A frantic whisper cut through the tent's quiet. "General, tell me it's not true."
Hilda stood in the entrance, her frame silhouetted against the dying light outside. She watched, her heart hammering against her ribs, as Ashrahm folded a tunic with soldier's precision and placed it in his campaign chest. Each movement was deliberate, final. The silence that followed was heavier than any verdict.
She rushed forward, her boots whispering against the packed earth, and grabbed his arm. The muscle beneath her grip felt like corded iron. "Look at me," she pleaded, her voice fraying at the edges. "The men are saying... they're saying you're a Champion. Is it true?"
Ashrahm didn't meet her eyes. His gaze drifted upward, tracing the worn canvas of the tent roof as if reading some invisible text. A faint, bloodless smile touched his lips - the expression of a man recalling a bitter joke with no punchline.
"Why would my badge leave my chest if I were not one?" His voice was a low rumble, layered with something deeper, something that vibrated in the air between them. The hollow chuckle that followed dissolved into the vast silence he carried with him.
He resumed his measured pace down the long hallway, his footsteps echoing against stone. Hilda followed, a shadow tethered to him by desperation and disbelief. The rhythmic sound of their footfalls filled the space until the silence became unbearable.
"General, why?" She darted in front of him, blocking the path to the massive gates. "Why must you become what you've always hated?!"
Ashrahm halted. His eyes, ancient and weary, held hers. "Perhaps the one who is leaving is not the one who has changed, Hilda." The words were soft, yet carried the weight of finality. He placed a hand on her shoulder - not to push, but with an immense, sorrowful gentleness that moved her aside as effortlessly as a leaf on water.
As he continued his solitary march, Hilda stood frozen. Her gaze swept over the soldiers lining the hall. Their faces formed a mosaic of shattered loyalty: a young guard's jaw clenched in bitter betrayal; a veteran who had served with Ashrahm for decades watched with profound grief; others stared with cold, unforgiving resentment, as if the man walking away had already become a stranger.
Finally, he halted before the gate.
"When I first came here," Ashrahm said, planting his broken blade into the ground. The metal sang a dull note against the stone. "I had the same thought as you did." He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "To save. But that ideal was what shattered me."
"I climbed, believing I could change this corrupt place. It didn't work." His voice remained steady, but something fractured behind his eyes. "They turned their backs on me, even after I saved their lives, their families, everything they held dear. Everything became worthless."
"When the time came that I had to save my own, I became the selfish monster. The tens of thousands of souls I'd saved were suddenly worthless."
He looked at the floor, then back to her, his gaze clear and terrible.
"It's just like the falling snow that seeks to blanket the mountain," he said, his voice taking on the quality of a long-remembered verse. "It strives for wholeness, for peace. But with each flake that settles, the weight grows. Until the whole mountain is buried, and the snow itself is all that remains."
With a final, resonant pull, he wrenched his broken blade from the stone. He didn't look back as he walked through the gate, his form dissolving into the bleak light beyond.
Hilda stood alone in the echoing silence, the weight of his words and the memory of his retreating back searing themselves into her soul.
A voice, cool and clear as a mountain stream, flowed through the silence of her sleep. "Wake up, Alexa."
It was not a sound that shook the air, but a resonance that formed directly in the sanctum of her mind. Alexa stirred, her eyelids fluttering open not to the familiar shadows of her bedroom, but to a darkness thrumming with latent power. Then, the vision unfolded. The world dissolved, replaced by the moon-washed stones of the Temple of Rhya, its ancient arches rising from the island's heart. A gentle, inexorable force—like the pull of the tide—drew her consciousness forward. She was a wisp, a silent observer gliding over flagstones worn smooth by centuries of devotion.
This was no mere dream. It was a presence. The last, fading echo of the god she knelt to each morning had taken her hand. Awe sealed her lips; for a timeless interval, she could only witness the spectral journey. The question formed not as a thought, but as a tremor in her soul, and it was only when the inner pressure of her wonder became too great that it escaped, a breathless whisper into the sacred silence.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Calm yourself, my dear." The goddess's voice was a whisper of wind through sacred groves. She pressed a pale hand upon the wooden altar, its surface silvered by the ghost-light of the vision. "You must help me… No." Rhya's ethereal eyes met Alexa's, filled with a sorrow as deep as the earth. "Help us."
Alexa's gaze followed to where the deity's fingers rested. There, carved not into the wood but seeming to glow from within, was a symbol. It was no arcane magic circle, but the perfect, intricate shape of a rose—each petal a promise, each thorn a warning.
A shield unveiled itself. Yet it shone not with the vanity of gold, but with the beautiful, glittering luminescence of a thousand captured stars. And from that soft glow emanated a feeling far more valuable than any metal: the essential warmth of a true protector.
No words passed between them. None were needed. The command was etched into her soul through the goddess's unwavering gaze—a silent imperative that carried the weight of eons. Save and protect humanity.
A flash of delirious joy, bright and hot, surged through her. But it was instantly tempered by a colder, dawning clarity. Her mind, pragmatic even in the face of divinity, began to race. Why me? The question was a dam breaking, and a torrent of possibilities flooded in. She saw her own smallness, her sixteen years of mundane life, a stark contrast to the monumental task now laid upon her. The sheer improbability of it all left her stunned, hollowed out.
It was as if Rhya could hear the frantic echo of her thoughts.
"It must be you, Alexa." The goddess's voice was final, like a stone settling into its destined place. "There is no doubt. You are the greatest representative of my grace… of our grace."
A final, terrifying truth unfolded in the silence that followed. Alexa understood.
"You are me."
THUD.
The sound was not of thunder in the sky, but of the earth itself being struck. It was a concussion that jolted Alexa from her slumber, a physical blow that had no source but the very air. In the heart of Ghyl, she was thunderstruck not by fear, but by a terrible, certain knowledge.
She did not escape. While others froze, she sprinted toward the epicenter of the disturbance—toward the memory of the lightning she alone had felt in her soul. The village elders, roused by the same unnatural shock, knew with grim certainty that the ancient altar in the forest's heart had been hit. But fear was a cage; no one dared enter.
Yet Alexa ran. She plunged into the forest's dark embrace, a place of venomous snakes, poisonous insects, and beasts whose strength could shatter bone. Branches whipped at her face, thorns clawed her skin, but she was a force of nature herself, driven by a purpose beyond survival.
And then, a miracle unfolded before her. The dangerous path did not attack, but parted. The venomous creatures stilled. The very air, once thick with menace, grew hushed. A path was shown, not made, leading her forward as if the forest itself recognized the urgency burning within her.
The lightning had not been a scar of destruction, but a vein of creation. Where it had touched, the forest did not smolder; it thrived. Leaves unfurled in emerald canopies that shimmered with captured light, and flowers bloomed in impossible, iridescent hues. It was a pocket of heaven breathed upon the earth, more radiant and alive than ever before.
And there, cradled in the heart of this sanctum where the ancient altar once stood, was the shield from her vision.
It was real.
The shield lay before her, pulsing with a soft, inviting light. It was her destiny, waiting. Every fiber of her being understood that this moment was foretold—that the path from this forest led not home, but to a war for the soul of humanity. Chosen by Rhya. A divine selection that felt less like an honor and more like a sentence.
Her hand rose, trembling, as if pushing through deep water. An inch from the warm, living wood, her nerves rebelled. A final, desperate barrier of fear locked her joints solid.
"I have to leave Ghyl."
The thought was a guillotine's blade, severing the last thread of exhilaration. In its place, a leaden weight bloomed beneath her ribs, cold and immovable. The responsibility for countless lives settled on her shoulders, and the sheer tonnage of it stole her breath.
Suddenly, the sacred grove felt like a trap. The trees leaned in, their branches twisting into grotesque, judging shapes. The vibrant greens of the foliage bled into the sky, smearing the world into a nauseating swirl. A high-pitched ringing screamed in her ears, devouring the forest's hushed reverence, devouring even the sound of her own frantic heartbeat. A wave of heat flushed her face, then receded, leaving a sickening, clammy chill in its wake.
Her legs dissolved beneath her. There was no time to brace, no time to gasp. The contorted world tilted, and a swift, merciful darkness flooded her vision, pulling her under.
The first thing Alexa registered was the familiar itch of her woolen blanket. Sunlight, sharp and ordinary, cut across her eyes.
She sat up slowly, a profound disorientation holding her still. Her mind scrabbled for purchase. The forest. The light. The shield. The memories were vivid, etched into her senses—the scent of ozone and damp earth, the warmth of the wood beneath her fingertips. She could have sworn she was there just hours ago.
So how was she now in her bed?
The question coiled in her stomach as she pushed back the covers. The morning routine began on autopilot: swinging her legs over the side of the cot, padding across the cool dirt floor. But her mind was elsewhere, trapped in the grove. She flexed her right hand, half-expecting to feel the lingering tingle of the shield's energy. It felt more real than this room, than the weight of her own body.
That was no dream. The shield had fallen. She knew it with a certainty that went deeper than memory.
With a steadying breath, she gathered the unruly fall of her hair and tied half of it back, a simple, daily gesture that now felt strangely significant. As she pulled on her worn, comfortable tunic, the question solidified, shifting from what happened? to what now?
The path forward was terrifyingly clear. She had to go back. She had to see if the shield was still there, waiting for her.
And if it was… then the vision in the temple was true. To take it up would be to willingly slip a yoke of impossible responsibility onto her shoulders. It would be an answer to the goddess's plea, a silent vow to become what Rhya had chosen her to be.
A hero. The word felt foreign and heavy in her mind. Was it a fate one was condemned to, or one they chose?
A sigh escaped her, heavy with the weight of the unspeakable. The sound was muffled by a creak from the hallway, followed by purposeful footsteps that halted outside her door.
Alexa hesitated for a beat before pulling it open just enough to peer out. A familiar tuft of brown hair and the rich, coconut scent of Nasi Uduk from the kitchen told her everything. "Maliwan?" she asked, opening the door fully and leaning against the frame. "What are you doing here?"
Her aunt turned, a wooden spoon in hand, her gaze sweeping over Alexa with a mix of concern and exasperation. "Ah, you're finally awake." She nodded toward the pot of steaming rice. "I know things have been... difficult, honey. But wandering out into the forest in the middle of the night?"
So it was real. The confirmation sent a jolt through her. She had been there.
"And what in Rhya's name were you thinking?" Maliwan pressed, her voice sharpening. "What could possibly be so important?"
Alexa had no answer. How could she explain the divine compulsion, the loss of her own will to a force greater than herself? She simply shook her head, a silent admission of confusion, and moved to the counter. Wordlessly, she began helping, her hands shaping the rice and meat with a practiced rhythm that belied the turmoil inside.
After a long silence, Alexa dared a glance at her aunt's profile. "Are you mad at me, Mali?"
"Mad?" Maliwan's voice cracked like a whip, though her hands never stopped moving. "Mad is what I am when you track mud through the house. This? Angry doesn't even begin to cover it. Your name is on every tongue in Ghyl."
"What?"
" 'Alexa this! Alexa that! The girl is Rhya's chosen one!' " Maliwan's impression was laced with a bitter, fearful edge.
Alexa froze, a half-formed ball of rice crumbling in her hand. "What?"
"Someone came pounding on my door at dawn," Maliwan continued, her words coming in a rushed, anxious torrent. "They found you collapsed out there, right beside some... some magical shield. No one could even get near it, the air around it was so thick with power." She finally stopped, setting down her spoon with a definitive clatter and pressing her palms flat on the counter. She took a deep, shuddering breath to steady herself.
"And now, just like that, I am told the niece I swore to protect is to be shipped off to die in some holy war."
The confrontation with Maliwan was interrupted by a sharp rap at the door. Before either could answer, the village elder, Hemlock, stepped inside, his face a mask of grim urgency. Behind him, peering through the doorway with sharp, inquisitive eyes, was a girl with short, messy white hair. Valerie. She was an outsider who'd arrived a season ago, quiet and keeping to herself, her past a mystery that no one had quite pieced together.
"It's true, then," Hemlock said, his gaze landing on Alexa. The warmth he usually held for her was gone, replaced by a fearful awe. "The shield… it responds to you. The magic that repels the rest of us parts for you like water."
"She is not going," Maliwan said, stepping between Alexa and the elder, her voice trembling but firm.
"This is not our decision, Maliwan. It is Rhya's," Hemlock replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. He looked past her to Alexa. "The outer gods' influence grows. Our scouts report blight spreading from the northern forests. Every day we wait, more people suffer. You have been given a tool to stop it. To keep Ghyl safe."
Alexa's heart hammered. She looked from Hemlock's desperate face to Maliwan's tear-filled one. The selfish part of her wanted to slam the door, to hide in her room and pretend none of this was happening. But the image of the blight spreading, of other villages suffering while she stayed safe, solidified in her mind. Her inaction would have a cost, a cost paid by others.
It was in this painful silence that a voice, low and laced with a strange, bitter amusement, cut through the tension.
"How fortunate for you."
All eyes turned to Valerie, who still leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Her gaze was fixed on Alexa, but there was no admiration in it—only a simmering, cynical jealousy.
"To be so chosen," Valerie continued, her words dripping with a venom that felt older than her years. "To have a god hand you a purpose on a silver shield. Must be nice." She pushed off the frame, and for a moment, her white hair seemed to catch the light in an almost unnatural way. A faint, cold energy, like the static before a storm, prickled in the air around her—a fleeting sensation gone as quickly as it came. "Don't keep your adoring public waiting, hero."
With a final, unreadable glance, she turned and disappeared into the street.
Her words were a poison, but they were also a catalyst. They highlighted the privilege Alexa hadn't even wanted, a privilege someone like Valerie clearly coveted. The contrast was stark. One girl burdened by a god's grace, another seemingly abandoned by any.
Alexa took a deep, shuddering breath. She looked at her aunt, whose shoulders were now shaking with silent sobs. The weight was unbearable, but it was hers to carry.
"I have to go, Mali," Alexa whispered, her voice thick with tears. "If I don't, the suffering will come to our door. I have to try."
Without waiting for another argument, she walked past the elder and out of the house. The sound of her aunt's awful, heartbroken crying followed her, a sound she knew would haunt her forever. She didn't look back. If she did, her resolve would crumble.
So she focused only on the path ahead, putting one foot in front of the other. With each step away from Ghyl, the world around her began to change. The ordinary morning light seemed to soften, and the air itself began to hum with the latent energy she had felt in her vision. The forest path, which should have been dark and threatening, now felt like a welcoming guide. It was clearer than before, as if the trees themselves were parting to lead her back to the sanctum.
And there, in the heart of the grove, it waited.
The shield lay cradled by roots, glowing with a soft, patient light. Its material seemed to be living wood, grain swirling with a latent energy, yet it was harder than iron and warm to the touch. This time, there was no hesitation. As Alexa's fingers met its surface, a decision was affirmed. A wave of pure, golden light erupted from the shield, not as a blast, but as a gentle tide. It washed through the trees, and a miracle unfolded: the great beasts of the forest, once a terror, bowed their heads. Not in fear, but in reverence. No words were spoken. None were needed.
With a heart swelling with purpose, Alexa simply raised the shield. It was an act of acceptance, a vow made in the silent language of faith, honoring the god who had chosen her.
In that moment, after ages of silence, the light had been lit again.
"Pft…! Alexa!" he managed to gasp, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. "Why did you add that last line? 'The light had been lit again'? By the Foundry, that's so… earnest! If I were the author of your backstory, I would've died of embarrassment on the spot. It's like something out of a cheap devotional pamphlet!"
A hot flush crept up Alexa's neck. Sharing the story had been a mistake, a moment of vulnerability she now deeply regretted. She crossed her arms, turning away from him to stare at a crack in the courtyard stones. "Whatever, metal man," she sighed, the words laced with more weariness than anger. "I don't know why I decided to talk to someone like you in the first place. I should have known you'd just mock it."
This only seemed to inflate his ego further. Daniel sprang to his feet, puffing out his chest with theatrical pride. The setting sun cast a long, dramatic shadow behind him—a shadow his actual height could never achieve.
"You talk to me," he declared, pointing a thumb at his own chest, "because you are in the presence of the young genius of the Renghod bloodline! The one and only Daniel Renghod! My intellect is a resource, little champion. You'd be wise to appreciate it."
Alexa's eyes flicked down to his boots, then slowly traveled up to meet his gaze, a wicked smirk playing on her lips. She drew out the syllables, sweet and venomous. "Yeah, I could tell. The genius is just bursting out… from that truly impressive height of yours, D-a-n-n-y."
The pride on Daniel's face shattered instantly. A scowl darkened his features. "Ugh. Don't ever call me that," he grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Fuck you."
"Noted," Alexa said, her smirk softening into a genuine, if tired, smile. For all his bluster, he was a welcome distraction from the weight of the memory. And perhaps, just perhaps, his cynicism was a shield not so different from her own.