"You couldn't save us."
"This is your fault! You caused this! You're a mistake!"
"You deserve death. You should have died the moment you were born!"
Alaric tossed and turned on his bed, drenched in sweat, his breaths sharp and ragged. The vision of Eryndral he had seen in the forest replayed over and over, clawing its way through his dreams. Each time, the voices grew louder—relentless, merciless—until he could hardly stand it.
He tried to run, but his legs refused to move. The air felt thick, like he was trapped in an endless loop. Panic gripped him; he was terrified that this memory would never release him.
"You will only bring destruction, and even I cannot save you!"
"Save me! Save us!"
"Why are you doing this to us?"
The voices pierced through the darkness. Ahead, through the chaos, he saw her—Rowenne.
A flicker of hope. A refuge.
He ran toward her, desperate, reaching out as shadowy hands clawed at his legs, trying to drag him down. Somehow, he broke free, stumbling forward until he stood before her.
But instead of the warmth he longed for, there was only fear.
Rowenne lifted her head slowly. In her eyes, he saw it—raw, primal fear. Her body trembled, her lips quivered. She looked at him as though he were a monster born from nightmare.
"Spare me, please…" she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks as she fell to her knees.
"Mother… it's me. Alaric," he said, reaching out a trembling hand.
But she scrambled away, eyes wide with horror. Then she turned, and her words shattered him.
"You are a monster."
She ran. He chased her through the shadows, confusion tearing at his mind.
What did I do? Why is this happening?
His hands trembled violently. He clenched his fists, hoping to steady them—but his palms felt wet. Sticky.
Slowly, he looked down.
Blood.
A scream tore from his throat.
He jolted upright in bed, gasping, heart hammering against his ribs. The darkness around him felt alive, staring back in silence. For a moment, he couldn't breathe.
Then, faintly—the soft flicker of a smokey flame lit the room.
Beside him, Edmund slept peacefully, untouched by the nightmare.
"It's just a dream... it's just a dream," he whispered, lying back down and forcing himself to drift off again.
By morning, the storm had passed but not from his eyes.
"You look horrible. You couldn't sleep?" Rowenne asked as Alaric trudged into the dining hall, dragging his feet across the floor. The dark circles beneath his eyes told their own story.
A round table sat at the center of the room. Rowenne was seated, with Zyrelle to her right and Celine to her left. Across from them were Draven, Edmund, and two empty chairs.
"Please, sit here," Zyrelle said, gesturing toward one of the vacant seats as she rose to pour him tea. "This will replenish your strength—help make up for the rest you've lost," she added, tilting the jug. The soothing aroma of the brew filled the air.
"Zyrelle, that's Alaric," Rowenne said from across the table.
Zyrelle looked up—and froze. For a heartbeat, the room fell still. Then the jug slipped from her grasp and shattered against the floor, tea spilling across the tiles in a spreading stain. Everyone turned sharply at the sound.
"Is everything alright?" Rowenne asked, startled.
"Yeah… yes, everything's fine," Zyrelle stammered, her eyes flicking back to Alaric. Their gazes locked—just for a moment—before she turned away quickly, almost too quickly.
"Sorry," she murmured, forcing a faint smile. "It just… slipped."
She knelt to gather the pieces, but her hands trembled.
The door at the far end opened, and two attendants hurried in, kneeling quickly to gather the shards of the broken jug from the floor. Zyrelle returned to her seat as they worked, brushing her hands clean. Just as the attendants turned toward the door to leave, it swung open again—this time revealing a striking young girl whose radiant presence seemed to brighten the room.
She walked with measured grace, each step poised and deliberate, exuding a quiet confidence that turned every motion into art. Reaching the center of the room, she bowed first to Rowenne, then to Zyrelle, and finally to Alaric, Edmund, and Draven before seating herself in the only vacant chair.
Alaric kept his head low, sneaking glances when he thought no one noticed. Edmund, on the other hand, wore an unrestrained grin that didn't escape Rowenne's notice.
"Veyra," Rowenne said, a teasing warmth in her tone, "have you met him before?" She gestured toward Alaric.
"Yes, my lady," Veyra replied with perfect composure. "He is Alaric—the lady."
Edmund burst out laughing.
"The… lady?" Rowenne repeated, turning to Alaric, who promptly hid his face in his hands.
"Quite the introduction," Zyrelle remarked dryly, earning soft giggles from around the table.
"It's lady charmer," Alaric muttered under his breath once the laughter died down.
"Ah, forgive me," Veyra said, straight-faced. "That was all I heard that day, sir lady."
"Stop. You're doing it again!"
"Doing what?"
"Calling me—, never mind." He gave up, exhaling in defeat. Beneath her calm expression, he could have sworn he saw the faintest hint of a grin curve her lips—but he dared not look long enough to be sure.
"What was that about?" Rowenne asked Zyrelle as the others gulped their food silently.
"I'm seeing him for the first time today," Zyrelle said quietly, "but his face is no stranger to me."
Rowenne turned sharply. "Where—and what did you see?"
"I don't remember where or how, my lady," Zyrelle replied, her voice distant, almost uncertain. "But I remember what I saw—and it was not something that brings peace to the heart."
"I need to know, Zyrelle," Rowenne urged. "What did you see?"
Zyrelle hesitated, her eyes unfocused as though peering into a memory she wished she could unsee. Finally, she spoke.
"I remember him standing… where the flame did not burn."
Rowenne frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The world was on fire," Zyrelle said softly, her tone taking on the weight of vision. "Set aflame by someone the world did not know. And when fear silenced every soul, he was the one who stepped forward—he picked up a dry twig to put out the fire. But the twig caught flame instead. And the world, too blind by fear, sought someone to blame. So when they saw him holding the burning twig…"
She paused, her voice trembling.
"…they blamed him for the fire."