Lilieth stabbed herself in the stomach and died.

  When she came back to life, dawn had broken. The sun had risen above the horizon. Her entire body felt right as rain, and she went back to training, swinging until her arms threatened to fall off.

  Deep in the forests, she practiced. She went through the motions, wooden longsword in hand, switching from style to style. With each swing, she could see her opponents in front of her, shifting and switching from person to person, as if she couldn’t decide who she wanted to fight first.

  One moment, she was fighting against Roald Isenholt. An Illusionmage trained in sword fighting, he was adept in the use of feints and tricks. Lilieth switched her style to Diagrama, a Basandran style that erred on the side of caution. She kept her distance, ensuring that she was out of her opponent’s reach. No, Diagrama was meant to be used with rapiers and one-handed swords. It wasn’t a two-handed style. She’d have trouble utilizing it to its fullest potential against him.

  No good.

  She switched to Bulwark, focusing on defense. She widened the space between her feet, planting herself firmly on the ground. None of Roald Isenholt’s attacks would reach her as long as she kept her guard up.

  Next.

  The image changed, and she was fighting against Left Rivers, the Countermage of the party. Not much of a direct fighter, but he was good at avoiding attacks—the fastest in the party. Lilieth shifted her technique to Zero Mind, a sword style that focused on overwhelming speed. Thrust and slash, then withdraw within the blink of an eye.

  Next.

  Rodei Libra—a Martialmage. She wasn’t likely to overpower him. She ended up copying Isenholt’s preferred sword art: Beggar’s Style. A rather ugly sword style, lacking in both grace and beauty, designed to bait the opponent into attacking first by pretending to lower one’s guard. It wouldn’t work on smarter foes, but Rodei Libra wasn’t particularly sharp-minded.

  Next ...

  Next ...

  Next!

  Lilieth’s arms screamed for her to stop, but she ignored it all—every aching muscle, every overworked tendon, everything and anything that told her to rest. Resting would not bring her closer to her goal, and the longer she idled, the further that goal got.

  She knew she wasn’t the only one training to be stronger as well. The heroes were relentlessly hard workers. They, too, would never stop getting stronger. She couldn’t allow the gap between them to widen to an insurmountable degree.

  If she did, the only false hero she’d be able to kill would be herself.

  She fought, and fought, and fought—she fought until the sun at the apex of the sky dipped below the horizon and disappeared, dragging the light with it like a blanket unveiling the gradient sky.

  It burns.

  She swung and parried and sliced and dodged and riposted and evaded and chopped and jumped and slashed and countered and hacked and blocked and cut and swerved and swiped and ducked and lunged and leapt ...

  Eventually, she collapsed to the ground, her own body failing her. For hours—without stopping—she trained, and now, she could feel the very tendons that held her muscles together on the verge of snapping. Agonizing pain surged across her like a wave, and breathing was a laborious task.

  She did everything she could.

  She did everything right.

  But it still wasn’t enough.

  Not once in those imagined fights did she win. No matter what she did, she was always lacking somewhere. Was the gap impossible to close?

  No. There had to be a way. There needed to be. The Tiers were not as set in stone as she thought they were. Grits and Phaedon Bertrand both displayed immense power, even without Blessed bodies.

  If they could bleed, they could die.

  If they could die, then it didn’t matter how many tiers above her they were—because she herself could not die.

  On the ground, she laid drowning in a pain that she knew wasn’t enough still. She unsheathed a dagger and aimed it above her stomach—another reset.

  Pain and death were two things she needed to familiarize herself with, more than anything. It was the one, powerful advantage she held against them. The more she died, the faster she came back to life; that much was certain. She needed to reach the point in which she could come back within minutes or even seconds. If she could do that, then killing the heroes would be a more plausible goal.

  She needed to be rid of her fear of pain. Of death. Of everything. If she could weaponize it, then she needed not be afraid of it.

  She needed to be brave.

  Brave ...

  She moved to stab herself when a hand grabbed her wrist, stopping the blade from penetrating her flesh—a strong hand, its grip so tight that it almost broke her arm in half.

  “The hells are you doing?” Sibeiya’s voice was a low, pained whisper.

  “Acclimating,” Lilieth replied, keeping her eyes on the blade. She tried driving the dagger in again, but the Shebauno’s grip made it next to impossible. “The more often I die, the sooner my regeneration begins ... almost like my body is getting used to it. It’s good that you’re here, I need someone to check how long it takes me to revive between each death. If I can figure out how much time each activation reduces, then—”

  “Are you listening to yourself?” Sibeiya interjected. “Just look at you. You’re barely keeping yourself together.”

  Lilieth looked up at Sibeiya, confusion plastered on the young mage’s face. The Shebauno’s hand was cold on her skin. Or was it just that her own body was too warm?

  Everything hurt. Her arms burned like molten lead had seeped into her bones. She was so tired.

  “You look like shit.” Sibeiya glanced at the bruises on her arms and joints. Her grip tightened, if only slightly.

  “I feel like it, too. If I die, I’ll be back to normal. That’s how it works.”

  “No.” Sibeiya’s answer was immediate. “Go to Niko. He’ll patch you up.”

  “His clinic’s too far away. It’s faster if I—”

  “I’ll carry you there. Surely you can’t complain, yeah?”

  Lilieth frowned. “I’d have nothing but complaints. Look, just let me—”

  “I said no.”

  Sibeiya’s grip on her wrist grew more tense. Lilieth would’ve winced, but compared to the vividness of the deaths she’d already experienced, it was nothing special.

  Lilieth didn’t know why Sibeiya was so adamant about visiting the Healmage. This was the fastest way. She didn’t know where the immortality came from, but it was just as much a boon to her as her own spells were. As long as she had it, defeating the heroes was possible.

  That’s not an excuse. If they’re stronger than you, then just train until you’re stronger than them.

  Those were Sibeiya’s exact words. Yet, now, she was trying to stop her? It was like Sibeiya was saying that Lilieth shouldn’t even attempt to get stronger, like it wasn’t going to work.

  Pain and fear weren’t excuses either.

  Lilieth couldn’t permit any excuses.

  The young mage wrested her wrist from Sibeiya’s hold and sheathed the dagger. “Fine,” she said.

  Sibeiya grabbed her shoulder and tried to hoist her up. At that, Lilieth pulled back.

  “I can walk on my own.”

  “Yeah, right. I’m convinced.”

  “I mean it,” Lilieth said as she stood up, unsteady but true. “I’m fine. I can go on my own ...”

  “You’re gonna collapse before you even make it out of the forest. At least let me walk you there.”

  “Don’t you have a festival to prepare for?” Lilieth replied, cold, without looking at her. She started her slow, agonizing walk out of the forest. Behind her, she didn’t hear Sibeiya follow or even say anything for that matter.

  Ya sure about what yer doin’, brat?

  Lilieth didn’t respond. There was no need to respond to dead men. Furthermore, she neither had anything to do with Sibeiya nor did Sibeiya have anything to do with her. They weren’t friends. Lilieth couldn’t afford having friends.

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  “Mind your own business,” Lilieth muttered under her breath—a sentiment directed at both of them.

  Lilieth got herself patched up by Niko, though not without a stern lecture from the Healmage. She didn’t tell him about her attempts to test the limits of her own resurrection, of course, lest the lecture extended itself to the sunrise. It was something Lilieth learned even before all this, that keeping quiet would get her through most things.

  After being healed, she took a visit to SilverRose Clinic. There, Tethys slept, still unconscious. The healers said she’d awake in a few days, but there was no guarantee.

  The young mage stood by her bedside, watching her sleep. Her body was covered in bandages all over, and she was hooked up to several machines. They were all complicated-looking contraptions that spilled out blue light. Just seeing them here told her that the clinic truly was of the higher-end. It was rare to see magitech outside of the big Salcaelite cities.

  Lilieth reached out, her palms just inches from Tethys’ face, before she pulled back.

  Not gonna do it?

  “She’s your family, not mine,” she whispered.

  Should that matter?

  “...”

  These emotions she felt—the affection, the regret, the relief, the sorrow—none of them belonged to her. The only thing that did was the guilt.

  Why think that? Was it yer job t’keep her safe?

  “Should that matter?”

  The voice kept quiet ... if there was any voice at all.

  “I had her,” Lilieth said. “I ... I caught her, and ...”

  And she let go. She wasn’t able to hold on. Tethys fell, and she couldn’t jump in after her. Apparently, Albus did. He jumped in. She didn’t.

  If I had, I’d have died. I couldn’t have saved her regardless.

  She repeated that thought, over and over and over: as many times as it took in hopes that it would eventually absolve her or at least make it less heavy on her heart. But every utterance of those words only served to make them heavier.

  Was it because she couldn’t fly?

  Was it because she was already close to death?

  Or was it because dead people don’t change?

  “...”

  Lilieth left the clinic. She traipsed the streets to nowhere in particular. She had always liked taking long walks to clear her head, but it was doing her no favors now.

  Memories of Tethys and Irene kept flooding in, unwanted visitors upon the silence. Every image she saw drove a stake deeper into her gut. It was nothing short of torture.

  She wanted to forget.

  She wanted to forget their names. Their faces. If memory could hurt her this much, then it would be best not to remember at all.

  Lilieth paused. To her side, there was a chapel: a small house of worship without any worshipers inside. Still, there were moonsilver lamps that illuminated it. The Three-Winged Quill was engraved above the doorway—the sigil of Eulalie, the very god that gave her her accursed memory.

  “...”

  She stepped inside, though she was unsure why.

  The chapel was quiet in a way only holy places were. She used to find comfort in that, but now, it was a reflection of the response to every prayer given in the gods’ names. Rows of simple wooden benches stretched forward, all empty. Eulalie’s faith wasn’t as strong in Krysanth as it was in nations like Prydanwy, where worship of the Artist God was strongest. Empty chapels were what Lilieth was used to.

  At the far end stood a modest altar. No priest nor priestess attended it. Erected behind it was a statue of Eulalie, the standard depiction of a beautiful lady without a mouth and multiple shut eyes and ears, writing upon a book that, according to legend, held as many pages as there were lives lived, living, and yet to be lived.

  She walked to the first row and sat down, the old wood creaking under Lilieth’s weight.

  For a long while, she said nothing.

  Her hands rested on her knees, fingers loosely interlocked. She stared at the statue. Someone she used to pray to, dawn and dusk, without skipping ever a single day—she wondered if the god of memories ever cared to listen to a single prayer.

  “... It’s quiet as ever,” she murmured at last.

  She waited a few seconds, as if expecting an answer to come.

  “I don’t know what the point of all this is.” Her voice was quiet and shaky, almost embarrassed to be speaking to her again. “I used to think prayers were the most important words someone could say. I prayed for a lot of things over the years. I prayed for Old Wells’ crops to be fertile for the season. When Marissa’s mother got sick, I prayed for her to get well. When Reyel’s pet arborhound got lost, I prayed. Trel came to me and said he was going on a date with someone the day after, and I prayed for clear skies then. When ... when grandmother got sick, I prayed for her health ... not that you listened. Do you ever listen?” Her eyes drifted upwards.

  The statue’s eyes remained closed.

  Lilieth exhaled, shifting in her seat. “I know it was from you—that vision with the swords. I don’t know how I know, but I know.”

  Lilieth was someone that could’ve easily been considered a “blind faithful”. At the time, she couldn’t fault herself for believing that the mysterious vision she received was from the goddess she so ardently worshipped. And even now, with her faith all but severed, Lilieth still had that feeling that the vision came from her, like a persistent parasite latching onto her brain.

  That message could not have come from anyone else.

  That message would not let her believe otherwise.

  “I went there, as you asked,” Lilieth said, her voice a low growl. “I found the swords. Was it ... was it part of your plan, what happened to me? What happened to ...”

  Her hands clenched, and she averted her eyes from the statue. Lilieth stood up, pointing at Eulalie, trembling.

  “I didn’t ask for much from you. I offered you everything without asking for anything in return. I gave, and gave, and gave ... and you kept taking. Now what do I have left? Nothing, save the memory of losing it all.”

  She lowered her head and clenched both her fists close to her sides. Her entire body felt like convulsing from the mere memory of everything she’d endured. All the pain her heart had wrought—it was exhausting.

  “You gave me this,” she said. “You made me like this. You cursed me. I die, and I come back bringing painful memories and nothing else, and nothing changes. Did you give me this memory so I can remember how little I actually matter? If so, you can have it back! My life, too, if you so please! The next time I die, let me stay dead! If there’s so little point to my return, then don’t bother! Stop wasting both our time!”

  Her yells echoed across the empty chapel with no one to receive them. Eulalie stood there, her many eyes still firmly shut.

  Lilieth let out a breath that she’d been holding and fell back down to the bench.

  “I’m ... tired of remembering. It hurts to breathe. Is this supposed to make me stronger? Is this a test? I don’t ... I don’t understand it ...”

  What’s the point of a test when you haven’t been given instructions? What was the goal? What were the choices? Where was she supposed to go? What was she supposed to do? What should she have done?

  Once it was all over and her goal achieved, what then?

  When she started her journey, all Lilieth wanted was a place to belong. In Hesperus, she was alone. When the heroes found her, she accepted their offer, happy to have been chosen. But in those two years, she never really felt like she was one of them.

  Maybe it wasn’t that she no longer had anywhere to return to. She was realizing that, perhaps, such a place never existed.

  She breathed in. “Just ... talk to me again. Send me another vision. Tell me something. Anything.”

  The moment she received that vision, she felt a joy and elation unlike any she’d ever experienced. She heard the voice of the goddess she loved. For the first time, her faith felt real, beyond all the shadows of doubt.

  And then, she was met with silence. Eulalie never spoke to her again.

  From that day—the day her own goddess left her—she decided never to pray again.

  But if she had to offer Eulalie a prayer one last time, then ...

  “... I just wish it hurt a bit less.”

  She sat there for a long, long time after that.

  No one talked to her.

  Lilieth walked back to the forest. The rain had started to pick up, but it didn’t matter. She needed to get back to training. There was nothing else she could think to do but to trudge on the path she set for herself. Come rain or shine, she needed to get stronger.

  The rain came down in thin, cold sheets, soaking through her clothes and matting her hair to her face. The forest was dark beneath the clouds and darker still beneath the canopy. Had it not been for the bright glow of the gradient night sky, she’d have lost her way.

  “Thought I told you to go to Niko’s?” A voice cut through the rain.

  Lilieth turned, and she saw Sibeiya leaning against a tree, her arms crossed as she stared at her. Her hair was damp from the rain despite her cover, clinging to her skin.

  “I did,” Lilieth replied.

  “So, why do you still look like shit?”

  The young mage continued walking. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing, yeah?” Sibeiya’s footsteps followed.

  “I’m training.”

  “In the rain?”

  Lilieth didn’t reply. It seemed an obvious answer.

  Currently, she couldn’t spar against Grits and Albus. Grits had been held under house arrest for a day or so and was only just released. They both had the relic festival to focus on as well, so training with Lilieth was put on hold until after that was sorted. That left her with nothing to do except train by herself.

  “I thought you needed to train, too,” Lilieth said. “You have a tournament to prepare for.”

  “I would if you didn’t constantly annoy me with all this nonsense you’re doing.”

  “Annoy you?” Lilieth turned to her incredulously. “You’re the one who’s coming here just to waste my time.”

  Sibeiya frowned at her. “Well, sorry if a certain idiot kept trying to stab herself and is now trying to swing a sword for hours in the rain.”

  “I don’t die, and I can always heal back up. What is it to you anyway?”

  The Shebauno flinched.

  “There’s no reason for you to look after me like this,” Lilieth continued. “None of this should matter to you.”

  It irked Lilieth just how much Sibeiya was willing to involve herself with her—someone whose entire existence didn’t mean anything.

  Lilieth moved to keep walking.

  “Matter?”

  Sibeiya whispered at first. Her voice was shaking. Lilieth turned to see the Shebauno glaring at her, bewilderment tainting her face.

  “It doesn’t matter?” she continued, her voice raised to counter the hum of the rain. “That’s incredibly selfish of you.”

  Lilieth froze. “Excuse me?”

  “Who said you could decide what should matter to me? What gives you the right? You keep trying to burn yourself, telling yourself and me that it means nothing, but do you know what it feels like to watch someone you know do that to herself?”

  “I didn’t ask you to watch,” Lilieth spat back.

  “That’s ... Gods, that’s not how this works!” Sibeiya moved away from the treeline and started pacing under the rain. “I’m not going to let you destroy yourself like this.”

  The young mage clenched her fist. “What do you expect me to do then? I’m not strong enough yet. There are ... things I have to do. I need to push myself to my limits.” Lilieth pointed at Sibeiya. “You told Grits that you’re just pursuing strength for the sake of it. I have something I need to do, and I’m not strong enough to do it.”

  Sibeiya breathed out. “Is this about what happened to Tethys? That wasn’t your fault.”

  “It’s not about that.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  “That’s ...” Lilieth hesitated. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Well, I’m not gonna know unless you tell me.”

  “And you don’t need to know!” At last, Lilieth glared back at her. “You and I aren’t friends. No one here is my friend.”

  She had been alone her entire life.

  And now, she’d be alone for all eternity.

  Dead people don’t change.

  Sibeiya recoiled, her eyes wide. Then, the pain on her face was replaced with a glower. “That so? All this ‘cause you failed, what, once? Is that it?”

  “Like you’d know,” Lilieth growled. “You were born strong. You don’t know what it feels like to be powerless. Useless. And don’t you dare say you understand.”

  A long silence stretched between them. Sibeiya let out a soft, shaky breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them, there was a fierceness that gave Lilieth pause.

  “Master Spearman,” Sibeiya said.

  There was the sound of a boot splashing on muddy ground. Lilieth turned to the side to see Spearman standing there, a calm expression on his face.

  The Shebauno girl pointed a finger at Lilieth. “I request a duel with Lilieth.”

  The young mage flinched. She had agreed not to do the duels anymore, but ...

  “Granted,” Spearman said. He reached behind him and threw a wooden spear at Sibeiya, who caught it without looking. Then, to Lilieth, a wooden longsword—it slid across the mud, stopping at her feet.

  “What’s the point of this?” Lilieth asked.

  “Don’t know,” Sibeiya answered, stretching her neck without breaking eye contact. “Don’t care. All I know is that you’re pissing me the hells off right now.”

  Lilieth kept her gaze locked with Sibeiya’s, facing that almost primal ferocity head on ... and found that she wasn’t as taken aback by it as she used to be.

  She bent down and took the wooden sword in her hand, feeling the coldness of the ashwood against her skin. She straightened her back and fell into a battle stance.

  Spearman snapped his fingers.

  “Begin.”