The flames danced around them, green and indigo, swallowing the light. Each blow exchanged between Kael and Ashréa was a poem of destruction, a tragic ballet between two forces of overwhelming power.

  CLANG!

  Their blows generated shock waves that cracked the floor of the hall. Marble splinters flew everywhere. The ceiling groaned under the magical pressure. Chandeliers collapsed.

  Ashréa used only her index finger to parry and reflect the attacks, showing the huge gap between them. Everything was happening very quickly; Kael's movements accelerated, his sword strokes sharp and calculated but not meant to kill.

  Kael kept up his combos without stopping, his attacks fluid but aggressive. But despite his strength, despite his will, he was easily and effortlessly pushed back by Ashréa.

  “You fight well,” Ashréa whispered. “But why are you holding back, huh?”

  Kael didn't answer. His eyes glowed with an icy light. His body moved instinctively, his muscles remembering. They remembered what he had learned. Every movement was fluid, every blow amplified by aura.

  “You're trembling, Kael. Is it fear... or something else?”

  He clenched his teeth, planted his blade in the ground, and chanted an incantation in a low, echoing voice.

  “Let your voice be silenced. Let your name be locked away. Let your presence be judged by the chains of oblivion.”

  For a moment, Kael's vision blurred, and he bled from his nose as his strength began to leave him.

  A huge circle of invocation appeared on the ground, engraved with indecipherable letters. Pillars of light rose up, forming a cage around Ashréa.

  “You dare use the chains of oblivion against me?!”

  Her voice cracked, splitting into two, echoing like a thousand whispers in unison.

  “You learned that from me, Kael!”

  She screamed, and the air exploded.

  The cage vibrated, then fractured—CRACK, CRACK, CRAAACK—before exploding into thousands of incandescent fragments. A shockwave pulverized another pillar, blowing away the curtains and tearing down the tapestries.

  Kael was thrown backward, hit a wall, then fell heavily to the floor, breathless.

  “HARRGHH–!”

  “Do you still think there's a way out, Kael? That there's a world without me?”

  Ashera moved slowly forward, and with each step she took, the ground withered, the flowers died, and the walls blackened.

  Lyssandra, still on the ground, saw it all.

  And she saw Kael, staggering, his lip split, his gaze uncertain. He wasn't invincible. He was bleeding. He was... human.

  Her heart sank.

  As Ashréa raised her hand, a cry rang out:

  “Don't touch him!”

  The voice cut through the air like a blade.

  Lyssandra.

  She had managed to get back on her feet, somehow. She was staggering, her dress torn, and breathless, but her eyes burned with fierce determination.

  “You won't... touch him!”

  Ashera froze, her head tilted, as if amused.

  “And who are you... to say that?”

  Lyssandra took a step forward.

  “I am the one he chose to look at. The one who sees the man behind the weapon. The one who accepts him as he is!”

  She took a breath, her voice trembling, but she held her ground.

  “You don't belong here, Ashréa. Go back where you came from.”

  A silence fell. Heavy. Charged.

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  Then Ashréa burst out laughing. A cold, sublime, cruel laugh.

  “Oh... oh, Kael... You've trained her well. What an adorable little human.”

  She raised her hand.

  But Kael, in a final burst of energy, jumped between them.

  His blade shot up vertically.

  “DON'T TOUCH HER!”

  A dark flash shot out from his blade. Ashera recoiled, surprised, wounded in the shoulder. Her black blood smoked in the open air.

  She took a step back. Two. Then laughed again.

  “Hahaha... is that so...? You're breaking my heart, you know?” she said with a hint of sadness.

  She looked at Lyssandra one last time, her smile widening excessively.

  “You'll come back on your own, Kael. You know very well that I'm the only one who accepts you for who you really are...”

  And she disappeared in an explosion of shadows.

  WHHHHSSSSHHH!

  And silence returned.

  A silence broken by Kael's gasps as he knelt. By Lyssandra's short breaths as she rushed towards him.

  “Kael!”

  He turned his head toward her. His eyes returned to normal. He reached out, brushing her cheek.

  “I'm here...”

  Then he collapsed into her arms, all his strength drained away.

  Lyssandra caught him just in time, his knees hitting the floor with a rustle of fabric and a dull THUD. Kael's body weighed heavily against her, but she didn't let go. Her arms closed around him, as if to prevent the world from taking him away.

  He was shaking.

  His breathing was uneven, almost ragged. His chest rose and fell jerkily, and his skin, burning hot, was marbled with dark veins where Ashréa's magic had left its mark. Blood flowed from several cuts, and a wound in his side continued to bleed through his torn shirt.

  “Kael...” she whispered, her heart beating too fast.

  He didn't answer.

  His face had become calm and empty. He seemed to be sleeping. Or slipping away.

  “No... no, no, no... Stay with me!” she almost shouted, placing a trembling hand against his cheek.

  She leaned forward, her forehead against his, barely holding back her tears. The contact was burning hot. He had fought back hell... He had faced that thing, that woman—no, that entity—that no one could understand. And now he lay there, drained.

  “Help!” she screamed, louder this time. “Healers! Someone! HE'S DYING!”

  Footsteps echoed through the corridors. Mages came running. The queen, distant. The king, silent. The princess was shocked. The chaos hadn't stopped; it had only receded.

  But in Lyssandra's arms, there was only him.

  Kael.

  The one who could no longer say her name.

  “I'm here... too,” she whispered in his ear.

  Then she closed her eyes, holding him tight as if he could feel, even in his unconsciousness, that he was not alone.

  “Step aside, miss!”

  A firm, aged but clear voice cut through the surrounding noise. Two healers in beige robes knelt around Kael, their hands already covered in blue light. One of them, a man with a thin beard and nervous gestures, felt his ribs, looking for major wounds. The other held a vial of ambrosia between his trembling fingers, a golden liquid reserved for the most extreme cases.

  “His temperature is plummeting... his magical flows are unstable. It's burning him from the inside,” whispered the younger one, pale.

  “It looks like black magic,” spat the other. “Something very ancient. His circuits are... contaminated.”

  Lyssandra, still kneeling, refused to get up. She clutched Kael's hand, and when one of the healers tried to push her away to get better access, she stared him straight in the eye.

  “Do what you have to do, but I'm staying here!”

  The healer hesitated. Then nodded with a sigh.

  “Very well. But if he loses control, you may be the first to die.”

  “I don't care...”

  They did not insist.

  The aura of healing intensified. Runic circles appeared around Kael's body, gravitating like rings of pale fire. Invisible winds ruffled his hair, and static crackles burst around him.

  “His consciousness is spinning between two spheres,” whispered one of the mages, focused. “He... he's not entirely here. Something is interfering!”

  A breath. Then a white light enveloped Kael in a gentle pulsation.

  WHMMMMM...

  A long shiver ran through the assembly.

  And Kael, very quietly, coughed. Once. Twice. Before groaning weakly, his fingers twitch.

  “He's coming back... he's coming back!”

  But when his eyes opened, they weren't focused on the world around him. He was staring at a distant, invisible point.

  “...Lyssandra?” he whispered, barely audible.

  She immediately leaned over, pressing his hand to her heart.

  “I'm here. I'm here, Kael; it's all over...”

  His eyes fluttered. He smiled, almost painfully.

  “It's... not over. Not gone... not really.”

  Then he sank back again, exhausted, but alive.

  The healers exchanged glances. And that was when the king's silence was broken.

  “Take him to the secure quarters. With confinement mages and observation scribes. Let him be treated.”

  His voice was cold and unyielding.

  “And you,” he said, turning to Lyssandra, “come with me. I need to talk to you. Now.”