The report was simple on the surface. Three recruits had been sent to investigate a derelict fortress. The anomaly was confirmed as Phantom element. The threat was destroyed. Mission complete.
That was what the record would say.
Elira stood stiff before the Sanctum officer's desk, Mira and Keal at her side. The man in silver armor leafed through their account with no more emotion than if he were tallying grain. "Good work. Few novices could withstand Fantomy illusions. But do not mistake survival for mastery." His eyes lingered on Elira for a fraction longer than the others. "Phantom-born creatures break the mind before they break the flesh. Remember that."
Dismissed, they stepped into the great corridor. Mira exhaled and rolled her shoulders, already brushing the weight aside. Keal's silence was steady, unreadable. Elira, however, felt as though her chest had caved in.
She had fought. She had won. And yet victory tasted like ashes.
Days bled into weeks.
Training went on. Missions passed to other recruits. But for Elira, nights brought no rest. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the shape of Selene emerging from the fog, heard the cold words: Without me, you are nothing.
She woke weeping, more often than not muffling her sobs in her blanket so no one would hear. Mira pretended not to notice, but her sidelong glances carried more pity than annoyance. Keal once offered to spar with her outside scheduled hours, but she declined. Her body could still swing a sword, but her spirit had collapsed inward.
How could she be dead? How could someone that strong simply be gone?
The questions clawed deeper than any wound.
One late afternoon, unable to endure the weight in her chest, Elira slipped into the Sanctum's library.
The hall was cavernous, the air thick with the scent of parchment and dust. Rows of shelves towered above her, filled with histories, treatises, bestiaries—records of centuries. She trailed her fingers along spines until one caught her eye: a thin, cracked volume half-buried under heavier tomes. Its leather cover was brittle, edges flaking like old bark.
She opened it carefully.
The script was faded, uneven, but legible. What she read made her breath catch.
It spoke of a creature older than Fantomy, once feared in the age before kingdoms. A Phantom element entity, similar in form to those she had fought, but far more insidious. It could reach into the living mind, read desire and memory, and shape itself into what the victim most longed—or most dreaded—to see. Unlike Fantomy, which could only mimic the dead, this one could take any face, any voice.
The name was smudged, lost to time. Only fragments remained: "Phantasm—"
Elira's hand trembled against the page.
Her thoughts raced. If Fantomy only takes the dead… then Selene— She shut her eyes, teeth clenching. No. But what if it wasn't Fantomy? What if it was… this?
Her heart pounded. A thread of hope, dangerous and irrational, twisted into the grief.
Then maybe… just maybe, she isn't—
Elira slammed the book shut before the thought could finish. The sound echoed through the empty hall, drawing a sharp look from the librarian at the far desk. She muttered an apology, hugging the volume to her chest before sliding it back onto the shelf.
The dust resettled, as though the book had never been touched.
She walked out into the darkened corridor, her footsteps hollow against the marble. The pendant at her neck was cold, offering no guidance.
Her whisper barely stirred the air. "If there's even the smallest chance… I have to know."
The words lingered in the silence, swallowed by the endless halls of the Sanctum.