The missive came to Arasha in the quiet moments between one crisis and the next—an urgent, trembling message from Lucian. His words were rushed, panicked, stained with desperation.
"Levi… he's screaming. Bleeding. I—he's not waking up, and the blessing hasn't ended. Please—Big Sister Arasha, please help Levi!"
Arasha didn't waste a breath.
With only a word to Garran and a hand upon the nearest medic's shoulder, they vanished in a blinding flare of teleportation magic—northward, to the estate that once felt like home.
The halls were filled with screams when they arrived.
Not monster cries. Not war chants. But the visceral, ragged howling of a young boy in torment. Levi's agony echoed through stone and soul.
The duchess was kneeling by her son, her arms wrapped around Levi's small, trembling frame.
His body convulsed uncontrollably.
Blood ran from his nose, his mouth, his ears, even his eyes.
His skin was pale—too pale.
His awakening should have ended already.
"Help him!" the duchess choked, looking at Arasha with a mother's desperate eyes. "Please, gods—help him!"
Arasha fell to her knees beside Levi as the medic immediately began their work, casting healing magic, drawing divine sigils, using herbs and enchanted salves.
But the light of healing spells flickered and died the moment they touched Levi's body.
The medic cursed under his breath, a sheen of sweat forming on his brow. After a long, tense silence, he turned to Arasha, pale and shaking his head.
"I—I can't heal him," he whispered. "It's not an injury. It's the blessing—it's… this is the price he's paying. Whatever power he's been granted… It's tearing him apart. His body is too weak to be its vessel. Too small."
Arasha's eyes widened, dread sinking its claws into her chest.
Levi screamed again, more blood pouring from his lips.
Lucian gripped his brother's hand, sobbing now, shaking. "Why didn't the gods stop it? Why is he still going through it?! He didn't want this! He didn't ask for this! Please…please"
Arasha reached out and cradled Levi's trembling face in her gloved hand. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet. Shaken.
"I'll do my best to search for the best way to heal him. Hold on, Levi."
The duchess buried her face in her son's shoulder, silently weeping.
"Can we save him?" Lucian pleaded. "There has to be a way!"
Arasha stood, her expression hardening, a storm quietly forming behind her golden eyes. "If the gods won't stop this… then I will find a way to force their hand."
She turned to the medic. "Stabilize him. Keep him alive."
Then to Lucian: "Stay with him. Do not let him slip."
And as Arasha stepped from the room, a blade of wrath and sorrow sharpening in her soul, the light that clung to her shimmered—brighter and darker in equal measure.
Because if this was the price of blessings, then the gods would have to answer for it.
****
The doors of the Grand Sanctum of the Holy Order slammed open, echoing like thunder across the sacred marble halls.
Clerics and paladins turned from prayer and ritual, stunned to see Arasha—dirt-streaked, armor still faintly bloodied, eyes burning with focused desperation—striding in with stormlike purpose.
High Chaplain descended from the altar steps, alarmed. "Commander Arasha… what is the meaning of—?"
"I need to speak with the gods," she said, voice clipped and firm, every word a blade. "Now."
Gasps filled the chamber.
One cleric nearly dropped a censer.
The High Chaplain blinked. "You… speak of communion?"
"I don't care what you call it," Arasha snapped. "I need to know how to reach them. One of our awakened— a child—is being torn apart by the so-called 'blessing.' If this is what your gods offer, I'll drag them from their thrones myself if I have to."
The High Chaplain's composure wavered. "You must understand, only saints are able to commune directly with the gods. Mortals cannot simply demand—"
"Then where are your saints?"
Silence.
The High Chaplain's lips thinned. "We… have none."
Arasha's brows furrowed. "None?"
The High Chaplain gave a grave nod. "Our last recognized saint passed a generation ago. To become a saint, one must be chosen—marked—by divine favor. We train, we pray, but we cannot summon the gods' voices at will. Other orders—perhaps those serving foreign pantheons—might have theirs still. But here? We are without."
Arasha clenched her jaw. "So you preach devotion, demand obedience, offer blessings—but when one of those blessings turns into a curse, you have no way to answer for it."
The High Chaplain flinched, guilt in his gaze. "Commander…"
"Save your rites and your regrets," Arasha hissed. "If your gods won't answer to me, I'll find the ones that will."
She turned sharply, her cape flaring behind her like wings of stormlight. As she reached the threshold, her voice echoed one last time through the great sanctum:
"Let the gods hear this. I'm coming. If they won't listen, I'll make them."
And she vanished beyond the sanctum doors, a woman no longer just fighting monsters and rifts—but clawing her way toward divinity itself if that's what it would take to save the people the heavens so carelessly burned.
The heavy winds of the storm had barely faded when Arasha stood atop the tower's highest communication crystal, gripping the sigil in her hand with barely suppressed urgency.
The skies above the sanctuary were dark with the remnants of magical aftershock, but Arasha's thoughts were far darker.
Cassian's voice crackled through the crystal, strained but familiar. "Commander Arasha? I was just about to send a report—"
"I don't need reports. I need answers."
Cassian paused. "Something wrong?"
"Yes. It's about Duke Lionel's son, Levi. He's awakened state is not ending, and he's suffering…" she said quietly, jaw clenched. "He's being devoured from the inside during his awakening. It's not a backlash, it's not rejection—it's the blessing itself, ripping him apart."
A beat of silence.
Arasha continued, "I've gone through every medical record, every holy script, I even asked the damned Holy Order if there's a way to contact the gods. Nothing. Nothing works."
Cassian's breath was barely audible, but she could tell he was thinking hard. "You already exhausted all the divine channels?"
"Every one of them. The Holy Order's useless without saints. They told me other faiths might have one, but there's no time to dig through temples hoping to find a miracle."
Cassian exhaled. "Then maybe it's time you stopped looking where they want you to look."
Arasha's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"There's… someone," Cassian began cautiously. "An elder. A shaman, or maybe something older than that. Lives near the desert rim—where our kingdom ends and the no man's land begins. No formal allegiance. No records. Only whispers from mercenaries and scavengers who've survived the dunes."
"A desert mystic," Arasha said, skeptical.
"I know how it sounds," Cassian replied, tone sharpening, "but if anyone has lore that predates the gods, it's her. People say she speaks to the land itself. And she knows of awakenings—true awakenings. Not the kind gifted by gods, but the kind born of the world's will itself."
Arasha turned away from the wind, cloak billowing. "Is she hostile?"
"No one knows. She doesn't kill unless threatened. But the desert itself? It doesn't like outsiders."
"Send me the location. I leave before nightfall."
Cassian hesitated. "Commander Arasha, this isn't like your usual battles. You'll be alone. Even the most elite don't come back from the Wastes."
"I'm not asking for safety. I'm asking for hope."
The line went silent again before Cassian quietly said, "I'll send everything I have. Just… be careful. We can't afford to lose you."
Arasha ended the call and looked east—toward the distant heat-blurred horizon where sun-baked mountains and shifting sands swallowed light and swallowed lives.
Her mind flashed to Levi, screaming in pain, his brother in tears, the Duchess helpless.
She didn't have the luxury of fear.
The heavy doors to the war room slammed open as Arasha stepped inside, already halfway into her travel gear, cloak fastened and sword sheathed with purpose.
Maps, scrolls, and sealed letters littered the long obsidian table, but the only thing standing between her and the door was Sir Garran—arms folded, eyes grim.
"I heard from Cassian," he said without preamble. "You're really going through with this."
"I am."
Garran's jaw tightened. "And again, without a proper escort. Into a cursed desert. Chasing after some mythic shaman no one can confirm exists."
Arasha didn't flinch. "I'm not asking for permission."
"I'm not giving it," Garran snapped, his voice low but fierce. "You are the last person who should walk alone into the unknown right now. Commander, your safety—it matters. More than you seem to understand."
She stopped, hand resting on the back of a chair, knuckles white.
"I know it matters," she said softly.
"Then why—"
"Because this time," she cut in, looking up at him with steel in her gaze, "it's not just about duty, or war, or the people watching. This time, I'm doing it for me. For my sake. For my heart."
Garran's breath caught. Arasha rarely, if ever, spoke of herself.
She continued, voice quieter but every word clear. "Levi… he's not just some noble boy. He's family. That boy has carried warmth, warmth that I longed for in a family. If there's even a flicker of a chance to save him, to end his pain—then I can't not try."
The silence between them stretched.
Finally, Garran exhaled through his nose, the storm in him easing just slightly. "I just want you to remember how important you are. To them. To us. More than ever now, Arasha."
"I know," she said, her voice no longer cold. "And I'll come back. Not just because I have to—but because I want to. I still have people worth returning to."
Garran gave a small nod, stepping aside, though the worry in his eyes remained. "Then go. But take this." He reached into his coat and handed her a compact sigil stone. "Custom enchantment. Direct-link recall. You get in trouble—you use it. No heroics."
Arasha smiled faintly and accepted it. "No promises."
She left the room with her sword at her side, Garran watching her go with a mixture of pride and dread.
Once again, Arasha walked the edge of light and shadow, but this time, not as a commander.
As a sister.
****
The winds howled like dying beasts as Arasha staggered forward, her boots buried ankle-deep in burning sand.
The sun had long dipped behind a curtain of storm clouds, leaving the sky painted in shades of rust and omen.
Each step felt heavier than the last, not from fatigue—but the weight of dread that clung to her chest.
Magic fizzled uselessly in the air. No teleportation, no divine whispers, no enchanted tools.
The desert near the border of the No Man's Land was a void that devoured the unnatural.
A place forgotten even by the gods.
Her only guide: the vague coordinates Cassian managed to scrape together and her own unyielding will.
The sandstorm had nearly torn her cloak to ribbons, and her face was scratched raw beneath her mask.
But she pressed on, eyes narrowed against the wind, until—finally—through the mist of grit and blood-red sand, she saw it.
A small, crooked hut nestled between stone outcroppings shaped like reaching claws.
Smoke drifted lazily from its chimney. The air shifted. The storm ceased—not because it passed, but because something else willed it to stop.
Arasha approached, her sword sheathed, cloak torn but her posture unbending. The door creaked open before she could knock.
Inside sat the shaman.
An ancient woman, skin cracked like dried riverbeds, her hair flowing silver and her eyes milky white. Yet there was clarity in her gaze, one that cut deeper than any blade.
"You reek of fire and sorrow," the shaman rasped. "You're not of this world."
Arasha stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "I was born in it."
"Yet not from it," the shaman whispered, studying her as though reading the lines of fate itself. "A paradox. A child of another thread woven into this tapestry. You wear this world like a second skin—and yet, it clings to you like you are its flame."
Arasha's throat tightened, but she didn't argue. "I didn't come for riddles. I came for help."
The shaman nodded slowly. "For the boy. The one whose blessing has turned against him."
"I'll do whatever it takes to save him."
The old woman smiled, not kindly, but knowingly. "Then know this: to save him, you must sacrifice something not of the body, but of the self. The gods cannot intervene. Their blessings are laws unto themselves. But you—you were not made by them. You are not bound by their rules."
"What does that mean?"
"It means your destiny is unbound," the shaman said. "You can take the thread of that boy's life and twist it. Anchor it to your fate. It will save him—but it will also bind the two of you. His pain will lessen. But so will your strength. You will be less alone—but more vulnerable. Your fire will flicker."
Arasha's lips parted slightly, not in surprise, but reflection. "If it saves him… I'll do it."
The shaman rose with painful slowness, placing a cold, brittle hand over Arasha's chest. "Then offer your flame. Give part of your light to him."
A low hum filled the room, and the air grew impossibly still. The fire in the hearth shifted hue—from gold to a soft blue-white.
"You will not be the same after this," the shaman warned. "Not in soul. Not in strength. But you will still burn brightly at the cost of your life."
Arasha's eyes burned, not from the smoke, but from the memory of Levi's screaming and Rhiel's helpless voice. She gave a slow nod.
"I'm ready."
The shaman's voice was like wind over bones. "Then let the world be twisted… by a flame not born of it."
So the deed was done.
The ritual happened in the blink of an eye. Arasha felt off but still herself.
The shaman's brittle fingers closed around Arasha's wrist, her skin cool despite the desert's searing heat.
Without a word, she guided Arasha out of the crooked hut and through a narrow, winding path that didn't seem to exist moments ago.
As they walked, the air grew calmer, more reverent—like the world itself was holding its breath.
The canyon walls opened into a hidden basin. There, nestled between impossible stones and flowering vines that had no right surviving in this deadland, was an oasis.
Its water shimmered not with the reflection of sunlight, but of starlight—glimmering silver, still and deep.
The shaman motioned toward the pool.
"This reflects this world," she murmured, "of the space between fates. Look."
Arasha stepped forward, her heart a drumbeat of dread and hope. As she stared into the still waters, the reflection shifted, spiraling, until a vision surfaced—clearer than memory.
There lay Levi, curled in a bed of silk and linen, the light of lanterns flickering behind him.
His body was no longer convulsing.
His bleeding had stopped.
His face was wet with tears, but his breathing steady.
He clutched Lucian's hand, his lips moving rapidly—but no sound crossed the water. Whatever he said was lost to this realm.
But Arasha saw enough.
His pain was gone. He was alive.
Her knees nearly buckled, and her breath hitched. The relief didn't bloom—it collapsed into her, sudden and sharp.
The shaman let the image fade before speaking again.
"He is saved," she said, "but you are not."
Arasha blinked, turning her gaze toward the old woman.
The shaman's expression was not cruel—just burdened by truths. "The power that nestles within you—it is not a gift. It is a brand."
Arasha's hand instinctively moved to her chest. "A brand?"
"A seal... placed by something older than your gods. Older than this world. Primordial," the shaman said slowly, reverently, as if the word itself was sacred and dangerous. "Your soul burns with fire not born of this realm. You are not blessed—you are marked. Now that mark will be your undoing."
Arasha remained still, her jaw tight. "…And what does that mean?"
"That you are not merely tied to this world, but to many," the shaman whispered. "Threads of your being stretch beyond this plane—into realms that have no name, into futures unwritten and pasts undone. Where others live a single life, you echo."
She stepped closer, eyes clouded and ancient. "And the Primordials… they listen to your flame. They twist around it. You are theirs. And so, in time, they will demand something in return."
Arasha's voice came low, cracked. "How long?"
The shaman gave no answer. "Fate is not a line for you. It is a knot."
The wind rustled the vines, and the starlit water of the oasis rippled once more.
"Know this, Arasha," the shaman said at last, "you will suffer—not just here, but everywhere your soul dares to reach. But the choice to burn was always yours."
Arasha closed her eyes for a moment, her fists clenched at her sides. Then, slowly, she exhaled.
"If that's the cost… I'll bear it. For them."
The shaman bowed slightly, as if in mourning and in respect.
"Then go, little flame. Destiny will claim it's price so be prepared."
The wind stirred the hem of Arasha's cloak as she stood at the edge of the oasis, her gaze lingering on the now-still waters where Levi's reflection had vanished like a fading dream.
Slowly, she turned to the shaman, who remained still, weathered eyes watching with a gaze that had witnessed too much.
Arasha bowed deeply, her voice firm but grateful.
"Thank you… for everything. I owe you more than I can repay."
The shaman nodded, then lifted a hand—not in blessing, but in finality.
"This is the first and last time I interfere with your fate," she said, voice laced with warning and wisdom. "Any more… and this world would not bear the strain. It would tear."
Arasha nodded, absorbing the gravity of the words.
She could feel it in her very marrow: how close she had walked to the edge, how thin the boundary had become between her will and the world's design.
Without another word, she left the oasis behind.
The scorching heat of the desert greeted her again as she exited the enchanted basin.
Her body ached, her soul worn thin, but she moved with purpose. Each step through the shifting sands carried the weight of desperation transmuted into resolve.
She had barely cleared the outer dunes when her comm crystal buzzed to life—Kane's voice erupting through the static with all the force of a thunderclap.
"Arasha! What the hell were you thinking?! Going off alone, AGAIN?! Do you even know what we've been through while you vanished?! I could've helped Levi! Why didn't you wait?!"
His anger wasn't empty—it was rooted in fear.
Arasha winced, her voice soft, weary.
"I know… I know. I'm sorry, Kane. I should have waited, but—"
She paused, swallowing the guilt and weariness tightening her chest.
"—he was screaming. Bleeding. I couldn't stand by and do nothing. Not for Levi."
A long silence followed, heavy with unspoken emotion.
Then Kane sighed, a deep, helpless sound.
"You reckless, stubborn… damn it, Arasha. Give me your coordinates."
She did, and a moment later, light shimmered beside her as Kane teleported through—his hair tousled from travel, concern etched deeply into his face.
Before she could speak again, Kane stepped forward and pulled her into a tight embrace, arms wrapped around her with a desperate strength.
"You don't always have to do it alone. How many times do I have to say it?" he murmured, voice lower now. "You're not alone. I'm here."
Arasha closed her eyes and let herself lean into him, just for a moment. Just long enough to feel real.
"...I know," she whispered. "But sometimes, it feels like I am."
Kane held her tighter, as if daring the world to try to take her from him again.