The clearing opened between the trees like a wound.
The mist there did not spread.
It accumulated.
Denser.
Heavier.
As if that point had been chosen.
The body fell from her hand without care.
The impact was dry, the sound swallowed before it fully formed.
Límia remained still for an instant.
Golden eyes swept across the space.
Not searching.
Confirming.
"…here."
The voice came out low.
Almost satisfied.
A faint smile touched her lips.
Small.
Controlled.
Like recognizing something that was always there.
The still-stained fingers relaxed completely.
The man was abandoned on the ground like something that had stopped mattering long before he died.
The silence around was not empty.
It was compressed.
She moved.
A single shift.
She crossed the space in a straight line, the ground giving under the impulse, the air pushed back as if it had been delayed a full second.
The impact hit the trunk.
The hand closed.
The wood groaned.
Cracked.
The mist withdrew from that point as if forced to acknowledge something it could not cover.
And revealed.
Long, heavy black hair fell like a veil of pitch.
Glacial-blue eyes did not stir.
Pale skin reflected the dim light like ice under the moon.
The body did not struggle.
Not immediately.
Límia kept the pressure, observing.
Fingers set firmly at her neck.
The proximity was not aggressive.
It was… analytical.
A brief silence settled between the two.
Time enough to measure.
Compare.
Recognize.
"Took a while…"
The voice came out low.
Too soft for the gesture she held.
"…but I found you."
The thumb pressed lightly.
Not enough to kill.
Enough to remind.
"I'll ask the same question I asked the other nine."
A slight tilt of the head.
Golden eyes remained fixed.
"Where is he?"
The silence was not immediate.
It came in resistance.
The muscles in the girl's neck tensed under the pressure.
Even so—
the glacial-blue eyes did not waver.
There was no panic there.
No haste.
The answer came firm.
Even compressed.
"Even if you kill me…"
A small pause, taken by force.
"…you won't reach him through my voice."
Límia did not react immediately.
Her eyes slid across the girl's face like someone revisiting something old.
A minimal trace curved her lips.
"Curious."
The grip did not tighten.
But it did not ease either.
"They all said something similar."
Her head tilted slightly to the other side.
As if reconsidering.
"And still… here we are."
The gaze deepened.
More attentive now.
"Humans have changed."
The voice took on a lower tone.
More intimate.
Almost interested.
"Before…"
A small silence.
"…they knelt."
Her fingers adjusted slightly at the girl's neck.
Not as a threat.
As a claim.
"Now… they believe they can resist."
The pressure increased a little.
This time, enough to cut the air.
"It's almost admirable."
"Or just ignorance… better disguised?"
The girl did not try to break free.
Did not fight.
She only breathed when she could.
And when she spoke—
there was no hesitation.
"They call it ignorance…"
The voice came out low.
"…because they weren't here to see…"
"…what we became."
Her eyes steadied even more.
"We don't serve anymore."
"We don't follow out of fear."
Her breath failed for a second.
Recovered.
"And we don't worship…"
A slight hardening in her gaze.
"…that which only knows how to destroy."
The silence answered.
But not empty.
Dense.
Límia watched her for a longer time.
Without irritation.
Like someone listening to something… curious.
She smiled.
This time, clearer.
More present.
"Ah…"
A slight tilt of the head.
"So that's it."
Her fingers tightened a little more.
"You've grown."
The voice dropped, soft.
Almost gentle.
"You've learned to give better names to your own illusions."
Her gaze remained firm.
Dominant.
"Courage."
"Will."
"Freedom."
A small breath escaped.
"Pretty words."
The approach reduced the space between them even further.
"But you still bleed the same."
The thumb pressed.
Deeper now.
"You still die…"
A whisper.
"…for the same reason."
Golden eyes glinted faintly.
"And in the end…"
"…you call that a choice."
The mist around responded.
Moving.
Closing.
"Tell me…"
The voice dropped even more.
Soft.
Dangerous.
"…is it worth it?"
The girl did not look away.
Even with the air failing.
Even with her body giving in.
"It is."
Simple.
Without strength.
But absolute.
A small silence formed between them.
And for an instant—
Límia simply watched her.
No words.
No gesture.
Only… presence.
The smile returned.
Sharper.
Truer.
"What a shame."
Her fingers began to sink.
Slow.
The golden gaze did not leave hers.
But there was something more there now.
A trace almost… curious.
"With all that inside you…"
A slight tilt of the head.
"That… divine spark that insists on not going out…"
Her lips curved a little more.
"You could have been different."
An instant.
Chosen.
"In another circumstance…"
"…maybe I would have taken the time to remember you."
The pressure increased.
The air began to fail for real.
"But not today."
The voice dropped.
Soft.
Cold.
"Now…"
Her fingers sank deeper.
"Die."
A minimal pause.
The gaze did not waver.
"Last pillar."
The sound came before the sensation.
Or maybe—
it didn't come at all.
Something passed.
Too fast to be seen.
Too slow to be ignored afterward.
Límia did not step back.
Did not react.
But the body answered.
The arm.
The right one.
Fell.
Separated.
Clean.
Still wrapped in the darkness that had not had time to reorganize.
The impact on the ground was dry.
Delayed.
The girl dropped to her knees at the same instant, air returning in an irregular rush, tearing her throat on the way back in.
The silence returned.
But not the same.
Límia lowered her gaze slightly.
Observing her own arm on the ground.
A small breath escaped.
Almost a laugh.
"…interesting."
She turned.
Slowly.
As if she already knew.
"You really…"
A slight tilt of the head.
"…know how to stay relevant…"
"Erínias."
Golden eyes lifted—
and met the red ones.
He did not answer immediately.
His gaze passed over her.
As if she were not the priority.
It dropped.
To the girl on her knees.
Blood ran down her neck in an uneven line, marking pale skin before disappearing into the dark earth.
His silence was not hesitation.
It was measure.
Then his eyes returned.
Fixed.
On Límia.
"The last time the three manifested…"
The voice came out low.
Controlled.
"…I had not yet turned fourteen."
A brief interval.
"I did not expect to see you again."
The gaze did not change.
"But that hardly alters the outcome."
A step that did not exist.
A decision already made.
"You die here."
Límia's smile did not fade.
On the contrary—
it deepened.
"If it were that simple…"
"…to kill them…"
Her voice came soft.
Almost amused.
"…I wouldn't have run for so long."
The body responded before the intent.
The darkness moved first.
The torn arm—
returned.
Growing in silence.
Fiber by fiber.
As if it had never stopped existing.
She advanced.
Without warning.
The space gave way under the movement.
Direct.
Clean.
When she appeared in front of him—
the hand was already going for the neck.
But it did not reach.
The mist responded.
Not as environment.
As will.
It closed around Límia in a single motion, compressing the space, hardening into a dense, opaque sphere—sealing every inch before the strike could complete.
Before the closure finished—
a whisper cut the air:
"Oros-Megera: explode."
The sphere sealed.
The impact did not spread.
It was contained.
Absorbed.
There was no explosion.
There was only permanence.
The interior collapsed into continuous pressure, crushing, tearing, and remaking in the same instant—without pause, without interval, as if the space inside were being destroyed constantly.
The surface of the sphere vibrated.
Without rhythm.
Without rest.
A sound emerged from within.
Low.
Irregular.
Like a laugh that had to pass through something to exist.
"So this is… it…?"
The voice came fragmented.
But not weak.
"The last one… and still…"
A small break in the breath.
Something breaking.
Reforming.
"…hiding… behind this…?"
The pressure increased.
The vibration intensified.
For an instant—
it seemed the voice would not come again.
Then it came.
Lower.
Closer.
"…fine…"
A faltering breath.
But still carrying intent.
"I've always… been good…"
A new compression.
Stronger.
The inner sound deepened.
"…at getting out… of places…"
The voice almost vanished—
and returned.
"…where I shouldn't… be."
Inside the sphere—
Límia's body was breaking continuously.
No time between one destruction and the next.
Darkness being undone and rebuilt in the same instant.
Repeatedly.
Like a forced cycle.
And even so—
at some point within that pressure—
she was still smiling.
The pressure inside the sphere continued.
Constant.
Unbroken.
The mist around the clearing trembled in response.
The girl forced her body to rise.
Her voice came out lower.
Controlled by force.
A small gesture with her hand.
The mist to the left gave way.
Revealing—
the Viscount's body.
Still.
"Acasto… take him."
Acasto did not move immediately.
His eyes passed over the body.
Then returned to her.
Firm.
"No."
Simple.
Direct.
"I won't leave you here."
A step forward.
The voice kept its tone.
But there was something more beneath.
"If we combine strength—"
"No."
She cut him off.
Stronger.
For the first time—
just short of a command.
"There is no union that can sustain this."
A small tremor ran through her body.
But her posture held.
"This creature…"
A brief silence.
"…cannot be brought down here."
Her gaze fixed on him.
Harder.
More urgent.
"You've already fallen once."
A short step.
Unsteady.
"The spirits still sleep."
Her breath failed.
Returned.
"If you fall again…"
A second.
"…there will be no return."
Acasto did not answer.
But he hesitated.
A single instant.
It was enough.
"We failed."
Her voice dropped.
Heavier.
"We did not recover the bodies of the descendants of the North."
The wind passed.
Cold.
"The king will seek someone to blame."
Her gaze did not leave him.
"But if you are there…"
"…even he won't be… so severe."
Silence.
Acasto closed his hand slightly.
Then moved.
He bent down.
Lifted the Viscount's body with care.
But before leaving—
he looked at her.
The voice did not come immediately.
"Skýra… don't you dare die."
Inside the sphere—
a low laugh cut through the pressure.
"What an adorable scene…"
The voice came fragmented.
But clear enough.
"I must admit…"
"…this might almost make me hesitate."
Skýra did not answer.
More blood ran.
Her hands trembled.
For the first time—
without full control.
"Acasto…"
Her voice failed.
Returned.
Lower.
"…please…"
A step.
Almost giving in.
"…protect my father."
"…for me."
Acasto did not answer.
But he turned.
And left.
Without looking back.
The mist closed again around the clearing.
Dense. Pressing.
As if the space itself had decided not to let anything escape.
Skýra did not fall.
For an instant, it seemed she would—the knees gave, the body tilted—but she held herself upright by force, blood already running uncontrolled from her lips.
Even so… she rose.
Her sky-blue eyes burned.
Not with fury.
With decision.
The air around began to vibrate, and the mist responded.
Inside the sphere, the explosions continued, constant, without rhythm, without pause, as if the space itself were being ground from within.
Skýra closed her eyes for a brief second.
Breathed—the air failed halfway, caught in pain—but it didn't matter.
When she opened them again, there was no hesitation left.
The voice came out broken.
But firm.
"I am Skýra Bragança, third daughter of House Bragança."
Her body trembled.
But did not yield.
"Here and now I fulfill my duty…"
"…and every word I speak echoes as an oath."
The mist began to swirl around her, low at first, growing, pulling into itself in a spiral while the blood continued to fall without pause.
But then—
the air changed.
It was not wind.
It was absence.
The heat around simply… vanished.
Nearby leaves stiffened.
Moisture in the air condensed instantly.
Each breath began to burn, as if the lungs rejected that impossible cold.
The mist stopped flowing.
It began to form.
Dense. Heavy. Alive.
"As one of the Pillars, faithful to my code, to my blood…"
The space around her warped—not from force, but from the abrupt drop in temperature, as if the world had been plunged into a winter that did not belong to it.
Her hands closed, even trembling.
A short breath.
"…and to the protection of those who trust me… until the last breath."
The world answered.
The mist collapsed inward for a single instant—as if pulled by something far deeper than physical space.
"Veil of Niflheim."
The answer came before the movement.
The mist contracted violently—and then exploded outward.
But it was no longer mist.
It was mass. It was presence.
Taking form.
Colossal.
A white dragon rose—not created, but revealed—its body serpentine through the trees, compressing the space around as it advanced.
The roar was not sound—it was pressure itself, the air being crushed by the existence of it.
The attack came whole.
Without hesitation.
The collision against the sphere tore through the silence of the forest.
The accumulated energy reacted—it did not explode at once, but began to give way, layer by layer, like something being forced beyond its limit.
Inside—
a sound.
Louder now.
More alive.
Almost satisfied.
"…this is better."
The rupture came right after.
The sphere gave.
Broke.
And the impact hurled Límia out of the forest like a shot, crossing the line of trees in a straight line until crashing into the open field before the barony walls.