The fire had died down. Tellen was snoring quietly under a blanket of stitched leathers, curled against the cave wall like a cat with too many secrets.
Arjuna could not sleep.
His sword lay beside him, unsheathed, its red cloth trailing like a banner lost in time. He watched it as if it might speak, as if memory might bloom from the metal.
The wind outside had quieted. Snow fell in whispers.
He closed his eyes.
And dreamed.
He stood in a field of glass.
The sky burned violet, the stars unmoving. Shattered towers stretched like black spines across the horizon. Every step crunched beneath his feet—jagged shards of memory, of past and future ground into the earth.
In the center of the ruin stood a throne.
Not of gold or bone, but of twisted iron roots. And seated upon it—
Nyssara.
She wore a crown of thorns and dusk. Her eyes were silver—no, not silver, luminous, like moonlight frozen mid-tear. Her hair drifted about her like ink in water, caught in winds that did not exist.
Arjuna couldn't speak.
She rose.
The world wept beneath her. Trees bloomed and withered in her wake. The sky cracked as her gaze passed through it.
"You remember," she said.
He shook his head. "No. I—"
"Liar," she whispered. "Even now, the blood sings."
She stood before him.
Reaching out.
And when her fingers brushed his cheek, he remembered the scream of gods.
A battlefield.
The sky was a wound. Angels fell like ash. Cities burned mid-prayer.
Arjuna stood at the vanguard, sword raised, his armor gleaming with divine light. But it was not the same sword he bore now—it shimmered with gold, not red. Pure. Blinding.
Behind him, knights chanted oaths in unison.
Before him, Nyssara.
She was not a queen then. She was a god. Or something close enough.
She stood alone, the storm gathered behind her, her voice shaking the mountains.
"Step aside, Arjuna. I only want the Gate."
"No."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You would raise your blade against me?"
"I swore to protect it."
Nyssara's voice broke. "You swore to protect me."
The battlefield shuddered.
And then—violence.
They moved like stars colliding. Her hands weaved flame and shadow; his blade cut through time itself. Every strike echoed across the planes. Mountains fell. Oceans boiled.
The other gods watched. And feared.
In the end, he drove his blade into her chest.
And she kissed him as she fell.
"I forgive you," she whispered.
He woke gasping, sweat freezing on his brow.
The fire was dead. Tellen still slept, his breathing slow and even.
Arjuna clutched the red-cloaked sword, as if it might anchor him to the now.
But the dream still pulsed behind his eyes.
He had killed her.
No—he had loved her.
He had chosen duty. And in doing so, shattered something greater than kingdoms.
He rose.
Stepped outside.
The dawn was gray. Mist clung to the cliffs like old regret.
Below, in the valley, Ashwood Hold waited.
But the memory of Nyssara's touch lingered longer than the cold.
Tellen caught up by midmorning, yawning and stretching exaggeratedly.
"Rough night?" he asked, casually biting into a frost-covered apple.
Arjuna didn't answer.
The historian raised an eyebrow. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I remembered something."
Tellen perked up instantly. "Oho? Do tell."
"A battlefield. Gods. Her."
"Nyssara?"
Arjuna nodded slowly. "She stood against them. I… stopped her."
Tellen whistled. "Now that is interesting."
Arjuna looked away. "I killed her."
Tellen's face softened. "Then why do you still feel her?"
Because the dream wasn't a dream. Because when she kissed him as she fell, it wasn't vengeance—it was forgiveness. A god's love for the mortal who betrayed her.
And now she was alive again.
Somewhere.
Changed.
They reached the edges of Ashwood Hold by afternoon.
The trees had grown thick over the broken ramparts. Moss covered rusted spears. Time had devoured stone and steel, but left the bones of memory intact.
Arjuna stepped past a shattered gate.
Tellen muttered something under his breath. "This place reeks of old blood and older magic."
"There's something here."
"I'd be disappointed if there wasn't."
They crossed into the courtyard. Vines clung to dead statues. An old bell tower leaned precariously, as if listening.
Then they heard it.
A chime.
Soft. Hollow.
A bell that should not ring.
Tellen froze. "That's not wind."
The sound came again—three slow tolls. Then silence.
Arjuna felt his sword grow warm.
And from the shadows beneath the tower, a figure stepped forth.
Wrapped in ruined armor. Antlered helm. Runes dim with age.
Tellen swore. "That's… is that a knight?"
Arjuna didn't speak.
Because he knew the shape. The weight of that silence.
This was no bandit. No ghost conjured from fear.
It was someone he had once sworn to bury.
And failed.