The moon found the field first.
Cold. Direct.
Without mercy.
The light descended over the point of impact — and did not find emptiness.
It found something that remained.
The ground carried the mark.
Open.
Torn.
And covered by an irregular white layer.
Too thin.
It was not snow.
Nor was it common ice.
There was density there.
It crackled.
Low.
Spreading beyond what it should, advancing slowly as if refusing the end.
As if it still obeyed… what passed through there.
The field before the walls remained still.
But not at peace.
The silence pressed.
The air felt heavier, as if it had been compressed and had not yet decided to return to normal.
The shadows moved.
Not abruptly.
Nor violently.
They gave way.
And then returned.
Converging.
The exact point where the body had fallen darkened, not by the absence of light — but by the denial of it.
The moon was still there.
But it no longer reached.
The shadows began to rise.
Taking shape.
First, fragments.
Then, structure.
Like living segments aligning, fitting, responding to a design that did not need to be seen to be followed.
The outline settled.
And the body rose.
Without effort.
Like something that had never, in fact, been… on the ground.
The shadows settled over her, not like clothing — but like extension.
They moved with their own breath.
Slow.
Aware.
Above the head, the gold emerged.
Horns and ancient adornments rose, asymmetrical, imposing — a crown that did not represent dominion…
But something inevitable.
When the face finally revealed itself—
the eyes opened.
Límia did not move immediately.
Her gaze swept across the field.
The frost beneath her feet.
It did not melt.
The air still heavy.
The mark of impact cutting across the earth to the dark line of the forest.
She turned her head slightly.
Followed the trail.
Like one recalling their own path.
There was no irritation.
No haste.
Only… recognition.
Then she looked ahead.
Direct.
At the point where the presence still resisted.
And then—
she disappeared.
The sound did not follow.
Distance ceased to exist—
and, in the next instant—
she was already… there.
Before Skýra.
Kneeling.
Wounded.
Close enough that the cold between them no longer belonged to the environment.
Golden eyes lowered.
Evaluated.
A small smile appeared.
Controlled.
Satisfied.
"You chose a curious end."
Her head tilted slightly.
"To stay."
A short step.
Unhurried.
"Not for victory."
"Nor for chance."
The gaze deepened.
"Only for time."
Her lips curved a little more.
"I like that."
Another step.
Now closer.
"There is something… elegant in knowing exactly what you cannot save."
"Tell me…"
A slight tilt of the head.
"was it enough?"
The air failed in Skýra's breath.
But she did not look away.
Did not yield.
Sky-blue eyes remained steady.
When her voice came—
there was no effort to prove anything.
Only certainty.
"It was."
Blood still ran.
"It was what needed to be done."
Her breath faltered for an instant.
Returned.
"And it was done."
Her eyes did not leave hers.
"I do not fear what comes next."
A small adjustment in posture.
Even wounded.
Even at the edge.
"Because there is nothing… unfinished."
The silence formed between them.
Dense.
Still.
And, for an instant—
Límia's smile changed.
Almost imperceptibly.
Less light.
More… attentive.
She took another step.
Stopped before Skýra.
Too close.
For an instant, there was no attack.
Only observation.
Her hand rose.
Slowly.
Her fingers touched Skýra's face — cold, firm, tilting her chin slightly upward.
Golden eyes fixed on hers.
"At first…"
Her voice came low.
Almost soft.
"I intended to kill you."
No haste.
No tension.
"It would be… simple."
Her thumb slid slightly, wiping a line of blood that had already begun to return.
"Clean."
"And sufficient."
A small pause.
Her gaze did not leave hers.
"But then…"
"I heard your conversation with the host of the three Erinyes."
The smile changed.
Subtle.
Sharper.
"And I realized something inconvenient."
Her fingers still held her face.
"If I killed you here…"
"the four would follow me."
"For eternity."
Her thumb stilled.
Límia released her.
Not carelessly.
But with disinterest.
Her hand pushed Skýra's face aside, turning it out of her field of attention.
She stepped half a pace back.
Her gaze swept the clearing.
Slow.
Precise.
"Even so…"
Her voice returned.
More distant now.
"it was not a complete loss."
Her eyes slid over the ground — over the bodies, over the blood… over the trail left by the battle.
"I did not obtain his divine energy."
A light breath.
"A failure… technical."
Her head tilted slightly.
"But… the chaotic energy accumulated here…"
Her gaze deepened.
"is sufficient."
Silence.
Denser now.
"More than sufficient… to rebuild a body."
The ground answered.
Something ancient.
Something wrong.
The shadows moved.
Not as Límia's extension.
They moved as something deeper.
Hungry.
The bodies began to sink.
Slowly.
Being swallowed.
Without resistance.
The earth did not open.
The shadows… devoured.
Skýra saw.
Understood.
Did not react.
Límia did as well.
"It seems…"
A slight tilt of the head.
"it will begin sooner than I expected."
Her eyes returned to Skýra.
"You should feel honored."
"Few have the privilege of witnessing the birth of something like this."
The smile remained—
until it disappeared.
Something changed.
Subtle.
But immediate.
Her gaze shifted.
Instinctive.
To the barony.
And remained there.
Fixed.
For a second.
Two.
The air around her… hesitated.
Not outwardly.
But within her.
A thought that should not exist.
Her voice, when it came—
carried no doubt.
But there was something different.
Colder.
More precise.
"…no."
A step.
Almost imperceptible.
"That is not…"
Her gaze narrowed.
"this is not the agreement."
Her breathing did not change.
But the control… did.
"You did not…"
A small break.
Her jaw tightened.
"you did not have that right."
Her hand moved—
and this time there was no care.
Her fingers closed around Skýra's neck.
Firm.
No room for resistance.
The movement happened.
Too late to be seen.
The field did not disappear — it was left behind.
The air reacted after.
Space… followed late.
And when the world tried to catch up to them—
they were already elsewhere.
The walls were there.
The castle—
Shadows enveloped it.
Not as cover.
As a dominion.
Alive.
Límia stopped.
Still holding Skýra.
Golden eyes fixed ahead.
And, for the first time—
she did not advance immediately.
She felt the intent — the density behind it.
The shadow did not attack.
It… absorbed.
Límia's presence was touched—
and reacted.
Instinctively.
A slight recoil.
Almost imperceptible.
Golden eyes narrowed.
Not for what she saw—
but for what she recognized.
The shadows moved slowly over the castle.
Alive.
Ancient.
Límia's lips curved.
"So there still remains… this kind of inheritance."
A light breath escaped.
"I should have waited."
Her head tilted, minimal.
"Son of Erebus… of course."
"Nothing that comes from him remains reliable for long."
Límia's fingers still held Skýra.
For an instant.
She released her.
Unhurried.
Like one losing interest.
"You don't agree?"
Silence answered first.
The presence came before the sound finished.
Of footsteps.
Echoing behind her.
Not as approach—
Límia felt a brief distortion in the air, at her side.
She did not turn.
Her eyes moved.
From the corner.
And stopped.
Skýra… was no longer there.
The voice came from behind.
Low.
Clear.
Without effort.
"You two have started a dangerous game."
Límia's smile did not change.
"'We'?"
A slight tilt of the head.
"I do not recall being consulted."
The reply carried no irritation.
No haste.
"Still… you are here," said the voice behind her.
A brief silence.
The voice continued:
"And he does not usually act without purpose."
Golden eyes remained fixed on the shadows moving over the castle.
"I did not expect this either."
"It is an… bold idea."
Her head tilted slightly.
"To break a taboo of this scale."
Her lips curved.
"The gods of order are not known for tolerance."
The voice behind her remained steady.
"He has never been guided by rules."
"Nor by fear."
A small silence.
Límia breathed.
Slow.
Controlled.
"Yes."
Her eyes did not leave the shadows.
"Otherwise…"
A sharper trace appeared in her smile.
"he would not have declared war on Olympus."
"Though, if I recall correctly…"
Now there was slight irony.
Delicate.
Dangerous.
"you were a considerable part of the reason."
The silence that followed was not empty.
The answer came—
soft.
"Such simple provocations no longer suit you."
A step.
Almost inaudible.
"Not when we are… at this level."
Límia's smile gave a little.
Not in weakness.
But in recognition.
"Perhaps."
"Still… they worked better before."
The pause came naturally.
Without break.
The voice behind her then changed—
not in tone.
But in weight.
"Límia."
An instant.
"Do not involve yourself beyond what is necessary."
This time, Límia replied without irony.
Her eyes still on the castle.
"I do not intend to."
"If you are here… then he will know."
Her fingers relaxed at her side.
"And this time…"
Her voice lowered.
More precise.
"I have no interest in taking part in what will come."
A short interval.
"There is still discernment in you," said the voice behind her.
The answer came.
Calm.
Almost distant.
"Not always."
A slight movement—
Límia began to turn.
Controlled.
Calculated.
But did not complete it.
A minimal gesture.
Behind her.
Límia's neck gave at an impossible angle—
a dry crack.
The sound was clean.
As if the very structure had been corrected by force.
The body fell.
Without resistance.
Before completing the movement.
The figure behind her did not approach.
Not immediately.
The voice came one last time—
low.
Unhurried.
"Even so…"
A brief pause.
"you continue choosing the wrong moments in which you believe you have a choice."
Silence returned to occupy the field.
But not the same as before.
Deeper.
Older.
The shadows over the castle… responded.
"Éreon, what you are doing is senseless…"
"and dangerous for everyone."
She raised her hand to the sky.
The gesture was simple.
But the world responded.
"Genēthḗtō phōs."
The night tore.
Not like light that is born—
but like something imposed.
The sky opened in clear fissures, and day surged by force, brutal, cutting across the horizon like a blade. The light did not illuminate.
It dominated.
The shadows recoiled.
The chaotic energy trembled.
The very air hesitated.
"Forgive the intrusion into your domain..."
she said, serene, as one who declares something inevitable.
"but there are limits that cannot be ignored."
The sky answered.
Not with sound—
with presence.
Clouds began to form, dense, heavy, swallowing the newly imposed light.
The brightness gave way to gray.
Lightning appeared, contained… like something that still chose not to fall.
The voice came then.
It did not descend.
It filled.
"You interfere in what is mine… and still speak of limits?"
Each word pressed the space.
"You step upon this soil…"
"as if you do not know who sustains it."
A contained thunder rolled across the sky.
"Tell me…"
"why should I not end your passage now?"
She lifted her gaze.
"Because I did not come to take what is yours."
Her voice did not rise.
But it reached.
"I came to correct what should never have begun."
A small silence.
"When it is over… your domain will remain intact."
The wind ceased.
Not by absence—
by attention.
The sky answered, denser now.
"You alter the flow, break what was established…"
"and still call this correction?"
A pause.
"You are far from home…"
"and still act as if you stand above consequence."
She smiled, without provocation.
"If I were… you would have already descended."
The sky did not answer immediately.
But the tension shifted.
"Do not descend, Tupã."
Now—
there was command.
Soft.
But nonnegotiable.
"Remain where you are."
Her eyes did not waver.
"Or you will not return."
The world stopped.
Not entirely—
but enough.
An instant where decision and consequence coexisted.
Then the sky answered.
Not in unrestrained fury, nor in retreat… but in recognition.
"Your passage will be brief."
The voice did not lose strength.
But it ceased to advance.
"There will not be another."
There was a pause.
This time, not of tension — of definition.
"I do not fear what comes from outside my sky."
The clouds began to disperse.
Slowly.
Not expelled.
Contained.
The light returned to settle over the barony, cutting through what remained of the shadows without resistance.
The domain stabilized.
But did not relax.
She did not respond.
There was no need.
The gesture had already been accepted.
The light remained, not as imposition, but as temporary order — enough to contain what still moved beneath the surface.
And it illuminated.
Not as something alive—
as an order that needed to be fulfilled.
The chaotic energy that still remained in the field began to move.
It did not disperse.
It converged.
In silence.
Dragged by the shadows advancing over the space, being absorbed without resistance — as if it had never belonged there.
The space around seemed to hold its own breath, as if it recognized what was being gathered.
From within the castle… the energy answered.
It began to pulse, silent and concentrated — not expansive at first, but dense enough to make the air around it give way, as if reality itself needed to step back to accommodate it.
For an instant, everything remained contained.
As if the world still had the chance to deny it.
Then it failed, and the distortion emerged at the center of the castle as a single point — small, almost insignificant — but unstable, trembling under its own weight, unable to remain confined.
And then… it gave.
The expansion was not an explosion.
It was an advance.
A purple tide spilled across the space, slow at first, inevitable, as fissures of violet light tore through the air around it, like lightning trapped within the expansion itself, cracking in irregular paths that did not illuminate… only marked the advance.
Each purple arc touched what existed—
and what was touched… ceased to exist.
Without resistance.
The wave continued to expand, carrying with it those living fractures, which appeared and vanished in sequence.
As if space itself were being rewritten before the energy even reached it.
In a few seconds… the barony was consumed, leaving only silence.
The light withdrew.
As recognition that there was no longer order to sustain.
"So… this is how you chose to exist."
A slight raising of the hand.
"What is born from that which does not recognize itself…"
"cannot remain contained."
A second gesture.
The light went out.
And with it, the presence disappeared—
leaving only darkness.
At the center of the darkness, something remained, still, as if the void had a point of retention, something closed that had not yet been revealed.
Then it opened.
A purple glow emerged, intense and concentrated, opening into a fixed vertical slit in the void — a single gaze in the middle of nothing.
It remained for an instant.
And closed.
And the darkness returned.