The chamber was steeped in darkness.
Not because light was absent — but because it was unnecessary.
Two light-brown eyes opened first.
Watching.
As if they already knew what they would find.
Before them, higher up, other eyes ignited slowly — red, unmoving, attentive — holding the space as something that belonged to them by right.
The silence was not empty.
It was order.
The Black Fury spoke without shifting her posture.
Her voice came out low, gentle — almost careful — like someone choosing words not out of caution, but out of respect for their own weight.
"She left as soon as she finished what she came to retrieve."
There was no name.
There was no accusation.
Only statement.
The red eyes remained fixed on her.
When the reply came, it was serene, ancient, shaped by enough time that it no longer needed to prove authority.
"Few abandon a field without reason."
The Black Fury inclined her head slightly.
A minimal gesture.
Closer to consideration than agreement.
"The walls did not hold."
A short pause.
"Three fragments no longer respond."
The silence stretched, heavy enough to be felt.
She continued, in the same soft tone.
"Inside them… only functions remain."
Another pause.
"The Tormentor remains with the prisoners."
"The Executor…" — she corrected herself naturally — "…continues tending the Pit."
The brown eyes did not blink.
"Outside the walls…" — her voice turned almost indulgent — "her creations are being consumed."
There was no surprise there.
"One after another."
The space seemed to adjust itself around those words.
The Black Fury advanced just enough for her presence to become impossible to ignore.
Even so, there was no confrontation.
"That is why…" — she said softly — "the scenario has already defined itself…"
She raised her gaze.
"…while the fragments depart one by one?"
The pause was deliberate.
"What do you still intend to claim here…"
The title came last.
"Leader."
The red eyes gleamed almost imperceptibly.
Not in threat.
Not in irritation.
But like one who recognizes the question as legitimate.
"There are desires that are not conquered," he said. "They only await the moment when they may be claimed."
The darkness of the chamber seemed to reorganize itself around the throne.
Then the voice came — deep, controlled, as if each word were chosen not by the need to be spoken, but by the right to exist.
"From this place…" he said, "what one perceives in you is not calm."
"It is anticipation."
The air in the chamber thickened.
Not as a threat.
As recognition.
A brief smile appeared on the Black Fury's lips.
Too small to be comfort.
Too slow to be carelessness.
"No," she said.
"Here, nothing rises against me."
The pause came on its own.
"But there are presences…" she continued, "…that cannot be ignored."
The brown eyes remained serene.
"Magic, when it awakens into divinity," she went on, "does not answer to confrontation."
"It answers to bonds."
She lifted her gaze just enough to acknowledge the other point in the room.
"And a place where it may rest."
The silence stretched.
"And one was touched."
Her voice did not change.
"One that moves slowly," she said. "While it devours… like a starving beast."
The red eyes closed.
Not in weariness.
In contemplation.
When they opened again, the leader's voice came lower, deeper — laden with a weight that needed no emphasis.
"What moves does not escape me."
"What is curious is that most of the fragments departed with what they came to retrieve."
A pause.
"The Tormentor has, at last, reached the daughter."
Another.
"And the Executor… draws close to what he has always desired."
Silence extended between the columns of the chamber.
"From the beginning," he went on, "we knew the weight of this convergence."
"Interests do not build loyalty."
The red eyes remained fixed on her.
"And yet…" he said, "you remained."
Then the answer came.
Low.
Gentle.
Dangerously honest.
"I wished to observe."
There was no haste.
"The boy."
The pause was minimal.
"His growth."
"His worth."
The air seemed to hold something it did not know how to name.
"For when it becomes necessary to move war," she said, "against the Twenty-Four."
The red eyes regarded her for a longer interval.
When the reply came, there was no irony in it.
Only rite.
"If that suffices for you…" he said, "then so be it."
Silence returned to its place.
And the castle remained unmoving.
As if it had already known that this decision had been made long before it was spoken.
While absolute darkness covered a chamber deep within the castle, outside, in the streets of the city — still protected by the walls — the Awakened and the army advanced.
The rain fell continuously, dense, wrapping everything.
The streets were empty of human life.
Only the rhythmic sound of boots against stone.
And the somber cold thickened behind them.
Something was approaching — slow, inevitable — like a shadow that did not need to run.
Zeph led the way.
His gaze fixed.
His step firm, calculated, like one who refuses to allow the body to reveal what the mind has already understood.
Iaso was the one who broke the silence.
"I don't see…" she began, and had to breathe before continuing, "…nor do I feel Lord Karna."
Another pause.
"Nor Ryden."
Her tone dropped.
"Is he… all right?"
Zeph did not turn his face.
He did not slow his step.
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was choice.
When he finally spoke, his voice came controlled — without hardness, without consolation.
"Lord Karna…" he said, "even knowing what it would demand of his own body…"
A brief interruption.
"He used his ability to open this path."
The sound of rain filled the interval.
"More than any of us…" he continued, "he understood the consequences."
Another pause.
"We will move forward."
"He will join us."
Not as a promise.
As a decision.
Iaso and Lys nodded in silence.
No words were needed.
Neriah, however, stepped one pace beyond the formation — just enough that the others would not hear.
She spoke low.
Without accusation.
"You can lie to them, Zeph…"
Her gaze did not waver.
"But not to me."
The rain seemed to weigh heavier.
"After all…" she added, "it's raining."
Zeph did not respond.
His gaze remained ahead.
The advance continued.
And the silence that settled was not ignorance.
It was understanding.
They both knew.
They knew the price that had been exacted…
So that that path could exist.
Rynne slowed her step, her gaze lost for a moment beyond the ranks.
"Skýra… the prin—"
"Keep moving," Kaelir intervened, without raising his voice.
Rynne stopped outright.
"No." Her indignation broke the cadence of the advance. "Something is wrong. We all feel it. We should pull back part of the contingent. Now."
Some nearby soldiers turned their heads.
The murmur threatened to be born.
Skýra spoke before it could take shape.
"Calm yourself, Rynne."
Her voice was not harsh.
It was firm — like set stone.
"Kaelir is right."
Rynne stared at her, fists clenched.
"If the princess were here—"
"She taught you exactly this," Skýra cut in, without losing her tone. "To look beyond immediate fear."
She made a brief gesture, encompassing the army's continuous advance.
"See the panorama," she said. "Zeph sensed it before all of us. Even so, he did not retreat."
Rynne remained silent.
Skýra continued.
"Do you know why?"
The answer came without haste.
"Because if he had hesitated," Skýra said, facing the soldiers still marching, "if he had shown weakness, even for an instant, all the momentum built until now would have collapsed."
Silence weighed heavy.
Kaelir stepped forward.
"Put only one thing in your mind, Rynne."
She looked at him.
"We will end this war."
A short pause.
"Until then… leave lamentations for after victory."
Rynne drew a deep breath.
And resumed marching.
While decisions were being made within the walls, beyond them, Brígida walked.
Not hurried.
Not cautious.
The plain was covered in shallow water, a distorted reflection of the heavy sky.
Her feet did not touch the ground.
She moved across the liquid blade as one crossing something that offered no resistance.
Behind her, wrapped in a perfectly stable bubble of water, Brianna followed unconscious — suspended, protected, isolated from the world that still insisted on existing.
The silence was vast.
Then, something passed.
Too fast to be wind.
Too direct to be chance.
A slash cut through the space beside Brígida — a chaotic flash, vibrant, almost joyful.
Brígida merely inclined her head slightly.
Enough.
It passed through where she was not.
The water rippled, delayed.
"You emanate an intriguing energy, child."
The voice carried no threat.
It carried acknowledgment.
Before her, the figure rose slowly, as if the world had decided to accept it out of fatigue.
An unstable pink aura pulsed around the slender body — not like organized magic, but like barely contained laughter.
White hair, bristled, almost alive.
Neon-pink eyes sparking, incapable of remaining still.
Pale skin marked by pink fissures, as if something inside were trying to escape.
On the right arm, the chaotic tattoo moved, breathed, reacted.
The smile was too wide.
Too sharp.
Human only by concession.
She spun on her own axis, light, theatrical — then stopped before Brígida, leaning forward.
"Ahhh… big sis~," she said, sing-songing the word. "You wouldn't have seen, around here, a little boy?"
She straightened suddenly, eyes shining.
"Black hair, dark eyes…" — she made a vague gesture in the air — "…face of eternal boredom, like the whole world is a personal inconvenience?"
Brígida watched her in silence.
Then answered, with the calm of one who speaks to ancient structures.
"I fear I do not know whom you refer to."
A pause.
"But tell me…" she added, "why do you so wish to find him?"
The girl lifted a hand to her head, scratching her hair exaggeratedly, as if the question amused her.
The neon-pink eyes flared brighter.
"Hmmm…" she hummed, tilting her body to one side, "because I have to."
The smile widened.
"My sister asked~."
She gave a small spin, arms open, almost dancing over the water.
"And when she asks…" — she tilted her head, eyes crackling — "…I kill."
Silence stretched.
Brígida regarded her.
Without hostility.
Without haste.
"What is your name, girl?"
The figure seemed delighted by the question.
She straightened, spread her arms with exaggerated courtesy, bowed as one performing respect she did not feel — only enjoyed.
"Pixy~."
She lifted her face, smiling wide.
"Pixy, at your service."
The laugh that escaped afterward was light.
And completely wrong for that world.