As the green light still cast its eerie glow upon the marble of the throne room, Aurean stepped forward, fists clenched at his sides.
"We can't just stay here. We need to go help him—Rythe is out there, alone."
But to his surprise, every head in the room shook in unison. Calyon, Eiran, Rhaellis, Selene, even Garren—they all wore the same resigned, pained expression.
It was Amirei who answered softly, her voice almost too quiet to hear.
"If any of us leave… we'll die."
Aurean looked at her, stunned.
"What do you mean?"
Rhaellis turned to him, his tone tight with frustration—but not at Aurean. At the helplessness of it all.
"The only thing keeping Virelia and its people alive right now is the ancient enchantment woven around the land. The Orb of Vael'Zarien doesn't just break magic—it devours it. Anything magical outside the barrier, anything linked to the barrier, will be torn apart. Even getting close to it means death."
Aurean's heart pounded.
"Then what will we do? Just… wait?"
Amirei nodded once, lips trembling.
"Yes… we wait."
The silence was sharp—until Calyon muttered grimly,
"Green means Rythe is fighting them off."
And as if summoned by his words, the sound came.
A wave of shrieking voices rolled through the air, sharp and chilling, not entirely physical yet deeply real. It was a cacophony of tortured howls and hissing screams—echoes from some cursed pit.
The very air turned bitter, heavy with corruption.
A shiver ran through everyone. Selene clutched her arms.
"That's not human…"
Aurean's stomach twisted with dread.
Then Calyon turned toward Garren, his voice low but pressing.
"Is it even possible? For Rythe—one man—to face not just this veiled cabal… but also the Orb of Vael'Zarien? And survive?"
Garren didn't answer immediately. He seemed to age before their eyes, staring into the far window toward the skies.
"I don't know," he said finally. "No one ever has."
The seconds turned to minutes. The minutes dragged into eternity.
Then—
A blue flare shot up into the heavens, brilliant and steady.
The reaction was immediate.
Several in the court let out gasps. A few collapsed to their knees. Selene slumped back against a pillar. Eiran exhaled sharply, muttering a blessing.
Aurean turned to Eiran, bewildered.
"What… does blue mean?"
Eiran managed a weary smile.
"It means Rythe has defeated them. The enemy has been stopped. The kingdom is safe."
Relief surged through the room like a tide. But it was short-lived.
For mere moments after the blue flare faded—
A violet flare rose into the night.
Its eerie hue painted the walls of the throne room in shades of unease.
Everyone turned to the emperor.
"What does that one mean?" Selene asked, her voice tentative.
The emperor's eyes remained fixed on the horizon, troubled and still.
"It means… Rythe is moving. He's going somewhere else."
"Then he's alive," Amirei whispered, hopeful.
But Selene turned sharply to her father.
"Then why do you look so troubled, Father?"
The emperor was silent for a moment, before answering with a grim, knowing smile.
"Because I know Rythe. And if he's still moving… it means he's pushing through something. I'm afraid he might be severely wounded."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"That Orb…" Garren murmured. "It holds great magic. I felt the shift in the currents when the violet light rose. It was subtle—but it was there. The energy it radiated has… changed."
He turned, dread returning to his eyes.
"I think Rythe destroyed it. And if he did… there's no way he came out unscathed."
Calyon shook his head in disbelief, speaking as if to himself.
"Again… Virelia owes him a debt we can never repay."
He turned to the emperor, eyes resolute.
"I will send men—trackers, healers—to find him. Bring him back. He must be treated."
But the emperor slowly shook his head.
"No."
"No?" Calyon echoed.
"You won't find him," the emperor said with certainty. "Because he doesn't want to be found."
Selene's lips parted in silent protest. But Amirei stepped forward, her eyes shimmering.
Then, with quiet reverence, the two princesses crossed their arms over their chests and lowered their heads. They spoke in the Old Tongue, the ancient dialect of Virelia, rarely heard except in rites and sacred prayers.
A prayer for Rythe.
"May the blood you've shed not stain your soul.
May your wounds be light, and your return swift.
May the fire within you never go out."
Everyone else bowed their heads. Even Aurean, though still new to their traditions, felt the solemn gravity of the moment.
Somewhere out there—beyond the flare-stained sky, beyond the reach of magic and men—Rythe walked the line between death and legend.
Far from Virelia, beyond the reach of its golden enchantment, deep in the heart of a jagged forest where light barely filtered through twisted canopies, Rythe awoke.
He didn't remember falling.
Didn't remember how long he had lain there.
Only the dull throb in his head, the searing fire in his ribs, the strange emptiness in his body where the Orb of Vael'Zarien had burned through him. His body was a map of pain—some bruises already purpling, others deeper, near fatal.
His blade—the Virelian soulsteel, ancient and now cracked near the hilt—lay just a few feet away. Crusted in ash and dark blood.
Above him, the sky held no flares now. Just clouds and wind. But he knew what he had done.
He had destroyed the Orb.
And with it… something inside him.
For days, Rythe drifted between fever and waking. Sometimes crawling. Sometimes hallucinating. The only shelter he found was in a low cave beneath a fallen tree.
His coat was torn, armor shattered. The sigil of Ardan on his chestplate—burned clean off by the magic recoil.
The wild things in the forest avoided him. Not out of fear, but recognition. The remnants of the Orb's unnatural energy still clung to him. Like a shroud.
He drank from a stream. Ate berries he barely tasted. Wrapped his ribs in strips of his shirt.
But he never screamed.
Rythe did not scream.
He had made his choice.
On the sixth week, he tried to stand.
The attempt left him collapsed on his knees, blood on his lips, teeth gritted.
"Still too soon…"
His voice was low, hoarse.
From the corner of the forest, movement stirred. Rythe's hand immediately went for his blade.
But it was no enemy that approached—at least, not a known one.
A figure in a grey cloak stepped into view, silent as fog.
Slender. Measured.
A woman.
Eyes silver and strange, like polished moonstone. Her face was veiled, but her aura was calm, steady… and ancient.
Rythe's grip tightened.
"If you've come to finish me—" he began.
She raised a hand.
"I came to see the one who destroyed Vael'Zarien with his own will. And to ask why he hasn't yet bled to death."
He stared at her.
"Who are you?"
"A healer. Of the old order. One of the last."
That meant something. Aurelian Keepers, if they even still existed, were whispered of in legend. Forbidden to serve kingdoms, only causes. And they always found those on the edge of death.
She knelt beside him, already beginning her work. Her touch was cold, but he felt the pain numbing.
"You should have died."
"I've been told that before," Rythe muttered.
She paused.
"You destroyed an orb forged by gods and madmen. That kind of magic doesn't go quietly."
He didn't respond. Just closed his eyes.
"How long will it take?" he asked instead.
"For your body? Weeks. For your soul?" She hesitated. "Perhaps longer. You were marked by it. You'll feel its remnants for the rest of your life."
Rythe's jaw clenched.
"It was worth it."
A long silence.
Then she nodded once, solemnly.
"Yes. For your people… it was."
For the next few days, the woman remained.
She never gave her name.
She simply treated his wounds, spoke little, and left at dusk to gather herbs only she seemed to recognize. Her presence was like mist: gentle, eerie, impossible to hold onto.
Rythe slept little. When he did, he dreamed of violet light. Screams. Fire.
He saw Aurean's face. His siblings'. The emperor's sorrowful eyes.
He knew they would be searching. Or perhaps praying.
But he would not return until he understands what's going on.
Because even as he rested, Rythe knew:
The orb was only the beginning.