Thirty years later, at the village of Athena’s Advance…

The Caliph of Oasis, Lucid II, stood alone amidst lifeless streets and buildings boarded up and abandoned. Decked out in the red plate of her Death Knight armour, her pink hair kept within her hooded helmet and her face enshrouded behind the metal mask that was hers and hers alone. Her runed greatsword, unsheathed in one gauntleted hand, and her jewelled truncheon clutched firmly in the other.

The royal guard and her scouts had not lied to her, and even she could not fault them for evacuating with the villagers, for what was to come would be hers and hers alone to face. Those who had thought otherwise, or were simply in the way, had died untimely deaths. Bandits, monsters, travellers, the innocent and the guilty alike, laid low and crushed into bloody pulps.

It was true, beyond the shadow of a doubt, especially now that she herself had set foot here and could feel it for herself – the cold desert air now carried with it an aura of dread, creeping doubt and sowing fear deep into the hearts of mortal men and elves. Possibly, dare she say it, even into the undead creatures of Amon’s hierarchy, for her skeletal warhorse would go no further.

It would be another battle, another enemy to be slain. Like so many before, be they wicked men or elves seeking to prey on the weak, the creatures of Sophia and Amon born of this world, or even the Hellbourne from beyond it. And yet, this time it felt different. Her armour felt heavy upon her shoulders, and she could feel the weight of her blade and her truncheon so acutely within her grasp. In truth, she had yet to use them in years, even though she had been keeping up with her training as best she could, alongside her new duties as an Archon. Most enemies, the sentient ones at least, seemed to know better than to fight, for the sight of her standing in tall in her Death Knight regalia was always just enough to frighten most into submission.

Not this one, though. Her servants were right to be afraid, of this fiend they had so aptly labelled a Wight – from the ancient legends of old, the remnants of those who had died wrongful deaths, whose hatred persisted beyond it. That by Amon’s will, that even in the Dark Goddess’s purported death in this world that now belonged to Elicia, would remain bound to the earth. Forever. Even a Vampire Lord could become one, in true death.

“Lucid…”

Discordant, with words warped nearly beyond recognition and yet with a pitch so hauntingly familiar, a spectral figure of shifting and burning energy stood at the other end of the old road, encased within a tarnished shell of black and grey armour cloaked in tattered shreds of black that flowed hatefully in her wake. With her war mace in one hand, and a jewelled truncheon in the other, the Wight peered out into the world of the living at her enemy, her deathly gaze unmasked and seething with hatred unbound.

“Athena.”

“Show me… what an Archon looks like.”

Wordlessly, Lucid II readied her weapons and advanced into battle with her black cloak billowing in her wake, tears of blood flowing down her pink eyes and onto her cheeks hidden behind her mask. It would be, for her, the first of many in the centuries to come.

Snap back to the present day, in the Dreamless Crypt…

Gently, Lucid II removed her mask and placed it upon a nearby dresser. Her servants had been dismissed, for in this moment, even if it had become routine, she relished the privacy. Especially so, while Claire de la Lune had stepped out of the palace, immersing herself in the City of Dreams alongside her mistress, for what little time remained before the Eye of Elicia needed her, once again.

She retrieved her truncheon from the gilded weapon rack, and gazed quietly into the fading light of its multicoloured jewel. Tears of blood trickled down her eyes as she brought forth her sigil, pink just like her eyes, to bear upon her palm. It glowed beautifully, sparkling and shimmering as its lines formed the image of a butterfly with its wings wide and outstretched, ever graceful in flight. She then brought that dazzling light to bear upon her truncheon’s jewel, the magic of her pink sigil draining itself to revitalise the jewel’s glow into a radiant brightness, like that of a star reborn.

Reaching for a nearby towel prepared by the servants before they had left her, she wiped the bloodstains from her face, before pressing the warm cotton gently against her cold skin. She could still remember so keenly, even now, the young Necrolyte from the now-defunct Temple of the Dead who had willingly given her life and soul to be used in the creation of her truncheon’s jewel. The girl’s name was Aisha, a young elf little more than twenty winters old with yellow hair and green eyes, and they had spent a year together in the Temple, tending to the massive catacombs beneath the city, as was tradition. They had spoken of much together in that time, of many topics and of many things, of hopes and fears and dreams, and when it had been time for the ritual, the sacrificial dagger felt heavy in her hands when Aisha did nothing more than close her eyes and smile, knelt upon the floor heavy with the scent of ritual oils, and prepared for certain death.

This, against all enemies, remained the lynchpin of the Death Knight’s arsenal. It was a source of power, like a mageblade or a focusing orb, to conduct and sustain the magic of a sorcerer’s sigil so as to serve as an amplifier of spells cast in combat. One’s blood could always be replenished long before the heat and stresses of battle, after all.

Quietly, she returned her jewelled truncheon to the weapon rack, and placed her mask back upon her face. Doing this was merely routine, but it was different back then, when Athena was around, when Elicia did not rule the world – together, with her, it meant a moment alone, away from their duties in the long desert nights. And she relished it, craved for it still, even now. Even if it was impossible in this new world that was hers, where she had everything else at her feet and within her grasp. As was promised, by Elicia herself.

“Lucy?”

Lucid II turned around and nodded in acknowledgement of Belial’s presence, whose joyful demeanour quickly turned solemn as she stepped into the room and looked into her mistress’s eyes. Quickly, she prostrated herself before her Archon mistress, and held out a jewelled truncheon in both her hands, its heft broken and brittle like an artifact of ages past, and its jewel bereft of magical light.

“It is done, then.”

“Yes,” Belial answered, as Lucid II relieved her of the rusted truncheon. “She won’t be back for another century. Or maybe, until the end of….”

“Oh, Bella. You and I, both know better than that. I should know better…”

Lucid II turned away towards the balcony beyond the sliding doors past her bedroom, her gaze resting upon the eternally night skies that lay beyond that space. Already, even as it remained within her hands, Athena’s truncheon was slowly falling apart, once more. Fading away, bit by bit, into the ether. Until the next century or so, repeating on and on again in a cycle of hatred unending, of wistful memory, of cold regret, and burning oblivion.

“I’m sorry, Lucy.”

“I killed her, Bella,” Lucid II uttered softly. “I lost my temper, and I…”

Immediately, Belial stood up and moved quickly towards her mistress, whose body began to quiver and tremble even as her back remained turned to her.

“Lucy…”

“I still have dreams of her, Bella. I still dream of that night, when I was a hero. Together, we serve our Prince, side by side. We bring honour to ourselves, and our kingdom…”

Belial said nothing. In that silence, she leaned in close and embraced her mistress from behind. Holding her, as tightly and closely as she could while her mistress’s tears fell upon her hands.

“I let it happen, Bella…” Lucid II whispered. “I made it happen…”