The sky had dimmed to a cold, grey hue—neither dawn nor dusk.
Just stillness.
The kind of stillness that came after screams had long faded, after blood had dried, after the world had ended.
I stood in the center of the ruined plaza, surrounded by the remnants of my people. Their bodies no longer mangled horrors, but honored dead—gathered, clothed, laid in stillness.
It had taken me the entire night to collect them.
My hands bled from lifting rubble.
My back ached from dragging corpses once cherished.
But I did not stop.
Not until every kin I could find—child, servant, soldier, noble—was laid to rest beneath the darkened sky.
We of the Crimson Line do not bury our dead.
We do not entomb them in stone or silence.
We burn them.
Not out of hatred for flesh—but as a rite of freedom.
A sacred ritual passed from mother to daughter, father to son.
To burn the body is to sever its suffering.
To free the soul from the weights of its life—its pain, regrets, bindings—and let it rise unshackled to the afterlife.
So they may walk freely into the Thread of Stars.
I raised my hand, calling what little magic remained in my veins.
Flame danced across my fingertips.
Soft.
Gentle.
Not violent.
I whispered the old words—half-forgotten verses spoken only at funerals.
"Ash to air, blood to root, pain to fire…Let the chains fall from your spirit…And rise, unbroken, to the sky."
The fire took slowly at first, curling around the edges of their robes.
Then it spread—bright and mournful. Golden tongues kissed their skin, robes, hair.
No screams.
No sounds.
Just fire.
A soft crackling that sounded like farewell.
One by one, they turned to ash.
And I remained there, kneeling, hands clasped, eyes unblinking.
Even the dragon, massive and cold, was not left behind. I set flame to its corpse too—knowing it too had suffered under a will not its own.
Flame crawled across its wings like sunlight before storm.
When it was done…
There was nothing left but ashes.
No more blood. No more broken bodies.
Only dust that drifted upward like stars.
They're free now.
Finally.
When the flames died, only silence remained.
And ashes.
They drifted through the wind like falling snow, warm and weightless. I reached forward, cupping my hands. The remains of my kin—my people—rested within my grasp. Not as bodies. Not as victims.
But as fragments of memory.
And memory… I would not let fade.
I pulled the chain from beneath my cloak—a silver mithril necklace, gifted to me on my fifteenth name-day. Its locket had once held a single drop of dragon's blood, said to bless the heart of the bearer.
Now, it would hold something far greater.
Something irreplaceable.
I whispered the words beneath my breath—an old binding spell, passed only through bloodlines. I had learned it when I was younger, never thinking I'd need it like this.
The ashes shimmered in my palms, swirling as they responded to the chant. I opened the locket.
The dust spiraled inward like mist drawn home.
"Bound not by death,but by blood and vow.You are not forgotten.You are with me."
With a final pulse of light, the locket sealed shut—warm against my chest.
My kin, my memories… their spirits now rested within me.
Forever.
I turned away from the pyres, the fires now quiet.
As I passed through the smoldering remnants of the inner sanctum—what once was our living quarters—I saw something glint beneath a collapsed beam of scorched wood.
Something delicate. Unburned.
I knelt and brushed away the ash.
A silver comb.
Intricately carved with weeping willows and lunar sigils—my mother's. She used to hum softly while combing my hair with it on quiet nights when the stars were bright.
I held it to my heart.
Warmth.
It didn't smell of blood or fire.
Only lavender.
I pulled back my hair, now dirtied by ash and grief, and carefully latched the comb in place.
My fingers trembled—not from weakness, but from memory.
She had once told me:
"No matter what they take, they cannot steal your name if you carry it in the way you walk, the way you wear your crown."
I rose.
Ash at my feet. Fire behind me.
And the last remnants of my bloodline bound around my neck and pinned into my hair.
I am Vanessa Van Vokhsina of the Crimson Line.
Daughter of the last blood court.
And I will not let the truth die with them.
The fires had cooled.
Ashes drifted in the wind like fading snow, and the sun—veiled behind a sky of smoke and clouds—cast a muted glow across the ruins.
I stood alone in the silent chambers of what remained of our inner keep.
The air was stale, still thick with smoke and grief.
But I moved with purpose now.
In my father's old armory, I found what little had been untouched by flame or claw. A traveling cloak—black, with crimson thread at the edges. Stained, but whole. I wrapped it around my shoulders, pulling the hood up. Its weight felt like a promise.
In one of the inner chests, I found a small pouch of coins—unchanged, dull silver stamped with our dying crest—and a sealed scroll of identification for outer territories. I didn't know if it would still be honored. But I took it.
I packed a satchel with what rations remained unspoiled, a pair of gloves, a waterskin, and a spare shift of underclothes.
All that I could carry of my past fit into a single bag.
The rest I carried in my heart.
Before I left, I made my way one last time to the shattered chapel of the Moonlit Veil—our family's sacred space.
The stained glass had collapsed inward. Moonlight shone through the jagged openings where gods and saints once stood.
The altar was cracked. The incense trays broken.
Still, I knelt.
Even here—especially here—I needed to pray.
I closed my eyes.
And in silence, I bowed.
"Let their souls rise unbound.""Let their names never fade.""Let vengeance never blind my purpose.""And if I fall… let me fall with grace."
When I opened my eyes, the wind stirred gently through the ruins, lifting the ashes once more into the sky.
I took it as an answer.
I turned, stepping out of the chapel.
Past the silent halls. Past the fallen banners and shattered gates.
I looked back only once.
To a kingdom that no longer stood.
To a legacy turned to ash.
To a home now whispered only in lost history.
Goodbye…
…Mother.
…Father.
…Everyone.
And with quiet steps, I walked into the dying light.
Toward the outer wilds.
Toward answers.
Toward the Great Sage of the Silent Age—
The forest beyond my kingdom was quiet.
Not peaceful—watchful.
The trees here stood tall and ancient, their bark gnarled like old hands reaching toward the sky. Moss crept along the roots, softening my steps. Shafts of muted sunlight pierced through the thick canopy, painting golden scars across the earth.
I walked with measured breath, the weight of ash and memory pressing down with every step.
My cloak whispered behind me, brushing leaves. The silver locket around my neck pulsed faintly, warm from the ashes it carried. My mother's comb sat firm in my hair, cold and still.
The world ahead was unknown.
But it was the only one left to walk.
"Where would I even begin…?"
My voice barely escaped my lips, spoken to no one but the woods and whatever shadows listened.
Where could one find the Great Sage of the Silent Age?
I had only stories to follow.
And even those contradicted each other.
They said her place of sight was everchanging—that she moved not like a wanderer, but like a shifting wind.
Some believed she was drawn toward imbalance in the world. Others claimed she followed the remnants of ancient wars, battling creatures long thought extinct.
It was said that she was immortal.
Not born of spirit, not merely gifted—but anchored to the world itself.
A remnant of a time older than kings, older than gods.
Unlike the Lightning Seer of the High Mountains, who left disaster carved into the outlaw and tales surging in village walls, the Great Sage left nothing behind.
No tracks.
No titles.
Only silence.
The only thing scholars ever agreed on was this:
She always returns to where her story first began.
Where that was, none could say with certainty.
Some guessed the roots of the Despairing Glade, where starlight meets poison.
Others whispered of the ruins beneath the Shifting Dunes.
But no one ever found her unless she wanted to be found.
I stepped over a fallen log, the moss breaking quietly beneath my boot. A breeze stirred the treetops, and the forest shivered.
"Are you still alive… Jhenna Ferez?"
The name felt like a spell, soft and ancient on my tongue.
"If you are… would you hear the cry of a dying bloodline?"
Would you care…?
Or had she seen too much of the world to be moved by tragedy?
I paused at a shallow stream, its waters cold and clear.
I knelt, cupped it in my hands, and drank slowly.
The world felt too big now. I was no longer Vanessa of the Crimson Line, heir to a court of whispers and moons.
I was just a girl with a satchel, ashes in her locket, and questions that only the wind dared to carry.
And still, I walked.