And round and round they ran, pouring out every last drop of strength and hope—only to arrive at the same cursed spot again. No matter which path they chose, no matter how promising the trail seemed, it always led them back to their doom.
At last they collapsed to their knees, breath ragged, sweat trickling in cold rivulets down their foreheads. Their throats burned, dry as a desert. Their bones ached with exhaustion. Their faces wore grim expressions, yet their eyes flickered with two warring lights—fear, full to the brim, and hope, faint but still clinging.
But not all their fears were the same.
For Rowenne, the question gnawed at her: was she truly here, or was this only her consciousness trapped in some cruel snare? Either way, if death found her now, the end would be real. Before her loomed the creatures—mysterious, dangerous, countless. She dared not fight them. To strike at such things was to embrace certain death.
She looked up once more—only to see the world frozen. The creatures stood motionless, mid-step. Leaves hung suspended in the air, branches twisted by the wind held unnaturally still, even the very breath of the forest silenced. Time itself had halted again.
Why? Why did this keep happening? She did not know. And yet the answer wasn't what mattered—not now. What mattered was choice.
She had none. She could keep running until her body failed her, or she could make a final stand and die beneath their claws. Either path ended the same.
Unless…
A thought struck her. What if the answer was not in fleeing or fighting, but in escaping? Not running away from them, but running toward them?
It was madness. And yet it was the only glimmer of a path she had left.
At that moment, she lifted her gaze once more—and as if in confirmation, she felt the forest itself urging her, daring her to try. A spark ignited in her eyes, hope and resilience flooding back into her soul.
The creatures did not advance. They only stood as sentinels, guarding the way before her. And there—beyond their looming forms—another path had appeared, one she had not seen moments ago. The truth revealed itself: she needed only to overcome her fear and reach the other side.
She bowed her head. One palm pressed firmly against the earth, one knee bent upon it. Her aura shifted, her very presence deepening as if the world itself held its breath.
"A phoenix is not afraid of death—for only through death comes rebirth," she whispered. "But this… this is no eternal flame. This is death without rebirth. I beseech you, Father… the heavens, the seers, the mages, the warriors, the protectors… the phoenixes. Please—grant me strength for this moment."
At once, fire surged through her veins. Her legs came alive, her weariness fled, the ache in her bones dissolved. Her throat cleared, her breath steadied. She felt renewed—alive, unbreakable, strong.
And as she rose, a white robe flowed upon her form, radiant as though spun from light itself. She stood like the hero of legend reborn. In her hands, a spear crystallized, gleaming like glass yet sharper than any blade. From its tip bled a smoky aura, curling like mist from fire.
The moment her heart accepted the fight, the forest stirred. Shadows trembled, and the creatures howled as one, their cries echoing like a storm breaking over the world.
And then she saw it—her goal.
Behind the beasts, a phoenix towered, wings unfurled in brilliance, each edge of its outline ablaze with fire. Flames licked higher, threatening to consume it whole. She knew, without doubt, that she must reach it.
She must touch the flames. She must be reborn.
Only then could she return to reality—if this was not reality already.
She charged forward, her blade flashing as it cleaved the first creature cleanly—its head rolling from its neck before the body crumpled. And then she slaughtered. Fighting with renewed strength, speed, and precision, Rowenne became a storm of steel and fury. She darted between them, weaving and swerving, dodging claws and fangs with impossible grace.
One became ten. Ten became twenty. Her blade carved through flesh and sinew, slicing bodies in half, shredding limbs. Minutes bled away, and the ground was soon buried beneath a grotesque mountain of corpses, a river of thick, black blood pooling around her feet.
Rowenne herself was soaked in it—drenched, dripping with the creatures' blood. Still, more came. Fifty remained, circling, and her strength faltered. Her chest heaved, each breath burning her lungs, but she never slowed, never allowed her blade to still. She slashed, stabbed, and butchered, each movement fueled by sheer will alone.
The Phoenix behind her was engulfed in flame now, its body consumed by fire save for a sliver of its leg still untouched—a fragile moment bought for her, but one that would vanish soon. She was running out of time.
Rowenne lunged forward, cutting down another beast and breaking through the last line of monsters. She staggered toward the Phoenix, its fiery body blazing like the heart of a dying star. Relief surged through her chest—it had worked. She was past them. She could see a way out at last.
But then her breath caught.
The bodies.
The ones she had shredded, severed, obliterated—were moving. Bones snapped together, shredded flesh reknit, grotesque forms piecing themselves back into wholeness. One after another, they rose, a horde resurrected, their eyes burning with hunger.
Rowenne stared in horror as her efforts unraveled before her eyes. All that death, all that blood—all for nothing. The only victory she had won was crossing to the Phoenix's side. She was closer to salvation than they were to her.
She reached out, stretching her hand toward the Phoenix—
And then she froze.
A scream split the air. A voice she knew too well.
Rowenne whipped her head around. Alaric and Edmund—her boys—were subdued, their small bodies trembling as bandits pressed blades against their chests. The sharp steel tips pierced their clothing, sinking closer with each cruel push, soon to break flesh.
Her heart stopped.
She turned back. The Phoenix was aflame, its entire form collapsing into fire and ash. She had only seconds.
A choice. A crueler one than any blade could carve.
If she touched the Phoenix before it crumbled, she could escape—reborn in fire, leaving Alaric and Edmund behind to die.
If she did not, the Phoenix would burn to ashes with no rebirth, gone forever. She might yet save the boys—but the price would almost certainly be her life.
Another choice. Another sacrifice.
She felt utterly hopeless, as if everything—even fate itself—had been woven against her. Helpless tears streamed down her face. There was no way out. At least, not for her. And if she fell here, Alaric and Edmund would fall with her.
"Why?" she mumbled again and again, her eyes squeezed shut, forcing the tears to flow endlessly. Her hands trembled, her strength drained away, her legs turned to jelly. She could barely stand.
When she opened her eyes, the Phoenix lay in ashes. But instead of the promise of rebirth, a sudden wind scattered them in every direction—leaving no trace behind, no chance of renewal.
She dropped to her knees, buried her face in her hands, and wept silently.
"Mother! Save us!" Alaric's voice cut through the despair, sharp and desperate.
Rowenne jolted awake inside her grief. Pure adrenaline surged through her veins. She lunged forward with a scream, her blade flashing, slashing and stabbing. In a blur she cut down fifteen of them before a sword pierced deep into her back. She froze for a heartbeat, panting, blood spilling from her wound and trickling from her lips.
Her eyes blurred with tears, but she refused to fall. Not yet.
She fought on, relentless, her strikes savage. More creatures fell, but so did more blows land upon her. Cuts and stabs tore into her flesh until her body became a tapestry of wounds. Still she stood. Still she fought. Even as she knew that—even if she won—she would not survive the wounds.
The pain was unbearable, so consuming that death itself felt like mercy.
They charged again. She cut four down before another sword ripped deep into her left shoulder. She staggered, blood spraying, but did not drop her blade.
Behind her, Alaric and Edmund screamed. Subdued by three of the creatures, their young bodies writhed as blades pressed against their flesh, beginning to bite deep. Their eyes pleaded with her—pleaded for her not to give in.
Terror eclipsed her pain. She could not die yet. Not while her children's screams tore the night apart.
With the last fragment of life within her, she hurled herself forward once more. Her strikes were desperate, unearthly in their ferocity. She cut down four cleanly, her body trembling violently. On the fifth, her blade struck true—but its counterstrike drove a sword into her belly.
She screamed, a sound that split the night. The sword pushed deeper, and agony consumed her, but still she refused to fall. If she fell now, she knew—she would never rise again.
The last creature lunged. With Alaric in its grip, it drove its sword straight into her heart.
Her scream this time was deafening. The forest itself seemed to quake, the trees bending back as if recoiling from her pain.
The last creature clutched its head, shrieking in madness—until it exploded.
Alas, Alaric and Edmund were safe, and the creatures no longer stirred. Rowenne collapsed to the ground. Words failed her—her strength was gone. A pool of crimson spread quickly beneath her as blood spilled from her mouth. She could hear her heartbeat slowing, each breath more strained than the last.
Yet she smiled at Alaric and Edmund as they ran toward her, their cries piercing the night. Her body grew numb, her vision blurring at the edges, but her heart clung to one truth: her boys were alive. Safe. That was all she had ever wanted.
Though they wept now, though their faces carried sorrow, she hoped they would one day find happiness. In that moment, all she longed for was their touch—one last embrace, to feel their small arms around her, to hear their laughter ring out once more.
Her life flickered before her eyes, memory after memory rising and fading until tears welled unbidden. And then—like a whisper carried on the wind—she heard a familiar voice within her:
"There was no other way."
Before Alaric and Edmund could reach her, her eyes drifted shut, and with one final breath, she was gone.
Far away in Myrridral, Seraphine, Celine, and Zyrelle stood alone with Veyra. Her eyes glowed—just as Lyrris' once had. And in that eerie light, a single tear traced its way down her cheek.