The world was a symphony of agony and fading light. The acrid scent of ozone, sharp and metallic, clawed at Alfia's throat, mingling with the coppery tang of her own blood. It was the grim perfume of a cataclysm, a testament to the raw, unbridled power she had just unleashed, and the devastating price she had paid. Around her, the remnants of Orario lay in ruins, a testament to the Great Feud and the colossal, silent monument of the vanquished Leviathan. Her formidable magic, the very essence of her being, had been poured into that final, desperate act, pushing her already failing body beyond any conceivable limit.1
Her illness, an incurable curse woven into the very fabric of her existence since birth, now raged unchecked, consuming her from within. Every breath was a shallow, ragged gasp, each beat of her heart a painful thrum against her ribs. The "limit off" state, a skill that granted her power beyond her level, had always come with a debilitating cost, manifesting as poison and paralysis, weakening her with every use.3 Now, after the
Genos Anglius that had felled the Leviathan, the drawbacks were absolute, a final, crushing weight pulling her into the abyss.1 She felt the insidious creep of paralysis, numbing her limbs, stealing her ability to even twitch a finger. Her vision blurred, the vibrant chaos of the ruined city dissolving into a hazy, indistinct canvas. The noise, the incessant, grating noise of destruction and distant screams, was a torment to her sensitive ears, a final, cruel assault on her composure. All she craved was silence, the profound, absolute silence of oblivion.
Yet, as the last vestiges of her consciousness flickered, a warmth, impossibly pure and familiar, bloomed within her. It was not the searing heat of her magic, nor the cold grip of death, but a gentle, pervasive embrace. It was Meteria. Her twin sister. The connection was undeniable, a thread of profound love that transcended the veil of death. Meteria's dying act, a miracle born of selfless devotion, had ensured her son, Bell, was born free of their shared, cursed lineage. That boundless sacrifice, Alfia realized with a jolt that momentarily pierced through the haze of pain, seemed to ripple outward, extending beyond Bell, granting Alfia an inexplicable reprieve. A partial remission. A stabilization from the relentless grip of her own disease, a fleeting moment of grace in the face of absolute despair.1 Why? Why her? Why was she, the one burdened by a "sinful" power, being granted this impossible gift? The question echoed in the fading chambers of her mind, unanswered, yet undeniably present.
It was Zeus, the old god of heroes, who found her. His usually boisterous demeanor was subdued, his shoulders slumped with a weariness that spoke of profound loss. His gaze, usually twinkling with mischief, was heavy with the weight of their Familias' recent, devastating defeat against the One-Eyed Black Dragon. The banishment of the Zeus and Hera Familias, the public's scorn for their "failure to protect the world," had been a bitter pill to swallow, a humiliating end to an era of unparalleled might.5 He moved with a quiet urgency, his hands surprisingly gentle as he carefully lifted the frail form of the woman who had once been hailed as the strongest mage in the world.1
The journey was a blur of pain and disorientation for Alfia. Each jostle sent fresh waves of agony through her weakened frame, but beneath it, a strange sense of being cared for, of being protected, began to settle. Zeus, despite his own profound grief and the crushing burden of their defeat, was resolute. He carried her away from the devastation, away from the prying eyes of a city that now reviled them, to a secluded, untouched corner of the world. It was a small, unassuming cottage nestled deep within verdant hills, far from Orario's immediate dangers and the relentless scrutiny of other Familias.7
There, cradled in a makeshift bassinet, lay a tiny bundle of white hair and crimson eyes. Bell. Meteria's son. Alfia's nephew. As Zeus gently placed her down on a simple cot, her eyes, still clouded with pain and exhaustion, fell upon the infant. A jolt, sharp and unexpected, pierced through her. He was a living, breathing testament to Meteria's ultimate sacrifice, a sacrifice that had, in some inexplicable way, tethered Alfia to life, giving her a tangible reason to live and protect.1
Guilt, a familiar, bitter companion, surged within her, more potent than any physical pain. Her exceptional magical talent, the very power that had allowed her to survive the Leviathan, felt like a 'sin,' a stolen gift from her sister. Meteria, who had been so kind, so loved by everyone, had suffered from the same illness, only worse, leaving her weak and frail, unable to leave her room.8 And now, she was gone, having exchanged her life for Bell's, while Alfia, the "strongest mage," remained. The injustice of it, the profound weight of her survival, pressed down on her.
Zeus, sensing her turmoil, spoke softly, his voice a balm against the echoes of battle and the clamor of her own self-reproach. "She wanted him to live, Alfia. To live a full life, free of the curse that plagued us." He explained Meteria's final wish, her desperate plea for Bell to be free, and how that profound 'mother power' might just be the key to Alfia's own continued existence, a reason to live and nurture. He spoke of the possibility that by choosing to raise Bell, Alfia would find her own life prolonged, a concept that seemed almost too fantastical, even for a goddess.
Alfia listened, her mind reeling. A "mother power"? Her? The Silent Witch, who despised noise and found solace only in solitude, now bound to a wailing infant? The idea was absurd, yet a flicker of something, a fragile, nascent hope, ignited within her. Bell, with his pure, innocent presence, was a stark contrast to the darkness and destruction she had just endured. He was a blank slate, untouched by the turmoil of their past, a living embodiment of Meteria's love.
And so, in that quiet sanctuary, far from the prying eyes of Orario and the lingering shadows of their banishment, Alfia began the arduous journey of recovery. The cottage itself was simple, almost spartan, a stark contrast to the opulent Hera Familia manor she had once inhabited, where even her own bedroom had been plain amidst the haughty goddess's extravagance.1 Here, there was only the bare minimum, a quiet solitude that, for once, was not entirely of her own choosing.
Her body, once a vessel of immense power, was now a fragile shell, demanding years of rest and healing. The initial days were a blur of pain, weakness, and the constant, demanding presence of the infant. Bell's cries, his tiny movements, his pure, unadulterated existence, were a constant challenge to her ingrained desire for silence and solitude. She, who was known for her calm and composed demeanor, yet could be selfish, neurotic, and violent when provoked, found herself navigating an entirely new landscape of emotions.
She observed him, a tiny, helpless creature, so utterly dependent. She watched him sleep, his small chest rising and falling with an innocence that felt alien to her battle-hardened soul. She saw Meteria in his white hair and crimson eyes, a constant, poignant reminder of her sister's sacrifice. The guilt, the deep-seated belief that her powers were a "sin" from "stealing" Meteria's abilities, remained a heavy burden. She initially recoiled from the idea of fully embracing her role, fearing she might somehow taint him, or draw him into the dangerous world that had consumed her family.
But as the weeks turned into months, a subtle shift began. The "mother power" Zeus had spoken of, once a vague theory, began to manifest in a tangible way. Her recovery, though slow and arduous, was steady. The debilitating effects of her illness, while still present, seemed to recede, held at bay by the profound, undeniable purpose that Bell's presence instilled within her.1 He was a reason to live, a reason to fight, a reason to heal. He was a living, breathing connection to the sister she had loved and lost, a chance to nurture the purest part of her legacy.
Zeus, visiting occasionally, offered quiet support and wisdom, his presence a grounding force. He spoke of the future, of the potential Bell held, and of the need for Alfia to guide him. He subtly encouraged her to embrace her role, reminding her of Meteria's wish for Bell to live a full life, free from the shadows of their past.
And so, in that quiet sanctuary, far from the prying eyes of Orario and the lingering shadows of their banishment, Alfia began the arduous journey of recovery. Her body, once a vessel of immense power, was now a fragile shell, demanding years of rest and healing. But beside her, a tiny, innocent presence, a beacon of Meteria's love, offered a new, unexpected purpose. Bell Cranel, the child of a miracle, and Alfia, the Silent Witch, bound by a destiny irrevocably transformed. The world outside might have banished them, but within these quiet walls, a new chapter, a new legacy, was slowly, painstakingly, beginning to unfold.