Forgive me.
The words did not come from strength, nor from clarity. They surfaced like breath in cold air—unintended, fragile, already fading the moment they were spoken. I did not know who I was asking forgiveness from. Maybe from you. Maybe from myself. Maybe from a past that refused to loosen its grip.
Promise me that we will be together forever.
That voice no longer belongs to me. It came from someone smaller, lighter, untouched by consequence. A younger self standing at the edge of understanding, mistaking hope for certainty. Only now do I realize what those words truly meant.
And now… I am old.
Not in years alone, but in what I have lost, in what my body remembers even when my mind wishes it wouldn't.
Robert was running as desperately as his failing body allowed. The ground tore beneath him as the witch's blade carved through flesh, severing his leg with merciless precision. He screamed—not from pain alone, but from the sudden understanding that escape was no longer something he could rely on. He hurled himself forward, barely dodging a storm of thorn-like bullets that tore through the air where his head had been moments before.
I was becoming weak.
Blood poured freely from my wounds, warm and relentless, soaking through torn fabric and shredded flesh. It ran down my neck, through my hair, blinding my vision, dragging my thoughts into something heavy and distant. Each breath burned. Each movement felt borrowed.
"Help!" I screamed, my voice breaking apart. "Someone—enemy! The witch is here!!"
The world shook with panic. Boots thundered against the earth in the distance, voices rising, weapons clattering as soldiers rushed toward the sound. For a brief moment, hope flickered—not bright, not strong, but alive.
The witch noticed.
"Dammit," she hissed, frustration cutting through her calm.
Her hand lifted, finger aligning with my chest, with my heart. There was no hesitation. No mercy. Only intent.
Then—white.
A dove burst into the space between us, wings spread wide, impossibly pure against the violence of the moment. The shot struck it instead. Feathers exploded into the air as the small body was thrown aside, lifeless before it touched the ground.
It fell.
Moments passed...
Soldiers and battering rams were being assembled at frantic speed. Shields locked together as formations tightened, mantles raised to cover those behind them. Ahead, hordes of undead and malformed monsters hurled themselves forward, crashing against the wall of steel and flesh.
Traps were sprung. Bolts flew. Sharp, dangling mechanisms tore through the air—nets, hooked cables, battering rams driven by roaring mechanical engines. The constructs built by the mechanicus scholars screamed as they fired thorns and shredded metal into the masses.
The greatest strength of humanity was its unpredictability. Its adaptability.
And yet… it was shameful how many had to die before that strength could shine.
Hard situations forged hard men. Hard men built great things.
But those things were paid for with blood—paid for with morality, with lives that would never be remembered.
Metal screamed. Engines thundered. Nets entangled limbs as monsters were torn apart—feet crushed, bodies desecrated, flesh pierced and shredded—yet still they crawled forward, driven by something beyond pain.
In tight triangular formations, hundreds of paladins advanced, shields overlapping like scales. Behind them, swordsmen radiated faint auras of light, their blades carving through the enemy ranks in sweeping arcs.
Above it all, the witch flew.
She was colossal in the air, her form shifting like a massive bird, wings cutting through smoke and ash as she passed over the battlefield.
"Well… that was something," she muttered bitterly.
A mistake. Truly.
A presence rose behind her.
A monster stood there—tall, unnervingly composed, wearing a pristine top hat. It smiled at her failure.
"Well, that's something to say, at the very least," it spoke smoothly. "Beaten to the ground by mere humans. And now your territory is being overrun by a callous swarm of soldiers."
Its grin widened.
"The Great Old King would be ashamed."
It towered behind her, its shadow swallowing her wings.
"I can't beat that monster," she said quietly. "That's why I called you."
The creature's hands elongated, fingers creaking as they sharpened into blades.
"…Being a cultist is the only thing saving your life," it said calmly. "No one would ever think you were needed, witch. I feel no sadness for the demise of the weak."
Rage burned through her.
She gathered a firebolt in her palm, crimson and destructive, the air warping around it. The top-hatted figure bowed politely—and vanished. Its mouth stretched unnaturally, fused to its face even as it disappeared.
"So be it," she muttered.
She sighed.
Don't pretend you don't care.
Why was she even in this cult?
She thought for a moment.
…Family.
The longest one she had ever known.
Below, the battle shifted.
Let yourselves be hypnotized.
The words echoed unnaturally across the field, spoken by Dexiliris. His eyes spiraled as soldiers froze mid-motion. Shields slipped from numb hands. Swords fell uselessly into the dirt.
Those with stronger will screamed warnings.
"Fall back!! Retreat!"
But it was too late for many.
Even the general—arms filled with court papers—stood motionless, lost in trance. Archers fired wildly, arrows delirious and unfocused, as monsters closed in, tearing into defenseless ranks.
Then—
Dexiliris convulsed.
A blade of energy erupted through his torso.
A black knight stood behind him, sword humming with restrained fury. Dexiliris's eyes flared, livid with shock.
"Nice soul you have there," the knight growled.
The knight charged, sweeping his blade as the cloaked figure tried once more to impose his will. Hypnosis clawed at the knight's mind—his head screamed, fingers trembled, doubt seeping in like poison.
No. Not now.
Lord, give me one chance to slay your enemies.
His vision darkened. His body sagged.
Then—light.
Shackles of pure radiance snapped shut around Dexiliris. He looked up just in time to see another figure before being hurled like a ragdoll into trees and earth.
"Ack—! Witch… this thing isn't human!"
He was lifted again, strangled by invisible force, floating helplessly.
Adam stood only a few feet away.
"Give me one reason," Adam said calmly, "why I shouldn't kill you."
"No—being—"
Adam tilted his head.
"…?"
"You are a daemon," Dexiliris rasped.
"I am no demon," Adam said sharply—then froze, realizing his mistake.
He released the witch too soon. He had not expected another being capable of interacting with the forest itself.
"…No. Not demon," Dexiliris corrected weakly. "A daemon. Someone not of this world. You're like us."
He smiled, his face melting unnaturally.
"Why not join us?"