Chapter 39

  THE BEGINNING OF DESTINY

  The smoke wrapped around them completely.

  A thick mist of gray and silver tones swirled around them like a silent vortex. It did not suffocate… but it weighed on them. It coiled around their arms, around their faces, covering them like a warm blanket before erasing the desert. The pulse of the Middle World faded away, and in its place another sensation began to seep in.

  Foreign.

  Familiar.

  The smoke slowly dissipated.

  Before them appeared an old, filthy tavern, lit by oil lamps that barely pushed back the gloom. The air was heavy with sweat, alcohol, and damp wood. The tables were scarred with cuts and gouges, as if even the furniture had survived more fights than it could remember.

  On the floor, between a toppled chair and a puddle of spilled beer, lay Killian.

  More disheveled. More broken.

  A burly man with a face hardened by labor and exhaustion lifted him by the shirt.

  —Killian, that’s enough alcohol for tonight. Go back home.

  There was anger in his voice… and something that sounded far too much like pity. He slapped Killian’s cheek a couple of times, trying to make him react.

  Killian lifted his head, his gaze clouded.

  —Home?… —he repeated, disoriented. Then he let out a bitter laugh—. Of course! My home!... I don’t have a home. I have nothing. Monsters ate my parents and my sister! —his voice cracked with fury—. What damn home are you talking about?

  The man frowned.

  —You’ve drunk too much. Your family died from an illness, not monsters.

  He tried to calm him, but his words rang hollow.

  Killian straightened unsteadily, his eyes burning with a desperation that did not seem born from alcohol.

  —I don’t understand why no one remembers… —he murmured, almost to himself—. You saw those things… you saw them…

  An uneasy silence spread through the tavern. Some of the patrons looked away.

  —To hell with all of you! —he spat at last.

  He wrenched himself free and staggered out into the night.

  Max and Diya felt something guiding them. The blue butterfly fluttered delicately through the tavern’s shadows until it landed on the frame of a dirty window. Its wings glowed faintly against the fogged glass.

  Both of them approached and looked through the pane.

  Outside, beneath the dim light of the moon, Killian walked along a dirt path, swaying as he went. Curses and complaints dissolved into the cold air while he moved without a clear destination, as if the entire world owed him an explanation that would never come.

  Between the houses, something moved.

  Shadows.

  Subtle at first. Sliding along the walls, crouched low. They were not simple tricks of light. They moved with intention, like cats stalking their prey… but too tall, too elongated, too aware.

  Max felt a chill run down his spine.

  The shadows were not following Killian by chance.

  They were waiting for him.

  He had barely taken a few steps.

  From within the darkness emerged three women wrapped in long, dark cloaks. The fabric concealed their bodies entirely; only their faces were exposed to the faint moonlight. There was no hatred in their eyes.

  There was sorrow.

  They stood before Killian without touching him. The one in the center raised her hand, palm open, and held it before his face. She inhaled slowly… and then blew.

  From her mouth emerged a dense, glowing blue smoke that covered Killian’s face like a liquid veil. He tried to focus his gaze, but his knees gave way almost immediately.

  He collapsed into sleep.

  The scene darkened at once.

  The window’s glass turned black like spilled ink. The blue butterfly took flight and passed through the tavern’s closed door as if the wood did not exist.

  Max looked at Diya.

  She understood without words.

  She stepped toward the door and opened it.

  There was no outside.

  On the other side stretched a vast, deep cavern where the air vibrated with contained energy. The walls were covered in ancient runes glowing in tones of gold, white, and blue. They were not dead inscriptions: they pulsed softly, as if they were breathing.

  At the center of the cavern stood a massive circular stone, perfectly carved, resembling a primordial altar. Thick roots surrounded it and climbed across its surface, pulsing with an unsettling life, like open veins beneath the rock.

  The three women emerged from the shadows of the cave.

  Without anyone touching them, the torches lining the chamber ignited one by one, casting dancing lights that warped the shapes upon the walls.

  Then Killian appeared.

  He floated in the air, motionless, light as a feather caught in an invisible current. He was gently lowered onto the center of the circular stone.

  The instant his body touched the carved surface, the runes burst into light.

  The roots began to move.

  They slid over him with ceremonial slowness, wrapping around his legs, his torso, his arms. They covered him almost completely, tightening as if claiming him. Only his head remained free, tilted slightly to one side, his split-colored hair falling across his forehead.

  The cave seemed to hold its breath.

  One of the women stepped forward.

  —Goddess of the Moon…

  Another raised her voice, firmer.

  —Goddess of the Crossroads…

  The third extended her arms.

  —Goddess Protector of the Hearth…

  The three lifted their voices in unison, and the echo thundered through the depths of the stone.

  —We call upon you, Queen of the witches!

  The cave trembled.

  The runes burned brighter.

  —We call upon you, Goddess of Three Faces!

  The air grew dense, electric.

  The shadows in the corners began to move, not from the fire’s light… but by their own will.

  —We call upon you, Eternal Mother of the Sorceries!

  A shudder rippled through the cavern from end to end.

  And for a moment, Max felt that something—ancient, vast, and impossible to contain—had heard.

  Max and Diya watched as, from the deepest shadows of the cave, three figures cloaked in great black robes began to take shape.

  To the right, a young woman held a torch with a bluish flame that did not crackle, but whispered.

  To the left, a pregnant woman carried an identical torch, its light reflecting across the belly that promised life.

  At the center, an elderly woman with a face carved by time wore a bright key hanging from her neck, pulsing with a light of its own.

  The witches bowed their heads in deep reverence.

  —We have brought the chosen one —said one of them, pointing to Killian’s motionless body—. As you instructed, here lies the son of a sorcery… though he possesses no magic.

  The three figures advanced in unison.

  They did not walk: they glided.

  Their gazes—maiden, mother, and crone—settled upon Killian. They studied him not as one studies a mortal… but as one examines a single thread within a far greater tapestry.

  —He will have it.

  The three voices spoke at the same time.

  It was not an echo.

  It was unity.

  The shadows began to move like living serpents, coiling around them. A dark vortex rose around the three presences, flecked with bluish sparks that glimmered like drowned stars.

  When the whirlwind faded, the goddess’s full form was revealed.

  She stood nearly two meters tall and did not touch the ground; she levitated with a solemn grace. She wore a long black dress with deep folds that fell to her ankles, leaving her arms bare. Her head was not one… but three.

  To the right, the face of the maiden: an intense gaze, the promise of beginnings.

  To the left, the face of the mother: firmness and protection.

  In the center, the crone: ancient wisdom and inescapable judgment.

  Above their heads floated a crown of fine spikes that radiated a faint blue glow. The shining key hung over her chest like a symbol of access to forbidden secrets.

  It was Hecate.

  She approached Killian with ceremonial delicacy. She observed his face, marked by pain and denial. She caressed it with unexpected tenderness, as if the very act implied a necessary sacrifice.

  —My daughters need their warrior —proclaimed Hecate.

  Her voice was triple, deep, echoing through the stone.

  —When the world makes magic tremble and darkness seeks to prosper, you will rise as my sword. You will be the one who protects the witches while my dream endures.

  She raised her right hand.

  Her index finger descended until it touched Killian’s forehead.

  The two bluish torches detached from the lateral figures and floated beside the goddess, burning without smoke.

  —Son of my daughter. Son of my blood.

  The three faces spoke in unison:

  —Expergiscimini.

  Her eyes shone with a blinding intensity. The light descended through her body like a liquid torrent and concentrated at the tip of her finger, piercing Killian’s forehead.

  His veins began to glow beneath the skin.

  His body arched violently.

  A silent scream formed in his mouth while the roots tightened, holding him as if they feared he might disintegrate.

  The torches slowly floated toward the roots and set them ablaze.

  The blue fire spread immediately, consuming without burning, completely enveloping Killian’s body. The flames danced over him like hungry spirits, marking him, transforming him.

  Hecate moved back a few centimeters, suspended in the air.

  She watched.

  Not with cruelty.

  With the serenity of one who knows that fate, once invoked, can no longer be undone.

  The blue fire slowly faded, as if it had fulfilled its purpose.

  The roots loosened and withdrew back into the stone, revealing Killian’s body. He was naked, covered by a network of veins that still glowed beneath his skin like rivers of light trapped in human flesh.

  His eyes flew open.

  The red that emerged from them was not reflection nor illusion: it burned with a supernatural intensity.

  A scream tore through the cave.

  Killian tried to rise; his legs did not respond at first. He fell to the ground clumsily, breathing violently, as if the air itself burned inside him. His vision blurred, the runes twisting before his eyes.

  The crone —one of Hecate’s faces— tilted her head slightly.

  —Calm yourself, my son.

  But there was no possible calm.

  The witches approached cautiously, trying to hold him, cover him, help him remain on his feet. Killian reacted by instinct, pushing them away with excessive force.

  —Stay away! —his voice was more animal than human.

  He ran.

  He left the cave without looking back, disappearing into the dark forest, naked, his veins still pulsing beneath his skin like freshly opened scars.

  Hecate watched his escape without moving.

  —His destiny is marked —the triple voice said, echoing against the walls—. And when the thread has been woven… no one escapes it.

  The shadows rose around her like a living mantle and devoured her, extinguishing her form until only the three witches remained and the echo of the inevitable.

  Max felt a shiver run through him.

  Now he understood.

  That figure… that presence watching him in dreams, guiding him when magic seemed ready to overwhelm him, had always been her.

  Diya understood as well. She recognized that energy. It was the same force that had guided her during her escape from the Infernal Kingdom, the protective shadow that appeared when everything seemed lost.

  The blue butterfly emerged from the gloom and moved toward the exit of the cave.

  Without speaking, they followed it.

  The forest dissolved.

  Darkness turned into light.

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  Suddenly it was daytime.

  They stood before a simple wooden cabin surrounded by tall trees. From the chimney rose a column of smoke that dissolved into the clear sky.

  The sound cut through the air.

  A powerful beat of wings.

  Majestic.

  Both of them looked up.

  There, descending from the sky, was a figure that seemed made of contained fire.

  It was a young woman.

  Her long, abundant hair fell in a cascade of blazing orange, catching the sunlight with coppery glints, as if every strand held a burning secret. She wore it partially tied back with a dark ribbon, though several rebellious locks framed her face with almost intentional softness.

  Her fair skin was dotted with small freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks, delicate details that contrasted with the intensity of her blue eyes. They were large, deep, thoughtful… filled with a calm intelligence.

  She wore golden armor that gleamed beneath the sun, reflecting the light in almost celestial flashes.

  Her white wings stretched behind her, wide, pure, impossible to ignore.

  She descended with force, striking the ground with a sharp thud. It had not been a clumsy landing.

  She had wanted to be noticed.

  The door of the cabin opened.

  Killian stepped outside.

  He stopped abruptly when he saw her.

  For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

  The white wings shone behind her.

  And in Killian’s red eyes appeared something Max had never seen before.

  It was not rage.

  It was recognition.

  —I am Celeste Borg, a Golden Angel —she announced, inclining her head slightly in an elegant, measured, almost diplomatic bow.

  Sunlight slid across her armor as if it recognized her.

  Killian tilted his head, observing her with barely contained irony.

  —An angel? Have you come to punish me for my sins?

  The mockery in his voice was a shield.

  Celeste smiled, and her laughter was clear and bright.

  —That’s not my job. Wrong department… —she gestured lightly toward the ground—. That one is further down.

  Killian did not return the smile.

  —What do you want?

  She stopped joking. The lightness shifted into firmness.

  —We need you to fulfill your role. Hecate gave you a mission… and it is time for you to accept it.

  She straightened into a more authoritative posture, though without harshness.

  Killian let out a long exhale.

  —I did not accept anything. —He looked around at the trees, the cabin, the spiral of smoke rising into the air—. I’m staying here. I have peace… alcohol… and plenty of silence.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to hold on to the cool breeze.

  Celeste watched him more closely.

  —Right… you have mental magic.

  It wasn’t judgment. It was understanding.

  —Is that why you want to be alone?

  Killian opened his eyes. He looked at her with anger, but he didn’t answer.

  He didn’t need to.

  Other people’s thoughts pierced through him constantly. Murmurs, desires, guilt, fears… an invisible crowd that never fell silent. Living among people was like inhabiting an endless marketplace inside his own mind.

  Celeste softened her expression.

  —I can help you. All magic can learn to obey… even one as powerful as yours.

  She extended her hand.

  The gesture lingered between them.

  Killian looked at it with distrust. He knew that accepting help meant accepting destiny. But exhaustion weighed heavier than pride. The voices were eroding him from within.

  He swallowed.

  —I’ll go… —he said at last—. But only so the voices will be quiet.

  He took her hand.

  Celeste’s wings spread with a wide, majestic sound, casting a white shadow across the ground. Without giving him time to reconsider, she pulled him toward her, wrapping him in a firm embrace.

  And she jumped.

  The ground vanished behind them in an instant.

  The air roared around them as they rose into the open sky. Killian clung to her by instinct, fear cutting through his pride. The forest shrank into a green tapestry beneath their feet.

  Celeste flew with strength and precision, holding him securely, her fiery orange hair dancing wildly in the wind.

  From the unseen threshold where they watched, Max and Diya felt something tremble inside them.

  It wasn’t simple curiosity.

  It was a heartbeat.

  An emotional recognition that should not belong to them… yet awakened in the deepest part of their souls, like a memory they had not lived yet.

  And in that moment they understood that they were not only witnessing the origin of a pact.

  They were witnessing the beginning of a condemnation.

  The blue butterfly reappeared among the trees. It fluttered toward the cabin door and passed through it as if the wood were nothing more than a memory.

  Max didn’t hesitate. He opened the door.

  He did not find the inside of the cabin.

  Before them stretched an immense, tranquil lake, surrounded by tall trees whose branches held small pink flowers that drifted down like sighs onto the shore. The moon, round and luminous, rested upon the water like a second world turned upside down.

  A wooden pier extended into the lake.

  They were there.

  Killian and Celeste sat side by side, gazing at the moon in silence. The silver reflection traced soft contours along their faces, as though time had decided to be kind for one night.

  —What will you do when all of this is over? —Killian asked without looking directly at her. His eyes pretended to watch the water, but his attention was on her.

  Celeste took a moment before answering.

  —After? —she repeated, as if the word itself were fragile—. I’ll have to return to the Celestial Realm.

  There was sadness in her voice. Not obvious. Not dramatic. But real.

  Killian turned his face slightly toward her.

  —Can’t you stay?

  His hand sought hers and rested over it gently, as if he feared breaking something invisible.

  She intertwined her fingers with his for a moment, but her gaze remained on the moon.

  —I have responsibilities. I’m a soldier…

  The word weighed heavier than the silence.

  Killian looked at her then without masks. Without irony. Without defense. Only vulnerability.

  Gently, he took her face in his hands and made her look at him.

  Celeste held her breath.

  She had been waiting for that gesture far too long.

  The kiss was slow.

  It wasn’t impulsive or desperate. It was a mutual surrender. The world seemed to fade around them; the murmur of the lake, the distant song of the night, even the war approaching… everything disappeared.

  For a moment, only they existed.

  Killian rested his forehead against hers.

  —Please… don’t go —he whispered, as if speaking the words aloud might break the spell.

  Celeste caressed his face with a tenderness that hurt.

  —Killian…

  Her blue eyes shimmered with a luminous sadness.

  —You should get some rest. Tomorrow you’ll need all your strength.

  She slowly stood.

  From her back, white wings emerged, unfolding beneath the moonlight with silent majesty. The air stirred around her, lifting pink petals that danced like tiny farewells.

  Celeste looked at him one last time.

  Then she rose into the air.

  Killian remained seated on the pier, watching as her figure became a small point of light in the night sky… until it disappeared.

  The lake returned to stillness.

  But in his red eyes, reflecting the moon like an open wound, there was a sadness so deep it seemed capable of drowning the entire world.

  From the invisible distance, Max and Diya felt the weight of that pain as if it were their own.

  And they understood that destiny does not begin with wars.

  It begins with love.

  The butterfly descended until it brushed the surface of the lake.

  For a moment, it seemed to rest upon the reflection of the moon.

  Then it sank.

  Diya hesitated. The water did not look like water: it was a dark mirror, deep, with no visible bottom. But before fear could take root, Max grabbed her arm and leapt with her.

  The impact was not cold.

  It was emptiness.

  They fell for what felt like endless minutes, passing through a liquid darkness that did not wet them, did not suffocate them—only carried them along. Until the fall ended abruptly.

  They touched ground.

  Dry earth. Ash.

  The air burned.

  Before them stretched a devastated battlefield. The sky was stained red and black, as if the horizon itself had been set on fire. In the distance, columns of smoke rose from what had once been a village.

  And at the center…

  The last King of Hell.

  An imposing creature over two meters tall, with dense musculature and dark skin crossed by glowing cracks. Two goat horns curled over one another like a grotesque crown. His green eyes, as intense as burning emeralds, did not reflect fury… but determination.

  He wielded two swords that vibrated with a faint violet glow, as if they were breathing.

  Opposite him stood Killian.

  His sword sliced through the air, releasing waves of blue energy that exploded upon striking the demon. Each impact distorted the enemy’s perception, twisting the world around him. The lesser demons who tried to approach became trapped by Killian’s mental magic: their eyes turned glassy and, within seconds, they turned against their own king.

  It was a brutal dance.

  Magic against brutality.

  But even the most powerful warriors can make a mistake.

  One misstep.

  A loose stone.

  Killian lost his balance.

  He fell.

  The infernal king did not hesitate. His two swords descended in a lethal arc.

  And the steel never reached its target.

  Golden sparks exploded in the air.

  Celeste intercepted the blow with her sword. The impact thundered like a storm. Her wings burst open with force, pushing the demon backward as the ground cracked beneath the power of the clash.

  With one hand, she helped Killian to his feet.

  —He’s too strong —he admitted, breathing heavily. His voice no longer carried arrogance.

  Celeste looked at him sternly.

  —You’re holding yourself back.

  There was no softness in her words.

  —I don’t want to harm anyone who isn’t an enemy —Killian replied.

  But what he didn’t say weighed more: he didn’t want to hurt her.

  Celeste held his gaze. She understood what he left unspoken.

  —I’m a soldier, Killian. I don’t mind sacrificing myself to protect others.

  Without waiting for an answer, she launched herself with her wings. She spun through the air like a golden bullet and drove a thrust straight toward the demon’s chest. The strike forced him to step back several paces, keeping him at bay.

  Killian looked toward the horizon.

  Miles away, the infernal armies were advancing toward the village.

  Toward innocents.

  Toward children.

  Toward lives that did not yet know the war had arrived.

  —I do mind… —he whispered, barely audible.

  The demon roared and unleashed a storm of blows that Celeste struggled to block. Every clash made her arms tremble.

  —Killian, you have to do it! —she shouted as she deflected another strike.

  Her wings no longer shone with the same intensity.

  Max felt a knot tighten in his chest.

  Diya understood before he did.

  Killian wasn’t fighting with his full power.

  He was holding back.

  Because his magic did not discriminate.

  And if he released it completely…

  It wouldn’t be only the enemy that burned.

  Killian took a deep breath.

  He closed his eyes.

  Runes began to appear across his skin like constellations carved in blue fire. They spread across his neck, his arms, his chest, pulsing to the rhythm of something ancient. He released his sword. The metal fell against the blackened earth.

  He sat down cross-legged.

  His hands rested on his knees.

  When he opened his eyes, there were no pupils.

  Only light.

  —Mentem eius rege…

  The air trembled. Electricity ran across the ground like luminous serpents.

  —Cupiditatem eius rege…

  A brutal wind rose, bending banners, tearing up dust and ash. The demons turned their heads in unison. They felt it. The true power.

  And they began to run toward him.

  Celeste descended violently, intercepting attacks, blocking blades, cutting throats to buy seconds. Only seconds.

  —Animam eius rege…

  The sky darkened.

  —Mentem eius frange.

  The scream was collective.

  Not human.

  Not demonic.

  Universal.

  Everyone—enemies and allies alike—clutched their heads. Knees hit the ground. Eyes bled. Minds shattered from within, like glass under unbearable pressure.

  Celeste screamed too.

  —Animam eius dele.

  The final verse was not spoken with force.

  It was whispered.

  And it was worse.

  The battlefield became a silent slaughterhouse. Bones breaking from within. Throats collapsing. Hearts stopping without a visible wound. One by one, they fell.

  All of them.

  The wind died.

  The silence was absolute.

  Killian remained motionless, repeating the spell like an endless echo, even when no one was left standing.

  Because power does not distinguish.

  And mental magic does not choose targets when it is released without chains.

  They say victory justifies sacrifices.

  But no one talks about the price that stays in the skin.

  Killian came out of the trance.

  The blue light faded.

  And then he saw.

  He ran to Celeste. She was still breathing, weakly, barely a thread of life.

  He knelt beside her.

  —I’m sorry… I’m sorry…

  He held her head with a gentleness that clashed with the massacre surrounding them. Tears fell onto her face, mixing with dust and blood.

  Celeste tried to smile.

  —Well done…

  And she faded.

  It was not a dramatic sigh.

  It was an absence.

  Her eyes remained open, but empty.

  —No… no… please, wake up… —his voice broke.

  The warrior who had destroyed armies now trembled like a child.

  He placed his hand over her chest.

  He closed his eyes.

  The runes covered his body again.

  But they were no longer blue.

  They were red.

  A deep, dark red, almost crimson. As if he had opened a door he never should have.

  —Cupiditatem coniungunt…

  The runes moved, crawling across his skin until they gathered in his palm.

  —Fata miscent…

  They crossed into Celeste’s body, spreading along her arms, her neck, her face.

  The sky answered.

  The clouds twisted into a violent storm. The wind howled. The trees bent as if trying to look away.

  —Animas connectunt.

  Thunder split the sky.

  The runes flared with wild intensity, linking both bodies as if invisible threads were stitching their souls together.

  Killian opened his eyes.

  He looked into Celeste’s eyes—one was still blue.

  The other was beginning to turn red.

  Half of his hair lost its color, turning ash-white from root to tip, as if something within him had aged in an instant.

  He waited.

  He waited one heartbeat.

  Two.

  Three.

  Nothing.

  Celeste’s chest did not move.

  The bond had been made.

  But death did not obey.

  And something—something deep and ancient—had heard that spell.

  Max felt a chill run down his spine.

  Diya understood what Killian had done.

  He was not trying to heal her.

  He was trying to tie her fate to his own.

  And when the threads of fate are forced…

  Something else always pays the price.

  —Why didn’t it work? —Killian shook her with growing desperation—. Wake up… wake up.

  The sky answered before anyone else.

  Lightning struck only a few meters away, splitting the blackened ground. The white flash forced him to lift his gaze.

  She was there.

  Hecate emerged within the storm, illuminated by lightning. Her three faces looked upon Killian with an impossible mixture of compassion, severity, and something older than judgment.

  —Why didn’t she revive? —he asked, but there was no anger in his voice now. Only pleading.

  The goddess descended slowly until she stood before him. The rain passed through her form without touching it.

  —My son… you cannot revive the dead.

  Thunder rumbled behind her words.

  —You bound her soul to your destiny instead.

  Killian lowered his gaze toward Celeste. The red runes still pulsed faintly beneath her skin.

  Hecate stopped levitating. She knelt. With infinite delicacy, she took Killian’s face between her fingers.

  —I am sorry… but nature demands balance. Death would have been the most merciful outcome.

  Lightning struck so close that the world turned white.

  Killian closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, the goddess was gone.

  Only the rain remained.

  Only the field covered in corpses.

  Only the silence.

  Max and Diya watched the scene with a sharp pain, as if an ancient wound had opened within their own chests. It was not only compassion. It was memory. Something within them recognized that loss.

  Killian looked at his hands.

  The skin was beginning to blacken from the tips of his fingers, like ink spreading beneath the flesh. The runes twisted, losing their perfect form.

  —No… —he whispered.

  From the earth, thick roots began to emerge.

  They were not gentle like the roots of a living forest.

  They were rough. Ancient. Punishing.

  They coiled first around Celeste. Then around him.

  He tried to move, but he was exhausted. Empty. Broken.

  The wind changed.

  It was no longer a storm.

  It was a whisper.

  —You will pay…

  It was not a voice.

  It was the world speaking.

  The roots covered them completely, binding their bodies together as if the earth itself wished to seal the mistake that had been made. They tightened, dragging them downward.

  The ground opened.

  And swallowed them.

  The last visible trace was Killian’s ash-white hair disappearing beneath the dark mud.

  Then, nothing.

  The field fell silent.

  As if there had never been a war.

  As if there had never been love.

  Max felt the air leave his lungs.

  Diya could not take her eyes off the place where they had vanished.

  And they understood.

  It had not been an act of salvation.

  It had been a challenge to the natural order.

  And the price had not yet finished being paid.

  —Do you feel it? —Max looked at Diya, his breathing still uneven.

  —I feel the soul broken… I don’t remember it, but my soul does —a silent tear slid down Diya’s cheek.

  —And that is how it began.

  Killian’s voice rose behind them, deep, without mockery this time. When they turned, he was there, a cigarette burning between his fingers, the smoke rising like a memory that never quite fades.

  —How is this going to help us free her soul? —Max asked.

  The sand of the devastated field began to rise in soft spirals. Through the haze, Jackson and Bassel appeared, walking as if the wind did not touch them.

  —You needed to know what truly happened —said Jackson with the calm that seemed to hide centuries of guilt.

  —The spell he used… and the energy it left anchored —added Bassel—. Nothing breaks without leaving a fracture. Nothing binds without leaving a trace.

  Killian exhaled smoke.

  —Theoretically, if you understand the event that unleashed the rupture, the exact spell, and the nature of the magic used… you can free her.

  —That’s necromancy —Max replied tensely—. Neither of us can do something like that.

  Bassel looked at him firmly.

  —That’s not true. We were able to intertwine the souls of witches temporarily to conjure shared magic. You are two fragments of the same essence. If you find a witch willing to serve as an anchor… you could channel the reverse spell. Break the bond. Allow her to rest.

  There was hope in his voice. A fragile hope.

  —You must do it together —Jackson added, watching Max and Diya as if he were looking at a reflection of himself—. Separately it would not be enough. But united… the power would be equivalent to the one that created the mistake.

  The silence grew heavy.

  —And what will happen to Gabriel? —Max asked, almost in a whisper.

  Jackson hesitated. It was the first time his calm faltered.

  —We don’t know. His physical body might continue this final life until its natural end… or the course could change. The soul being freed would break the cycle. That would change the rules.

  —It’s too imprecise —Diya said, though her voice did not tremble—. Even so… he deserves to be free.

  Max looked at her.

  He saw determination.

  He saw compassion.

  He saw the same fire he had seen by the lake, in that farewell beneath the moon he did not remember, but could still feel.

  And he was afraid.

  Afraid of losing Gabriel.

  Afraid of repeating the mistake.

  Afraid of choosing between love and balance.

  —Now you know what is necessary —said Bassel, pointing to a white door streaked with golden cracks that pulsed like veins of light—. Knowledge was the key.

  Killian took one last drag and let the cigarette fall onto the nonexistent ground.

  —Don’t fail where I did.

  Diya stepped forward first.

  When she placed her hand on the door, she felt the resistance of destiny itself. She looked at Max. He was still divided, trapped between duty and attachment.

  —We’re not here to repeat history —she told him quietly.

  The door opened.

  Light enveloped them.

  The in-between world dissolved like dust in the wind.

  And the chaos of their reality came back to claim them.