The story of the third commander was not told with pride, nor with strength.
It was told slowly, carefully, as if every word had weight.
The third commander was none other than Arachna Lysara herself.
She did not announce herself as a commander, nor as someone important. She simply spoke, the same way she had been narrating the story till now.
She explained that she never came to the dungeon seeking power.
She came to survive.
In those days, the world outside was cruel to her kind. Resources were scarce, danger constant, and safety was an illusion. Dungeons were feared, but they were also opportunity. Food. Materials. A chance to live another day. That was all she wanted when she entered Zortheus's domain.
She had no map. No knowledge of what waited inside. Only instinct, caution, and the need to endure.
The dungeon, even then, felt different. It was dangerous, yes, but not chaotic. Paths shifted, monsters moved with intent, and the air carried a strange stillness. It felt less like a trap and more like a place that watched those who entered.
She moved deeper than she intended.
And eventually, she reached a room she was never meant to see.
The Heart of the Dungeon.
She described it with difficulty, pausing more than once. The walls were quiet there, untouched by battle. At the center lay a skeleton, human, fragile, carefully preserved by something unseen. The room did not feel evil. It felt... mournful.
She did not understand it then.
She barely had time to react before the presence behind her made itself known.
Zortheus.
She admitted that fear took over. Not rational fear, but instinctive terror. She was alone, deep within a dungeon, standing before something that felt immeasurable. She attacked without thinking, webs lashing out, limbs moving on reflex. She shouted, demanded he stay away, explained through panic that she was only there to take resources, that she meant no harm.
He did not strike back.
He defended himself, but never pursued. Every blow she landed was met with restraint. As exhaustion set in, confusion replaced fear. She began to realize that he was not trying to kill her.
When she finally stopped, when her strength gave out and her anger broke into silence, he spoke.
Not with authority.
Not with threat.
He asked her to breathe.
He asked her why she was there.
That was when her story began to spill out, uneven, broken, and heavy.
She spoke of her life before the dungeon. Of warmth. Of a home. Of a husband who laughed easily and dreamed of simple things. Of the child she carried, still unseen, still unnamed.
Her husband had entered a dungeon for the same reason she had, survival. He wanted to provide. He wanted to return.
He never did.
She waited. Days turned into weeks. Fear turned into resolve. And finally, she followed him.
What she found was not hope.
She told them how she had been surrounded by commanders, how every path had closed behind her. How the dungeon boss appeared, holding what remained of the one she loved. His body was broken, barely alive, and she begged.
She begged without pride.
She begged without shame.
She was offered a choice that was no choice at all.
Stay. Serve. Endure.
Her voice faltered there, just slightly. Not enough to break, but enough to reveal the wound beneath.
She said her husband looked at her then, not with fear, but with desperation. He told her to run. To live. To not trade herself for a life already slipping away.
The dungeon boss did not wait.
The strike was quick. Final.
She remembered screaming. She remembered the sound more than the sight. And then the pain, sharp, sudden, and devastating, as she was struck down herself in stomach. The blow that followed robbed her of more than her strength. It took the future she had carried within her.
They let her leave after that.
Not out of mercy.
But mockery.
She survived, Her body healed. Her heart did not.
When she finished telling this part, there was a long pause. She did not look at anyone. She simply continued, as if afraid that stopping would make it harder to go on.
She told them how she had expected Zortheus to understand her rage.
She told him she wanted revenge.
And he asked her a question she hated.
Would it bring back the dead?
She admitted that she had nearly attacked him again for that. That she believed he could not possibly understand her pain.
Then he told her his story.
Not all of it. Just enough.
Enough to show that grief was not something she carried alone. Enough to show that loss, if left unchecked, could become a prison.
He did not tell her to forgive.
He did not tell her to forget.
He asked her instead whether justice and revenge were truly the same.
That question stayed with her.
Zortheus did not train her to lash out blindly. He taught her control. He taught her patience. He taught her that punishment, when necessary, must serve purpose, not hatred.
Slowly, painfully, she changed.
She stopped chasing ghosts.
She started protecting the living.
She began to take in children who had nowhere else to go, orphans, runaways, the forgotten. The dungeon gave them shelter. She gave them care. The webs she once wanted to use to trap enemies became walls, beds, and safety. And of the few children who she taken in were Kalix, Riya and Shin.
She became something she never expected.
A mother again.
Her strength grew, not just in battle, but in presence. Monsters learned to respect her. Commanders learned to trust her. She punished those who harmed the helpless without mercy, but she healed those who were broken without hesitation.
That was how she became the third commander.
Not through conquest.
Not through ambition.
But through endurance.
By the time her story ended, the place felt quieter than before.
Arachna Lysara did not call herself righteous. She did not claim to be healed. She simply stood as proof that pain could be shaped into something that protected rather than destroyed.
And in the shadow of the Uncrowned King, she remained...
The Punishing Mother.