Elian narrowed his eyes, trying to understand. Then, by instinct, he dared:
"You are… the owl that brought me here?"
The entity smiled, a mischievous smile that confirmed without words.
"What is my name?" she asked.
"You never told me!" Elian shot back.
"I never said I revealed it. I said you've already heard it."
The words struck him like blades. Elian plunged into the labyrinth of his mind, overturning every memory since his birth as Elian… but nothing emerged. Frustration grew, swelling into anger. Was this nothing but a cruel game of that creature?
He tried to speak, but his voice died halfway. For an instant, the entity's face crystallized: a blonde woman with a silver veil covering her features, a radiant moon glowing behind her head.
In that moment, a distant memory burst like a shattered dam. Elian was no longer in the gray field. He was Rodrigo once again.
He felt knives piercing his flesh—once, twice, over and over. The pain burned like liquid fire. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the nauseating stench of filth, filling the room where he writhed. His blurred eyes turned toward the television left on—and there, by chance or fate, a documentary on a Celtic goddess flickered across the screen. Life. Death. Reincarnation.
Between stabs, before consciousness abandoned him, he wished—desperately—for a second chance. And then the owl appeared at the window, and his life as Elian began.
The vision shattered. He was back in the gray expanse. But the pain remained. Each stab still throbbed, echoing in body and mind. He tasted blood in his mouth, as though dying all over again.
"Do you know my name?" the entity pressed.
Elian opened his mouth, but nothing came. Not silence—mute screams of agony, as if his throat had been torn out. His mind splintered under the weight.
He tried again. A third time. Still nothing. Until suddenly, a sound broke from him like thunder in the dark:
"Arianrhod!" Elian cried.
His eyes flew open in the Dark Throne's branch chamber. His body was drenched in sweat, breath ragged as though he had run for miles. The bedcovers were twisted in his trembling hands.
He pulled himself upright, gasping, while the word echoed in his mind like both revelation and condemnation:
Arianrhod.
"Arianrhod?" asked Iolanda, standing beside the bed.
"Magus Iolanda?" Elian turned to her, still panting, his breathing ragged and broken. "When did you come in?"
"About twenty minutes ago," she answered calmly. "I saw the candles on the floor and realized you performed the meditation I taught you, didn't you?" She pointed at the remnants of wax scattered across the carpet.
"Yes…" he admitted with effort, trying to rise, though his body still felt unbearably heavy, as if he had been running for days. "I began right after the meeting with Elder Marduk."
"I see…" she murmured, studying him with grave eyes. "Start getting ready. It's time we take the Teleportation Portal."
"So soon?" Elian looked at her in confusion.
Iolanda frowned, surprised by his reaction.
"Elian… do you have any idea what time it is?"
He fell silent, unsure of what to answer. "For me, not much time has passed since the meeting with the Elder…" he muttered, incredulous.
But reality was crueler. Time in the physical world had flowed on, while for Elian—lost in the gray void of meditation—everything had warped. When he had asked Akame to leave him in peace for the ritual, it was barely six in the evening. But once immersed in that emptiness where nothing existed—no scent, no sound, no cold, no heat—his consciousness had lost all sense of reality.
Not long after he had collapsed inside the circle of candles, Anna entered his room. She found him lying pale and motionless, as if asleep. Unaware of the gravity, she laid him on the bed and left him to rest. At that moment, he had not yet relived Rodrigo's stabbing, nor glimpsed the goddess—only the suffocating silence of solitude.
But as the night deepened, everything changed. When Iolanda returned to check on him, she found a harrowing scene. Elian was drenched in sweat, tears streaked his shut eyes, and his body shuddered in rhythmic spasms—as though invisible blades were tearing into him. Each convulsion dragged up a buried memory; each ragged breath carried the echo of a death long past.
She tried everything to wake him. Called his name, shook his shoulders, even projected a thread of mana to force his consciousness back. Nothing worked. Her perception was clear: he was enduring a trial, though she could not tell of what kind. It was not Qliphoth—there were no signs of an actual tunnel crossing. Perhaps it was only the resurgence of trauma, or perhaps… something else had seized his soul.
And now, at the cry of "Arianrhod," Iolanda understood only a fragment of what Elian had endured.
"I see," she said at his answer. "It's nearly eight in the morning."
"Did I delay you?" he asked, struggling to rise and moving toward his Dark Throne garments.
"No," Iolanda replied with composure, though her discreet eyes noted the faint limp in his steps, remnants of the night before. "We'll just have breakfast and then depart for Cainã." She turned toward the door.
Elian followed her with his gaze. The sound of her footsteps filled the silence. She wore the order's military attire, impeccable, the dark fabric shaping her firm posture. Her loose hair swayed softly as she reached the doorway. She paused for an instant, as if some unseen weight pressed her shoulders. Turning, her clear eyes settled on Elian.
"Congratulations on making contact with your guardian goddess," she said, then closed the door behind her.
Silence swallowed the room. A faint smile touched Elian's lips. He knew Iolanda was not one for easy praise; her words were always measured, sharp, precise. To receive acknowledgment from her was rare—and for that reason, precious.
He did not consider himself special in the world's eyes, but he knew he was different. He bore the full awareness of a past life, scars no six-year-old child should carry, stripped of the innocence meant to mark his age. His soul had been born fractured, splintered like shards of glass scattered on the ground—laden with guilt, hatred, and regret.
And yet, some part of him remained alive: the boy who liked to be praised. Perhaps it was that fragment of childhood that still kept him human.
Elian began to dress. First, the ceremonial tunic of the Dark Throne, in shades of black and crimson. But this time, instead of wearing it alone, he layered it with the gray tunic Maria had sewn for him. The fabric was simple, patched in places, but stitched with care and love. The initials embroidered at the collar were a reminder that, even from afar, his family was with him.
He tied his shoulder-length hair back with the golden ribbon Emanuelle had given him. Before the mirror, he adjusted each garment piece by piece. His eyes showed the exhaustion of the night's ordeal, yet within them flickered a quiet light—the sense of having taken another step, of having survived.
He picked up the small cloth satchel with the few belongings he still had and walked to the door. Before leaving, he turned once more to the room. For an instant, the sight of the extinguished hearth, the melted candles, and the neatly made bed seemed like a small temple—a threshold between what he had been and what he was becoming.
With that thought, he closed the door behind him and walked down the corridor toward the hall, where Iolanda and Elder Marduk awaited for the journey to Cainã.