Lemma did not remember crawling out of the river.
She remembered cold.
Not the clean cold of winter air or the sharp bite of mountain wind—but a soaking, invasive cold that crept into her bones and refused to leave.
It filled her lungs, pressed against her skin, dragged at her thoughts until even pain became distant.
When consciousness returned, it did so in fragments.
Mud under her nails.
Blood crusted at her mouth.
The sound of water rushing past, uncaring.
She lay half-buried among reeds, the river still clinging to her like a predator reluctant to release its prey.
Her body trembled violently, not from fear but from exhaustion so complete it bordered on paralysis.
So many voices were gone.
She tried to sit up.
Failed.
Her vision swam, the world tilting sideways as nausea rolled through her. She retched weakly, bile and river water burning her throat.
Alive, something inside her noted distantly.
The word did not feel like a blessing.
Time passed strangely after that. The sun rose and fell, or perhaps it did not—Lemma could not be sure. She drifted in
and out of awareness, dragged forward by instinct alone.
Each time she woke, the same images returned.
The boy's eyes as the arrow struck.
The woman's scream cut short.
Aurellion's blade sliding through flesh like it meant nothing.
"I'm sorry," Lemma whispered into the mud.
No one answered.
The Demon Kings were silent.
That frightened her more than their whispers ever had.
She found shelter in the ruins of an old watchtower two days later—collapsed stone and moss-choked walls, long
abandoned by any banner worth saluting. Getting there took everything she had. Each step felt like dragging a mountain behind her ribs.
Inside, it smelled of damp earth and old smoke.
Lemma collapsed against the wall and slid down, breathing shallowly.
She laughed once.
A short, broken sound.
"So this is it," she murmured. "This is the cost."
She had wanted her kingdom back.
She had wanted justice.
Instead, she had led people to their deaths.
Her hands began to shake.
"No," she said suddenly, louder now. "No—"
Her breath hitched. Her chest tightened, pressure building until it hurt to inhale.
"I told them," she whispered desperately. "I told them I couldn't protect them. I didn't promise—"
The words dissolved into a sob.
Lemma folded in on herself, arms wrapped around her knees as grief finally broke through the dam she had built out of will and denial. It came in waves—violent, choking, merciless.
She screamed until her throat bled.
Until there was nothing left but silence and the echo of her own failure.
That was when the air changed.
Not abruptly. Not dramatically.
It thinned.
Lemma lifted her head slowly.
Light seeped into the tower—not sunlight, not fire, but something pale and steady, like the glow before dawn. The stones hummed faintly, old runes buried deep in their
foundations stirring as if recognizing an ancient authority.
"Enough," said a voice.
Not loud.
Not gentle.
Just… present.
Lemma froze.
The light gathered, condensing into a shape—tall, indistinct, edges blurred as though reality itself refused to fully define it. Wings unfolded behind the figure, not feathered but etched from light and shadow both.
A god.
Not a Demon King.
Not a whispering contract.
A god who had chosen to speak.
"I did not abandon this world," the being said. "I was pushed aside."
Lemma stared, numb.
"…Why now?" she asked hoarsely.
The god regarded her.
"Because you bled without kneeling," it replied. "Because you refused dominion offered freely. Because your will bent power instead of the other way around."
Lemma laughed weakly. "I got them killed."
"Yes," the god said without flinching. "You did."
The honesty hurt more than any condemnation could have.
"But you lived," the god continued. "And survival is not a virtue—it is a responsibility."
Lemma's hands clenched.
"What do you want from me?" she asked.
The god stepped closer. The air grew heavier, pressing down on her like the deep ocean.
"I want you to choose," it said. "Break, and become another weapon wielded by louder forces. Or reforge, and bear the weight you have already claimed."
Lemma looked away.
"I'm tired," she whispered.
"I know," the god said.
Its gaze shifted suddenly—sharp, wary.
"Someone else comes."
The air tore.
Reality folded inward, collapsing into a narrow corridor of black silk and crimson sigils.
Seraphina Heartfilia stepped through as if crossing a threshold she owned.
She wore no armor, no crown—just a simple black dress, her silver hair bound neatly at her back. She looked almost kind, almost maternal.
Lemma felt her heart stutter.
Mother.
"Lemma," Seraphina said softly.
The god bristled, light flaring.
"You are not welcome here, witch."
Seraphina smiled pleasantly. "I rarely am."
Her eyes never left Lemma.
"You've been hurt," she said, approaching slowly. "Come home."
Lemma pushed herself unsteadily to her feet, rage and fear tangling painfully in her chest.
"You slaughtered them," Lemma said. "You used me."
Seraphina stopped a few paces away.
"I ruled," she corrected. "I did what queens do. I made difficult decisions so the kingdom could survive."
"You sold them to demons."
"I bargained," Seraphina replied calmly. "You survived because of those bargains."
The god's voice cut through like a blade.
"You bind yourself to corruption and dare call it governance?"
Seraphina finally glanced at the divine figure, eyes cold.
"You abandoned this world," she said. "Do not feign moral authority now."
The god's wings flared.
"I was silenced," it said. "By you."
Seraphina shrugged lightly.
"And yet here I stand. Crown intact. Kingdom breathing."
She turned back to Lemma, her expression softening.
"You don't belong in the mud," she said gently. "You belong on the throne. With me."
Lemma's vision blurred.
For a moment—just a moment—the temptation wa overwhelming. To stop running. To let someone else decide. To believe that the blood on her hands had meaning.
The Demon Kings stirred faintly, sensing opportunity.
The god watched, silent.
Lemma closed her eyes.
"I won't," she said.
Seraphina's smile faltered.
"I won't go back," Lemma continued, voice trembling but steadying with each word. "I won't let you tell me this wase ncessary. I won't let you make me complicit."
Seraphina's eyes hardened.
"You think refusal makes you clean?" she asked sharply. "You think survival didn't already cost lives?"
Lemma met her gaze.
"No," she said. "I think it means I have to live with it."
The god's light surged—approving, resolute.
Seraphina took a step back, fury flashing across her perfect composure.
"You could have ruled beside me," she hissed. "You could have been safe."
Lemma shook her head.
"I'd rather be right than safe."
For the first time, Seraphina looked genuinely wounded.
Then the mask returned.
"Very well," she said coolly. "If you will not come willingly…"
She raised her hand.
The god moved instantly, light crashing into Seraphina's spell, reality screaming as divine and demonic forces collided. The tower shook, stones cracking, ancient wards flaring and burning out.
"Go!" the god commanded Lemma. "Now!"
Lemma hesitated only a heartbeat—then ran.
As she fled into the forest, the air behind her erupted in blinding light and shadow, Seraphina's scream of fury echoing like a curse.
When the world finally went quiet, Lemma collapsed among the trees, gasping.
She was alive.
Again.
But something inside her had changed.
She did not feel empty anymore.
She felt heavy.
The god's voice echoed faintly in her mind, no longer overwhelming, but present.
I will not command you, it said. But I will no longer be silent.
Lemma stared up at the darkening sky.
"Then stay," she whispered. "Help me carry this."
The Dragon's Brand warmed—not burning, not raging.
Steady.
Lemma Heartfilia rose to her feet, bruised, broken, and unbowed.
She had lost everything.
What remained was choice.