At some point, between stupor and agony, Dyan thought he heard a familiar voice. It was Lena. Her voice emerged from very far away, intertwined with the muffled sound of footsteps on the mud, as if the entire world were covered by a thick, damp blanket. He tried to call her, but found no strength even to move his lips. He barely had a flicker of consciousness left, stubborn, clinging to life like a splinter to a burning log. His vision was a gray cloud, and in it, bodies were shapeless shadows, smudges in the mist.
"He's alive!" Lena shouted, and her voice ripped through the haze. "Get the mages, quickly!"
There were more shouts, running, orders, but everything faded into the void. Within that lethargy there was no pain. There was so little of him left that not even that remained.
"My lord…" Kermit knelt beside his body, his voice broken. "By all the gods… what have you done?"
Dyan tried to respond. Nothing. His body was a ruin on the waterlogged earth, clinging barely to a thread of consciousness.
Orlec appeared seconds later, panting. He leaned over Dyan, pressing his hands urgently on his shattered chest. "Don't just stand there," he told Kermit in a hoarse, but firm voice. "As long as there's life, we can save him."
"Y-yes… of course." Kermit knelt too. Of those present, he was the only one with enough magical strength to work without reservation. "We won't let him die."
Lena stepped aside. She looked around, forcing herself to maintain composure. She had lived through many battles, but never anything like this. Wherever she looked, she found only charred bones, molten steel, black earth. What was once an army was now a carpet of ash and unrecognizable corpses. The stench of burned flesh clung to her clothes, to her skin, as if it wanted to merge with her memory.
A few Balder soldiers, cornered in the rear, had survived. But their eyes were empty. Their gait was clumsy, mechanical. When they were taken prisoner, some wished they had died. What remained of them were soulless bodies.
The Scabia mages improvised a stretcher with torn tunics and carried Dyan with utmost care back to the camp. There they treated him for days, without rest. During that time, more than one thought that what they had rescued was an empty shell. But no one gave up.
After a week of incessant healing, Dyan mumbled something unintelligible. That was enough. It was like watching a statue move. A sigh of hope swept through the tent, and the mages redoubled their efforts. Kermit and Orlec took charge of sustaining everyone's morale, guiding them with a mixture of discipline and faith.
One afternoon, Lena crossed the threshold of the tent. It wasn't the first time. Sometimes she would stand, in silence, observing from the entrance. But lately she had visited less, absorbed in armistice negotiations, which had begun three days after the disaster.
Inside, Kermit fed Dyan a thick gruel that trickled down his chin. Seeing her enter, he stood up instantly. "Captain. Thank you for coming."
Lena nodded gravely. Her eyes rested on Dyan, sitting on an improvised bed. His silver hair hung in dull, lifeless strands. His skin was ashen, his lips cracked, his eyes veiled by an opaque film. Lena bit her lower lip. She felt her chest twist with an anguish she didn't know she was capable of harboring. The boy she had come to respect now seemed little more than a shadow.
Instinctively, she reached for the dagger hanging from her belt. What if…?
"Can you leave us alone?"
"Of course." Kermit placed the bowl on the side table and left in silence, not daring to look back.
Lena sat beside Dyan. For several minutes, the silence was absolute. But her hand remained on the dagger.
Finally she spoke. "I want to believe you didn't know this was going to end like this… because if you did, I don't know if I could forgive you." She swallowed, her throat rough. "Such a brave young man doesn't deserve to spend the rest of his life in this state. Don't you think?"
Her hand trembled on the dagger's hilt. She had to clench it. She looked up, searching Dyan's eyes. But they remained opaque, absent.
"I am willing to take your life into my hands. To spare you further suffering. Perhaps it's selfish… but I would prefer you to be remembered as a hero… rather than seeing you become this." She slowly drew the dagger.
The air in the tent grew thicker. Colder.
"Give me a sign. Anything. Tell me you still want to live." She gently took his face by the chin, forcing him to look at her. "If you're in there, show it."
Dyan's lips barely moved, a weak vibration.
"Say something. Anything," Lena whispered, desperate. "Tell me you're still here."
"I… am… here…"
It was barely a thread of a voice, broken, fragile. But it was enough.
Lena closed her eyes, suppressing a sob. "Yes. You're still there." The dagger fell from her fingers to the ground with a dull thud. She looked at him tenderly and wiped his chin with the same hand, then smoothed his damp hair from his forehead. "I'll be back… I want to see that you truly are here." Her voice broke. "Please… don't give up."
Dyan tried to articulate something more, but only managed a muffled groan. His eyes remained cloudy, his body trembled, his hand was still an open wound, covered by bandages that burned to the touch. But even so, he resisted. Like a tiny flame refusing to die, even when the storm blew.
Lena gently laid him back down. A tear fell from her eyes onto Dyan's cheek. "I'm sorry…"
She stood up, trembling, and left the tent. Her hope was weak, fragile as ice at dawn. But she had heard him. I'm still here. And for that, perhaps… it was worth waiting a little longer.
Winter arrived, bringing with it an armistice that from the first day smelled of vengeance. But with snow covering roads and mountains, at least there would be peace during that season. The base camp began to be dismantled. Forces slowly returned to their places of origin.
"My lord…? Are you sure you'll be alright?"
Dyan looked up, searching for Kermit, but his face remained barely a shadow outlined against the grayish light. However, his warm voice was enough for him to recognize him. He smiled weakly, though his face still couldn't faithfully reflect his gestures.
"You must go home…" he said with effort. Then he looked at his companions. "Thank you… for everything."
He turned to Orlec with an almost inaudible whisper. "Take care of them… until they reach… the Tower."
"Of course, my lord," Orlec replied, with a hint of solemnity. "We will be waiting for you, to celebrate."
Dyan pulled a letter from his tunic and handed it to Kermit. "Give it… to my master."
The twenty mages approached in silence, forming a solemn circle around Dyan. Each placed a hand on him, an ancestral gesture among mages to bless and honor their own. It was a ceremony reserved for those who achieved mastery… or for those who returned from the abyss.
Dyan barely managed to stand with the help of his almond staff. His figure, though fragile, radiated a dignity that was moving. They had fought together to exhaustion, often doubting if they would return, but the words Dyan had spoken when they arrived at Glacius had been fulfilled and their respect had grown.
"Thank you… boys."
Some of them had fought by his side in more than one skirmish, had bled, cried, and survived together. There were no deaths among the Scabia mages, but the internal wounds… those would take years to heal. Perhaps they never would completely.
"Depart now," he ordered in a soft voice. "Lest a snowfall close the road."
The wagon departed slowly, laden with tired faces, hands raised in farewell, and gazes lost in the mist. Dyan remained standing for a long time, even after the wagon disappeared into the light snowfall.
Lena approached from behind and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Come on… it's cold, and staying out here won't do you any good."
Dyan barely turned his face, trying to see her. He could only make out a golden figure against the gray background. Even so, he nodded, sketching a faint smile.
Lena took his hand carefully. "My house isn't very big, but it will do… for both of us."
She paused for an instant. Dyan's hair had slipped over his forehead. Tenderly, Lena brushed it aside and caressed his cheeks with both hands.
"Try to smile. You're standing, you're talking… perhaps, just perhaps, you'll regain your sight soon."
"I'm smil… smiling," he replied, his lips barely curved.
She took off her scarf and placed it around his neck with a protective gesture. "Let's go home."
The road to Glacius was covered by a thin layer of snow. The base camp had been almost completely dismantled. Only a garrison remained, which would integrate into the city's permanent defenses. The snow, the rain, and time had erased the physical traces of the last battle, but not its memory.
The day of the magical discharge became a legend in the region, known as the Day of the Collapse. Some claimed the sky had cracked. Others fled in terror, convinced that the gods had unleashed their wrath upon the world.
Glacius, Willfrost's most important northern border city, welcomed them with its narrow streets, crowded houses, warm magical lanterns, and a central square that vibrated with life. The heart of the city pulsed with market, music, and voices.
Lena sat Dyan on a stone bench by the market fountain. Around them, life flowed: merchants hawking their wares, a bard singing ancient ballads, children running with laughter.
"I'll go get something to eat. Don't move from here."
Dyan gave her a faint, blurred smile. "Of course… I won't move from here. Don't worry."
Lena walked away into the crowd, but before she disappeared completely, she looked back. She saw him just as she had left him: motionless, with a faint smile and opaque eyes staring straight ahead.
"How long would he wait there if I didn't come back?" she wondered with a pang in her chest. "How long would he keep that empty smile?"
She shook her head. It was hard for her to understand what she felt. She had promised to take care of him, she had chosen to stay by his side, and yet… it weighed on her. Not because of him, but because of the emptiness that now seemed to surround him. Sometimes she wished to see him stand up, reclaim his place, raise his voice as before… and other times she wished he would never touch magic again, that he would walk away from everything that had turned him into this.
She walked away without looking back.
Dyan felt disconnected from everything. He heard the bustle, the children's laughter, the voices of vendors and buyers. He smelled the food, the freshly baked bread, the southern spices, the sweet apples. But the sounds arrived distorted, as if he were submerged underwater. His vision remained a pale, confused mist.
Time ceased to make sense. Had ten minutes passed? An hour? He couldn't tell.
Then, a familiar voice vibrated close to his ear. His heart gave a slight leap.
He leaned towards the sound, hesitating. "Lena…? Is that you?"
He fumbled with his hands and managed to grasp some clothing.
"No, boy, you're mistaken, I'm not that Lena," the person replied.
"Lena!" he shouted again, his throat dry, feeling each attempt to raise his voice tear him apart inside.
His fingers searched for the familiar wood of the bench, but only touched air and stone. The surface of the world seemed alien, as if the city itself had retreated a step. The distant murmur of passersby brought no comfort; on the contrary, it made it more evident that no one was approaching. He heard their footsteps, yes, but everyone avoided his path. Was it his eyes? His trembling appearance? Or perhaps he was simply invisible, a beggar among shadows?
The weight of that idea crushed him. Alone. Completely alone. He staggered, waving his hands in search of something to hold onto, and felt the tears, not realizing when they began to fall. His staff was gone. He fumbled his way forward, searching through the bustle for some sign.
"Lena! Lena, please!"
And then, when his voice was barely a broken whisper, when he had no hope of a reply, he heard different footsteps. Firm, quick, urgent. Then the voice, panting:
"How did you get over here?"
Hands took his arm, carefully, but trembling.
"By the gods, Dyan… you almost scared me to death."
He felt the warm touch on his cheek: Lena's thumb wiping his face with a handkerchief that smelled of jasmine and fresh ink. She straightened his wrinkled tunic, his disheveled collar. Then she picked up his staff, the one he himself had dropped without noticing.
"It was you…" he whispered, with a faint smile. The sound of his voice was different. Smaller, more fragile. As if he had just realized how much he was breaking.
And it was at that moment, with her there, touching him, holding him, that he truly understood how deeply he had descended into his fragility. The world had become dark, immense, and hostile. Only her voice brought him back. Only she was still an anchor.
"I'm here, Dyan. I'm with you," Lena said firmly, though her eyes were also red from fear. "Please…" She hugged him tightly.
Dyan felt Lena's agitated breathing on his neck, against his chest.
"I thought it was you… I thought it was you." He added with a broken voice. "I… truly, I thought it was you."
"Quiet, I'm here now." She squeezed him tighter. "I took longer than I expected, I'm sorry."
He nodded in silence. He had no more words. Only the certainty of her touch and that voice that, for now, still rescued him from the darkness.