Cerena stepped back—and then recognized Owen. The look in his eyes sent a chill down her spine.

  “Owen…”

  Without hesitation, he yanked his sword from his victim’s body and advanced, passing by his mother without so much as a glance.

  The men still holding Elvira had retreated a few paces, tightening their grip, their blades pressing against her neck.

  Owen moved forward, blinded by hatred. In silence, without gesture or word, he infiltrated their minds.

  “Owen! No!” Cerena cried.

  The soldier released Elvira to face his comrade, but before she could step aside, the latter struck. The blade pierced the first soldier’s belly, passing through Elvira’s side. She screamed the moment it withdrew.

  Hearing her cry, Owen released his concentration, freeing the uninjured man’s mind—and realized the depth of the wound his sister had suffered because of him.

  Ignoring the assailant, Cerena rushed to her daughter’s side as she collapsed into her arms. She pressed her hand over the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Elvira stared at the night sky, lips trembling, body growing colder by the second.

  “Owen, go get help! Find her father—quickly!” Cerena shouted.

  No answer. The clanging of metal rang out: Owen had dropped his sword, gaze fixed on his sister’s wound. He remained nearly motionless, save for the slight tremor of his body.

  “Mom… it… it hurts… I’m… I’m scared…” Elvira stammered, weakly breathing, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Owen… pull yourself together… please…” Cerena whispered, stroking her daughter’s face gently while maintaining pressure on the wound.

  “It’s going to be alright, honey. I promise.”

  Carefully, she settled Elvira on her lap. With her free hand, she grasped her daughter’s and squeezed as hard as she could. Her fingers were ice-cold. Cerena closed her eyes, focusing. As before, a gentle warmth rose from her palm—but this time, she sought not to warm herself. Channeling Elvira’s magic, she finally produced the desired effect: a bright light bathed the wound.

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  Her fingers trembled; the effect lasted only moments, but it was enough to stop the bleeding. When she released her concentration, Cerena—sweaty and breathless—felt dizzy and nauseous. Ignoring her own state, she hugged her daughter tightly, closing her eyes, comforting and warming her simultaneously.

  Elvira, now unconscious, had stopped trembling. Her breathing stabilized, and her heartbeat was soft and steady.

  The soldier, having regained his composure, watched without intervening. Still holding his sword, he leveled its tip toward Cerena’s neck, still on her knees next to him, never taking his eyes from Owen. Fear and determination mingled in the man’s gaze.

  Owen, fully aware of the danger, stepped forward—but Cerena, still holding her daughter with closed eyes, stopped him.

  “Enough. You’ve done more than enough.”

  For the first time that night, he looked at her. His mother’s voice was steady and resolute. He wavered.

  She did not want his help.

  He glanced at the armed man. Cerena slowly released her daughter, placing her gently on the ground without breaking eye contact, gaze full of love, a sad smile on her lips. She rose and faced the soldier.

  “Take me—but spare them. All the survivors…” she declared.

  The man cast a final glance at Owen, who remained motionless, staring into the void. Seeing the boy was no longer a threat, he lowered his weapon and escorted Cerena from the alley. She threw one last look at her daughter, silently praying she would remain safe.

  ???

  The soldier and Cerena reached the village entrance, where the Captain waited, leaning against the wall.

  He had not followed Owen inside, knowing it would be pointless. Seeing them arrive, he straightened and bowed deeply.

  “It is an honor to finally meet you, My Lady,” he said. “Are you injured?”

  Cerena studied him briefly, then shook her head.

  “In that case, we may proceed.”

  He blew a horn, calling the remaining soldiers. One who had stayed behind approached with a horse, inviting Cerena to mount. The surviving company departed the way they had come.

  Behind them, the snow began to blanket the lifeless forms left in their wake, freezing blood and steel beneath a silent veil.

  As the wind picked up and snow fell heavily, the fire gradually subsided.

  By morning, the village lay under a white shroud, nearly all trace of the night’s blazing chaos erased. Only silence remained, along with blackened walls and roofs reduced to ash—the final witnesses to the tragic events.