Night had taken the castle completely.
Not as absence of light.
As presence.
Dense.
Silent — and alive.
Over the ramparts, the wind passed cold between the ancient stones, carrying with it the distant smell of wet earth, blood, and something worse — that the forest had not yet finished swallowing.
Doros remained still at the parapet.
Eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the trees.
From afar, it was still possible to hear.
Screams.
Some short — others cut in half.
None human enough to ignore.
The forest breathed wrong.
Behind him, footsteps echoed over the stone.
Light.
He did not turn.
"Isabela..."
"You shouldn't be walking."
The steps did not stop.
"I've been in worse conditions."
The voice came firm.
But there was something beneath.
Something that had not yet settled.
"What was done… was enough."
Doros let out a light breath through his nose.
Almost a humorless laugh.
"'Enough' is a dangerous word today."
A scream cut through the night.
Shorter this time.
As if it had been interrupted before it could exist.
Isabela stopped beside him.
Not close enough to share warmth.
Just enough to share the silence.
Her eyes stayed on the forest.
"There's something… different."
It was not doubt.
But it was not understanding either.
"As if the world had… stepped back."
The wind shifted.
Brought the smell stronger.
Blood.
Doros tilted his head slightly.
"And you decided to come take a closer look."
"I decided to confirm."
An instant.
"Or discard."
Another scream.
This time, it failed midway.
As if it had been forgotten.
Isabela continued:
"Tell me."
The voice lower now.
More controlled.
"After you cross… that..."
A small interval.
Chosen.
"what remains?"
Doros took a while to answer.
Eyes still held to the dark line of the forest.
"Enough..."
Dry.
"to know it wasn't a dream."
"And enough… — he continued, — to wish it had been."
Isabela absorbed that without visible reaction.
"So it's real."
There was no relief.
No fear.
Only acknowledgment.
Doros turned his face, looking at her from the side.
For an instant—
the light brown of his eyes met the blue of hers.
Clear.
"You already knew that before asking."
Her eyes did not move.
"Knowing… is not the same as touching."
Another sound came from the forest.
Something dragging.
Isabela spoke:
"There are fragments."
"Impressions."
"Echoes that do not belong to me."
A pause.
"But they are… insistent."
Doros watched her for a longer moment.
"And still you came here."
Now there was something clearer in his voice.
A faint provocation.
"Curiosity… or ambition?"
Isabela finally turned her face.
Her gaze calm.
Too deep for someone who should still be recovering.
"If real…"
"then it can be reached."
Simple.
Cold.
"And if it can be reached… it can be taken."
The wind passed between them.
Colder.
"You don't know what you're dealing with," Doros said.
Not as a warning.
As a statement.
"Not completely," she replied.
Without hesitation.
"But I know enough."
A new scream.
This time, neither of them reacted.
"There is a path," Isabela continued.
Her voice lower.
Almost intimate.
But not for him.
For the idea.
"I saw… what remains when everything is taken away."
"And still… something remains."
Her eyes returned to the forest.
"It's not the end."
"It's a point of return."
Doros narrowed his eyes slightly.
"You're trying to reach something you still don't understand."
"No."
A slight tilt of her head.
"I'm trying to reach it…"
"before something decides to reach me… first."
Silence.
Heavy.
The forest answered with something distant.
A sound too wet to be wind.
Isabela stepped away from the parapet.
"I didn't come for answers."
"I came to confirm you are still… whole."
A brief glance to the side.
"Or as close to that as possible."
Doros did not answer.
"They said you haven't left this place."
She adjusted her posture slightly.
"Now I understand why."
"To remain watching… is also a way of understanding."
She began to walk away.
Light steps over stone.
"And sometimes… the only way to survive."
"Surviving is not the hard part."
Doros' voice came low.
"The problem… is what remains after."
"Things given by him…"
A slight tilt of the head.
"rarely come without a price."
Her eyes did not return to him.
"If there is a risk…"
"then I prefer it to be mine."
The wind brushed lightly between the stones.
"Because what little I saw…"
"did not come from where they say the truth is."
A step.
"And still… it was more real than anything I was taught."
Isabela's steps disappeared.
Doros turned his gaze back to the forest.
Something moved among the trees.
"Curious," he murmured, low.
"There are those who look into the abyss…"
A short pause.
"and believe they have found a way back."
His eyes did not move.
"They call it..."
"reincarnation."
The wind passed, cold.
"But what returns… is rarely what left."
"Those who get closer to the abyss…"
A short interval.
"rarely know how far they still are from the fall."
The forest remained there.
Breathing.
And, this time—
it felt closer.
The mist closed the space between the trees.
Thick. Cold.
Too alive to be only night.
A body fell.
Too light for the sound it made.
The white cloak opened as it touched the ground, stained even before it stopped.
She did not look back.
The still-stained hand lifted slightly… observing the gesture itself as one evaluates something simple.
"The ninth."
The voice came low.
Almost distracted.
A step forward.
The mist began to recede slowly, revealing the horror it had left behind.
Moonlight cut through the canopies, bathing bodies scattered across the ground — some decapitated, others torn apart.
Blood dripped from the trees, running down the trunks as if the forest itself bled.
"At least…"
A slight tilt of the head.
"it's getting less dense."
Her eyes slid across the bodies — not counting.
Assessing.
"And still…"
A faint trace appeared on her lips.
"I expected a bit more resistance."
A branch snapped.
Dry.
Her gaze did not move in time.
"Oros-Alecto: fly."
The impact came whole.
The body was thrown backward, crossing trunks without slowing, wood breaking around as if offering no resistance at all.
It only stopped when it hit the ground — heavy enough to sink the earth beneath her.
For an instant… nothing.
Then fingers dug into the soil.
The body responded.
The darkness covering her moved first, closing the ruptures before they could even fully form.
She lifted her head.
There was no hurry.
Only… interest.
Her golden eyes fixed.
Not on the bodies.
On what approached.
Two red points cutting through the mist.
Slowly.
Without hesitation.
The silhouette took form as it advanced.
Tall.
Black hair, wavy, fell to the shoulders in a controlled disarray.
Pale skin contrasted with the rest — the face too austere for emotion, as if it had been shaped not to yield.
The gray-silver suit remained intact. Impeccable.
Black shirt and tie.
Over everything… a white mantle.
Funereal.
On the chest, an iron flower — three petals.
He stopped.
The body remained upright, motionless… but there was something wrong.
The air around him warped like heat over stone — but cold, unnatural.
Too subtle for ordinary eyes.
When he spoke, it was not one voice.
It was three.
"Límia… you remain."
"As before."
"Intact in what matters."
The air around seemed to give a little more.
Not by force.
By inadequacy.
As if that presence should not exist in that plane.
A slight tilt of the head.
Almost curious.
"Three hundred years…"
The voice came low.
"That was how long it took for you to admit you couldn't."
"I still remember."
Her golden eyes narrowed slightly.
"You do not deviate."
"You do not negotiate."
"You never belonged to anyone."
A short pause.
"And still…"
The gaze grew firmer.
More direct.
"you marched beside Zeus."
Silence.
Heavy.
"You broke your own nature…"
"to try to reach me."
A step.
Slow.
"And you failed."
"And now..."
The hand described the space around.
Without importance.
"sixteen centuries later."
The gaze returned to them.
Firm.
"And you still present yourselves the same way."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
A small silence.
"All of this…"
"for how many was it again?"
His eyes did not leave the figures.
"Five?"
"Nine?"
A minimal trace appeared on his lips.
The three voices came.
Without variation.
Without reaction.
"Not number."
"Not measure."
"Not error."
A pause.
"Rupture."
"Blood that does not repeat."
"Bond that does not remake."
"Origin that does not substitute."
The air tightened slightly.
"You did not take lives."
"You broke what sustains existence."
An instant.
"And call that little."
A faint breath.
"Simply…"
The head tilted slightly.
"you do not know how to stop inserting yourselves."
Her golden eyes remained steady.
"I do not have time for this."
"Not now."
The air collapsed.
Without warning.
Without transition.
The attack came from the front — whole, absolute — crossing the space like a rupture.
Límia was swallowed in the impact, the ground giving under her feet as the force advanced, breaking trunks, tearing earth, crushing everything ahead as if space itself had been pushed away.
There was nothing left where she had been.
The devastation continued forward, opening a path through the forest until it vanished into the dark.
Silence.
Heavy.
Convincing.
He remained motionless.
The air behind him… changed.
Too late to react.
Muscles answered before thought.
An impulse.
The beginning of a turn—
interrupted.
Fingers closed around the neck.
Crack.
Dry.
Direct.
The body gave.
Without resistance.
Without reaction.
…too light.
Límia's eyes passed over the body —
and did not remain.
"Three hundred years…"
The voice came low.
"were more than enough."
"to not fall for the same tricks."
Silence returned to occupy the space.
But not completely.
Límia did not move immediately.
Her eyes lifted slightly—
not to the devastation ahead.
Nor to the path she came from.
But to the side.
Where the forest remained intact.
Wrong.
Too silent.
A small tilt of the head.
As if in recognition.
"…then it's this way."
The voice came low.
Almost to herself.
A step.
The shadows around answered before the ground.
Without hesitation.
Without hurry.
Like someone who already knew where she would step before even arriving.
And then she went on.
The screams still echoed among the trees.
But they no longer held.
They broke midway.
Vanished before finishing.
And, as she advanced—
one by one—
they ceased to exist.