Whispers rippled through the funeral ground like wind through brittle leaves.

  “Where could he have gone?”

  “What’s happened to that child?”

  “Poor thing’s gone mad…”

  Each word stung Melan?e’s ears. None of them sounded like concern—only curiosity dressed as pity.

  Her hands clenched around Arttu’s blanket. They talk, but none of them move.

  She took a breath that burned in her throat and shouted,

  “Enough! If you care at all, then help me look for him! Please—Lucius is only a child!”

  The murmuring stopped. Heads turned. Even the bishop lowered his gaze.

  For a heartbeat, all that could be heard was the rain striking the earth.

  Then a man near the gate called out,

  “I’ll fetch Mr. Damien and the other guardians from the school!”

  That was enough.

  Melan?e gathered her composure, nodded quickly, and turned away.

  “Reid—come.”

  She hurried home through the drizzle, her cloak dragging through the mud.

  Inside, she laid Arttu gently into his cradle, brushing her thumb across his tiny hand.

  “Don’t worry, Arttu,” she whispered, forcing a smile. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Reid was already fastening the belt that held his new weapon. His nunchaku gleamed faintly in the gray light.

  Melan?e took her staff from the corner by the door. The gem at its head shimmered faintly, reflecting her trembling hand.

  “Stay behind me at all times, Reid,” she said firmly.

  “Yes, Mom,” he replied, his eyes wide—not from fear, but from the kind of determination that only a child’s heart can conjure.

  They stepped out into the cold. The rain had eased, leaving the world heavy and still. The road to the forest was quiet, too quiet; even the birds had stopped their songs.

  When they reached the forest’s edge, a crowd had already gathered—villagers, guardians, a few robed clerics. All stood in uneasy silence.

  Melan?e pushed her way to the front—and froze.

  The seal was gone.

  What had once been a glowing lattice of blue light between the two great stones was now a scorched wound in the earth. The sigils that marked the forest boundary had been split and charred black, their fragments still smoldering.

  Destroying a seal wasn’t something ordinary.

  It wasn’t something possible.

  The last time she’d seen such destruction was during the Northern Flares—when entire cities burned under storms of mana.

  Her breath caught. Either a monster had broken free…

  or someone had released it.

  Gasps rose among the crowd. Fear spread quickly—visible, contagious.

  Melan?e straightened her back, gripping her staff so tightly her knuckles turned white.

  “Listen to me!” she called out, voice cutting through the whispers. “Lucius is out there. He’s alone, and he’s just a boy. I won’t stand here and do nothing. If any of you have even a spark of courage left—help me find him.”

  The crowd shifted uncomfortably. Eyes turned away.

  Finally, an older man stepped forward. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed his fear.

  “Melan?e… I understand how much Frigg and her child meant to you. But look at this. Whatever broke that seal—it isn’t something we can fight. We have families too. You can’t expect us to face whatever did this.”

  For a long moment, she said nothing. The rain began again, soft and slow.

  “I know,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re right.”

  She looked down at the ground—at the mud, at the fading shimmer of the ruined seal.

  Logic told her to turn back. To protect her son. To wait for the guardians.

  But then another image surfaced—the memory of Frigg laughing over a pan of pancakes, sunlight in her hair.

  If I don’t save him, I lose her twice.

  Melan?e lifted her head, her voice steady once more.

  “Go home if you must. But I’m going.”

  The moment Melan?e steadied herself to step into the forest, a firm hand touched her shoulder.

  She turned sharply—and saw a tall, broad man with streaks of gray in his beard. His eyes, though aged, carried the sharpness of someone who had seen too many battles.

  “Mr. Hammock…” Melan?e breathed.

  Flint Hammock. Once a knight of Promia—now the guardian teacher of Priscilla. Time and peace had softened his armor but not his spirit. Behind him stood two more figures: Loid Damien, the principal and chief guardian of Priscilla, and Morry Shamlock, her anxious eyes darting toward the forest.

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  Flint’s voice was calm but commanding.

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Corvane. We’ll find Lucius and bring him back safely. You and Reid should stay behind—it’s far too dangerous for either of you.”

  Melan?e hesitated, torn between faith and fear. “Thank you… and may Shenrog be with you.”

  The three nodded once, like soldiers saluting the storm, and entered the forest.

  Night had already fallen. The treetops swallowed what little light remained. Each step crunched softly against wet leaves, and the cold air carried the faint, metallic scent of mana discharge—the mark of the broken seal.

  Flint led the way, his sword drawn but unlit. Loid followed close behind, scanning the undergrowth, while Morry trailed them, clutching her staff to her chest.

  When the dark became too thick, Morry whispered a spell under her breath. The crystal at her staff’s head bloomed with pale light, spilling a soft golden glow across the path.

  “Keep your eyes open,” Flint muttered. “If the seal was destroyed, there might be more than Lucius in these woods.”

  Loid nodded. His voice was low, controlled. “Then let’s hope it’s him we find first.”

  They called out into the night.

  “Lucius! LUCIUS!”

  Only the forest answered—branches creaking, leaves rustling, a distant croak of something unseen.

  After nearly an hour, their voices grew hoarse.

  Then—

  a sound.

  “Helup… Helup…”

  It was faint, warped by distance, but it sounded like a child.

  Morry’s eyes widened. “That’s him!”

  Flint gestured sharply. “Move!”

  They broke into a run. Roots clawed at their boots as they pushed through the underbrush. The sound grew louder, clearer.

  “Helup… Helup…”

  “Lucius! Are you there?!” Loid shouted. “Stay where you are!”

  No response. Only that same eerie repetition.

  When they reached the source, Flint froze mid-step.

  It wasn’t a child.

  A massive shape loomed ahead—dark fur slick with rain, eyes glowing with twisted crimson light. A bear, twice the height of a man, its breath fogging the cold air. Around its mouth shimmered faint traces of cursed energy, seething like smoke.

  The “voice” had been an echo—a mockery.

  The creature roared.

  “DOWN!” Flint barked.

  The bear lunged. Its claws met steel in a shower of sparks as Flint raised his sword, barely holding the impact. The ground trembled beneath the blow.

  “Loid—left flank!” Flint shouted.

  Morry’s voice trembled but held steady. She began to chant, her staff glowing with the pale fire of purification. “O light divine, unbind corruption—!”

  The bear swung its paw and sent Flint crashing into a tree. Bark splintered. He grunted in pain but forced himself up.

  “Morry, finish it!” Loid yelled.

  But before she could complete the spell, the beast charged her. Its massive paw struck her across the chest, flinging her backward. Her staff flew from her hand, clattering into the mud.

  “MORRY!” Loid’s voice cracked as he dashed forward. He dodged the bear’s claws by inches, rolling beneath its swing. His blade shimmered with holy light as he slashed upward across its neck—but the creature didn’t fall.

  It shrieked, fury shaking the trees. Blood sprayed, black and hissing like ink.

  Loid leapt onto its back, digging his blade deeper. “Now, Flint!”

  Flint roared, the old knight in him surging awake. His sword blazed with white fire as he swung in a wide arc. The blade struck true, cleaving through fur and sinew—but not enough to kill.

  The bear staggered, enraged but still alive.

  Then, suddenly—

  a flash.

  A searing beam of light cut through the clearing, splitting the beast clean in two. The blast left a crater of smoking earth.

  Silence followed.

  For a moment, no one moved. Only the crackle of dying light filled the air.

  “Morry?” Flint called hoarsely.

  From the edge of the clearing, a weak voice answered, “I’m… here.”

  They found her half-buried beneath debris, blood matting her hair, her breathing shallow but steady.

  Flint knelt beside her, his hands trembling. “You’re hurt.”

  “I’m fine,” she lied, forcing a smile. “It just… stings a bit. We can keep—”

  Loid interrupted. His voice was low, grim. “No, we can’t.”

  He held something in his hand.

  A small cloak.

  Torn at the edges, soaked through with mud and blood.

  Morry’s chest tightened. She recognized the color, the stitching.

  Lucius’ cloak.

  The three guardians walked back through the rain in silence.

  Flint carried Morry in his arms — her head resting weakly against his shoulder, her staff dragging faint trails in the mud. Loid walked ahead, every step measured, the small cloak clutched tightly in his hand.

  The path back to Priscilla felt longer this time. The forest’s edge no longer hummed with mana — only emptiness remained.

  When they emerged into the village, the air was heavy with prayer.

  People had gathered in the square, kneeling in the mud, whispering to Shenrog for the safe return of the searchers.

  Candles flickered in the rain, their flames struggling to stay alive.

  When the villagers saw them appear from the mist, a wave of relief swept through the crowd.

  “They’re back!” someone cried.

  “Thank the Flame!”

  Faces brightened — until they noticed what Loid was holding.

  The relief died instantly.

  Conversations fell into silence. Even the rain seemed to soften, as if afraid to make a sound.

  Loid stopped in the center of the square, eyes lowered. The small cloak hung limp in his grasp — tattered, dirt-streaked, the red thread at its collar barely visible beneath the mud.

  A single voice broke the stillness.

  “Lucius?”

  Melan?e pushed through the crowd, her breath uneven. For a moment she almost smiled, thinking perhaps the boy was walking behind them.

  But when she saw the cloak — only the cloak — her knees buckled.

  “No…”

  She stumbled forward, reaching for it as though touching it could undo what had happened. Loid froze, unsure what to do. Guilt carved deep lines across his face.

  “I’m sorry, Melan?e,” he said softly. His voice trembled despite himself. “This was all we could find.”

  Melan?e took the cloak from his hands. It was cold and wet and heavier than cloth should ever feel.

  Her breath hitched. Then she fell to her knees.

  At first, there was no sound — just the rhythm of rain hitting earth. Then it came, raw and shattering: a sob torn straight from the center of her chest.

  She pressed the cloak to her heart, shaking violently. Her fingers dug into the fabric as if afraid it would vanish.

  “My Frigg…” she whispered through her tears. “You gave him to me… and I couldn’t…”

  The words dissolved into sobs. She struck the ground, once, twice — not in rage, but in the helpless rhythm of grief.

  Around her, no one spoke. The villagers bowed their heads, unable to meet her eyes. Even Flint, standing solemn with Morry still in his arms, turned away.

  The rain fell harder. Candles hissed and died.

  Reid stood a few paces behind his mother, clutching Arttu’s cradle blanket, too young to understand the depth of what had been lost — but old enough to feel it.

  Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled.

  Melan?e knelt there in the mud, the cloak still pressed to her chest, her tears lost in the rain.

  Her best friend was gone.

  And now the child she had sworn to protect — the last ember of that friendship — was gone too.

  In that moment, the village of Priscilla felt utterly silent.

  The kind of silence that follows after the flame dies out.