The morning sky was painted with a strange, shimmering hue — as if the world itself sensed something was shifting. Aria stood outside the cottage, the crisp wind tugging at her clothes, her senses sharpened from days of grueling training. The curse inside her had grown quieter, less aggressive. The Breath of the Elements technique was now a part of her rhythm, like a second heartbeat.
Just as she reached for the cottage door, a flicker of movement caught her eye.
A hooded figure approached through the mist-drenched forest. Tall, graceful, yet weary — every step he took seemed deliberate, as though he had walked through a thousand storms. Aria's breath caught in her throat.
"Lyrien…" she whispered.
He stopped in front of her, pulling back his hood. His silver eyes, usually calm and steady, held a strange flicker — not of danger, but of knowledge hard-won. Slung across his shoulder was a leather satchel, worn and scorched at the edges.
"I told you I'd find it," he said with a quiet smile, his voice hoarse from the journey.
Aria blinked. Her emotions swirled — relief, surprise, maybe something deeper — but she pushed it aside, trying to stay composed.
"What happened to you?" she asked.
"I went to the Realm Between — the Shifting Wilds. It's a place where time and memory fold in on themselves. I had to barter pieces of myself just to pass through," he said, pulling out a small vial from his satchel. Inside it shimmered a golden, iridescent powder that pulsed with unnatural light. "This is flower dust. The real kind. Not the imitations they peddle to reckless spellweavers."
He handed it to Arinthal, who had just stepped out of the cottage, her gaze solemn and knowing.
"You did well," she said, inspecting the vial. "With this, we can forge it."
Aria frowned. "Forge what?"
Arinthal met her gaze, her eyes glowing faintly with that familiar violet flame. "Your weapon. A blade bound to your essence, your curse, your will. You'll need it for what's to come."
She led them into the Void.
The doorway opened with a wave of her hand, a rip in reality revealing a place of floating stone paths, shifting skies, and endless starlight. The Void was a realm untouched by time, where power lay raw and wild.
There, in the center of a floating island surrounded by nothingness, Arinthal began the ritual.
She scattered the dust into a silver basin and began chanting in a language older than kingdoms. The basin ignited with silent flame — black, violet, and gold — and from it rose molten threads of energy. They coiled into the shape of a blade, suspended in air.
"This sword," Arinthal said, her voice echoing across the Void, "will not obey your strength alone, Aria. It will test your heart, your fears, your control. And if you can tame it — if you can wield it in the presence of your curse — then you will have truly mastered Stage Two."
The sword cooled into form. A single-edged weapon with veins of glowing silver and a grip that shimmered with runes that matched the scar on Aria's arm.
She reached for it.
The moment her fingers touched the hilt, a wave of cold surged through her body — not from the Void, but from within. The curse snarled, resisting the contact. Shadows rippled from her fingertips. But Aria held on.
And so the training began.
Day after day in the Void, Aria sparred — first with Lyrien, who taught her swift, unpredictable strikes; then with Arinthal, who challenged her to draw power without losing herself. She learned to silence her inner chaos in mid-swing, to breathe through every blow, to anticipate not just an enemy's moves, but her own weaknesses.
Sometimes, she failed. The curse flared and the sword flew from her hand. Once, it even cut across her arm, drawing blackened blood that hissed as it hit the ground. But she kept rising.
And Lyrien was always there. At first, he was quiet, distant — as if still lost in the journey he had returned from. But slowly, he softened. He spoke more. He watched her with a quiet intensity, his eyes lingering when she wasn't looking. And though he never said it outright, Aria could feel it — something was changing between them.
One evening, after a long day of sparring, she collapsed onto the floating stone and looked up at the swirling Void sky.
"I didn't think I'd make it this far," she said, breathless.
"You did," Lyrien said beside her, his voice calm. "And you're not done yet."
She turned her head to him. "Why did you really go for the dust?"
He was silent for a long time. Then he said, "Because I believe in what you're meant to become. And because… you're worth fighting for." "And also since Arinthal asked me to bring it for you *laughs*"
Before she could respond, Arinthal approached.
"You're ready," she said simply. "Your curse bends to your will now. And your blade is part of you."
Aria rose to her feet, sword in hand, eyes sharp and steady.
"Then what's next?" she asked.
Arinthal's expression turned serious. "We travel to the Magical Realm — to gather the shattered fragments of the Echoes of Eternity. Without them, Lord Xandros cannot be stopped. He feeds on chaos, on distortion. But the Echoes… they are pieces of the original world, before corruption."
Lyrien stood beside her, his hand resting lightly on his own blade. "The road ahead is dangerous," he warned. "The Magical Realm doesn't follow our rules. But with your training… we might stand a chance."
Aria nodded, heart pounding with a strange mix of fear and excitement. "Let's end this," she whispered.
And with that, the three of them stepped through the new portal Arinthal summoned — not just into another world, but toward the next chapter of destiny.
Toward the battle that would shape reality itself…