The wind carried laughter — soft, youthful, full of life.
Annie was still a girl, her feet bare against the mossy earth as she chased Hanami between the trees.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting them both in dappled gold.
They ran side by side, carefree, their laughter echoing across the forest trail.
Hanami, a witch princess and daughter of the Queen, wore flowers braided in her long hair.
Her smile was radiant, untouchable. Beside her was her closest friend —
Annie, a girl not born of nobility, but accepted into the clan after losing her own family.
She didn't have royal blood, but she had loyalty. And love.
Trailing behind them was the third — a boy with a wild heart and reckless grin, the one who would one day marry Hanami.
The three of them were inseparable.
They did everything together — hunting, laughing, building dreams under the stars.
They were tasked with gathering food for the clan, and with their natural rhythm, they brought back more than enough. Not just survival — abundance.
Those were the years of warmth. The years of purpose.
But fire always comes.
Like dozens of other witch clans across the continent, they were hunted — targeted by humans who feared what they couldn't control.
It came without warning.
Screams tore through the night. The sky turned red. Trees burned, huts collapsed, magic clashed against steel.
Annie and Hanami fought back — but they weren't strong enough to save everyone.
Hanami's husband died in the chaos, torn from their lives in the blink of an eye.
The grief they carried turned to fury.
They marched to a nearby kingdom — a proud, armored nation — and unleashed all they had.
Hanami's Flower Creation birthed roses laced with poison, vines that tore through the streets.
Annie's light Creation, had manifested into a Reaper Scythe, just like the original Reaper.
And used it to cut down soldier after soldier, her eyes cold with vengeance.
Together, they nearly wiped out a kingdom.
But in the height of it all — Annie vanished.
Captured.
Dragged into the shadows and thrown into a dark room, where even Annie's light didn't shine.
There, they stripped her of her name. Her purpose. Her dignity.
They wanted her. They wanted to dissect her, take what made her uniqueand give it to others.
They experimented, tortured, recorded by writing everything — but her Creation would not yield.
They wanted to know what a witch is!
But in the end they failed.
Eventually, she escaped.
Alone.
Wounded.
She never found Hanami again.
(Present)
Ash covered the ground like snow.
Menma was lying in the center of the crater — bleeding, broken, fists bruised from slamming the earth.
The mountain behind him had collapsed into ruin. His body trembled, his voice was lost.
Zayne landed hard, boots cracking against the stone.
Lunara leapt from his arms and rushed forward, her heart caught in her throat.
"Menma!" she called.
He didn't answer.
"MENMA!" she screamed again, falling to her knees beside him.
His eyes were swollen, red from crying. His jaw clenched, shaking with grief.
"I couldn't save her…" he whispered.
Lunara's breath caught. "Who?"
Menma's voice cracked. "I couldn't protect our mother…"
Lunara froze.
"No…" she whispered, stepping back. "No—where is she?! Where's Mom?!"
He looked at her, face hollow.
"She's dead."
The words hit harder than any blast. Lunara stumbled, her knees giving out.
She crawled toward him and threw her arms around him.
"No, no, no…" she sobbed. "She's Annie. She promised she'd always come back. She—she said she'd be there when we needed her…"
Menma buried his face into her shoulder.
"I wasn't fast enough," he whispered. "I should've taken her away sooner…"
Zayne stood in silence, head bowed. His knuckles turned white.
More witches arrived, but not in any grand entrance — they came walking, limping, crawling. Word had spread.
And when they saw the crater, the blood, and the look on Lunara's face as she held Menma…
They understood.
The witches wept.
Some wailed. Others knelt, placing hands on the ground. Not one of them said Annie's name.
It hurt too much.
Far across the battlefield, away from the grieving witches, three figures lay broken.
Vel'Tharion remained slumped against the wall of the ruined castle — too hurt to move, chest rising slowly with each breath. His face was pale.
The Eclipse stood nearby, battered but smiling faintly, his robes torn and stained.
His hands were still smoking from the final blow he'd dealt Annie.
"She was… more than I expected," he said, softly. "Powerful. Tenacious. A real monster."
Vel'Zorath, silent and grim, looked at the blood on his hands.
"She fought harder than most," Eclipse added, stepping over debris. "But even monsters can fall. And now…"
He turned his gaze toward the horizon. "Now we have one less threat."
Vel'Zorath didn't respond.
Eclipse turned to him. "Take me to the graves before they show up."
Vel'Tharion didn't follow.
He limped alone into one of the ruined castle's chambers, collapsing onto the floor, unable to stay standing.
He lay still, trying not to lose consciousness.
Vel'Zorath raised a hand.
His Castle Creation shifted the stone.
And from the broken floor, a staircase emerged — leading down.
The graves were waiting.
Below the castle, silence ruled.
A vast underground chamber stretched far beyond what the eye could see.
It was cold, ancient — lined with stone and firelit sconces. In the center of the hall, hundreds of graves stood in eerie symmetry.
Each one bore a symbol — not of names, but of Creations.
These were the graves of the Purgatorists.
Vel'Zorath walked through them, stepping over cracks in the floor, his arms heavy with the body of Annie.
She was still, cold in his arms. Her shoulder was ruined. Her heart no longer beat.
He didn't look at her.
He didn't care.
Eventually, he reached the end of the corridor — a separate section, carved in blackened stone. Only five graves rested here.
These were not like the others.
These were for the most dangerous.
Only Purgatorists who held two Creations — the rarest of all — had graves here.
Four of them were sealed.
One was open.
Lit.
This was the eclipse's grave,but Zorath walked a bit further stopping in front of the final grave.
It was smaller than the rest.
Freshly carved.
He dropped Annie's body inside without a word.
Not out of respect.
But because it was necessary in order to resurrect the Purgatorist he wanted to resurrect.
He turned his head down, as the flames behind him started flickering low.