Lierre's final words, "I already died a long time ago, Andrea," echoed across the vast, cosmic expanse that seemed suspended between time and memory. The stars themselves seemed to dim in acknowledgment of her truth, the faint shimmer of celestial dust hanging heavy around them. She was poised at the threshold of rest, seeking the eternal silence that only true annihilation could grant. But her peace demanded an atrocity: the destruction of the girl who carried her sleeping fragment, the girl Andrea had come to cherish—Marissa.
Andrea's knees trembled, threatening to give way beneath the crushing weight of impossibility. He was a warrior, a general, a man seasoned in countless battles, yet this command was an agonizing torture designed not by mortal hands but by fate itself. He stared at her—the ethereal image of his lost love, yet untouchable, ghostly, and absolute. The Lierre he remembered was the warmth in his life, the spark that kept his heart from freezing in despair, but now she was an echo, translucent and demanding.
"Lierre…" His voice broke, a mixture of disbelief, sorrow, and the unbearable weight of duty. He reached forward instinctively, fingers trembling, longing to touch her, to find the warmth of a life lost. But his hand passed through her, slicing through shimmering energy like it was nothing but mist. She was untouchable, unreal, a memory made manifest.
She watched him with the faintest softening of her gaze. "Andrea, look at me," she murmured, the words gentle yet resolute, like wind brushing across a still, frozen lake.
He lifted his tear-streaked face to hers. For the first time, the cold imperative in her eyes cracked, revealing a trace of sorrow beneath.
"You have been fighting for a future that is not there," Lierre said, voice calm but laden with the weight of centuries. "Your wish… your only true wish… was to see me again. You have it. But this form—this fragment—cannot last. If she wakes, I am gone forever. If you want a piece of me to remain, to feel a sense of closure, you must follow my command."
Her hand lifted gracefully, and from the celestial dust, a golden dagger shimmered into being. Its hilt glimmered with a light that seemed older than time, the blade perfectly balanced, beautiful, and deadly. She held it out toward him, its radiance reflecting in the pools of anguish that were his eyes.
"Take this. Destroy the body. Set me free. And then, you too will be released from your long vigil," she said.
Andrea's gaze flickered between the dagger, her ethereal form, and his own trembling hands. The same hands she had just healed, the hands now capable of an unspeakable act. He remembered Marissa—her laughter, her fire, her clumsy but fierce devotion, the way she had unwittingly brought life into his cold, ordered existence. She was vibrant, real, breathing. Everything Lierre was not.
If I kill her… it would mean losing you permanently. The thought cut through him like a dagger sharper than any blade in existence. To gain eternal rest for Lierre, he would sacrifice the living, burning heart of someone who had become a second anchor for his soul.
The golden hilt shimmered in his palm as he slowly, agonizingly, touched it. Cold. Heavy. Absolute. The contact with the dagger was a reminder of the impossible choice resting solely on him: the salvation of a fragment, the murder of the living, or the potential loss of everything.
"And what about Marissa's soul?" he whispered, his voice hoarse, fragile. "She… she has a life."
Lierre's gaze never wavered. "Marissa is a vessel. Her life is intertwined with a prophecy she cannot escape. If you kill her body, her soul will return to the current of time, to the fate that awaits it. But my fragment will find peace. It is the lesser cruelty, Andrea. It is the final service you can render to the woman you swore to protect."
He gripped the dagger tightly. The metal was icy, the weight excruciating, yet every ounce of its presence felt magnified by the burden of destiny. Two lives. Two souls. Two futures—all hanging in the balance, resting on the choice of one man who had never before been asked to wield such absolute power over love, memory, and life itself.
The cosmic starlight that had once seemed serene now felt like a prison, a crucible of impossible decisions. Andrea stood rigid, the golden dagger slick and heavy in his hand, every bead of sweat chilled against his skin. It was a weight not just of metal, but of life and death, love and memory.
"You've always been too kind, Andrea," Lierre whispered, her eyes soft yet resolute, carrying an affectionate pity that pressed against his chest. "That hasn't changed with age."
He could not argue. His kindness, his hesitation to commit cruelty, had always been his greatest vulnerability. He lifted his gaze, his eyes swimming with desperation and anguish.
"You're so cruel, Lierre…" he choked, each word tearing through him as if his very soul were breaking—CHOKE. "We finally got to see each other… after so long… And now you want us to part this way?" Hot, traitorous tears trickled down—TRICKLE—onto the gleaming blade, pattering like a mournful rhythm across the floor.
Lierre's expression remained composed, but now a shadow of shared purpose flickered within her ethereal eyes. "Things are different now," she said. Her gaze shifted from Andrea to a vision forming in the darkness—a tableau of hope: weary villagers receiving aid from a woman who radiated serenity and power.
JOLT
Andrea gasped, recognizing her. Marissa. His bride. The Dragon's Bride, bringing light to the desperate, fulfilling a destiny that had been whispered of in legends.
"You've seen all the things she's accomplished," Lierre continued, her voice sharpening with strategy and necessity. "She has done so much good. But she is vulnerable. To enable her to do more, we must help her…"
The vision intensified. A woman with pale hair, kind eyes—the true Lierre, the goddess meant to protect the world—appeared.
"…We have Lucina."
Andrea's chest tightened. The implication was mercilessly clear: Marissa was only a vessel, a bridge. The world required the power contained within her, yet channeled through the divine core of Lierre herself. To ensure the prophecy, the mortal girl's vessel had to be destroyed.
"…and kill Marissa," Lierre finished, her form now shimmering with cold, burning light.
With a sudden, decisive motion, her hand grasped Andrea's, guiding him toward the dagger—REACH.
"Marissa is going to wake up soon," Lierre urged, her eyes reflecting the crimson glow of the palace outside. "You must! You must hurry…"
Andrea's anguished cry tore through the cosmic silence. "Wait for me! I'll join you once I've taken care of matters here!" His voice, a blend of grief and grim resolve, carried a promise that cut through despair. "Rest in peace now, Lierre."
A faint, peaceful smile crossed her face. "I'm so happy I got to see you one last time."
And then, as if the universe itself had shattered, the vision dissolved with the sound of glittering crystal breaking.
Andrea's senses snapped back to the burning room. The dagger was real now, heavy and alive with consequence in his hand. Over the sleeping, radiant figure of Marissa, he hovered like a man condemned.
With a desperate, trembling motion, he drove the blade down—STAB.
There was no scream. Only the wet, sickening impact of life ending, the crimson bloom of blood spreading across her red gown and onto the pristine floor. The room erupted in a blinding white light and a high-pitched roar—FSSSHHHH—as Lierre's fragment was finally released, the prophecy fulfilled in its tragic entirety.
The dagger slipped from his numb fingers, falling to the floor—CLATTER. Andrea stared at the lifeless body of his bride, heart hollowed by grief. He had chosen the ghost of the past over the fiery reality of the present, executing what he believed to be the "lesser cruelty."
Outside, the palace roared in flame—BLAZE, BLAAAZZZ. He stumbled through the corridors, white uniform marred with blood, mind a haze. I'll join you once I've taken care of matters here.
In the hallway, a young maid rushed toward him, clutching a baby girl. Her eyes widened in horror at the sight of blood covering the king.
"OH NO, YOUR EMINENCE! YOU'RE HURT!" she cried.
The baby, Princess Lucina, wailed piercingly—WAAAH!—as panic overtook the servant. "Please don't cry, Princess!" she pleaded, but realizing the scale of disaster, her voice rose in desperation. "I need to find medical supplies—quickly!"
Andrea pressed against the gilded doorframe, body trembling under the weight of moral devastation. He had killed Marissa. He had survived Lierre. And now, he had to protect Lucina, the child who represented the fragile hope remaining amidst ruin.
He forced himself forward, step by staggering step—STEP, STEP, STAGGER—through the smoke-filled hallway, each breath ragged.
The sounds of approaching armor shattered the fragile silence—DASH. Three soldiers of the Brionian Kingdom appeared, cold, gray, and deadly, confirming the invasion that Andrea had feared.
The maid clutched the baby tighter, trembling with terror. "Who are you? How did you find this place?!"
One soldier's gaze fell upon Andrea. "He's gravely injured! He needs treatment immediately!"
Before they could advance further, a pale-haired woman in a light blue dress rushed past—DASH—with speed and purpose, her eyes fixed on Andrea.
"YOUR EMINENCE!" the maid cried.
Andrea barely raised his gaze, disoriented. Lucina… the child he was sworn to protect.
The woman knelt by him, hands glowing with the same divine light Lierre had wielded—GLOW. His wounds vanished, and the blood faded from his uniform.
"I'm fine now, Lucina. Thank you," he whispered, weary but resolute.
A soldier murmured in disbelief, staring at the miraculous display: "Did she just use… Holy Power?"
The King rose, saved but weighed down by the cost of his choice. The war had arrived, and the price of his decision—the death of Marissa, the survival of Lucina—was only beginning to echo through the halls of the ruined palace.
The searing white light of Holy Power slowly faded, leaving Andrea standing on the marble floor, physically whole but burdened with a chilling clarity. The rich white fabric of his uniform was still stained with the blood that was no longer his own—blood that belonged to Marissa, the Dragon's Bride he had been forced to destroy. Yet, with the pain gone from his body, his mind was sharper than it had been in hours, every detail of the burning palace and the people around him cutting through the haze of grief and exhaustion.
He rose, muscles taut, eyes scanning the figure kneeling before him. Lucina, the woman who had wielded the divine Holy Power to heal him, looked calm but alert. Andrea's lips moved slowly, testing the foreign weight of her name: "I'm fine now, Lucina. Thank you." The sound felt strange, unfamiliar, but carried the gravity of truth.
A Brionian soldier, helmet tucked under his arm, could do nothing but murmur in astonishment: "Did she just use… Holy Power?" The revelation of such potent energy, wielded in the heart of what should have been enemy territory, caused a ripple of awe and unease.
Andrea's gaze shifted between the group of soldiers and Lucina herself. Authority returned to his posture, his voice steady and commanding: "Tell me what happened."
Before she could answer, the distressed maid, still tightly **"SQUEEZE"**ing the crying infant Princess Lucina, interjected, suspicion etched into her face: "Why are there Brionian soldiers with you?" Her eyes darted nervously between the armored men and the woman who had just healed the King, struggling to reconcile the terror outside with the sudden, almost miraculous calm inside.
From the small contingent of Brionian soldiers, a figure stepped forward. Clad in dark, immaculate armor, he moved with an ease and authority that immediately drew Andrea's attention. With a deliberate motion—SLIDE—he lifted his helmet, revealing short, dark hair and resolute gray eyes that met Andrea's gaze without hesitation.
"Allow me to explain," he said, voice deep, calm, and measured. Then, performing the ultimate gesture of submission, he dropped to one KNEEL before King Andrea, the contrast of his dark armor against the pale, blood-spattered floor making the moment starkly dramatic.
"I am the Crown Prince of Brion Kingdom," he declared, head held steady, eyes locked on Andrea with solemn respect. There was no excuse, no attempt to justify the destruction or the fire consuming the palace. Only honor. "It is an honor to meet you, Your Eminence."
Author's Insight: The Cruel Symmetry
The final tableau was one of devastating, perfect symmetry. Andrea, the King of Tayar, stood miraculously healed, yet scarred by the weight of the choice that had just cost Marissa her life. Lucina, embodying the pure Holy Power that Lierre had wished to activate, had appeared amidst the chaos to heal him, bridging past love and present duty. And now, the Crown Prince of Brion, the external threat that had loomed over the palace, knelt not as a conqueror but as an ally, submitting to Andrea's authority.
The Dragon King's path had been violently reset: the weak vessel, Marissa, had been removed; the Holy Power, Lucina, was now present; and the political threat of Brion was neutralized, kneeling in supplication. Andrea's cruel decision—meant to grant Lierre peace and secure a future—had irrevocably tied his destiny to a new, potent set of players: the young, powerful Lucina and the calculating Crown Prince of Brion.
The war within the palace had ended, but the true game—the game of thrones, power, and tragic destiny—was only just beginning.