The old tales speak of gods who walked among men, of heroes who could raise city walls with their bare hands, and of sorcerers who reshaped reality itself. Yet if there is one shadow that lingers over even the most dazzling accounts of glory, it is death.

  In the world of Therium, death is not merely an ending. It is a covenant.

  A promise that once a soul crosses the threshold, it does not return.

  Healing magic exists, of course (clever little tricks that merely coax the body to knit itself faster). Blood clots in heartbeats instead of hours, shattered bones realign in days instead of moons. But when the heart stills, when breath ceases for too long… nothing remains but the promise fulfilled.

  Resurrection is the stuff of tavern whispers, forbidden verses, and scrolls the churches and the arcane towers burn the moment they find them. Those foolish enough to tear the veil, they say, do bring something back… but never the one they lost.

  Jay knew that better than anyone.

  He had heard that voice before.

  “How many more do you intend to bury?”

  …

  The air stank of blood and wet stone. The temple’s pillars shuddered from the aftermath of battle, cracks crawling across the walls like the veins of an enraged god.

  Layla lay crumpled on the floor (far too small amidst the carnage), her body torn and broken, yet not cold. Not yet.

  Nessa knelt over her, both palms pressed to her friend’s chest. A blue-green glow poured from the priestess’s hands while her lips moved in prayers so ancient even the elders of her own temple had forgotten the words. Sweat and tears streaked her face, but she did not stop.

  Jay did not move.

  His eyes were fixed on them—on this scene—and, at the same time, on another. Time felt looped, cruelly repeating itself.

  The voice (dry as wind through ruins) returned, slithering inside his skull.

  “She must go. Death is part of life.”

  Astariia.

  The name tolled inside him like a distant bell. His mistake. His vow. The day he swore he would never again care for anyone.

  But Layla—this tiny, reckless barbarian—had always laughed where she should have feared him. She had trusted him.

  And now she was dying.

  Jay’s fists clenched.

  The bandages on his right arm (always still, always sleeping) shivered. They thrummed, as though tasting his hesitation. As though answering it.

  They were dozens of meters beneath the earth. No sound from the surface. No allies. No witnesses, no executioners.

  Only him… and the thing rising before them.

  What had once been a trenti now hauled itself upright, its eyes blazing with an impossible violet fire, its flesh fused with formless horrors that hurt to perceive.

  Nessa did not see it; she was too deep in her desperate prayer to keep Layla breathing.

  Jay knew the creature would slaughter them both in seconds.

  That was the moment the bandages tightened of their own accord.

  Then—light.

  Not the gentle glow of torch or cantrip. This was gold with depth, as though every spark carried the memory of distant thunder and the dying whispers of stars. Ancient sigils (interlaced circles, ethereal runes, fragments of a language the world had murdered) flared beneath the wrappings, burning like embers under skin.

  The air cracked.

  The monster faltered.

  It never got another chance.

  One silent step and Jay vanished.

  He reappeared halfway across the ruined hall, right arm raised like a beacon of primordial judgment.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Balmung, he thought—but did not speak.

  From the sealed limb unfurled a blade of living golden energy that tore the air with a sound that was not sound at all… but absence.

  VUUUSHH.

  The world froze.

  The creature didn’t even manage a scream. A single, perfect cut bisected it as cleanly as an old parchment. The blade kept going—through stone, through steel, through the very bones of the temple—until it kissed the void.

  And with the cut came something else.

  A wave.

  Raw, primal power rolled outward. It was magic, yet not destructive.

  It was restoration.

  As if every severed cell, every shattered bone, every torn vein suddenly remembered its proper shape.

  Layla gasped; the blood ceased pouring. Her eyes fluttered open for a bewildered instant.

  Nessa collapsed sideways, spent but alive.

  The temple, however, had no interest in being saved. Jay felt the ceiling groan, pillars snap, the whole structure folding like a house of cards built by a drunk.

  No time.

  He sprinted, scooping one girl under each arm. The glow in his eyes was already fading.

  With his teeth he tore an age-yellowed scroll from inside his cloak.

  A flash swallowed the three of them whole.

  …

  The sea whispered. Cold, salted wind kissed their faces.

  The sky still bled the last colors of dusk.

  Jay knelt in the sand, both girls unconscious against him. His lungs burned; every muscle screamed.

  The bandages on his right arm hung loose again, lifeless, as though they had never woken.

  But the girls were warm. Their hearts beat—soft, steady, alive.

  He knew what he had done.

  He knew the price would come.

  But in that moment, nothing else mattered.

  His strength finally gave out. He slumped forward.

  And in the hush that followed, he heard thunder.

  Gentle.

  Distant.

  The echo of a memory.

  ...

  A memory from some years ago…

  The sky burned orange when Jay, still astride his horse, spotted the scene.

  “Hmm? A pack of thugs cornering a little beast-girl?” he muttered, lazily scratching the patchy beard on his chin. “It always starts like this, doesn’t it?”

  The young kiteni was surrounded. Bleeding, battered, but defiance blazing in her eyes. She had already dropped two of her attackers. Three more lay on the ground (probably former party members). And yet there she stood, panting, swaying… still on her feet.

  Jay leaned forward in the saddle.

  “Gutsy. But running on fumes. She’ll drop any second now.”

  He could have ridden past. He had done it countless times before.

  But something itched. That irritating, impossible-to-ignore tug that refuses to shut up even when you swear it’s “not your problem.”

  His gut screamed. And, as usual, Jay couldn’t pretend he was deaf.

  “Tch. Damn conscience.”

  He raised one hand. The sky answered with a flash.

  “Showtime.”

  Lightning forked down like divine spears, carving a path straight through the men. Jay charged like a living storm, hair whipping in the wind, cloak snapping behind him like some hero out of a ballad (or a complete madman).

  Ignoring the very creative insults being hurled his way, he stretched an arm toward the girl.

  “Excuse me,” he said with a grin that had no business being that relaxed in the middle of chaos, “need a ride?”

  The kiteni stared at him like he’d lost his mind. Which, to be fair, was a distinct possibility.

  Still, she took the offer. One wobbly leap later, she clung to him.

  They bolted.

  Naturally, the universe has a sadistic sense of comedic timing.

  A thrown spear sliced the air and buried itself in Aethon’s flank. The horse screamed, stumbled, and the three of them ate dirt in a glorious tangle of limbs, dust, and profanity.

  Jay was the first to push himself up, groaning.

  “Ow. That’s gonna hurt tomorrow. And the day after. Probably for the next seven business days.”

  Seeing his companion down felt like a knife between the ribs.

  He turned slowly.

  The remaining thugs were closing in. Battered, yes. But still breathing. Still armed.

  Layla (he’d learn her name soon enough) tried to stand, only to stagger.

  Jay drew a long breath.

  “No… more… today.”

  Then the sky truly darkened. Not from clouds, but from him.

  Thunder. Lightning. A maelstrom of pure, ice-cold rage.

  Jay moved like the bolts he summoned: precise, merciless, untouchable. A blur no eye could track.

  When it was over, the attackers lay scattered across the dirt. Jay stood heaving, sparks still dancing in his eyes.

  Layla stared at him with the expression of someone who just realized she might have been saved by an absolute lunatic with god-level power.

  “You okay?” he asked, flashing the gentlest, most lopsided smile imaginable.

  “…Sorry,” she mumbled.

  “Sorry?” Jay cocked an eyebrow. “We nearly died together. That’s basically a first date in some cultures. Dinner’s on you if you really feel bad.”

  She squinted, trying to decide if he was joking. Probably.

  “You gonna bury your friends?” he asked, nodding toward the bodies.

  Her lip curled in disgust.

  “They weren’t friends. Treated me like an animal. Didn’t even split the loot fairly, meow.”

  Jay nodded slowly, saying nothing. He knelt beside Aethon’s still form, sorrow softening his face.

  “You were always too fast for your own good… and I’m always too stupid for mine,” he whispered affectionately.

  Then he placed both hands on the horse’s neck and closed his eyes.

  “Let’s not make this a habit, yeah…?”

  Thunder magic surged. Electric blue light spiraled across the ground, wrapping the body in living current.

  Aethon twitched.

  Breathed.

  And stood up with a triumphant whinny, as if he’d merely taken a dramatic nap.

  Jay grinned.

  “He likes his beauty sleep with a side of theatrics.”

  Layla gaped.

  “You’re… weird, meow.”

  “Most people go with ‘amazing,’ but I’ll take ‘weird’ as a compliment.”

  He offered his hand.

  “Wanna come with me?”

  Layla hesitated for one heartbeat.

  Then took it.

  …

  Back to the present.

  Thunder rolled in the distance, though the sky was clear.

  Jay jolted awake, chest heaving.

  Layla was right there.

  Breathing.

  Alive.

  He smiled through the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes and whispered:

  “Not again, Layla. Never again.”

  ?