A Light in the Darkness

Nyxia drifted through the streets like a wraith.

The crowd was thick—loud voices, bartering hands, laughter and life—but it all blurred into a distant echo. Her bare feet scraped against stone, raw and bloodied. The bandages she'd wrapped around her middle days ago were soaked red again, the fabric clinging wetly to her side as if her body couldn't decide which wounds were old and which were fresh.

She didn't know where she was going.

Only that it wasn't there.

Her shoulder clipped a merchant. A shout followed. She didn't turn.

The world swayed. She blinked slowly, like waking into a dream, or maybe slipping further into one. Her head felt too heavy for her body. Her eyes stung with sand, or salt, or something worse. A hot wind blew through the alley she stumbled into—less crowded, quieter—and the strength in her legs finally gave out.

She collapsed onto her hands and knees with a choked gasp, fingers scraping across sun-warmed cobblestone. Blood dripped from her lip now, split again. Her chest ached, ribs screaming with every breath.

She curled in on herself.

She didn't cry.

Not this time.

There were no tears left.

A warm, radiant light broke through the alley's gloom like the first breath of dawn—soft, golden, and impossibly gentle. It parted the shadows as if the Light itself recoiled from the filth and blood that lined the cobblestones.

Footsteps approached—measured, graceful, each one a promise. They didn't echo like boots or clatter like heels. They whispered like velvet across stone.

Then came the voice—smooth as satin, rich as midnight incense, and soft as lullabies whispered at a cradle.

"Oh, little one," it cooed, heavy with compassion and something older—maternal, eternal. "What has the world done to you?"

Hands touched Nyxia's shoulders. Warm. Steady. Glowing with holy radiance. They didn't grasp—they held, as if cradling something sacred.

Nyxia blinked through the haze of pain and blood in her lashes. Slowly, her vision adjusted to the golden halo enveloping the woman kneeling before her.

And there she was.

Breathtaking.

A vision of divinity carved into flesh and silk—tall, statuesque, and impossibly soft where it mattered. Her skin radiated a soft celestial luster, like moonlight reflected off still water. She had the body of a goddess rendered from dreams and devotion—plush, full breasts lifted by a bodice of pale lavender silk stitched with radiant thread; a narrow waist framed by a sweeping sash of golden cloth; wide, fertile hips that curved with the kind of decadent power only the truly divine could carry. Her thighs pressed together beneath the fall of a split skirt, kissed by a shimmer of sanctified starlight.

Her hair spilled around her like a bridal veil—thick, white-gold waves cascading down her back, adorned with silver chains, delicate prayer beads, and tiny luminescent stones that pulsed with holy magic. Her horns curved gracefully behind her head, wrapped in filigree and tiny blossom charms.

And her face—gods, her face—was an ethereal masterpiece. Long lashes curled over eyes that glowed like twin aurorae; her gaze shimmered with fierce empathy, seeing not just Nyxia's wounds but the weight of her suffering. Her lips were full, pink, and quirked with both tenderness and strength—a mouth meant for prayer, or comfort… or confessions at midnight.

A Lightforged Draenei.

Holy in blood. And yet she knelt like a servant, eyes brimming with tears meant for someone else's pain.

She looked at Nyxia like she was precious. Not pitiful. Not weak. Precious. Broken, yes—but never beyond repair.

"I am Eurydice," she said gently, brushing a strand of sticky silver hair from Nyxia's sweat-streaked brow with her glowing fingers. Her voice was light poured into sound. "And you're safe now, my darling."

She smiled, the kind of smile that made even the wind pause.

"Let me help you."

Nyxia tried to speak, but her voice cracked. Her throat burned with dryness and grief.

She was too tired to resist. Too weak to doubt.

So she let Eurydice gather her into those warm, soft arms—arms that held her like she weighed nothing, like she mattered. The Light pulsed gently against her skin, soothing where it could, trying to mend what was broken.

And as she was carried from the alley, she thought, for just a moment—

Maybe Ves had been wrong.

Maybe not everything beautiful had to die.

The room Eurydice brought her to smelled of lavender and warm honey. Curtains filtered the sun into golden haze, and the walls were lined with gently glowing crystals humming with Light. A steaming basin of water stood ready near a cushioned low bed.

Nyxia barely registered any of it. Her body hung limp in Eurydice's arms, head lolling against the woman's shoulder, breath shallow.

Eurydice laid her down with the reverence of someone handling something sacred.

"You poor, precious thing," she whispered, voice heavy with sorrow and love.

With a tenderness most might reserve only for newborns, she began to undo what little Nyxia still wore—dried blood and dirt flaking from every thread. She peeled away the tattered wrappings and ruined leathers, revealing wounds both fresh and faded across the huntress's pale skin. Scars from beasts, blades, and worse. Bruises bloomed along her ribs. Her legs were scraped raw from stone. A few cuts still oozed faintly, her body past the point of caring.

Eurydice didn't flinch at the damage.

She saw through it.

And she began to heal.

She dipped a soft cloth into the basin and wrung it out, the scent of chamomile rising with the steam. Then, slowly, she began to clean her—gently tracing the cloth across Nyxia's arms, her shoulders, her back. Down her sides, careful around each wound. Over the curve of her hips and the strength of her thighs.

As she worked, she hummed.

A low, wordless tune that sounded older than time. It swelled and dipped like a lullaby forgotten by the world but remembered by the soul.

Nyxia trembled.

At first it was silent. Then a single sob slipped from her lips.

Then another.

Her shoulders began to shake.

Eurydice didn't stop humming. She didn't ask questions. She simply brought a fresh cloth to Nyxia's face

and wiped the tears that poured freely now. Cries ripped from the girl's chest, shuddering and wet. Her hands curled into fists, as if trying to hold herself together even as she cracked open all over again.

Eurydice wrapped a thick, warm blanket around her and pulled her into her lap, cradling her against those generous, pillowy breasts. Her arms were strong, but her touch never wavered in its gentleness.

"You are not unlovable," she whispered, brushing a kiss to Nyxia's damp forehead. "You are not forsaken."

Nyxia clung to her.

Loque's growl echoed down the alleyways, low and urgent.

Perseus, Boo, and Draj followed behind the spectral beast, hearts hammering in their chests.

"She's close," Boo said, her voice tight.

"She's not responding to the bond?" Perseus asked sharply.

"No," Boo replied. "But Loque is frantic. He feels her. He's dragging us by instinct now."

Loque paused at a fork in the path. Sniffed. Snarled—and darted left.

They broke into a run.

The scent of blood had thickened again.

Eurydice didn't rush. There was no urgency in her movements, only purpose.

She held Nyxia as if she weighed nothing, as if she were weightless in more than body—like a soul she'd found adrift and cradled back to warmth.

The Draenei's luminous hands began to glow with that familiar, golden-white hue of the Light. It pulsed softly through her fingertips, each wave of radiance gently knitting tissue, closing wounds, easing bruises. The deeper gashes healed more slowly—tenderly, lovingly—Eurydice's thumb occasionally brushing beneath Nyxia's eyes or along her cheek in soothing strokes as she worked.

Some of the older scars began to fade. Not all, but many—those from meaningless pain, from forgotten battles, from places where she had been struck down and left without comfort. Not the meaningful ones. Not the ones tied to her purpose. Eurydice seemed to know the difference.

"You've carried too much alone," she whispered. "Let the Light carry some now."

Nyxia didn't answer, but her chest hitched again with another broken sob as the magic pulsed deeper, reaching the aches that lived not just in muscle and skin but in memory.

After long minutes of this quiet, sacred healing, Eurydice slowly shifted. Still humming, she stood and guided Nyxia—naked, trembling, but no longer bleeding—toward the bath.

The water was warm and milky, perfumed with crushed herbs and Lightblossom petals. Eurydice stepped in first, settling into the wide basin and reaching back for Nyxia with open arms.

The huntress hesitated for a moment, blank eyes flickering with confusion, then slowly climbed in and let herself be pulled into Eurydice's lap once more.

She curled there like a child, her tail floating loosely behind her, her ears low and dripping. Eurydice reached for a crystal basin and gently poured water over Nyxia's scalp, guiding it through her tangled black hair. She smoothed each strand, combing through the snarls with her fingers as she continued to hum.

With reverence, she lathered her skin with sweet oils and washed her arms, her legs, her hands and feet. She washed behind her ears, across her collarbone, down to her hips and thighs with the soft touch of someone offering forgiveness—not just cleanliness.

Nyxia wept quietly throughout it all, her tears lost in the water.

"Shh, now," Eurydice murmured. "You don't have to be strong here. You don't have to be a warrior. Just… let yourself be."

Her voice was a balm.

A spell of peace.

And Nyxia, for the first time in days, didn't resist it.