Yes. Now she truly felt new — like a newborn.
Completely refreshed, ready to face anything.
Well... maybe not anything that involved an actual fight.
But still — it felt good to feel alive again.
"Let's see how the happy family is doing," she murmured, stretching like someone waking from a very, very long nap.
...Except something was off.
The air tasted like ashes.
The ground — cracked.
The sky — red, bruised, lifeless.
"What... in all heavens happened here?"
Her tower was half-buried under dust. The once-green plains of Sketera were nothing but a wasteland.
How long had she slept?
A century? Two? Long enough for the world to forget her name, apparently.
And then — a sound.
A voice she knew.
"Sister, stop it! You don't have to do this! There's still time to turn back!"
Myrhael's voice — older, rougher, desperate.
Aerisse blinked.
"Oh, perfect. I take a nap and this is what you do with the place?"
She followed the voice — and froze.
Zaryne stood at the center of the ruin, surrounded by collapsing stone and swirling darkness. Her body was covered in black marks, veins glowing like molten shadow — the unmistakable trace of divine power twisted beyond reason.
Or worse... of the divine stone Aerisse had oh-so-generously gifted her.
"Great," Aerisse muttered. "Are you trying to kill yourself, Zaryne?" Aerisse's voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
The altar behind her pulsed crimson — the divine stone bleeding light and human blood.
"Oh, what have you done... my friend?"
"I'm not your friend!" Zaryne spat, her voice a broken snarl. "And you're too late to stop me."
Her laughter echoed — hollow, aching, full of everything Aerisse had tried to heal and failed.
It wasn't joy. It wasn't madness.
It was grief turned inside out.
Aerisse could only stare, heart sinking into the pit of her stomach.
Even after all the destruction, all the death — even after Zaryne had undone everything they'd built — Aerisse felt nothing but empathy.
"Poor little soul..."
"When you wake up again," she whispered, "remember this: you did this to yourself."
Zaryne's last laugh broke apart in the wind — and then silence.
"Master, please!" Myrhael's voice cracked as he fell to his knees. "Help her! You can save her, right?"
Aerisse looked down at him — her dear disciple — and for the first time in centuries, she felt old.
Older than gods should feel.
"I'm sorry, Myrhael. Please... don't hate me."
There was nothing left to save.
Her grand project — a failure.
Her world — in ruins.
Every effort she'd made — meaningless.
And Myrith, the one she only wanted to give peace, had suffered more than anyone.
It was all her fault.
If she could trade everything — her divinity, her soul, her existence — to make it right...
She would.