A Phoenix with broken wings

Arienne's breath caught in her throat, horror cutting through the pain like a blade.

No. It wasn't possible.

Seraphine had never possessed magic—she had spent years at the Ardentis Academy ridiculed, overshadowed, protected by Arienne because she couldn't fight back.

And yet, here she stood, fire dancing in her palm, wielding a power that should have been impossible.

Seraphine smiled, watching the realization dawn in Arienne's eyes.

"Surprised?" she mused, rolling the flame between her fingers as if it were nothing more than a toy. "Did you really think you were the only one who could wield it?"

Arienne's heart pounded.

Her body ached, her strength was drained, but fury burned through her exhaustion.

"What have you done?" she rasped.

Seraphine hummed, tilting her head in mock thought. "I simply took what was never truly yours."

The flame in her hand flared brighter, licking at her fingers without burning them, a perfect mirror of Arienne's own power.

"After all," Seraphine whispered, leaning in so only Arienne could hear, "a Phoenix with broken wings is nothing but kindling."

She pulled back, standing gracefully beside Vaelor.

Arienne barely felt the hands that seized her, yanking her up from the bloodstained floor.

Her body ached, her magic flickering like a dying ember within her, but she no longer struggled. Not because she had given up—no, the fire within her had only just begun to burn. She was simply waiting. Watching.

As they dragged her toward the exit of the grand hall, the murmurs of the gathered nobles filled the space like a low, droning hum.

A disgrace. A traitor. A monster.

None of them mattered.

Then—

"Wait!"

A familiar voice cut through the noise, desperate and unyielding.

Eliora.

The guards didn't stop, but Eliora shoved past them anyway, her small frame slipping through the gaps before they could react. She ran to Arienne, her breath hitching, her green eyes wide with fear and something else—something deeper.

She clung to Arienne's arm, her tiny fingers digging into the torn fabric of her sleeves.

"They're lying!" Eliora's voice wavered, but she held on. "You wouldn't—y-you wouldn't betray us!"

Arienne swallowed hard. She didn't have the strength to bend down, to comfort her, to do anything but stand there, chained and broken.

Eliora's hands trembled. "Don't let them win," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Promise me."

A promise.

Arienne felt her throat tighten.

She had lost everything. Her title. Her power. Her home. But as she looked at the girl—the only one in this kingdom who still believed in her—something stirred deep inside her.

"I'll come back," Arienne whispered, her voice hoarse but certain. "I promise, Eliora."

Eliora's chin wobbled, but she nodded fiercely, her grip tightening as if she could hold Arienne here, stop all of this.

"I'll wait for you," she said, her voice trembling but determined. "No matter how long it takes."

A guard yanked Arienne forward. Eliora stumbled, her fingers slipping away.

The last thing Arienne saw before the doors closed was Eliora standing there, her small hands clenched into fists, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

"I'll wait," Eliora whispered again, barely audible.

And then Arienne was gone.

The chamber where they would strip her power was carved from cold, unfeeling stone. Torches flickered dimly, casting jagged shadows across the walls.

Six mages surrounded her, their expressions unreadable. Lucien stood at the center of it all, his power already humming in the air.

"You should have accepted your fate," he murmured. "Perhaps then, this wouldn't have to be so… painful."

Arienne said nothing.

She knelt in the ritual circle, her wrists bound, her body exhausted—but her mind sharp.

She would remember this moment. Every face in this room. Every word spoken.

They began.

Magic crashed down upon her, searing through every vein in her body. She screamed, her back arching as something inside her twisted and writhed, fighting back.

The Phoenix Core.

It wasn't just magic—it was her. And it refused to be taken.

The sky outside darkened.

Clouds churned, unnatural and wild. Thunder rumbled, distant but growing louder. A cold wind swept through the palace, rattling the very walls.

The mages gritted their teeth, their combined power struggling against hers. The room shook. The torches flickered, their flames warping unnaturally.

Arienne felt her magic raging, clinging to her, refusing to be severed.

Then—one final surge of power from Lucien.

And it was over.

The fire inside her flickered… then went out.

The storm outside died instantly. The wind stilled. The sky remained dark, as if mourning.

Arienne collapsed forward, gasping.

For the first time in her life, she felt… empty.

Lucien straightened, exhaling as if he had done something tiring but necessary.

"It is done," he said.

The guards wasted no time. They bound her in iron chains, her limbs too weak to resist.

The wind howled around her as she was dragged toward the massive stone archway—an ancient construct pulsing with dark energy, its core swirling with an eerie, endless void. The Abyss. A prison beyond time and space, where fallen sorcerers were cast away, their names forgotten, their legacies erased. No one had ever returned from it.

Lucien stood before the portal, his hands folded behind his back, his expression unreadable. The power of the Abyss crackled in the air, hungry, waiting.

His face was unreadable, save for the faintest trace of something—pity?

Regret?

It vanished before she could name it.

"You should have known that the world was never kind to those who burn too brightly," he said at last, his voice quiet, almost contemplative.

Her breath was ragged, her limbs weak, but her eyes—her eyes still burned as she lifted them to his. "And yet," she rasped, "you were the one who taught me to burn."

Lucien exhaled, something flickering in his gaze—then, just as quickly, it was gone.

"You were my greatest student," he admitted, almost to himself. "But even the brightest flames consume themselves in the end."

A flick of his hand.

The guards obeyed.

Iron hands seized her, dragging her forward.

Arienne did not fight. Not because she had given up—but because she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.

She would fall, yes. But she would rise again.

She met Lucien's gaze one last time.

"I will return," she vowed.

Lucien did not look away. "No one returns from the Abyss."

Arienne smiled, bloody and defiant. "Then I'll be the first."

With a final nod, he raised his hand.

The portal roared open.

The magic seized her like invisible hands, yanking her forward. The last thing she heard was the crackling of the spell, the murmur of Lucien's voice—

"Goodbye, Arienne."

And then she was falling.

Falling into the Abyss.