The air was cold.
Not the kind of chill from a broken fan or a rainy night in Gusa-but ancient, biting, and laced with something... unnatural.
Elira blinked.
Her blanket was gone. Her room had vanished. She was no longer in the void of unfolding memories that weren't hers.
Instead, she stood barefoot on a silver-like lake, dressed only in her pajamas. The water was ice-cold, soaking her feet, yet it didn't ripple-it shimmered, still and unnatural, like glass holding its breath.
Above her loomed a massive, glowing purple moon-unlike anything she had ever seen. It pulsed faintly, casting eerie light across the lake's surface. The wind howled around her, not like a breeze, but like a chorus of screams-echoes of pain, rage, and something older than time.
"What is this...?" she whispered, her voice swallowed by the wind. "Where the hell am I?!"
Her voice cracked as she spun in place, scanning the endless horizon. Her heart pounded like a war drum. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.
Was she dreaming?
Was this still part of the story?
What were those scenes she'd just seen?
She checked herself for changes, half-expecting to look different—like the characters in the books she read who transformed upon entering a story. But she looked the same.
Then a shadow passed overhead.
A massive dragon tore through the sky above, its wings slicing the air with terrifying force. Each beat of its wings sent gusts of wind crashing through the trees, and from its throat erupted a bone-chilling roar—deep, ancient, and full of fury.
Elira froze.
Her breath hitched as she stared upward, heart pounding like a war drum. The creature's scales shimmered with a metallic sheen, catching the moonlight in flashes of violet and silver. Its eyes—glowing like molten fire—swept across the land as if searching for something… or someone.
She followed its flight with wide, trembling eyes.
Beyond the forest, in the far distance—
Flames.
Smoke.
Chaos.
The sky burned in shades of crimson and ash, and the earth trembled beneath the dragon's shadow. This wasn't a dream. It wasn't a simulation.
It was a nightmare made real.
Moments later, she heard the pounding of hooves nearby—followed by shouting voices.
"Find the girl! She hasn't gone far!"
She squinted, trying to see through the dark forest.
A battalion of armored riders thundered toward her, their armor gleaming like polished obsidian. Even the horses wore plated protection. At the front rode a man cloaked in crimson, his eyes glowing like embers.
"There she is, Your Majesty!" one of the soldiers shouted, pointing directly at her.
Shing!
The crimson-eyed man drew his sword. It pulsed with green light, wrapped in swirling magic that made the air hum.
Elira froze.
"W—What…" she stammered, backing away. His gaze locked onto hers—cold, calculating, merciless.
And an arrow flew towards her and nearly struck her head—thankfully, it just passed by, leaving a scrape on her cheek.
"Don't shoot! Leave her to me!" a man in crimson cloak shouted.
Confused and terrified, Elira's backward steps turned into a full sprint.
She turned and ran toward the lake.
"She's escaping, Your Majesty!"
The gallop quickened, hooves splashing violently through the water.
The chase had begun.
Elira looked back, still running at full sprint.
"What is happening?! Why are they chasing me?! Who are these people?!" she screamed.
Though the water and rocks made running difficult, her instincts screamed at her to flee—to not get caught. They were aiming for her life; the arrow from earlier had nearly struck her head.
"Your Majesty, be careful!" one of the riders called out from a distance.
The man in the red cloak urged his horse faster, closing the gap.
"Ahhh! Help—!" Elira cried, just before she tripped and fell face-first into the deeper part of the lake.
Her entire body was soaked. She surfaced, gasping for breath.
Then she saw him.
The man with crimson eyes.
"N—no, wait," Elira said, regaining her strength.
She tried to swim away but the man grabbed her clothes and threw her toward the shallows.
"Ahhhh!!" Elira screamed. Pain shot through her body.
The man dismounted from his horse with a loud splash.
Elira backed away, eyes locked on the glowing sword in his hand as he approached.
Then came the voice.
Deep.
Baritone.
Commanding.
"At last," he said, voice like ice. "I've caught you, Saintess."
Elira crawled backward, eyes wide with terror. "Please… I don't even know who you are!"
But he raised the sword. Ready to aim for her life.
----------
From afar, two cloaked figures watched the scene unfold.
"Master, she's moved far from the original point," said the newcomer, bowing respectfully.
"Good," the older one replied, his eyes still fixed on the girl now pleading before the king.
"What do we do about her?" asked the other, clearly younger than the first—though it was obvious the older one was their leader.
There was a pause. Then the master spoke.
"If not for that girl, the king would have obtained what we needed. As repayment, we'll help her."
"Okay," the younger one said, flicking his fingers to cast a spell.
Suddenly, a whirlpool formed beneath the lake. Shouts rang out—"Your Majesty!"—as soldiers scrambled to intervene. But the king and Elira were swept into the vortex, vanishing beneath the water.
"Alec…" the leader looked at him.
"Oops. Looks like I miscalculated," the younger man said with a smirk.
The leader sighed. "Well, that happened. At least our goal is safe. Let's go."
And into the darkness, the three of them had vanished.
--------
"Sir! Sir Greaves!" a soldier called out, rushing toward Alden Greaves—the commander of the Royal Army—who stood frozen, staring at the lake in stunned silence.
"We've been searching for His Majesty," the soldier said, breathless. "But we didn't find him. He's gone."
Alden didn't respond right away. His eyes remained locked on the swirling ripples where the vortex had vanished. The water was calm now—eerily calm. As if nothing had happened.
He clenched his fists.
"No body. No trace. Not even a weapon," he muttered. "He was right there…"
The soldier shifted uneasily. "Sir, what do we tell the palace?"
Alden turned slowly, his face grim.
"We tell them the truth," he said. "The king has disappeared. And the girl with him."
"But sir… the lake—it swallowed them."
Alden's jaw tightened. "Then we find out why."
He looked back at the water, the reflection of the lilac moon shimmering across its surface.
"Send word to the High Council. Lock down the perimeter. No one leaves this forest until we find His Majesty."
The soldier saluted and turned to leave.
But then—
"Wait," Alden called out.
The soldier stopped mid-step and turned back.
"Don't send word to the High Council," Alden said, his voice low. "Instead, send word to Duke Rensic Albrecht. He needs to know what happened to His Majesty."
The soldier bowed deeply. "As you command, sir."
Then he turned and disappeared into the trees, carrying the message that would change everything.
Alden remained, staring into the depths.
Something ancient had stirred.
And it had taken their king.
"Your majesty."
---------
Elira stirred as pain throbbed through her head. She sat up slowly, wincing as sharp aches pulsed across her body. Cuts and bruises covered her skin. Her pajamas—and her entire body—were soaked.
She was still alive.
She looked around. She was in a forest, surrounded by towering, ancient trees.
"Where in the world am I now?" she whispered, heart pounding. The fear returned as memories flooded in—
The massive dragon, unlike anything she'd ever seen.
The armored men chasing her.
And the crimson-eyed man whose gaze alone felt like death.
If not for the sudden whirlpool in the lake, she would've died by his hand.
Still catching her breath, Elira froze.
Behind her stood a figure—like a statue—poised with a sword raised.
She spun around.
It wasn't a statue.
It was him.
The man with crimson eyes.
Standing just a few feet away, sword in hand, cloak dripping wet, his gaze locked onto hers.
Without a word, he swung the blade toward her.
Elira dove to the side—just in time. A sharp hiss of metal sliced the air, and a few strands of her hair fluttered to the ground.
He was serious.
He wanted her dead.
Elira scrambled to her feet and bolted toward a nearby stream, her bare feet slapping against the damp earth. The man followed, relentless, his sword flashing with every swing.
She ducked beneath a low branch, rolled over a mossy log, and leapt across the stream with surprising agility. Each time his blade came close, she twisted, spun, or dropped low—her movements instinctive, precise.
She didn't know how the hell she was doing it. She was just following her instincts—pure survival.
The man growled in frustration, his strikes growing faster, more erratic.
Elira slid beneath a fallen tree, then flipped backward as the sword came down again—missing her by inches.
She landed on her feet, panting, eyes wide.
"What do you want from me?!" she shouted, backing away.
The man didn't answer. His eyes glowed brighter, and the sword pulsed with green light.
But Elira was no longer just a frightened girl.
She straightened her posture, wiped blood from her lip, and smirked.
"Oh, I get it now," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're one of those silent, brooding types who thinks swinging a sword makes you mysterious. Hate to break it to you, but you're just rude."
He lunged again.
She dodged with a spin, then kicked a rock toward his shin. It didn't do much—but it made her feel better.
"You know," Elira said, breathless but defiant, "if you're going to try and kill me, at least have the decency to explain why. Or is communication too advanced for your medieval brain?"
He paused.
Sword still raised.
Eyes narrowing.
Then he laughed.
A low, devilish sound that echoed through the forest like a curse.
Elira felt a chill crawl down her spine.
And as the moonlight hit his face, she saw it clearly for the first time.
A horn.
Sharp and jagged, protruding from his forehead like something out of a nightmare.
He wasn't just a man.
He was something else.
The laughter stopped.
He stared at her, expression unreadable.
Elira instinctively stepped back, heart pounding.
"The nerve of you," he said, voice cold. "Insulting someone like me. But maybe that's exactly what I should expect… from a Saintess."
Elira froze.
"Saintess?" she echoed, confused. "What are you talking about?"
He stepped closer. She stepped back.
"You don't know?" he asked, almost amused. "Of course you don't. You weren't supposed to awaken yet."
Elira's brows furrowed. "Awaken? What are you even saying?"
"You," he said, pointing the sword at her chest, "are the Saintess foretold in prophecy. The one destined to bring salvation to this world."
He leaned in, eyes glowing.
"And the one destined to kill me."
Elira's breath caught.
"What? Saintess? Me? Me—a Saintess? The one might..." Her voice cracked with disbelief. Her mind spun in chaos.
Ugh. What the hell is this?!
"That's insane! I'm not—whatever that is! I'm just a girl who got dragged into this mess! I don't even know what place is this! The last thing I remember I was on my bedroom, reading a new story in my phone, and then—poof—I was on that lake! And you suddenly came running towards me with a sword in your hand aiming for my life!"
He tilted his head, expression unreadable. "You think I care what you believe? The prophecy doesn't wait for your understanding. It's already begun. And I'm here to take your life away."
Then he moved.
Fast.
Precise.
His eyes flared, and the sword rose again—aimed straight for her heart.
Elira dove to the side, rolling through the underbrush. The blade sliced through the air where she'd just stood.
She scrambled to her feet, panting. "You're insane!"
He advanced, relentless. "I'm a king forged in vengeance. I watched my mother suffered. I buried my name in ash. I built an empire from blood. And now the gods send you to tear it down. Do you think I will let you make that happen?!"
"I'm not a Saintess!" Elira shouted, dodging another strike. "I don't even know what a Saintess is! I'm just an unemployed girl living with an addiction in fantasy-romance stories!"
"You think I believe that," he growled. "The whirlpool spared you. The forest led you here. You survived my blade. That's no accident."
Elira ducked beneath a swing and kicked off a tree trunk, flipping backward with unnatural grace. Her body moved like it remembered something she didn't.
She landed, breathless, eyes locked on him.
"I don't care what your prophecy says," she spat. "But I'm not the Saintess and I won't let you kill me just for that reason."
He paused.
Just for a moment.
Then he smiled—cold and cruel.
"So be it."
The forest held its breath.
Elira gasped as the man's boot slammed into her ribs, sending her sprawling across the damp earth. Pain exploded through her side as she hit the ground hard. She tried to crawl, desperate to escape, but the shadow loomed over her—merciless, unrelenting.
His sword rose again, gleaming under the moonlight.
She braced herself.
But just as the blade began its descent, the man faltered.
A sharp, guttural groan tore from his throat.
He dropped to one knee, sword digging into the soil for support. His other hand clutched his head, fingers trembling, veins bulging beneath his skin.
"Ugh…" he growled, voice raw and broken.
Elira scrambled backward, heart pounding. Something was wrong.
The forest began to stir.
Trees swayed though no wind blew. Distant groans echoed like ancient spirits waking from slumber. The moon pulsed overhead, casting an eerie glow across the clearing.
The man writhed, his body convulsing.
Then—silence.
His hand fell limp from his head.
The tension vanished.
The forest stilled.
And the man rose.
Slowly.
Head bowed.
Elira's breath caught as he gripped the sword buried in the earth and yanked it free with a single, effortless motion.
Something had changed.
His presence was heavier now. Darker. The air around him felt suffocating, like the world itself recoiled from his existence.
She took a step back.
Then another.
But it was too late.
An unseen force yanked her forward.
Her feet left the ground.
And in an instant, his hand was around her throat.
Tight.
Unforgiving.
His nails dug into her skin, pressing harder with each passing second.
"Ugh! L—Let me go… cough…" Elira gasped, her voice barely a whisper.
The man slowly raised his head.
His eyes were no longer human.
They burned with a light that didn't belong in this world—wild, ancient, monstrous.
He wasn't the same man who had tried to kill her.
Something else had taken over.
And it wanted her dead.
He laughed.
Loud.
Unhinged.
The sound echoed through the forest like a death knell, chilling her to the bone.
"This is your end, Saintess," he hissed.
His voice was like the simultaneous lament of shattered, frozen time—wrapping around the air like the smoke of memory.
Elira's vision blurred.
Her lungs screamed for air.
She was dying.
Memories flashed through her mind.
Her mother, always scolding her for being different.
Her father, standing beside her, shielding her from the world, reminding her she was loved.
Her younger brother, Eric—brilliant, distant, everything she wasn't.
Is this how I die?
Dad… Mom… Eric… I still don't want to die.
"S—someone… help… me…" Elira whispered, barely breathing.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, falling onto the man's gauntlet as he tightened his grip.
Her hands, once clutching his arm, fell limp.
A sign.
Her life was slipping away.
Then—
A blinding light erupted from her chest.
It surged outward, engulfing the forest.
The trees bent away.
The moon dimmed.
The warmth of it wrapped around her like a mother's embrace.
The man screamed, staggering back as the light consumed them both.