Mature Content Warning: This chapter contains blood, gore, and violence. While it’s a part of the story, I understand that some readers may be sensitive to this type of content. Please take this warning seriously and read at your own discretion.

The stillness of her domain was absolute—a place untouched by conflict, sealed away from the war that ravaged the lands beyond. Here, light neither waxed nor waned but simply existed, a steady glow unclaimed by time. It was peaceful. It was hers.

Until the wind arrived.

It did not knock. It did not wait. It tore through her haven with the force of a storm unbound, its presence shaking her realm. And from within it, the figure appeared—nearly shapeless, always shifting, like mist caught in movement.

"Something has awakened," the wind spoke, a voice carried on air, barely solid yet undeniably urgent. "We found it."

She did not ask what. She did not need to. The words thrummed through her being, settling deep into the roots of her existence.

The lost fragment, the one stripped away so long ago, was breathing again.

She straightened, staring into the swirling form that had come to her. It had never done so before—not like this, not with desperation trembling in its very essence.

"If it breathes," she said, her voice soft but resolute, "then it must be protected."

"No," another voice cut in, sharp and steady. The darkness of the cruel words bled into her space, staining her bright world. "It must be destroyed before it festers and grows."

She turned slowly, facing the one who always spoke of endings, who wore colors far too vivid for one so cold.

"It is a mistake," he continued. "And mistakes must be erased."

Others had come now, their forms strong, unwavering forces given shape and will. Their gazes flickered, their decisions already made.

Her gaze flickered toward the one whose presence should have been comforting—the one who, like her, had always felt the pulse of growing things, the quiet breath of roots as they spread unseen beneath the surface. The only one who should have understood.

But when she sought his expression, she found not resolve, not defiance, but fear. His hands were clenched, his body tense, and in his hesitation, she understood.

He was afraid.

Afraid of what had returned. Afraid of what it would mean if they let it breathe, if they allowed it to take root once more.

The others waited only for agreement, and he—he who had once held life so carefully—gave them what they wanted.

“It will fester,” he murmured, a voice weighed down by uncertainty, and yet the words struck like iron against stone. “We should cut it now. Before it takes hold.”

A whisper of betrayal curled around her heart.

He would not fight for it. He would not fight for her.

She straightened, fingers curling at her sides, staring into the gathered forms, feeling their judgment tighten against her.

"If you fear it," she said softly, "then you do not understand it."

Silence.

And then, in the absence of agreement, the decision was made.

The one dressed in brightness stepped closer, his presence pressing against her, suffocating in its certainty.

“One day,” he said, a voice like the last breath before dusk, “you will become another ending.”

She did not flinch.

She only met his gaze, unshaken.

“From endings,” she whispered, “comes life.”

The wind remained beside her, silent, waiting.

And for the first time since existence shaped them, she felt alone.

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