For the first time since his arrival, something like genuine concern flickered in Draelusa's burning eyes. He knew very well that he couldn't win against her, but he was never once afraid of her.

His malicious grin never faltered, even as Origin power began to unravel the very essence of his being.

"How... protective," he wheezed through her crushing grip.

"How wonderfully... sentimental. Tell me, Magdalyna—when you unmake me, will you explain to your precious student exactly what you've sacrificed for his sake? Will you tell him about the—"

Odessa's response was to tear open a rift in reality itself, a gaping wound in the fabric of existence that led to spaces between dimensions where even concepts like pain and destruction took on forms that mortal minds couldn't process.

"Elsewhere," she commanded, and with that single word, both she and Draelues vanished from the square, pulled into whatever realm existed beyond the barriers of normal space.

The battle that followed could only be measured by its effects on the world they had left behind.

Buildings didn't simply collapse—they were retroactively erased from the town square.

The market square where Jaenor had fought the Orc Lord expanded into a perfect crater that descended into the ground, creating a deep crater. Shockwaves rippled outward in patterns that defied physics, turning solid stone into crystalline formations that sang with harmonics no mortal ear could hear.

The sky above town and the fortress and the hills fractured like broken glass, revealing glimpses of the cosmic battle raging in whatever dimension the two major powers had chosen for their confrontation. Streams of impossibly colored light lanced down from the tears in reality, while the echoes of their conflict sent tremors through the foundations of the world itself.

And very soon, the fight felt like a distant thunder before disappearing from the town square completely.

-

Alone in the center of the devastation, Jaenor stood like a statue carved from shock and disbelief.

The revelations of the past few minutes crashed over him in waves, each one more devastating than the last. The woman he had loved, the teacher he had trusted, the companion who had shared his bed and his dreams—she was something beyond his comprehension, playing a game whose rules he couldn't even begin to understand.

Six months.

Six months of what he had believed was genuine affection, of growing intimacy and shared discovery.

Had any of it been real? Or was he simply some amusing diversion for a being whose existence spanned years or centuries or more?

The exhaustion that he had been holding at bay through sheer force of will finally crashed over him like an avalanche.

The battle with the orcs, the revelation of his impossible dual nature, the confrontation with the Lich King, and now this cataclysmic horror show—it was too much for even his enhanced constitution to bear.

While he fought with the Lich King, he had overexerted himself without holding back, and the consumption of his dual powers had left him drained.

His legs gave out beneath him, and he fell to his knees on the shattered stone floor, his six wings flickering and fading as his control over his own power slipped. The ethereal beauty that had marked him as something beyond mortal was dimmed now, leaving him looking almost human—almost vulnerable.

Through the haze of exhaustion and emotional devastation, he became aware of a new sound cutting through the chaos—the rhythmic beat of massive wings approaching from the distance. Not the tattered membranes of undead dragons or the impossible appendages of supernatural entities, but something that carried with it the promise of familiar comfort.

As consciousness began to slip away from him, Jaenor's last coherent vision was of two dragons descending from the smoke-filled sky toward his position.

One was orange-scaled and familiar—Baren, his friend and companion, arriving at last from his rescue to the fortress. The other was larger and more elegant, with scales that seemed to contain the depth of the night sky and eyes that burned like twin stars.

Even in his fading awareness, Jaenor recognized the newcomer from Morgana's descriptions—Swefarna, the Mundragon, which meant that the witch herself couldn't be far behind.

Help was coming.

Friends who knew him not as some unknown mystery or amusing diversion, but simply as Jaenor—the young man who had stood with them through countless adventures, who had earned their loyalty through deed and sacrifice rather than some special privilege.

As darkness finally claimed him, that single thought provided the only comfort available in a world that had suddenly become far larger, far more dangerous, and far more lonely than he had ever imagined possible.

The last thing he heard before unconsciousness took him was the sound of Baren's voice, filled with concern and barely controlled fury, cutting through the rift static that still crackled in the wake of the power giants' departure:

"Jaenor! What in all the hells happened here?"

But by then, he was already falling into the merciful embrace of dreamless sleep, where unforeseen revelations and shattered trust couldn't follow—at least, not yet.

***

Somewhere in the distant skies, a not-so-big winged beast cut through the currents of wind with effortless grace. Its wings, vast as banners stretched across a battlefield, beat with a rhythm so steady it seemed the skies themselves had fallen into step with it.

Sunlight spilled over its feathers, a sheen of silver and faint gold that shimmered as though the creature had been touched by starlight. Upon its broad back sat a lone rider, a woman cloaked in flowing olive robes that whispered with each gust.

Her name was Raelana Muerge.

Her dark-brown skin glowed warm beneath the high sun, and her long braids, adorned with charms of bone and bronze, whipped about her shoulders as the wind howled past. Her amber eyes were sharp, ever searching the world below as her mount soared over a vast green ocean of forest. Her hands and neck were adorned with silver ornaments, long earrings, and bangles.

She guided the giant bird with nothing more than the subtle pressure of her knees. Together, they moved like an arrow loosed from the string—swift, focused, and unerring.

The day was clear, yet heavy with something she could not name. The deeper she flew, the more the silence pressed upon her chest.

And then—Raelana saw them.

Below, a line of figures moved between the trees, their armour and banners catching faint glimmers of light as they marched.

Soldiers.

Dozens upon dozens of them, moving in unnatural silence, boots striking the earth in eerie unison. Their shields were dark, their weapons stained from use, and their faces hard with intent. The forest seemed to bend away from them, as though recoiling from their passage.

Raelana's brows furrowed as her bird flight tilted slightly for a better vantage.

She leaned forward, eyes narrowing as she scanned the front of the column.

There, leading the host, walked four figures apart from the rest.

Among the four figures, her gaze was drawn to one person, and it was a woman. She recognized her instantly, just by her appearance.

Anita Nightwhisper.

Second-in-command of the Council and a direct subordinate of Mother Superior.

A woman feared and respected in equal measure, whose mere presence on a battlefield often bent its outcome.

Anita's crimson mantle swayed behind her as she strode, her staff glimmering faintly with threads of restrained Origin energy. Her cold beauty was sharper than a blade, her eyes forward and unblinking.

But it was not Anita alone who caught Raelana's breath in her throat.

It was the three figures riding alongside her. Mostly in their early thirties.

Young, yet marked by the aura of something vast, something undeniable. Their gait was not that of ordinary mortals—they carried themselves as if the ground itself yielded to them. Their features were unfamiliar, but Raelana did not need names.

Her heart stuttered as realization struck.

The Trine de Maruq—a name given in the old tongue to the ones who bring the dawn of hope to humanity. It was a known phrase among the old generations and had a lot of weight to it.

The three who had risen to stand against the Demon Legions.

The whispered prophecies of seers and the desperate hope of empires and kingdoms given form. Just like the prophecies had predicted, they had given hope to the empire and others. They fought countless battles to repel the legion that invaded their lands and killed their fair share of demons.

Raelana had heard tales of them, scattered through song and rumour, but to see them in flesh and blood made the stories seem too small to hold their truth.

Her flying beast shifted its wings uneasily, sensing a disturbance in the air.

Then it happened.

As if sensing the scrutiny of unseen eyes, Anita's head tilted upward.

Their gazes met.

Raelana's heart lurched into her throat.

She had not meant to be seen.

High above the canopy, hidden by distance and the speed of her mount, few could have pierced the veil of sky between them. And yet Anita's eyes found her with terrifying ease—like an arrow striking the bull's-eye at impossible range.

For a heartbeat, Raelana froze.

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