The desert of Selunrah was silent.

  Not the natural silence of a windless night, but something deeper, far more unnatural. The sand still held the lingering heat of the emotional distortion that had shaken the underground —Yareen’s escape— and the air vibrated with a strange residue, as if the world had exhaled too violently and had not yet recovered its breath.

  Three figures moved across the dunes. They did not walk.

  They dragged themselves forward.

  Ilse led the way, her body bent as if every step tore something inside her. Mareike followed closely behind, trembling, breathing in short gasps, her eyes swollen without tears. Between them, barely held upright by their arms, was Klara.

  Klara Weisshaupt.

  Or what remained of her.

  Her blond hair had lost all shine. Her face was streaked with dust, sweat, and dried blood. Where once she had an arm, there was only a makeshift bandage soaked in something dark. Her right eye was covered with a bloodstained cloth.

  But nothing was as disturbing as her expression.

  Empty.

  Hollow.

  As if her emotion had been carved out at the root.

  Ilse swallowed hard and lifted her hand, trying to conjure a small spark of magic to light their way. A faint violet flicker appeared… and died instantly.

  Nothing.

  No glow.

  No vibration.

  No hint of transformation.

  —Kontra—… she whispered, desperate.

  The word died on her tongue.

  No pain.

  No backlash.

  There simply was not enough emotion left in her to hurt.

  Mareike clutched her chest, choking on a dry sob.

  —Ilse… I can’t— I can’t feel anything…

  And there, among the sand and the darkness, the two of them understood —again, as if stabbed once more— why they were like this.

  What Yareen had done to them.

  It hadn’t been torture.

  Not just mutilation.

  It had been experimentation.

  And the consequences were carved into their skin like serpents of shadow beneath the surface. Mareike’s arms bore circular marks, impressions of emotional pressure. Ilse’s neck showed blackened lines like veins torn out and reattached by force. In their chests, a heartbeat that was not theirs, but a residual vibration Yareen had left behind like a parasite.

  Klara let out a soft moan. Mechanical. Almost childlike.

  Then the sand stilled.

  Not from wind.

  Not from movement.

  From her.

  Ilse’s eyes snapped open.

  The sand vibrated, forming spiraling whorls that closed around them. A few grains floated upward, spinning as if pulled by an invisible magnet.

  Mareike fell to her knees.

  Klara whimpered.

  The air thickened as though they were inhaling smoke.

  And then she appeared.

  Yareen.

  She limped.

  Her ceremonial braids were torn to shreds.

  The side where Lyss had severed her arm was an open wound, bleeding black sand that evaporated before touching the ground. Her white eye trembled, its nonexistent pupil twitching in every direction.

  And yet…

  She radiated power like a sick, dying sun.

  —You left… without permission— she whispered, her voice broken, layered, as if speaking from several places at once.

  Ilse staggered backward.

  —W-we didn’t— we never meant—

  But her voice cut off.

  Literally.

  As if someone had reached inside her throat and unplugged it.

  Mareike tried to stand. She couldn’t. Her legs had failed ever since Yareen began to “open” her emotionally to study her reactions.

  Drained.

  Empty.

  Silent.

  Yareen tilted her head, observing them like insects pinned under glass.

  —They don’t shine— she said.

  —They don’t feel.

  They are useless.—

  Her white eye clicked.

  Klara stiffened.

  A spasm shot through her body.

  But Yareen did not move toward her.

  Not yet.

  Instead, she raised her remaining hand toward Ilse.

  —Come.—

  It was an emotional command, not a verbal one.

  Ilse took a step forward against her will.

  Her mouth trembled.

  She could not say no.

  She had no emotion left to resist.

  Yareen took her jaw between her fingers.

  A soft touch.

  Far too soft.

  Then she pressed.

  A blackened thumb sank against Ilse’s skin and burned her from the inside out. Not fire. Not cold.

  Emotional pain.

  Raw.

  Corrosive.

  Ilse screamed.

  A broken, gutted sound, as if her soul were being marked with a branding iron.

  The skin beneath Yareen’s thumb darkened, twisting until it formed a symbol:

  a circle crossed by a jagged line—like a shattered eye.

  Yareen released her.

  Ilse hit the ground trembling, the mark glowing faintly, fused into her emotion forever.

  Mareike was crying silently. She tried to crawl away, anywhere, but her arms barely held her weight.

  Yareen reached her in a single, dragging step.

  —You… cry beautifully.—

  She touched Mareike’s neck.

  Mareike screamed so loudly the sand around them shuddered.

  Another mark.

  Black.

  Twisted.

  Permanent.

  She collapsed into convulsions.

  Finally, Yareen looked at Klara.

  The fallen leader.

  The proud one.

  The invincible, now mutilated and hollow.

  Klara lifted her head by barely a centimeter.

  Her breath trembled.

  Yareen leaned closer.

  She did not touch her.

  She simply looked.

  Long, endlessly long.

  As if weighing something.

  Then she spoke:

  —You were already broken.

  I don’t need to finish you.—

  She straightened.

  Turned on her bleeding, sand-drenched feet.

  And began to dissolve, as if returning to the womb of the desert.

  Before disappearing, she whispered:

  —Go home.

  Tell them you were mine.

  They won’t believe you.

  But your souls will remember.—

  And then… nothing.

  Only the desert.

  Three shattered magical girls.

  Three hollow shadows.

  And on their skin, the black marks of Yareen…

  still burning like eternal scars.

  Back in the city...

  The communicator went silent, but Luma’s words didn’t fade inside me.

  The Eiswacht prisoner… vanished.

  A pull tightened in my stomach. It wasn’t fear.

  It was… suspicion.

  Was all of this a distraction?

  A perfect stage to keep us occupied?

  Or… worse?

  Another witch forming nearby without us noticing?

  Yareen didn’t control her own power.

  I knew that.

  I felt it.

  That chaos wasn’t innate.

  It was imposed, or extracted, or forced.

  Witches always carried the same scent:

  Hunger.

  Emptiness.

  Absence of identity.

  And that was what unsettled me the most.

  Not knowing whether Yareen was an accident…

  or the first sign of something worse.

  Velka came to my side almost instantly. I felt her hand on my forearm, slightly trembling, trying to anchor me even though she had no stability left herself. Her breath was uneven since the moment Mahtani fell; she wouldn’t admit it, but she was shattered inside.

  Neyra stood behind us, motionless. Her dark eyes hadn’t recovered from the emotional distortion. She said nothing, yet I could feel her distrust toward the air itself.

  A few steps away, Caelia lifted Ahlia with one arm and Mahtani with the other, her jaw tight, her muscles strained from the weight. Zayrah and Irsah helped, but Caelia carried the true burden—literal and emotional. The same burden that almost broke her after seeing the history of the Thirteen.

  —Lyss —she said without turning—.

  We’ll take the Guardians. There’s no time.

  Her voice trembled, barely, almost imperceptibly.

  But it trembled.

  I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me.

  —I’ll catch up —I answered.

  Caelia gave the slightest tilt of her head and kept moving, carrying two of the most powerful women in Seravenn in critical condition, as if the weight wasn’t enough to collapse her.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Once she disappeared into the shadows of the desert, I remained standing with Velka and Neyra. Three remnants of a battle that had gone far too wrong.

  And inside me, a pressure that would not let go:

  I needed to return to Nerys.

  I needed to know what she felt about Yareen, even if she didn’t know her.

  Even if she couldn’t give me all the answers.

  But first…

  I had to face Sultan Azhara.

  And tell her the truth:

  Mahtani is dying.

  Ahlia has collapsed.

  Yareen escaped.

  And the most dangerous magical girl in Eiswacht…

  is loose.

  I clenched my teeth. It hurt.

  —Let’s go —I said at last, forcing my legs to move—.

  Azhara needs to hear everything.

  The walk back to the palace felt longer than it really was. Not because of the distance… but because something in the air around us had changed. The night felt thick, the air heavy, as if every step dragged a different memory of what had just happened.

  Velka walked beside me, but she wasn’t present. Her breathing was uneven, almost shaky, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles trembled. Neyra watched her with that silent, sharp focus only she had.

  —I couldn’t help her… —Velka muttered, barely a whisper—. Mahtani… I— I just held her. I didn’t do anything.

  I stopped.

  Neyra did too.

  Velka took two more steps before realizing we weren’t behind her. She turned, her eyes bright with restrained frustration.

  I stepped closer and took her by the shoulders.

  —Velka… —my voice came out softer than I expected—. If you hadn’t held her, she would’ve died. Do you understand that?

  Neyra moved to the other side and pressed her forehead gently against Velka’s. A rare gesture from her… but the exact one Velka needed.

  —You’re not alone —Neyra said—. And you didn’t fail. Not today.

  Velka pressed her lips together. And then… she broke just a little.

  Only a little.

  But enough to let us pull her into an embrace.

  We held her between the two of us.

  A brief moment.

  Warmth against warmth.

  Uneven breaths.

  Three hearts trying to keep moving.

  When we let go, Velka inhaled deeply.

  —Thank you… —she whispered.

  I nodded, saying nothing more.

  We continued walking toward the palace. The marble doors were open, and the glow of oil lamps washed the entrance in a warm golden light. The guards paled when they saw us, but none dared to ask.

  Azhara was waiting on the steps of the main hall.

  I had never seen that look on her face before.

  Pure, unfiltered worry.

  Her eyes searched behind us.

  When she saw no one coming… her expression cracked.

  —Where are they…? —she breathed.

  I stepped forward.

  —Sultana, they’re on their way with Caelia, Zayrah, and Irsah. They’re alive… but in very bad shape. Ahlia collapsed. Mahtani has severe internal damage. Ahlia managed to stabilize her, but—

  Azhara closed her eyes.

  A trembling exhale escaped her chest.

  I saw it.

  I saw how deeply it hurt her.

  The Guardians weren’t just her guard.

  They were her family.

  —Lyss… —she said, opening her eyes, already red at the corners—. What happened?

  I forced my voice to stay steady.

  —Yareen appeared. She infiltrated the fanatics. Her power… isn’t stable. It’s not hers. Sultana… she doesn’t control her own magic. And she escaped.

  And during the chaos… someone freed Klara Weisshaupt.

  Azhara stepped back as if struck physically.

  —The prisoner…? Freed?

  I nodded.

  —Yes. We don’t know her condition… but she’s out. And we don’t know who allowed it.

  Azhara clenched her fists.

  For a moment, I thought she might collapse.

  But she breathed.

  Once.

  Twice.

  And lifted her chin.

  —I need to see them —she said, and that was all.

  I took a step forward.

  —Sultana… I need to go back to Nerys. There are things I have to finish. And questions I need to ask her.

  Azhara didn’t hesitate.

  Not even a second.

  —Go. Do what you must —she whispered—. I… I have to see my girls.

  She didn’t walk.

  She ran.

  Her robes trailing behind her, sandaled feet hitting marble.

  The image of a mother chasing the echo of a cry she couldn’t ignore.

  We watched her disappear down the main corridor.

  Velka wiped her eyes.

  Neyra inhaled shakily.

  And I…

  I turned in the opposite direction.

  Nerys was waiting for me.

  And after tonight, I needed her answers more than ever.

  We descended again. The walls no longer looked like stone—they felt like ancient ribs of something that had once been alive. The air was still, dense, as if the magic itself was holding its breath.

  Nerys was there, exactly in the center of the circle, eyes closed, hands resting on her knees. She didn’t move when we approached.

  She didn’t open her eyes until my boots crossed the edge of the circle.

  When she did, her gaze settled on the three of us… and softened.

  —Where is little tear? —she asked, tilting her head.

  I had to inhale before answering.

  —She’s with Zayrah and Irsah —I said—. She went to take Ahlia and Mahtani for treatment. She’s fine. She just… went with them.

  Nerys nodded.

  A small gesture, but enough to show she cared.

  —Then speak —she said, folding her hands over her lap—. I can feel you didn’t return out of curiosity.

  I knelt in front of her.

  Velka and Neyra sat beside me, both still tense, still carrying the weight of the night in their skin.

  —I felt something… strange —I began—. Yareen wasn’t a witch yet. But she wasn’t human either. Her magic was… forced. Not hers. It didn’t feel like an emotion breaking loose. It felt like someone pushed her into that state.

  Nerys narrowed her eyes, and for a moment it looked like she was searching through a memory far too old.

  —Tell me, Lyss —she said softly—. Is she still hungry?

  —Yes —I answered—. Very. i feel how she need to drain magic like the others i have encountered.

  —And can she still recognize words? Commands? Names?

  —I guess? she was mocking us and speaking nonsense

  Nerys fell silent.

  And then she asked:

  —Is she still human? Or is she already a Dominus?

  My stomach tightened.

  —I don’t know —I admitted—. That’s why I came. We need to know.

  Velka stepped in then, her voice rough but steady:

  —In your time… were there witches too?

  Nerys exhaled slowly, deeply.

  A sound that didn’t come from the body, but the soul.

  —Unfortunately, yes —she said—. Not many… but they existed. Some daughters of the Mothers. Others… daughters of their daughters. Magic blessed them with longer lives. And I lived long enough to see several born… before I sealed myself here.

  The air felt colder as she spoke.

  Nerys continued:

  —If this “Yareen” is in the state you describe… she may soon become one of the strongest witches to ever exist. And if that happens… it will be a real problem. For all of you… and for the world.

  Velka swallowed.

  Neyra looked down.

  I clenched my fists.

  —Then —Neyra said, lifting her eyes to Nerys— we need the full story. If any of the Mothers left a solution. A path. Anything.

  Nerys shook her head gently.

  —I can only tell you my story —she said—. Not theirs. I lived many years beside Lyssandra… she was my closest friend. I knew her joys, and her grief. But the others… they kept secrets even from me.

  Frustration burned in my chest.

  —Then… what do we do?

  Nerys extended her hand toward us and pointed to the floor of the circle.

  —Ask the magic.

  I blinked.

  —How?

  —Sit —she instructed.

  We did.

  She closed her eyes.

  We followed.

  —Magic always remembers —Nerys whispered—. Ask. Search through the emotions.

  What you need to know… will answer.

  A shiver ran down my spine.

  Because Nerys wasn’t speaking in metaphor.

  She meant it literally.

  Magic was going to speak.

  And we would have to endure whatever it showed us.

  I closed my eyes when Nerys asked me to, but the magic didn’t wait for my breath to steady.

  The question was already burning inside me:

  “Show me how despair falls.

  Show me where it began.”

  The air shifted first.

  It no longer smelled like the dust of the sanctuary—

  it turned metallic, heavy, the kind of air that lingers after a battle where no one is left to scream.

  Velka’s hand tightened against my knee.

  Neyra swallowed hard, failing to look composed.

  Nerys’ voice reached us from somewhere distant, as if echoing through a deep well:

  —Magic remembers.

  And it answers need, not desire.

  When I opened my eyes…

  I was standing inside a ruined throne room.

  Not a clean memory.

  But an emotion given shape, edges trembling and uneven like drying paint.

  The ceiling had collapsed.

  Ashes clung to the carpet.

  Pillars were cracked to the core.

  And at the foot of the throne, dead at last, lay the Nameless King.

  Lyssandra stood over him, breathing like a beast that had just finished what the world lacked the courage to do.

  Her eyes burned like embers.

  Her magic pulsed red, making the air vibrate.

  Further back, behind drifting smoke, I saw her.

  Elena.

  Watching.

  Not with fury.

  Not with fear.

  With… something fractured.

  As if she already knew this moment would change everything.

  Lyssandra saw her.

  She didn’t speak.

  She didn’t ask a single thing.

  Blood Crown emerged from her abdomen in a living crimson arc.

  The air went red.

  The world tightened around the blade.

  Elena stepped forward.

  The smoke shifted around her, recognizing her presence.

  Then she arched her back, every tattoo, every dark line along her skin tightening as if answering an emotion too vast for her body.

  The memory compressed.

  Her weapon it began to form in her spine, the flesh began to open, the ribs made a horrid sound it literally was made of her spine then it took form. A polearm forged in shadow: a long haft ending in a sickle-shaped blade, flanked by twin barbed hooks that seemed designed to catch, pull, and never release.

  When the weapon finally took shape, despair burst outward around Elena like a silent shockwave.

  Lyssandra lowered Blood Crown, ready to charge.

  Elena held her weapon with chilling precision—

  as if she had been born with it in her hand.

  And in that instant, I understood why the magic had brought me here.

  Not to witness Elena.

  Not to witness Lyssandra.

  But to witness how a fall begins.

  The world trembled when both weapons were finally revealed.

  Lyssandra’s red fury.

  Elena’s dark despair.

  Two pure emotions, far too vast to fit inside a human body.

  The air inside the throne room changed density, as if the vision itself feared what was about to happen.

  Lyssandra moved first.

  She didn’t run.

  She didn’t charge.

  She didn’t scream.

  She simply vanished in a crimson flash—a blink of fury that carried her straight toward Elena, Blood Crown descending in a wide, perfect, devastating arc.

  Elena didn’t step back.

  Her weapon traced a circular motion—elegant, precise, almost silent.

  The curved blade intercepted the crimson trajectory, and when the imagined metals met…

  There was no sound.

  There was a void.

  A heartbeat that drained the oxygen, the dust, even the color from the room.

  Elena didn’t block.

  She absorbed.

  Despair swallowed fury for a single second.

  Only one.

  But it was enough to make Lyssandra’s brow tighten.

  —You always do that… —she murmured, barely audible.

  Elena answered without emotion:

  —And you always think you can break everything.

  Lyssandra pivoted on her heel, unleashing a horizontal slash that could have split a mountain.

  The floor cracked open in a red fissure behind Elena.

  But Elena wasn’t there.

  Her steps were weightless, as if despair denied her place in the physical world.

  Every time she moved, her weapon left dark traces in the air, as if marking the fabric of reality itself.

  She countered with an upward strike.

  The curved spearhead sought Lyssandra’s ribs with surgical precision.

  Lyssandra barely blocked in time, the blade scraping her ancestral skin.

  The impact released waves of magic in all directions.

  Pieces of the memory shattered like splinters of glass.

  The vision trembled.

  Velka gasped beside me.

  Neyra’s hand tightened around my arm without her noticing.

  I couldn’t look away.

  This fight wasn’t a duel.

  It was a declaration.

  Fury struck directly—fierce, honest, unmasked.

  Every blow from Lyssandra carried determination, justice, something too profoundly human to be called mere power.

  Despair… didn’t strike.

  It trapped.

  It enveloped.

  It sank.

  Every movement of Elena sought to turn force into emptiness, momentum into collapse, intensity into exhaustion.

  When Lyssandra delivered a vertical strike, Elena bent backward with impossible flexibility, hooking Lyssandra’s wrist with the tip of her weapon and yanking violently downward.

  It was the first time I heard Lyssandra growl in pain.

  The throne room responded with a burst of red light.

  Fury manifested in a rising column that set the surviving tapestries ablaze.

  Elena didn’t retreat.

  She stepped into the flames as if nothing in the world could burn her.

  —One day —she said with that hollow voice that no longer sounded entirely hers—, you’ll stop caring who you’re liberating.

  —And one day —Lyssandra replied, charging again—, you’ll understand that no one deserves to live in chains.

  The next clash split the memory in two for an instant.

  I saw both of them:

  – Lyssandra, burning.

  – Elena, breaking as she shone.

  And I understood what mattered most:

  They weren’t fighting to kill each other.

  They were fighting because neither could accept the other’s way of seeing the world.

  It was a duel of philosophies.

  Of wounds.

  Of incompatible truths.

  When the shadows began to shrink and the red light distorted, I knew the vision was about to collapse.

  But before it broke—

  a figure appeared between them.

  A figure crying.

  A soft turquoise glow spreading like a mantle.

  Nerys.

  —Enough —she whispered—.

  I will not tolerate fighting between us.

  Sadness expanded like a wave.

  Fury calmed.

  Despair sank.

  And the vision exploded into fragments.

  The fragments didn’t fade or collapse like broken glass.

  They rearranged themselves…

  as if the magic refused to release me just yet.

  And then I saw her again.

  Lyssandra.

  Not fighting.

  Not burning.

  Not shouting at a world that never understood her.

  But sitting beside a stream, feet submerged in cold water, breathing as if she had just lost a piece of herself.

  She looked exhausted.

  Not physically.

  Emotionally.

  Anger… burns.

  Even the ones it was meant to protect.

  Nerys appeared behind her.

  Not floating.

  Not as a Mother.

  As a friend.

  She sat beside Lyssandra without making a sound, without asking permission, without asking a single question.

  Lyssandra didn’t look up, but her hand instinctively reached for Nerys’.

  A small gesture.

  An intimate one.

  A gesture that spoke of years spent side by side.

  —You don’t have to carry everything alone —Nerys whispered.

  Lyssandra let out a sigh that felt as though it had been waiting centuries to escape.

  —I don’t know how to do anything else… If I lower my guard… —She cut herself off, biting the words back, as if saying them aloud might shatter something inside her.

  —If you lower your guard, I’ll still be here —Nerys replied, resting her head against Lyssandra’s shoulder—. I told you the day you destroyed his throne. I’m not going anywhere.

  Lyssandra closed her eyes.

  The water reflected the red glow of her magic, but the stream remained peaceful.

  For the first time since this vision began, her anger didn’t roar.

  It breathed.

  And in that moment, I understood something I hadn’t grasped before:

  Lyssandra was never truly alone.

  But she lived terrified of someday becoming so.

  A fear Elena couldn’t outrun.

  A fear that might swallow us all if we fail to find another path.

  The vision began to dim around the stream, as though its light was unraveling into thinner and thinner threads.

  Nerys lifted her gaze toward me.

  Not toward Lyssandra.

  Toward me.

  As if she knew I was standing there.

  —It always begins this way —she said, voice soft and mournful—.

  With someone holding another before they fall.

  The vision burst into white.

  And when I opened my eyes inside the sanctuary, my heartbeat was still slamming against my ribs as if it didn’t belong to me.

  Velka was breathing fast.

  Neyra’s eyes were wet.

  But before I could speak, a new light shimmered above the circle.

  A soft, golden glow… almost warm.

  Magic was responding again.

  It wasn’t finished.

  And I knew, before anyone said a word, who was coming next.

  Hope.

  Ariane.

  The heart of the Mothers.

  And perhaps…

  the only one who could tell us how to stop what’s coming.