The snow, once pure and crystalline, was now merely a stage—covered in shards, dried blood, and magical smoke dancing through the air like a final breath. And even after the last enemy fell, the silence that followed was brief—and deceitful.
Rhelor was getting up with difficulty.
The once-imposing purple cloak, now torn and stained with ash, seemed unworthy of his arrogance.
With a snap of his fingers, he cleaned himself with magic—trying to erase the shame.
But his gaze...
Burned.
"INSOLENT!" he roared, his eyes lit with flames. "How dare you humiliate me like this?"
Harry, still wiping dried blood from his sleeves, glanced sideways at Vael and whispered,
"So... he's officially lost it?"
Vael didn't respond. He only raised his chin, his expression as still as marble at the edge of collapse.
Rhelor began to glow. His form flickered between reality and illusion.
Particles spun around him like nervous comets.
And then—with a mystical, overly dramatic flourish, of course—his new form appeared:
A dark blue cloak embroidered with gold.
A floating crown of light above his forehead.
And a staff seemingly carved from the spine of the cosmos itself.
Vael crossed his arms, unmoved.
Harry muttered,
"Switched from the free-to-play skin to the legendary. Impressive."
Dorian... almost smiled. Almost.
Rhelor, with the desperate confidence of someone faking power, pointed the staff at him.
"ENOUGH GAMES!"
With a sudden gesture, he launched a prismatic blast.
A spear of distorted reality, bending space in its path.
Dorian merely lifted one finger.
A hollow sound filled the air—and everything stopped.
The magic struck an invisible barrier.
Rebounded.
Exploded far away in violet flames.
"Attacking before studying your opponent..." Dorian said, his voice cold as freshly forged steel.
But Rhelor wasn't listening. Or was pretending not to.
He jumped.
Cast sealing glyphs.
Tried to trap Dorian in an anti-magicka field.
But the ground... vanished.
Dorian warped space and reappeared above him, slowly spinning, cloaked in black and gray aura.
With a snap of his fingers, he condensed space into a gravitational sphere.
It struck Rhelor in the chest, launching him like a projectile against the rock.
A dull impact. Blood. Coughing.
Even so, he began channeling.
Ancient symbols floated around him.
The ground trembled as if it feared what was coming.
"Now you'll see the true power of the Red Tower!"
A reverse dome fell over Dorian.
A domain of illusory reality—mirrors, shadows, fire, and unstable gravity.
Rhelor smiled.
"You're in my world now."
Inside the dome, everything multiplied.
Knives. Clones. Black flames.
A chaos with his signature.
But Dorian simply closed his eyes.
And when he opened them...
Everything fell apart.
The dome cracked like wet glass.
"The mirror house trick only works on those who fear their reflection..."
"I've already broken all of mine."
Rhelor dropped to his knees.
Blood from his nose. Eyes unfocused.
"I STILL CAN!" he screamed, raising his staff. "I AM THE HEIR OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE!"
Dorian walked toward him.
Each step, a sentence.
"You're the heir of nothing.
Just another echo. A name with no story. A signature without weight."
Rhelor tried to attack.
Dorian caught him.
His eyes burned violet.
"Thür-Ni Vaelsh"
Reality unraveled around Rhelor.
Time shattered.
The soul hid.
The mind was swallowed by a vortex of silence so pure even pain hesitated to enter.
When the light returned, Rhelor lay on the ground.
Eyes open.
Mouth half-open.
No strength.
No sound.
Empty.
Dorian turned.
"Vael"
"Yes, Young Master"
"Take care of him. He might survive. Or not. Doesn't matter."
Harry whistled.
"Remind me never to piss you off"
"You already do. Daily"
---
At the Ancestral Temple...
Michael watched in silence, though inside, the world roared.
The shadows slithered like worshippers in trance, dancing around the platform.
Crimson symbols spun in perfect spirals—like prayers made of ancient blood.
At the center, Ligia.
She floated.
Her feet inches from the ground.
Her hair danced in the air as if gravity reversed.
Her eyes closed—but glowing from within.
She had won.
Not against monsters.
Not against mages.
Against herself.
Michael allowed a small smile to escape.
Pride. Relief. Faith.
She was, at last, what she was born to be.
Inside Ligia, images flashed like silent lightning:
— Dorian's muffled laughter behind a book.
— Vael's touch, wrapping her in a cloak on a cold night.
— Michael, always distant, always present.
— Her mother. The stories. The nights scented with cinnamon and sadness.
Fragments of a broken lineage.
Shards of a soul under reconstruction.
Then her body shuddered.
Ligia coughed—once, twice, three times.
She descended like a feather.
Touched the ground.
Stumbled.
"Agh..." she muttered. "My head..."
The magic circle still spun, but slower.
Matching her new rhythm.
She opened her eyes.
The world was different.
The texture of stone.
The metallic scent of blood.
The pulse of the shadows.
Sharper.
More real.
More... raw.
"Auren...?" she murmured, her voice rough. "Where...?"
And he was there.
As he always had been.
At the edge of reality.
Smiling with teeth made of dead stars.
"Welcome back, Ligia d'Argêntea.
Feeling... reborn?"
She let out a raspy laugh.
"Reborn? Feels like I got run over by a thousand underworld chariots..."
Auren laughed, delighted.
"Then it worked perfectly"
Ligia looked at her hands.
Her veins pulsed with light.
White. Silver. Crimson-pink.
"What am I now?"
He stepped closer.
"What you always were.
Only now... without chains"
Auren looked toward the temple. Toward Michael.
"The world is not ready for you, Ligia"
She smiled. Weak. Serene.
"I'm not sure I'm ready for it either"
"You don't have to be.
Just... walk"
Ligia drew a deep breath.
She inhaled.
She survived.
And took her first step.
The blood of d'Argêntea burned.
And the silence... bowed.
s.