The battlefield trembled beneath the weight of magic and dread.

For hours, Mer and Cecil—with knights, archers, and casters—had given everything to repel the towering black blob.

And still, it endured.

Every attack only made it grow larger, stronger. The golden barrier still pulsed, but dimly now, each strike from the monster sending visible shudders through its curve.

Cecil stood at the front, his chest heaving. Though the protection charm Mer had crafted still glowed faintly against his chest, shielding him from harm, his mana reserves were nearly drained. His fingers ached from casting, and behind him, his people were falling—some unconscious, others still fighting with shaking hands.

His eyes never left Mer.

She was standing within the barrier still, her breaths shallow, her hands bloodied from overexertion. Yet she was motionless—silent.

Cecil’s heart twisted.

Don’t do it. Don’t step out there. Please, not alone.

Then—she stepped forward.

Out of the barrier.

Cecil’s legs moved instinctively, but his body faltered. He reached a hand toward her, his voice hoarse. “Mer!”

From farther back, Rox yelled, “Master!” his voice echoing with panic.

Everyone turned.

And then—

She changed.

Her hair darkened strand by strand, falling in shimmering waves of jet black. Her irises sank into pools of obsidian, deep and void of light. Black veins rippled beneath her skin like thunderclouds crawling through her bloodstream.

And then the smoke came.

Thick and impossibly black, it poured from her skin, swirling upward in spiraling gusts. The air shifted. The magic itself around her changed—the pressure dropped, the wind went still.

Cecil’s breath caught in his throat.

This is the magic that nearly killed her. The magic she sealed. Why now? Why like this?

He wanted to stop her. He wanted to reach for her and pull her back. But something rooted him in place.

She’s not afraid. She’s in control.

The smoke surged outward in a tidal wave, slamming into the blob with a sound like a thousand blades slicing through cloth. The blob shrieked, its body convulsing.

Then it lunged at her.

But she didn’t fall.

The smoke lifted her into the air, holding her aloft as if the sky itself bent to her will.

Behind her, the shadows shaped into wings—enormous and shifting, born of darkness, but not evil. Alive. Ancient. Awe-inspiring.

Rox dropped to his knees, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Remoira… Remoira… Remoira…” he whispered in awe and terror.

All around them, knights and soldiers froze.

Some backed away in fear. Others lowered their weapons with reverent hands. A few—shaking—fell to their knees, unable to stand beneath the weight of the presence before them.

One soldier dropped his sword entirely, letting it sink into the snow as his lips moved in silent prayer.

Even Didy, crouched behind the line, whined low in her throat and pressed her head to the snowy ground in submission.

And Cecil?

He couldn’t breathe.

His hand clutched the edge of his cloak, knuckles white. She was beautiful. Terrible. Radiant in shadow.

He had always known she was strong.

But this…

This was beyond strength.

This was power.

And it was hurting her.

He could feel it.

---

Mer thrust her hands forward—and the wings flared. The smoke shot forward in tight spirals, boring into the blob’s swollen mass. The creature ballooned again, mouths forming and vanishing across its surface.

It tried to absorb her.

But she gave it more than it could take.

Its body ripped at the seams.

Its wail was thunderous as cracks split down its sides, then across its core. Light—dark, then golden—burst from within.

And then—

It exploded.

A rain of black, steaming flesh fell across the barrier, where it hissed and vanished harmlessly.

Then—stillness.

Mer hovered for a heartbeat longer.

And then, her wings dissolved, and her body fell.

“No—!” Cecil ran, faster than thought.

She hit the snow like a dropped star.

Cecil caught her before the second impact, dropping to his knees, cradling her in his arms.

Her chest rose—just barely. Her eyes were closed. Her arms limp.

He pressed his forehead to hers, ignoring the black streaks on her skin, ignoring the silence around them.

“Mer…” he whispered. “Please… you did it. You did everything. Come back.”

But she didn’t stir.

Around them, soldiers stood in a stunned ring. No one dared approach.

And Rox, still on his knees, whispered once more—

“Remoira…”

---

Mer had been asleep for a week.

Her golden hair lay splayed across the pillow like spilled sunlight. Her skin was cold to the touch, her lips tinged faint blue. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths—as if her soul was holding itself together by threads.

Healers came and went. They spoke solemnly, cast spells in hushed tones, and left with heavy eyes. Priests had taken their turn, whispering blessings and rites of protection. Still, nothing changed.

Outside the castle, the villagers brought offerings—baskets of herbs, dried meats, preserved fruits, and freshwater fish. Some gathered at the gates, kneeling in prayer. Others lit candles, forming a quiet vigil.

But in her room, Cecil never left her side.

He held her hand every hour, every night. Her limp fingers. Her pale wrist. He traced the line of her cheek as if trying to memorize her while there was still time.

The image of her falling—smoke-winged, divine, and then limp like a marionette—never left him.

“How many times…” he whispered, “do I have to see you like this? How long do I have to wait?”

He clenched the edge of the sheets. His voice broke.

“Don’t leave me. Please, not like this.”

Stan, the steward, had quietly suggested rest. Cecil didn’t acknowledge him.

Didy sat outside the bedroom door day and night, whining occasionally, scratching once, then laying down again. She was never let inside.

On the eighth day, the royal healers came. The King had heard.

Cecil didn’t ask why. He didn’t care if it was concern or politics—as long as someone tried. But even the most seasoned royal mages couldn’t stir her. One by one, they failed.

And then, the whispers began to spread.

“The Duchess is cursed.”

“She won’t wake up.”

“It’s terminal.”

“The Duke’s keeping her body.”

“He’s gone mad.”

In the servants’ hall, a maid muttered about the dark wings. Sarah slapped her. Hard.

“She gave everything for you!” she shouted, tears falling. “You ungrateful wretch!”

It took three other maids to hold her back.

Night Tulip grew quiet. Heavy. Hope was cracking.