All wounds can be healed.
But guilt... it clings to the bones, like a shadow forever chased by light.
The early morning wind blew gently from the southeast, bringing with it a cold that pierced the bones. Outside the house, beneath a sky not yet freed from night, Elara stood in silence. Her robe was thin, her body stiff, but her eyes… sharp, alert, like a soldier forbidden from sleep.
In her hand, a strip of cloth stained with dried blood.
Not from a monster. Not from an enemy.
From her brother.
She looked back at the house—peaceful, warm, as if no tragedy had ever unfolded inside.
But she knew.
The walls held screams. The wooden floor soaked in tears. And Arsy's bed—that was where the boy now lay, with wounds that would never truly disappear.
Forgive me for the imperfect journey.
Elara took a long, heavy breath. The scent of soil, sweat, blood… and despair from last night's battle still lingered in the air.
What kind of sister was she?
She had let two children be harmed under her watch. One had lost a piece of his body. The other—her brother—was left with a gash across the future painted on his face.
Elara's first mistake in life was letting someone whose heart hadn't fully matured lead the way.
She never said yes to Arsy.
She had said no.
But it was an empty no—not strong enough, not warm enough, not loud enough to stop a boy too eager to prove himself.
What he needed at that moment wasn't just refusal.
He needed arms that would hold him back.
Words that would shake him.
He needed a sister—not a bystander.
Her true failure wasn't letting Arsy go.
It was doing nothing but saying "don't."
And for a child like Arsy, "don't," without a hug, without persuasion, without strength—was no more than a whisper in the heart of a storm.
Her second mistake was even quieter:
She wasn't strong enough to protect them once it was too late.
Arsy was hurt. Eldrin was hurt.
And Elara stood there—physically whole, but torn inside.
She had once told Eldrin, half-jokingly, that her brother was bound to die young.
And the truth was...
He might have, that night—
Had she not chased after him.
I didn't just fail Arsy…
I failed Eldrin too.
He wasn't her brother, wasn't her responsibility…
But he had followed because Elara did.
And he got hurt while she was right there.
That was on her.
The world is vast beyond comprehension—
and so are its threats.
That was reality. And in her eyes now, she knew it.
Footsteps echoed from inside the house. Soft. Unhurried.
Elara didn't turn. She knew the gait.
"You're not asleep," said the voice—flat, but not cold. Her father's voice.
Arian Gofdraig stood a few steps behind her, tall and imposing in his woolen cloak. In his left hand, a steaming cup of tea; in his eyes—eyes that once looked to the skies with hope—now rested shadows that mirrored her own.
"Arsy hasn't woken up all night."
"I know," Elara replied.
"His wounds are deep."
"But not deeper than the guilt he'll carry."
Silence hung between them.
No birds yet.
No sunrise.
But something between them had started to crack.
Arian gazed at the ground for a moment, then spoke—softly, as if to a ghost from the past:
"There are wounds that can't be protected… even by those who swore to protect them."
Elara turned slightly. Her eyes flared. "You mean I failed?"
Arian didn't answer right away.
He simply said:
"I mean… you're human."
He stood still, then spoke again—quieter, as if the words came from a time no longer reachable.
"Long ago… I had a party. We ventured into Mor'Dael—the Visflux Marshes south of Rhysleonaria. We thought we were ready. We were academy students, all had slain monsters. But we didn't know… that in that place, creatures exist that don't give you time to learn from your mistakes."
Elara stared at him. Arian didn't meet her gaze.
"Ghelvaroth. The Swamptoppler. An ancient beast—lord of mud and rot. It didn't run. It didn't leap.
It simply... waited.
And when you slipped, even just a little, it rose from below.
Soundless.
Sightless.
Just fangs… piercing my friend's heart."
Arian's hand clenched. His face calm, but his eyes burned.
"Two died that night. One… torn in half. I survived, but—somehow—I often wished I hadn't.
Because guilt lasts longer than fear."
He looked at Elara.
"I know what failure feels like. I know what it's like to come home with wounds… and leave behind names you'll never be able to say again. But you—Elara—you didn't fail."
She shook her head, her voice cracking.
"They were friends, papa. But Arsy… he's my brother. My half-life. I could lose everything, but not him. Not him."
Arian stepped closer. "And they—my friends—were someone's children too. Someone's siblings. Someone's beloved. Just like Arsy. Just like Eldrin."
Elara lowered her head. Her tears didn't fall, but her eyes shone.
"They were all… human."
Arian nodded.
"And we're all fragile. Even when we think we're strong."
He sighed. A quiet moment passed before he continued.
"That was my final year at the Cryfarth Academy of Magic. A joint research expedition with the Rhysleonaria Academy—we were studying vis fluctuations in marsh zones and their effects on magic-born organisms. It sounded noble. But truthfully… I was just happy to leave Cryfarth's stone walls for the first time."
"That's where I met Elda. Your mother. She was... different. Never said much, but always knew exactly what to say." He smiled faintly. But it faded fast.
"We were young. Bright. And we thought the world would listen to us. But Visflux doesn't listen, Elara. It doesn't wait. It doesn't care."
Elara was a portrait of someone who loved too deeply, bled from trust too easily, and tried to mend the world by moving forward—
even when her heart had cracked in half.
That morning's conversation opened a small window in her thoughts. Her perspective shifted—on wounds, on failure, and on what it meant to be human. Arian, as a father, wasn't just present—he untangled the knots inside her heart and mind. For a moment, the burden lightened. The darkness in Elara's eyes eased. Her face, once dulled by regret, began to recover its warmth.
Arian gently patted her shoulder.
"Come. Let's go inside. I know you haven't rested since yesterday. Your mother's going to worry."
His hand reached out, stroking the hair of the daughter who'd grown stronger than he ever imagined.
Elara nodded. She smiled.
And for the first time since the night before—
Arian smiled back.
Not as a soldier.
Not as a Visflux survivor.
But as a father.
With the help of Liriavelle Essence—a potion brewed by her mother's own hands—Elara recovered swiftly from both her physical wounds and vis exhaustion. The liquid ran cold down her throat, warm through her chest; like a fog's embrace at dawn—soothing breath and thought alike. Not long after drinking it, she fell into deep sleep—for an entire day—letting her body and soul mend in silence.
Meanwhile, Arian prepared a gift to bring to the Gwinfael household—as both an apology and a gesture of concern for their son.
He selected a few of Elda's homemade almond biscuits—crisp and sweet, laced with gentle hints of cinnamon—then poured fresh milk into a small clay bottle still warm from the morning's heating. He knew Eldrin had loved both since he was little; Elara had even once snuck the same biscuits into Eldrin's bag before his first magic exam.
To complete the bundle, Arian added a tied bouquet of dried Meruthia leaves—a calming herb once given by Nara Gwinfael when Elara fell ill with a high fever. He wrapped everything in clean cloth and placed it carefully in a small wooden box.
As the morning air warmed, Arian walked the cobbled path leading to the Gwinfael residence—situated in the eastern heights of Leondhardt, near the sprawling vineyards. Leaves drifted along the way, carried by a breeze that bore the scent of damp earth and wildflowers.
The Gwinfael home stood on a raised patch of land just beyond the vineyards, older than Arian himself.
It was a large building—not in luxury, but in legacy.
Faded red bricks and dark timber framed its walls. A steep, low roof sheltered the nests of wild birds. Several round windows upstairs stood open, their sheer white curtains fluttering in the breeze.
In the front yard, an old plum tree stretched its arms, leaves scattered on the stone-covered ground. Beneath it stood a small wooden statue—perhaps the first ancestor who planted the vineyard generations ago. The scent of soil, aged fermentation, and dried leaves greeted Arian even before he stepped onto the porch.
He climbed three stone steps.
To the right of the door, a bunch of grapes hung beneath a small bronze bell—a sign that this house lived by the rhythm of harvest and season.
He knocked gently.
An elderly man answered, his long silver hair cascading down his back. Though age had carved his skin, his posture remained unbowed.
His eyes were sharp.
"You're Arian Gofdraig?" he asked. His voice was deep, calm.
Arian bowed politely.
"Yes, Master Gwinfael. I came… for Eldrin."
The old man stared at him for a moment, then nodded and stepped aside—wordless, but not unwelcoming.
Inside, the house felt like a corridor through time.
Stone walls bore hand-painted memories of generations past: maps of the vineyard, family portraits through changing seasons, ancient symbols nearly erased by age. Arian walked past a grand sitting room with two burning hearths and long rows of solid oak tables—clearly not just a house.
This was a place where decisions were made.
Where the extended family gathered.
Where hundreds of liters of wine had once been celebrated…
And mourned.
From the wide wooden staircase to the left, a faint voice called out, followed by hurried footsteps descending the steps.
It was Nara—the wife of this generation. Her hair was neatly tied, her eyes swollen yet still gentle. She didn't speak right away. Instead, she slowly took the box from Arian's hands and gave a small gesture for him to follow.
"His father hasn't spoken a word since last night," she whispered as they walked. "But Eldrin… he's awake. Though not quite back yet."
Arian responded only with a slight nod. His steps were steady, but the weight in his chest was heavier than guilt—it was the sense that this wound, though small to the world, would leave a long shadow across the hearts of both families.
He followed Nara through the long corridor of the house, past rooms steeped in history, filled with the scent of aged wood and sweet fermentation. In one corner, the creaking of an old wine filter still echoed faintly, as if the house itself had never truly stopped working—even with wounds yet to heal.
They reached a room with a large window overlooking the vineyard. Eldrin lay on a wide wooden bed, wrapped in a wool blanket up to his neck. His face was pale, his eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Beside the bed sat a middle-aged man—Eldrin's father, Theo Gwinfael—his hand clasped tightly around his son's. He nodded as Arian entered, but said nothing.
Nara placed the wooden box on a small side table. She sat on the other side of the bed, her gaze full of exhaustion and the kind of love no words could convey. Then she spoke. Her voice was quiet, but burdened:
"When Eldrin came home last night, he was covered in blood. We thought it was a monster attack near the Leondhardt Visflux… or something worse."
She paused, looking at Arian.
"But no. He told us everything."
The room fell still. Only the rustling leaves outside the window broke the silence.
"He told us how the three of them… went to Nhal Vireth. Because of Arsy."
There was no anger in Nara's tone—only the pain that came from a mother's deepest fear.
Arian lowered his head. "I won't defend a wrong decision. I can only take responsibility for the wounds that followed."
"I know," Nara replied. "And I didn't come here with anger."
She stood, picked up a glass of water, and stared out the window for a moment before murmuring—more to herself than to anyone in the room:
"Arsy and Eldrin have been inseparable for the past five years. And Arsy… he's always been like that. A child whose curiosity couldn't be restrained."
She turned slightly. "And Eldrin, as always… followed him. With a smile always too big for a body that small."
Arian let out a bitter smile. "They're braver than most grown men I've met."
"But bravery… isn't always enough," Theo finally said. His voice was rough, gravelly. "Sometimes, courage takes them where they're not meant to go."
Arian nodded. "That's why I'm here. Not just to apologize. But to make sure these children aren't left alone. Not in their wounds. Not in their journey."
Nara leaned in closer to her son, gently stroking Eldrin's hair.
"Last night… he cried. Not because of the pain. But because Arsy was hurt. Because Elara wept. Because he felt useless."
The room fell quiet again.
"He shouldn't feel that way," said Arian. "He made it through. That… is more than enough."
After a moment, Theo spoke again. "I told him to come home… yesterday morning."
He stared at the floor. "We were about to test a new fermentation technique for this season's batch. He promised to help. But instead, he followed his friend into a living hell."
He paused, then added—more softly, as if to himself:
"And I… should've told Louis to keep an eye on him yesterday. But I thought… he'd be back before nightfall."
Nara glanced at her husband for a moment, then returned her gaze to Eldrin.
"He said, 'Just for a while, Mama.' Boys…"
Theo exhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging slightly.
He turned to Arian, his eyes aged—not by years, but by a night that had stretched too long.
"I thought I was old enough to understand that our children will never be perfect reflections of our choices.
But still… when I saw him come home, covered in blood, the only thought in my head was:
'Why wasn't it me who got hurt instead?'"
Arian looked at Theo for a long moment. They were different men, with different lives. But that night, they stood on the same ground—between the fear of losing and the truth that they could never protect their children from everything.
In a quiet, steady voice, Arian replied,
"We'll never be perfect fathers, Theo.
And we'll never escape what others—or even our own children—think of us."
He looked at Eldrin, still resting on the bed.
"But if there's one thing we can do… it's to stay. To remain.
Even when we can't shield them from their pain…
we can walk with them through it."
The three adults in that room understood—deeply, silently.
No words were needed to recognize the shared wounds none of them could heal alone.
But after a long enough pause, and once Eldrin had drifted back to sleep, the tension eased.
They moved to the next room, where morning light filtered gently through the windows. Nara poured warm tea from a clay teapot steeped in herbs since the night before. For the first time since last night, they sat in a silence that wasn't heavy. Gradually, that silence filled with soft conversation.
Not about wounds.
But about other things.
About a world that kept moving.
About changing seasons.
About their children… and dreams still unfinished.
When morning turned to midday, and the sunlight crept into every corner of the house, Arian bid farewell.
He left with steps slightly lighter, though the weight in his chest hadn't truly faded.
That day passed in peaceful silence.
And without realizing it, time carried the world forward into new days.
Five days later… Arsy finally woke up—just as the sun began climbing overhead and the buzz of the outside world reached its midday peak. Birds sang. Leaf shadows danced across the bedroom floor.
But inside Arsy, there was only a strange stillness.
He blinked a few times, then slowly sat up.
His body felt unfamiliar.
He looked at the back of his hand, moving it slowly—as if it weren't his.
"…I happen to be hungry," he muttered softly.
He stood. A bit wobbly, but steady enough.
On the small table beside his bed was a plate of chocolate biscuits and a cup of milk, still warm. Arsy stared at it for a moment, then smiled faintly.
He knew—without question—that it came from Elara and their mother.
But before reaching for it, he grabbed the small glass of water nearby and drank it slowly.
His steps were quiet as he approached the mirror, as if something heavy pulled at his feet.
And when his reflection appeared in the glass—
Arsy froze.
That face…
wasn't the one he knew.
The long scar carved across the soft lines of his left face—from forehead, through eyebrow, down to his cheek—as if the world had decided to leave a mark.
A reminder that he had failed to protect himself.
His heart beat slowly, heavily.
Each thud a whisper of guilt.
He raised a hand, gently touching the scar with his fingertips.
Rough. Uneven. Ugly.
"Why… the face?" he thought.
It wasn't the pain.
It was the ruin of symmetry.
The face he once cared for, now… marred.
Like a painting defaced at its most beautiful stroke.
His face—part of his identity—was now flawed.
And to Arsy, it felt… ruined.
He wasn't just hurt.
He was different.
And he knew:
"I will never be the same again."
Yet…
in that heavy silence, Arsy understood.
This was the price of his foolishness.
He was lucky… to have lived.
Not just himself—all three of them survived.
And in the end, that was what truly mattered.
The scar would remain.
But so would they.
And… Arsy accepted that.
The mirror still reflected a stranger.
But now, Arsy no longer turned away from that reflection.
Then—small footsteps echoed.
At the half-open door stood Elara—frozen.
Her eyes widened, staring at Arsy like a nightmare had just lifted.
In a heartbeat, she turned and yelled:
"Mama! Mam—he's awake!!"
Her voice cracked—overwhelmed with joy and relief.
She rushed back into the room, running straight into her little brother and wrapping him tight, clutching him like she was afraid to ever lose him again.
"Thank the stars you're okay!" she cried, her voice trembling.
Moments later, soft footsteps echoed at the doorway.
Elda stood there—silent, taking in the sight.
Her eyes shimmered, but her smile was calm.
"I knew…
My children wouldn't be defeated," she said gently.
She stepped forward, kneeling—wrapping them both in an embrace that said everything without a single word.
As if the world could fall apart—
but as long as they were together,
that would be enough.
Their embrace lingered—warm, silent, healing something no words ever could.
Elda ran her fingers through Elara's hair, gently patted Arsy's back, then slowly pulled away.
"Hmm…" she murmured with a smile. "Your father's outside. In the back garden—been there all morning, reading the paper, hasn't moved an inch."
She cupped Arsy's scarred cheek—but her eyes held no sadness.
Only gratitude.
"Should I go get him?" she asked softly. "Or do you want to go to him yourself?"
Arsy looked at his mother. Then at Elara.
A small smile curled on his lips, even as exhaustion still clung to his face.
"I'll go to him myself," he said quietly, but firmly.
Then he glanced toward Elara and added,
"…Thank you, Elara. Mom…"
His head dipped slightly—not from weakness, but from a warmth he didn't know how else to express, except through that simple phrase.
They merely nodded. No more words were needed.
Because for the three of them, that morning—everything that truly mattered... had returned.
Arsy stepped into the garden, where his father sat at the table, surrounded by flowers, greenery, and the soft embrace of morning light. Arian looked completely at ease, dressed in casual clothes—green tea in hand, a wide newspaper stretched out before him.
Today was Stelladay—the most anticipated day for the laborers of the village.
For Arian, there was no greater pleasure than spending this day off with tea, a newspaper, and a sky unbothered by responsibilities.
Arsy walked slowly toward him.
Before he could sit, his father's voice rang out—still fixed on the paper, but already smiling:
"So you're up, huh? Now, who here hasn't taken a bath?"
Arsy chuckled softly. He caught a faint herbal scent from his shirt, then glanced at his hands.
"I just realized... I haven't bathed," he muttered.
But upon noticing how clean his body was, he smirked. "And I know exactly who did this. Mom, right?"
Arian nodded without lifting his eyes from the newspaper.
"Who else could it be?" he said with a proud smile. "Cleansing magic… your mother's a master of it. Rarely do people cast it that gently. If it weren't for her, this house would've reeked of boy after three days."
He raised his teacup, took a sip, then added—still without looking up:
"So.
Who's Petra?
Red wolf mask?"
Arsy froze for a moment.
There was a pause between question and answer—not out of fear, but surprise.
"You know?" he asked, softly.
Arian lowered the paper at last, meeting his son's eyes fully.
"Elara told me. And I heard a bit from Eldrin's parents. Not much. But enough."
Arsy nodded slowly. He took a deep breath. "I really don't know who she is. She only said she'd eliminate anyone who stood in their way. After that day… I felt something strange in my hand."
Arian turned swiftly toward Arsy's hand. "Let me see."
Arsy stepped closer. Arian took his son's hand with careful precision—like someone handling an ancient book too fragile to touch. He turned it over, examining every crease of skin, muscle fiber, and faint vis currents glimmering like refracted light beneath the surface.
Arsy followed his father's movements closely, eyes locked onto every shift.
Then Arian opened Arsy's right palm—
and froze.
His expression wasn't panic, but there was no mistaking it—he saw something.
"Arsy," he said, voice low and serious. "Look at it yourself."
Arsy glanced down.
On his palm—etched faintly in shimmering silver—was a symbol.
Not a scar.
Not a burn.
But a circular pattern, ancient in design, nearly invisible—yet warm to the touch.
The symbol pulsed softly, in perfect rhythm with his heartbeat.
Arian squinted, brushing his thumb lightly across the mark, trying to feel the vis left behind…
But what he sensed was something older—deeper than any ordinary flow of energy.
"This… isn't an ordinary mark," he murmured.
Arsy looked at him. "What does it mean?"
Arian slowly shook his head. "I'm not certain. But a mark like this… doesn't just appear from battle or injury. This…
isn't of our world."
He released Arsy's hand with care.
"Have you ever heard the old legends of the gods?" he asked, his gaze drifting to the treeline beyond.
Arsy frowned. "A little."
"They say," Arian began, "that long ago, each god descended—not to rule, but to bless. Not with gold or dominion, but with a symbol. A trace. A mark. Given only to those they deemed worthy."
He looked back at Arsy's hand.
"That symbol was called… Potentia.
From an old word meaning 'possibility'.
It was said that anyone—a person, an animal, even a tree—could receive Potentia. Because gods did not choose based on race or form…
but something far deeper."
Arian exhaled.
"Of course, it's just a story. Tales from long winters, passed down by firelight. But the mark on your hand… feels too alive to be coincidence."
Arsy stared again at his palm.
The symbol still pulsed faintly—barely visible, but impossible to ignore.
And for a brief moment…
he felt as though something beyond him was staring back.
Arsy… looked to the sky.
Slowly, he began to tell everything.
From his curiosity, his conversations with Elara and Eldrin, to the reckless decision that led them to Nhal Vireth.
He held nothing back. His face was honest. His tone was calm—though a thread of guilt snuck through his words now and then.
Arian listened intently, never interrupting. His eyes stayed sharp, his body leaned forward slightly. He wasn't just hearing a story—he was studying it, untangling the thoughts, fears, and convictions that formed his son's courage… and his foolishness.
When Arsy finally finished, Arian took a long breath. He looked at his son and spoke quietly:
"You know, Arsy…
I'm not angry."
Arsy turned to him, surprised.
"Because I understand why you did it," Arian continued.
"But understanding… doesn't mean agreeing."
He straightened his back, his voice firm but even:
"What you three did…
was gamble with your lives.
And that, son, is a debt that can never be fully paid."
Arian gazed out—toward the far edge of the village, where mist blurred the outline of noon.
"The outer ring of Nhal Vireth might seem tame.
Even a Silver-ranked mage could handle it.
But places like that… are alive. They react. They change.
Their danger rises and falls—based on who enters, and what stirs inside."
He turned back to Arsy. "That day, you, Elara, and Eldrin… were simply unlucky."
Arsy lowered his gaze.
But Arian wasn't finished—his voice never harsh, only measured.
"Even Elara… one of the strongest young warriors I've ever seen, struggled. That alone should've been a warning."
He leaned back, steam still rising from his teacup.
"And one more thing you should know," he said, his tone softer now.
"Among Visflux explorers—especially in Nhal Vireth—there are… unwritten rules.
Fighting each other is rare.
They understand—waste time battling your own,
and the abyss will swallow you whole."
Arian locked eyes with his son.
"But that person…
she wasn't an explorer.
Not in the traditional sense.
Someone like her… enters with a different purpose.
And that… is more dangerous than any monster."
Elara Gofdraig
During the Days Arsy Slept
Elara trained herself to the edge of ruin.
Days passed without color, without pause. The world felt like it was holding its breath, waiting—for something, anything—to change. But Elara refused to just wait.
The rain hadn't fully dried when she began. The earth was still damp, the air biting like spring's lingering claws. But Elara stood in the forest of Leonhardt Village—silent, drenched in sweat and morning dew. She hadn't slept properly. Two hours at most before being jolted awake by visions of blood, by the clash of blades, by screams she never voiced.
So she moved.
She replaced stillness with straining muscles.
Replaced guilt with breathless rhythm—of magic and sheer will to live.
Each morning, she began by expanding her inner vis capacity—pushing the network inside her body until it nearly tore.
She cycled her Enerma until her palms blistered.
She summoned illusion spells to attack herself—each one shaped like Petra.
She didn't want to feel helpless again.
She refused to stand by that bed… just watching.
She wanted to be a shield. Or at the very least—the last thing that absorbed the blow before it reached her brother.
She pushed her body-enhancing magic to the third stage.
Her vis boiled in her veins.
Her breath was never steady.
But every time she collapsed, she forced herself up.
Each time her knees buckled, she remembered what happened to Arsy—and that alone was enough to rise again.
She built dual-layer barriers… then shattered them from within.
She mimicked Petra's attacks and tried to block them with reflective shields—even if she was often flung backward. But she never stopped.
Guilt had no rhythm.
No end.
And this wasn't just training—
It was penance.
Day after day, she rewrote her defensive spell pattern, one that could activate reflexively.
She called it:
Aegis Reflexia—a shield that appeared before fear even arrived.
Elara challenged herself to cast three spells in succession, without pause:
Ars Fulguris — a twin lightning slash.
Securia Sensus — an instinctive shield that reacted to unseen motion.
Vox Umbris — a vis-cloaking spell used in battlefield stealth.
She managed two. The third failed.
Her body shut down, dropped to its knees—vomiting blood.
Her voice barely came out as she tried to rise again.
No one watched.
No one came.
No one stopped her.
"I'm ready now," she whispered, looking up at the sky.
That night, after cleaning herself and wrapping her aching body in the warmth of Liriavelle Essence, Elara finally fell into deep sleep—for the first time since the tragedy at Nhal Vireth.
And when dawn broke the next morning…
she awoke to the simplest miracle—
Arsy had awakened.
There were no words vast enough to capture the surge in her chest.
But for Elara, seeing her brother sit up, alive, breathing—
was the greatest gift the world could offer her.
She made a decision.
She would return to Nhal Vireth.
Not out of recklessness.
Not from guilt.
But from a new conviction within her.
She knew the world would not stop just because they were wounded.
And Petra… Petra was not the only thing waiting in the depths.
With this new version of herself, Elara believed she could face whatever came.
But that belief alone wasn't enough to convince her father.
"I know what's on your mind," Arian said one afternoon, catching her gazing at a map of Nhal Vireth's surrounding regions.
"With your new spells, with your resolve… you feel ready to face them.
But not in your current condition, Elara."
She turned to him. Her eyes still burned.
But Arian continued, firm:
"I know you've created new spells. But it's not enough."
He looked into her deeply.
"Let your brother train first.
You will train him.
And I… will train you."
Elara stared at her father—silent, but understanding in her heart.
She was no longer alone.
And true strength…
was never built from guilt alone.
It was forged from connection.
From legacy.
From protecting one another.
Nearly three months after the Nhal Vireth incident, the world around them kept moving—uncaring of wounds that hadn't fully healed.
But inside the Gofdraig household, something different was beginning to grow:
Not despair.
Not fear.
But strength.
Woven slowly from unity, patience, and a vow not to repeat the same mistakes.
Elara and Arsy trained daily—
from before the sun rose
until the last star disappeared.
They were no longer just siblings.
They were two warriors preparing themselves…
for a world that would not offer second chances.
"You're not learning to fight, Arsy," Arian said one morning—his voice calm, yet resolute.
"You're learning to survive."
Elara advanced her defensive magic to its fourth form.
Aegis Reflexia could now activate half a second after detecting incoming vis—capable of withstanding a strike from a Diamond Initiate.
Arsy, who at first struggled to channel vis stably after his recovery, slowly began to rediscover his flow.
He learned to control the energy inside him without letting it spill—
building the foundation for something greater.
And by the end of Aurelis,
as the skies of Astralyth grayed under the veil of changing seasons,
and the village of Leondhardt prepared to welcome Mesiis—
the beginning of a new year...
They were ready.
Qui Excitati Sunt.
They who have been awakened.