he darkness was swirling and trashing, carrying my soul in trembling hands as it swirled and tossed it around again and again. It felt like the world was shaking, like my body was trapped in a whirlwind, like my soul was shattering to pieces.

And in the end of that darkness I was swimming in, there was a small flare of light that was steady and bright, calling for me. It whispered my name—my real one—in a voice that was heavenly, each syllable sung with beautiful melodies that seemed to gently come toward me, battling its way through the dark.

Something in me stirred, something that was raw and pure and bright, like a kernel of happiness and ease that craved that voice, that needed to reach that light. That needed to be freed.

And so, I fought the darkness swallowing me, pushing through the shadows wrapping me like a swathe, hands digging a way out. And when I was able to push it away, to remove that heavy weight of depression and grief off me, it dissolved, bending in half as light shot straight through it like a path sewn of sunlight. On each side of that road, the darkness hissed and burned, thin and weak smoke emanating from it.

My limbs were shaking, my arms and hands trembling as I pushed myself onto that beautiful road, to that sweet light, to the voice that called my name. Home. It felt like home was in the end, away from all the horrors awaiting us in our quest. I urged my legs to move faster, half running, half wobbling my way toward my escape gate. The voice became stronger, clearer, more beautiful with each step. The kernel in me stirred harder, my magic singing along, and I felt free. I felt safe. I felt like my father's arms were embracing me, like this was his light guiding me back to him even when the voice was not his.

Those chants, the voice singing them, it was familiar and warm, tugging at my memories, begging me to remember where I'd heard it. But I couldn't, as though it was something that happened in a past lifetime, in a piece of my mind that was locked away. I hated that feeling, hated the fact that I was accustomed to it. My first night at the Norm, the voice when we crossed the White River, the faraway memories when Siltheres helped us with the old magic Blake was messing with, they were all so different and so familiar.

This one was no different, yet it was more peaceful than any of those times. More at ease.

Tears ran down my cheeks, leaving trails after trails on my chin before dripping to my chest. A broken sob left me, my voice—my true voice and not Elayda's—raw and hoarse and a bit foreign as it left my throat.

I was quivering from head to toe by the time I reached the light, my eyes greeted by a small sun that was cerulean in color as though the sky was forged into a sun of its own. The voice didn't whisper my name anymore; instead, it chanted old words that were a hymn and a lullaby combined. Chills ran up and down my spine, a shiver of cold and warmth kissing my skin. I reached that sun, allowed my skin to feel its hotness, and opened my heart to the singing voice.

It stopped.

Everything stopped. The darkness stopped hissing and trashing and shaking. The light stopped moving. The road stopped existing. The sun stopped shining.

And then, everything changed.

It was not dark anymore, and there was no shadows and still air. No, there was fire.

Long, mighty flames of scarlet and amber and orange and gold, all swaying together to the symphony of bone drums and screaming voices. Wails echoed far away as hellfire swallowed everything, falling from the sky and into the deepest earth as though hell itself was raining on our world.

It was war.

As far as my vision could go, I only saw death. And destruction. And chaos. There was no life here, in this immense battlefield locked between two valleys and showered with havoc. Only screaming and running bodies interrupted the crimson curtain veiling the world, all of them begging for a quick end. Fathers and mothers and children and babes, no one was spared from the monsters attacking them.

Some were torn open, others burned to death, and the unluckiest one were reduced to nothingness by the flock of shadows that came from the north in massive waves of blackness.

It was like staring at a stampede of endless destruction, and whatever the shadows touched, it withered and died and vanished from the sheer existence of the world.

But it weren't the monsters circling the crimson sky, nor the warriors dressed in black armors marching toward me—toward the innocents that were killed and tortured—that made my heart quiver. It was that black sea that approached so fast, grasping life and crushing it between its fingers. The first aspects of Apocalys's magic.

This was not our war. No. This was Leander's and Dearcious's and everyone's that lived on these lands eight thousand years ago. This was the first Red War. And it was a bloody hell.

Cadavers fell from the skies like dead moths, spat out of the mouths of the monsters—hideous creatures gone wrong with claws and talons and mighty wings—roaming between the clouds. Monsters I thanked the Five day and night did not exist anymore.

One of the corpses thudded on the ground inches away from my feet, his blood, still fresh and warm, showering me. He was cleaved in half from his toes to his armpits, only his left piece landing in front of my mortified eyes. His skin was still flushed, his blood still bright and liquid. There were no eyes staring back at me, nothing but empty sockets spitting blood.

My stomach churned, bile burning in my throat. Another heavy thud echoed around me and I turned to see the other half crashing against a rock, an infant—a girl barely a few months old—falling from the folded arm. She didn't budge nor cry as she hit earth, the spear pierced through her small chest having already claimed her soul. My legs trembled, my very soul shook with the horror of that scene, with the remaining streaks of tear marring her small, gaunt face.

I wanted to scream, wanted to yell and wail until my lungs burned out, but couldn't find my voice. My throat was heavy, a lump harder than stone sitting at the top, squishing my breaths. I couldn't think, couldn't breath as I watched as more bodies continued raining down, each thud and crash taking a piece of my heart with it.

Gods. Gods. This was the war that changed our world, the war that erased Ardoria and wrote it anew. And this was the very beginning of it, the advance of the song grandmothers sang to their grandchildren at night. The first legends of the war Apocalys started and Leander won. There was so much more to come. So much more gore and blood and broken screams.

Our war was to be worse than this. The damage Apocalys prepared after millenniums of resting and harvesting magic was worse than this. My heart clenched, my lungs caving around it so hard it couldn't beat anymore. All those innocents that died, there would be more once the moon bled.

And perhaps it was the fear of what was to come, the dread of the approaching war, that made me imagine my family standing in the middle of that fire. Made me imagine my father laying dead on the ground, my friends that were my brothers and sisters nothing but feasts to the growling monsters. I cried, my voice lost amongst the many shattering pleas for a savior. Amongst the howls and hisses and final prayers.

This was what would become of Ardoria, of my home.

The ground shook, the earth cracking and breaking and splitting, swallowing men and women and animals into its endless pit. And in the far distance, somewhere behind the valleys, a different sort of evil gathered. Something stronger. Wickeder. Immortal.

The valleys erupted, the massive rocks transforming to small splinters and pebbles that darted through the burning air faster than anything I'd seen in my entire life.

I closed my eyes, feeling my tears burning my skin and stones scratching it. And waited. Waited for that darkness to come back, waited for the apogee of screams before the empty muteness of death.

The silence came, but alone. And for the first while, I didn’t dare open my eyes. Didn't acknowledge where I was, who I was. For a good few moments, I forced my thoughts to stillness, to swim in oblivion and emptiness.

It was only when the stench of rotting fish and dust tickled my nose that I forced my eyelids open, fighting against the burning hotness in them. Silver light ran in the air in the company of floating particles of dust and dirt, drifting above my face. I stretched, the stiff mattress beneath my back groaning at the movement.

I breathed in heavily, filling my lungs with cool air, not caring about the strong tinge of wet dust and mud it carried. Anything was better than the hot, dry air of the battlefield. I straightened as best as I could in my place over the thin, hard mattress that barely separated me from the cold floor. It was actually small enough everything below my knees was lying on the ground.

The ceiling was low, a few inches over my skull at best. On my right was a small, barred window that painfully allowed light in. It was covered with dirt and old spots from the inside, fog and water from the outside. It must have rained as we slept.

I stirred, once again flexing my sore limbs before I lay back, head falling on a makeshift pillow filled with feathers and hay that prickled at my skin. I turned left, tucking one hand beneath my head as my eyes fell on Aedis's still sleeping face.

I smiled. He looked so calm, so at ease. Even the hardness of his face didn't feel threatening and intimidating with his eyes closed and jaws relaxed. I didn't fight the hand that went to his hair by its own, gingerly brushing his locks and scalp in soft circles—I needed to feel him next to me. Needed that comfort that told me he was safe. That kept on reminding me that war was still not here—that there was a way to win it.

There were mornings during our way here when I would wake before him and lay just like this, staring at this new face, and occasionally at the one hidden beneath the mask. I even kissed his cheek or forehead sometimes to wake him up of his sleep. In other mornings, he would get up first and do as I did, stroking my hair and embracing me when I was cold.

My chest ached. So much, I needed him and wanted him so much. He made me alive, made me feel strong and loved. I only begged I made him feel the same, begged that he felt the tingling beneath his skin like mine did every time we touched. That he felt his heart skip a beat and his blood boil in his veins every time he kissed my face. Wished he cherished the warmth of my body like I treasured his each time we hugged. But I wished harder, begged fervently, that he would forget these moments after I died. That he wouldn't live in the phantom of a cage built by our love.

Each day, that bit of hope I barely even clung to grew thinner and weaker. Each day, I believed more I was walking toward my grave, digging it with every hour that passed. I would not come back alive from that war. Not if it was stronger and harder than the first.

I had embraced the thought before now, perhaps the very morning we left. Or the evening I heard Aether's voice for the first time, even. There was so much to do, so many to save and protect in the upcoming second Red War. And death was so little a price to pay I didn't deign ask for more than strength for everyone I loved and loved me back.

I would go knocking on Apocalys's door myself if it meant not seeing my family like I had done in the dream, butchered and burned and eaten as they fought to their last breath, defending the world they loved so much.

Aedis opened his eyes, something akin to a small, light groan coming out of his chest as his limbs stretched, his body turning so he could face me. Red wine met seven shades of red and he beamed at me, face serene and smile genuine, away from the slyness and mischief he wore like a second face around Ûzan and her daughter. He ran a hand through his black hair, brushing away a couple of strands that fell over his eyes before taking my hand in his. I interlaced our fingers as he rolled his shoulders lightly, his free arm falling on my waist.

He blinked a few times, catching the late night in the small window past me. "How long do you think we were asleep?" he asked, his voice low, half of it still sleepy.

Heavens above only knew how hard my heart melted.

"I don't know,'' I whispered, pulling both of us halfway up, Aedis ducking his head so his skull wouldn't hit the ceiling as he pressed his back against the wall behind us. Even in sitting position, it was hard to move.

The place was small and crowded with old books, kitchen utensils, wooden blocks for fire, a bunch of rusted cauldrons, and a good amount of polished bones. The door, which was big enough to allow a dog in, was in the opposite of our mattress and we would have to ramp on fours to reach it. Great.

"It appears we were dragged in here,'' he stated, noting the long lines of dust covering us from head to toes as though the floor had been mopped with us. He whipped at my cheeks, rubbing hard and chuckling to himself as he brushed away the dirt. I smiled.

"Let's get out," I said, bending over so I could snake my way to the iron door. "I am not particularly enjoying the smell."

Aedis didn't object, only falling a step behind me as I made my way to the small and rusty iron door, my claws sharp enough they broke its hinges. With a groan, the metal scrapped against the wooden floor, damaging it before the Shadow grasped it and tossed it behind us.

The rattle of iron against bones still echoed as I crawled my way out, elbows sore and limbs numb, trembling beneath my weight. The witch had dumped us in a garret, it seemed, in the bit of space squeezed between the ceiling of the living room on the ground level and the bloody roof above us.

I didn't even have to jump over the empty space supporting the base of the loft, the distance barely a bit over a meter and half. Aedis, who even after shifting appearances was taller than me, only had to sit at the edge for his feet to steadily touch the solid ground under them. We walked back the way Saél had led us through the day we first entered this house, not even bothering to go down the staircase in the opposite direction and see what hid underground.

The need to clean air was guiding my muscle away of that prison Ûzan called her house. It was thundering in my blood, moving my legs towards the door. I didn't even bother with the eight locks, my magic snapping them, and the door, open so hard the latter banged against the concrete wall separating the entrance from the kitchen, if the smell of herbs and bread was enough indication.

And then, we were out, the coolness of the night a blessing falling upon us. Out, we were finally out of that rotting piece of hell trapped inside four walls. I almost cried out in relief the moment I felt moonlight glide through the heavy, black foliage and dance on my skin. I'd missed it so much, that sense of freedom whenever I was out, whether it was day or night. I was nourished and healed by the magic radiating from both the sun and moon, the hidden Mark of Aether on my palm earning a major part of its strength from the massive celestial bodies.

I leaned against the wooden exterior of the cottage, body slowly slumping down until I was sitting in mud, hands running in my hair and down my face to the spot over my heart that throbbed in delight. A soft, low growl resonated in the running air, drifting past my hearing and to the woods encircling the place. I followed the sound, tracking it until I saw it, the pair of fire eyes staring a good few feet inside the forest.

I grinned and the direwolf came jumping, massive body battering the soil beneath its paws.

It took seconds before it was in front of me, tongue out as it circled Aedis and I, tail swaying. There was a long trail of fresh blood running from its mouth, the liquid stark against the pure whiteness of its pelt. Aedis stroked its fur right behind its ears, earning series of low, pleased howl. The Kyel lowered his body until he was crouching next to me, one knee in the mud. The direwolf turned from him to me, enormous snout nuzzling in my neck. I laughed, running my fingers through its smooth coat.

For a few moments, there was sheer silence beside the pants of the wolf as we stared up at the sky, the bits of it visible in the cracks between the trees. I couldn't see the moon, not even its outline, but I felt it, right above us, behind clouds and skies, staring down at us. Guarding us the way an angel and a mother would do. And that silence felt so pure, so clean and delicious in a way I could not word, until it broke.

My claws did not increase in length, my fangs did not grow long and sharp and harder than steel as I turned to see the frail silhouette of Saél peering from the door. Her face was pale and sick, swallowed in the darkness of her oversized hood. Her aura flickered, going from sound and rested to alert upon seeing us awake. I grinned, showing her the sharp sets of pearl-white teeth that could tear raw flesh as easily as a knife through half-melted butter.

She disappeared back inside her house, moving on light feet, most likely not to wake her mother sleeping underground. Or any beast that roamed in these woods. The Shadow was already staring at me, words clear in his eyes, when I cocked my head to him.

He had my same thought written on his face, clear and stark on his soul.

It was time Saél gave us some much needled answers.

So we waited for a minute, then two, then more than that until the door opened once again, five minutes later, red tendrils glinting like molten rubies down her back and to her waist. She placed a tray, broken at the edge, on the trunk chopped just a bit above the roots just five feet on my right. The witch's daughter was about to pour us what smelled like tea when Aedis clicked his tongue at her. She froze, head lifting with studied slowness so she could stare at us from her bent position.

He pointed at the tray with his slender index then pointed at her before ushering to the spot right next to the direwolf. Saél was reluctant, I could see it in both her aura and soul, but still obeyed like the wise witch she was. The direwolf's growls strained a bit at first and upon realizing who was next to it—the daughter and not the mother—stopped. It was enough to tell that she treated it better than her mother.

It was time seeing just how hard was the steel forging her bones.