ronova snarled, voice a razor slicing through the frozen air. "You are still nothing."
Hine's answer came in the form of movement, a sidestep sharper than the last, a parry that almost made Ronova's expression falter. Almost. But when the ruler's counterattack cut through her abdomen, the familiar burn of death flared hot and sharp. She fell again. The void claimed her again.
And again, she woke.
From her vantage point, Istaroth exhaled slowly, her eyes narrowing in thought. The threads of time coiled and uncoiled at her fingertips, whispers of infinite outcomes threading around her.
Every loop added layers to Hine's path. Every death chipped away at something and built something else in its place. Determination had hardened into resolve. Pain had sharpened into clarity. What was once a trembling child now stood taller, even when shaking, even when bleeding.
"She is… stubborn," Istaroth said softly. "Too stubborn."
And yet, she did not pull her gaze away.
It was during one of the quieter intervals — the fragile minutes between Hine's deaths — that Naberius noticed the shift in the flow. The ruler of life, sitting cross-legged in the white expanse of the in-between, looked up, her golden eyes narrowing slightly.
"You are watching her," Naberius murmured into the stillness. She felt the faint hum of time bending ever so slightly, a presence brushing at the edges of their sanctuary.
There was no reply. Istaroth never spoke unless she wished to.
Naberius turned her attention back to Hine, who sat across from her, blood still crusted along her cheek, her small frame trembling but unbowed.
"You are improving," Naberius said gently, offering a waterskin. "But you need to trust your body more. Overthinking will only slow you down."
Hine accepted the water silently, her voice raw from too many screams left in the void. She drank slowly, her eyes distant but focused, as though somewhere beyond this moment she could still see the outline of her sister's face.
"I cannot stop," she whispered at last, the words soft but firm. "Not until I find her."
Naberius studied her, quiet for a long moment, before reaching out and resting a hand on Hine's shoulder. "Then you will keep going," she said simply. "And I will keep helping you."
Above them, time rippled faintly. Istaroth's unseen gaze lingered, tracing the bond forming between mortal and ruler, a connection forged not of desperation but of quiet, unshakable will.
By the fiftieth loop, the pain had dulled into something Hine could compartmentalize. Every strike, every cut, every brutal ending became a lesson rather than just suffering. She had begun to anticipate Ronova's moves, to counter them with strategies Naberius drilled into her during the intervals.
And every time she stood back up, blade in hand, Istaroth's curiosity grew.
Perhaps, the ruler of time thought, this stubborn little flame would burn brighter than any of them expected.
Perhaps… it already was.