### **Chapter 2: The Dying Breath**
The world shrank to a pinpoint.
Then silence swallowed it whole.
His parents were gone.
Victor stood rooted to the spot, every muscle quivering. His father's hearty laugh lingered in his mind, a cruel echo against the sight before him: Varian's hand stretched toward Selina, their fingertips brushing in a final, futile reach. Blood seeped across the marble floor, pooling around his mother's favourite shawl—a soft blue thing, now crumpled and stained.
*No.* His breath caught, sharp and ragged. *This can't be real.*
A rough hand seized his arm, snapping him back.
"Victor! Sara's hurt!"
Erwin's voice sliced through the fog. The professor's face was ghostly pale, streaked with ash and blood that soaked his tattered robes. His grip, though, was unyielding.
In his other arm, Sara dangled lifelessly—her eyes half-open, unfocused, her breaths faint as whispers. A jagged gash tore through her gown, dark blood spreading like ink across the fabric. Death hovered near, patient and inevitable.
"Stay with me," Victor murmured, voice splintering. He dropped to his knees beside her, a trembling hand grazing her cheek. Her skin was clammy, far too cold.
Erwin hauled them through the chaos, the castle crumbling around them. Flames roared like a living beast, devouring tapestries and splintering stone. The air was thick with iron, ash, and a bitter tang—burning magic. Behind them, the invaders pressed closer—shadowy figures with eyes that glinted red through the haze, their steps swift and unnaturally precise.
Victor's Shadow magic surged unbidden, dark tendrils coiling around him like a second skin. They deflected falling beams and blunted the invaders' icy strikes. The shadows felt dense, heavy as the guilt gnawing at his chest, but they kept him breathing.
Sara's weight sagged further. Her breaths grew fainter, threadbare.
Erwin shoved them into a tight, unfamiliar passage—a forgotten corridor barely wide enough to hold them. It twisted sharply and spat them into a small, half-ruined alcove, shrouded in dust and shadow.
The professor collapsed to his knees, a wet cough rattling through him. Blood flecked his lips.
"She's dying," he croaked, voice raw and fractured. "Her soul's fracturing. Normal magic won't save her—not here."
Victor's pulse hammered. "Then what? Tell me how to save her!"
Erwin fumbled in his robe and drew out a plain silver ring. It looked ordinary, yet a faint, cold glow pulsed within it—a quiet, living power.
"A binding ritual," he said, each word a struggle. "Old. Forbidden. Risky. It'll trap her essence—give you time."
He thrust the ring into Victor's shaking hand. It felt cold at first, then warmed as if it knew him.
"You'll need to finish it later," Erwin rasped. "Find the full spell. Bring her back." His eyes blazed with a desperate, fading hope.
The professor began to chant, his voice a broken thread of sound. The ring flared, its light swelling until Sara's form shimmered and dissolved—her essence spiraling into the silver band. Victor's chest tightened; he wanted to stop it, to pull her back—but Erwin's certainty held him still. He had to trust this.
A wave of raw mana erupted outward, a deafening pulse that shook the castle's bones. Dust rained down, and the invaders' footsteps hastened, drawn like moths to the surge.
Erwin clutched Victor's arm, gasping. "Find the … … it's the only way… for her…"
His grip slackened. His eyes dimmed.
He slumped forward, lifeless.
The silence that followed was suffocating, heavier than the smoke.
Boots thudded closer—too close.
Then a sudden force slammed into Victor's chest, hurling him deeper into the alcove. It was Erwin's final act—a burst of magic, a wordless order: *run.*
Victor crashed to the stone, the ring clenched in his fist. Alone. His parents dead. Sara's soul caged. Erwin gone.
No tears came. No cries broke free.
Just a cold, crushing weight—and a flicker of fire in his gut.
*He'd save her. Whatever it took.*
His world was ash and ruin.
And he ran—toward the only shred of hope he had left.