The Gaia sky thundered in an unusual silence, as if reality itself was holding its breath, watching a crack in time slip into the Queen's private sanctuary.
Iris still knelt on the floor, her hands clutching her sweat-dampened abdomen, a mixture of pain and anger radiating from her trembling form. The lingering presence of Azazel still hung heavily in the air—but now, the atmosphere had softened.
Cool.
Calm.
Almost… singing.
Then the voice came.
"Mother…"
Iris looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks as all her breath escaped. The small girl's hands trembled, trembling with the effort of holding back fear while standing on the threshold—gripping tightly to hope and an aching, fierce longing.
There, framed in the doorway, stood a teenage girl. Her hair was short and layered with captivating texture, shimmering in silver-white shades that carried a soft blue gleam, casting a gentle glow like moonlight filtered through mist. The tips of her hair blazed with a glowing copper-orange, reminiscent of a sacred fire's radiant aura brushing the twilight sky, illuminating the dim room with warmth and mystic light.
She wore formal attire that masterfully blended the regal elegance of Gaia's timeless style with the intricate ceremonial designs of the Atlantis Tower. The gown's dominant colors—pure white, deep dark blue, and glowing golden orange—intertwined seamlessly, symbolizing a perfect harmony between sky and earth, light and shadow. Ornate embellishments adorned the sleeves and shoulders, resembling ancient sigils of magical families or noble clans, silently proclaiming a distinguished and powerful bloodline. The fabric flowed with an elegant yet practical cut, tailored not only for diplomatic grace but also to allow swift, decisive movement should the need for combat arise.
"The eyes belong to Fitran. But the gaze... belongs to a child who has witnessed the world burn and still chooses to live," Iris whispered, her voice trembling as she observed the figure before her. It was as though a heavy weight pressed down on her throat, tightening with every glance.
The eyes themselves held a soft red hue, radiating an almost serene peace. Yet within the iris shimmered shifting layers of countless dimensions, hinting at the ability to pierce beyond a single reality's veil. This gaze mirrored both Fitran's composed calm and Iris's own keen intuition. At first, the look exuded gentleness; but the longer she stared, the more it felt formidable, almost overwhelming. Warm tears slipped down Iris's cheeks, blurring her vision as she struggled to comprehend the profound presence standing silently before her.
"Don't be afraid, Mother. I didn't come to hurt you." She paused, her voice soft but steady, letting the weight of her words settle between them. Her small hand trembled slightly as she reached out, adding, "I came because you... will lose everything if you are not prepared from now on."
Iris tried to rise, but her body betrayed her, weak and unsteady as if an invisible force threatened to pull her down. Her heart pounded violently in her chest, a relentless rhythm caught between fragile hope and suffocating fear—like turbulent waves crashing within the vast ocean of her soul.
"Who are you...?" she whispered, her voice breaking under the strain of overwhelming emotion, each word slipping like a fragile thread from the depths of her conflicted heart.
The girl's lips curved into a soft smile, one too weary and knowing for one so young—an expression marked by the scars of understanding too much suffering too soon. "My name... is not yet decided. But I was born from the blood of Fitran and your body, Iris Gaia. I... am your child," she said gently, each word deliberate, drawing Iris's full attention and carrying the profound weight hidden within their truth.
"I come from a time when all of you are gone, and only I remain... to carry the light you kept alive within me," she continued, her voice imbued with both sorrow and a fierce pride, weaving a thick tension that hung like mist in the air around them.
Iris stood motionless, her body trembled—not from weakness, but from the overwhelming surge of love crashing through her like a relentless river. Though turmoil churned within her, threatening denial, her maternal instinct was undeniable and fierce, anchoring every fiber of her being to the undeniable truth: the child before her was truly her own. Her breath caught as a profound silence enveloped the space around them, and even the wind seemed to still, reverently honoring this fragile, sacred moment, as if all the elements of nature held their breath in solemn respect.
"Azazel will return when I am born," the voice broke the silence, heavy with solemnity, "not to kill me, but to fill my body with an ancient entity named Qayïn."
She paused, the weight of her words hanging thick in the air, bracing her mother for the grim truth to follow. Each anxious heartbeat tightened Iris's chest, her pulse pounding like a war drum, as she awaited the inevitable revelation. "He intends to use this baby as a vessel.
And you… will die trying to save me."
Her chest constricted, breath shallow and ragged; yet, despite the terror clawing at her soul, Iris could not tear her eyes away from the grim reality that had settled between them like a dark shadow.
Qayin – The First Cursed Entity
Once known as the first human to defy destiny, Qayin's act of killing his brother was not born of seething hatred, but driven by an insatiable desire to seize God's love itself. Cursed to exist in torment, he was doomed to neither live nor die—trapped in an endless existence beyond the bounds of time. Azazel unearthed a fragment of Qayin's shattered soul, hidden deep behind the Seventh Rift, a mysterious and intangible realm suspended between sound and silence, between prayers whispered and curses muttered—a place where sorrow and longing wove themselves into a world of tears.
Why the bodies of Fitran and Iris?
Because only the offspring of light and darkness—Fitran, the Voidwright, and Iris, the embodiment of Gaia—possess the unique essence capable of containing the new form of Qayin without being consumed by his overwhelming power. In the depths of Azazel's mind, a chilling hope had taken root: if Qayin could be reborn through them, he might emerge as a herald of a new era—one that would shatter the fragile age of humanity and inaugurate an epoch ruled by ancient, eternal beings.
Iris trembled.
"No… no… I will not die," she choked out, her voice ragged between sobs and fragile hope, warm tears tracing sorrowful rivers down her cheeks. "I will protect you… I will rewrite destiny…"
The girl knelt before Iris, her body trembling as she gently rested her pain-stricken forehead upon Iris's lap—a lap that had always been a sanctuary of genuine love and warmth. From the child radiated a quiet courage that seemed to pierce the shroud of darkness enveloping the night, casting a fragile light that stood in stark contrast to the vulnerability now clouding Iris's soul, dimming the last flickers of hope.
"Fate cannot be changed, Mother," the girl's voice was calm, filled with a serene acceptance borne from the painful depths of her ignorance. "But the meaning of your death… that can be different."
Iris let out a soft, bitter chuckle, tears cascading down her cheeks like molten glass, etching a portrait of sorrow as she fought to smile through the unbearable ache within her chest.
"I did not come to shield you from fate," the girl whispered, her words like a gentle breeze carrying a lingering spark of hope. "I came to prepare you… ready to face whatever is to come." Between them flowed a fragile thread of life, an unbroken bond stretching across the vast expanse of time yet holding steadfast in love's eternal embrace.
Iris wept.
Not from fear, but from an unexpected connection. For the first time, her heart and body felt intertwined with her own child, even before that child's arrival in the world. A subtle vibration hummed deep within her soul, as if the relentless gnawing pain had finally softened, replaced by a presence so profound and magical it seemed to transcend time itself.
Her voice trembled as she asked, blending hope with a profound longing, "Did you ever… meet your father… in the future?"
The girl smiled, though tears brimmed at the edges of her eyes, casting a fragile light forged from deep sorrow and quiet resilience. "I never met my father, nor did I truly know my own mother. I was adopted by Aunt Rinoa, who eventually left me too—left me alone in a world that felt hollow and absent of warmth," she confessed, her voice weighted with unspoken grief, as fragile and fleeting as the rustle of dry leaves caught in a cold autumn breeze.
"So I was gone, as was Fitran," Iris whispered silently within her heart. "And Rinoa became the mother I never had." Her eyes, glistening with unshed tears, held a yearning so profound it seemed to reach beyond the girl's visible pain, as though she wanted to trace every hidden scar behind those haunted eyes.
Hope fluttered timidly inside Iris, a fragile curiosity about what the future might hold. But that fragile resolve shattered abruptly with a sudden, deafening crack—like thunder fracturing a silent night—signaling the world's resistance to the girl's presence, threatening to rip apart the delicate thread of time itself.
He enfolded the girl in an embrace, amidst a world teetering on the edge of collapse. Surrounded by the final unraveling of everything they knew, Iris's gaze locked on her child's radiant face—an unyielding beacon of hope amid encroaching darkness. Tears slipped freely down her cheeks, each one a heavy weight of buried guilt and regret, cascading silently from the depths of her soul.
"Forgive me…" Her voice trembled, breaking into a fragile, barely audible whisper. "Forgive me for never being able to hold you when you were just a baby." The words caught like a strangled sob, trembling in her throat as they unleashed a tempest of emotions swirling violently within her, impossible to contain.
Softly, Iris whispered as she reached out and clasped her child's small hand, feeling the faint tremor within the fragile grasp—a silent yet profound message whispered between them: I understand.
The world was collapsing. But not this moment.
In this suspended fragment of time, there was only one mother, one child, and one womb — a battlefield caught between hope and ruin. Iris could almost feel the heavy tension thickening the air around them, as if the earth itself held its breath, bearing witness to the quiet yet fierce resilience nestled in her child's unwavering courage against fate's relentless assault. At the same time, she was acutely aware of her own shattering vulnerability, raw and aching beneath her skin. Clutching her child's hand with desperate tenderness, she longed to freeze this moment forever—to hold on with every fiber of her being, preserving a flicker of light amid the encroaching shadows and unspoken fears.