To Make It Matter

The others were already gone.

Virethiel. Floon. Eldrin. Tessara. Calvin. Elif.

Soldiers and survivors alike fled for their lives, retreating into the untouched depths of the forest. Behind them, the White Lightning tore through the land—a relentless storm of destruction, born not from divine fury, but from the grief of a single boy.

But two remained.

Aelar and Lonor stood against the wall of brilliance.

"You really picked a lunatic for your second disciple, old friend," Lonor muttered, shielding his jaguar eyes from the brilliant inferno.

Aelar did not respond. His green gaze was fixed on the sky, where Icariel floated like a dying star, wrapped in light and agony.

"He's still growing it," Lonor said grimly. "If we don't reach him soon, there won't be a forest—or a tribe—left to save."

"I have a way," Aelar whispered. "A method to cut his mana—briefly. But I'll have to get close. Close enough to touch him."

Lonor growled, low and steady. "Then what the hell are we waiting for?"

In the heart of the storm, where reality screamed and mana flayed the world, Icariel stood on the edge of himself.

Destruction. Regeneration. An endless loop. Skin fell in shreds. Bones seared and healed. Mana blazed. Breath burned.

And then—the Voice returned.

"You chose her."

Even through the howling light, Icariel heard it as clearly as his own heartbeat.

"Even if it costs everything?"

He didn't answer.

The world fell away.

Suddenly, he stood not in the battlefield, but in a void of still water. A boundless black sea beneath his feet. The sky above was deep indigo, drowned in stars. Silent. Sacred.

The battlefield was gone. The pain, momentarily suspended.

Here, he stood naked. Alone. And then—

"Was it worth it?" the Voice asked. "This decision. This life."

Icariel gazed around the eternal water. "You already know," he said softly.

"..."

"My life… was never worth living."

The stars shimmered like distant eyes.

"I spent every day afraid. Every step was measured against the fear of death. I never climbed higher. Never left Mjull, even though I wanted to—until it was destroyed. I read torn books about the world beyond the mountain, and I dreamed… but I never moved."

His voice faltered.

"Then everything burned."

He looked down at his reflection—cracked, blurred by trembling ripples.

"But after that… I began to live. With you. I trained. I bled. I learned magic. I found strength. I thought—maybe that's enough. I lost everyone I knew. But I told myself… as long as I didn't choose their deaths, it was okay. Everyone should be responsible for their own life, right?"

He smiled. A twisted, pained thing.

"But I was wrong."

The Voice asked again:

"Then it wasn't worth it?"

"No."

"..."

He looked out at the stars again.

"I had one moment that was worth it."

"One that meant something."

His voice cracked.

"Killing the bastard who took Elena… The relief I'm feeling. The happiness I'm feeling—it's real. It's worth it. Even if it costs me everything."

"And the time I spent with you…"

He smiled. A soft, broken smile.

"That was the most worthy thing of all."

Silence.

"I see."

"You're being strange," Icariel said. "Where's all the advice? The smart comments?"

Silence.

"I got my revenge. And yeah—part of me feels better for it."

He paused.

"But the rest of me?"

"Worse than ever."

His knees buckled.

"I'm dying. And my greatest fear is curling its fingers around my throat again. That's why I keep using Vital Surge. I don't want to go. I'm not ready. I never was."

His eyes lifted toward the stars.

"I'm just a kid, after all. I wanted to live. That was always the goal. Just to survive… and that shattered. For a moment. Just one damned moment."

The water shimmered. The sky seemed to breathe.

"I sound like the Chief Helos whining about life, huh?"

"No," the Voice said gently. "It's good to be true to your feelings. It releases burdens too heavy to carry."

"…After I die," Icariel asked softly, "what'll happen to you? Will you move on to someone else?"

Silence.

"No."

The answer was soft. Unflinching.

"If you die, I die too. I was with you since you were born. I will end with you."

Silence settled.

The kind that comes after too much loss.

The kind that should've felt hollow.

But it didn't.

Because the Voice was still there.

When everyone else had died… it stayed.

And now, even as death crept closer, it refused to leave him behind.

Tears fell from Icariel's eyes again.

He wasn't going alone.

"Even in death…" he whispered. "You aren't leaving me alone."

"Thank you. For everything," he whispered. "And I'm sorry. For everything."

"There's nothing to be sorry for."

Then, in the stillness, Icariel raised his head.

"…Then send me back," he said. "Let me stop Vital Surge. Let me die."

His voice cracked.

"…Shit. I can't even accept it when I say it…"

The Voice chuckled.

"Who said you're going to die?"

"What do you mean?" Icariel asked, his voice low, his eyes wide with trembling hope.

"I said... who told you you were going to die?"

The Voice answered like a whisper from the marrow of the world.

"My job is to help you, remember?" it continued. "There's still one path. A gamble. A razor's edge, and it cuts deep."

A fragile smile bloomed on Icariel's torn lips. His heart thundered in defiance. For the first time since the lightning fell, he felt something other than agony.

"How much?" he asked.

"Fifteen percent," the Voice said.

Icariel laughed.

Not madness. Not despair. But the laughter of someone who had already risked worse.

"We jumped into the Zologino River with a one percent chance of surviving," he said. "Fifteen? That's a feast."

His skin peeled. His lungs burned. The lightning scorched on.

"So what do I do?"

"Then listen closely," the Voice said, grave as a funeral bell. "You need to redirect the White Lightning. Not just anywhere—aim it at the Tree of Life fragment."

His pupils shrank. "What?"

"Yes. The Tree of Life—the last fragment of the World Tree that splintered into three. We need to force its will awake. To draw the world's judgment here. Now."

"You want me to attack it?"

"To awaken it. We must summon her awareness. Then I'll guide you. Just lift your arm. Direct the storm."

"But… the elves. This war was started over the Tree. What if—"

"What you fear will not come to pass."

Icariel swallowed hard. "Fine. I'll try."

Far below, Aelar and Lonor sprinted through scorched air and falling ash. Their legs bled. The heat was warping reality.

"This is as far as we go!" Lonor shouted.

Aelar's face was stone. "Throw me."

"What?"

"Throw me at him."

"You'll die."

"You're my best friend," Aelar said, eyes burning silver. "Please. I don't have enough mana to fly. But I can reach him. I have to reach him."

Lonor's jaw clenched. Then he nodded. "Hold tight."

Above, the boy's lightning writhed like a serpent of the old world. It was shifting—slowly—toward the Tree. But not fast enough. Not clean enough. His muscles screamed. His blood boiled.

"AHHHHHH!"

His scream shook the heavens.

"I have a chance to live—dammit, I have a chance!"

"Yes. Focus. That's it," the Voice whispered. "Lift your arm. Point it at her. Let the lightning find the root."

The storm bent. Direction changed.

Aelar climbed Lonor's shoulders like a warrior scaling the end of the world.

Lonor crouched low, arms bracing.

"Go!"

FWOOM.

He launched him skyward.

Aelar flew like a comet of silver mana.

"What is he doing?!" Tessara gasped from afar.

"The boy… is he… turning it?!" Floon shouted.

Icariel's body rebelled. His hands tore apart, bones visible through melted skin. Vital Surge surged green across him, but the spell—the sheer redirection of power—was too much. Too fast. The balance was lost.

The Lightning exploded outward.

Parts of the West Forest vanished into ash.

Still it grew. Still it roared.

"I can't," Icariel gasped, voice cracking like glass. "I can't… I can't... It hurts—too much—"

"Don't worry, you gave your all," the Voice said softly.

Aelar reached toward him mid-air.

"Icariel!" he shouted. "I'm here! It's okay!"

But Icariel's eyes were heavy with tears. His body—his very soul—was vanishing. He looked down at Aelar. His vision blurred—but he saw him. The man who had taken him in. The one whose wife had died for him. The one who had held Elif, bleeding and sobbing. The teacher—despite everything—never left his side.

"I'm… truly sorry," he whispered.

Aelar's scream tore the air. "NO—!"

His fingers reached—

Too slow.

The boy smiled.

"Did I… make it matter?"

The light devoured him.

No answer came.

Icariel's body scattered into particles of silver and white.

Ashes. Stars. A soul broken by choice.