Chapter XVIII - The Last Trace of Nádia

—What did the Tree say?— Nádia asked, her voice light, her fingers gliding familiarly over the harp strings, tuning them with precision. The wood of the instrument gleamed under the orange glow of dusk, preparing for the night's eclipse performance.

Khaled did not answer immediately. He stood before an ancient shelf lined with dusty grimoires, his eyes scanning the worn spines, searching for something that might expand the reach of his magic—or of himself.

—The same as always— he said at last, his voice low, devoid of apparent emotion. His fingers rested on a tome with a dark cover, feeling the subtle energy vibrating beneath the surface. He didn't need to open the book to know: no new answers, only echoes of what he already knew.

Nádia let out a sigh, almost imperceptible. There was a hidden melancholy in the routine of repetition. The Tree—ancient, wise, unchanging—spoke in riddles that, over time, ceased to sound like prophecies and became memories of something that had not yet happened.

Khaled laughed at his sister, then recited what the Tree had been telling him—its last prophecy:

"When the blood of the lineage is touched by ambition,

The crowned wolf shall fall to the sound of his own ascension.

In the shadow of betrayal sealed with empty vows,

The tower shall crumble, and the flame lose its life.

But the wind shall sing a forgotten name,

And the mage's heart, once cold, shall be maimed.

An unthought love shall sprout from barren ground,

Giving the fallen a chance to be found.

Then shall come the moment of cruelest choice:

To kiss power and seal the skies,

Or touch love and ignite the veil.

Both you cannot have, for one shall consume the other,

And the price shall be paid in soul, blood, or future."

—Ah, how romantic, Khal— Nádia said, a dreamy glimmer in her eyes as she tuned the harp's last string. —It sounds like one of those tragic love stories that span generations. Promise me… in the end, you'll choose love.

Khaled glanced away from the books and arched a brow, as if the idea amused him.

—You know prophecies don't always unfold as written, right?— he murmured, turning back to an ancient tome. —The Tree holds hundreds of them, forgotten among its branches. Some contradict each other. Others… never come to pass.

He closed the book with a soft snap, as if ending the conversation as well.

—And besides… why should I choose something as… fleeting as love? Knowledge—that's irrevocable. That's what shapes us. What endures. What's worth it.

—No, Khal.— Nádia smiled tenderly, her voice brimming with conviction. —What shapes us is what we feel—how we see the world, how we react to it. It's art, expression, what we create from our emotions. That's what lingers in hearts long after we're gone.

Khaled gave a soft, scornful laugh.

—If you say so… But I've no interest. If my destiny is grand, why should I divert it for something as fickle as affection? Love is a distraction. And distractions are dangerous.— His smile was faintly arrogant, his gaze haughty.

Nádia paused, as if her brother's words were a cold wind rattling against the window of her ideals.

—If I were to find love… someone to whom I could give my whole heart— she said softly —I'd live with all my intensity. I don't want the eternity of slumber. I want to devote myself to my music, to my passion. And if that love bears fruit, if one day I have children, I'll love them with everything I am. I want to live with them, grow with them… until the day I close my eyes.

She smiled, and in that smile was something infinitely human. Something that transcended the centuries an elf might live.

Khaled watched her in silence. Sometimes, no matter how much he denied it, he wished he had his sister's flame—that vibrant sweetness that gave itself to the world without reserve. Nádia was different. She always had been. While he clung to the grandeur of destiny, she chose to live in the now, with all the colors and sounds life could offer.

And perhaps that was what made him feel so distant from her… and yet, paradoxically, so fascinated by her way of seeing the world.

Nothing made sense. Khaled barely had time to react before the blade pierced his shoulder—nearly slicing his throat. A sharp, precise, brutal strike. The elf staggered back, stunned by the force. Pain tore through his senses like liquid fire under his skin. He had always been physically frail, and now he felt it in the rawest, cruelest way.

The boy did not hesitate. There was hatred in his eyes.

Why?

The questions exploded in his mind like lightning in a storm.

Why here? Why now?

And Nádia… how could she have found love in this forgotten island, among criminals and thieves?

He gasped, feeling the pain throb. The half-elf lunged again, aiming for his neck this time—a killing blow, cold and precise.

But then, a firm hand intercepted him.

Liandre.

The mercenary moved like a bolt, grabbing the boy and yanking him away from Khaled. The impact reverberated, but the youth was too agile. In one fluid motion, he pushed off the warrior's chest and leapt back, escaping with near-ghostly lightness. And then… he vanished into the shadows like mist in the wind.

Khaled fell to his knees, blood streaming from his wounded shoulder. He panted, his eyes scanning the ship's gloom for any sign of the enemy—of his nephew.

But the boy was gone. Invisible as a phantom.

Liandre stepped forward, raising his sword, shielding Khaled—a human barrier, ready to protect him.

—I just need an opening…— the mage muttered, beginning to weave a spell, struggling to focus his power.

But before he could finish, the boy returned. Like a living shadow, he slashed Khaled's face, cutting near his mouth and shattering his concentration. The magic dissipated into the air with a faint crackle.

Liandre raised his sword, ready to counter.

—No. Don't hurt him,— Khaled rasped, his voice rough but firm.

He knew the boy was just… lost. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he knew exactly what he was doing. But he was the last trace of Nádia left in this world, and Khaled could not bring himself to destroy it.

Liandre hesitated. Understood, in silence. Sheathed his sword, breathing deeply. He steadied himself, waiting. The boy was like water slipping through fingers—impossible to hold.

—Just one second…— Khaled said, wiping blood from his face with an irritated swipe.

Liandre stayed alert. He knew the boy targeted vitals, and he used it to his advantage. When the boy struck again, the mercenary was ready. He stepped into the blow, gripping him hard. He felt the blade cut his arm but ignored the pain. Twisting the boy's body, he tried to pin him.

He almost got away. Almost.

But it was enough time.

Khaled completed the spell. An invisible chain of energy wrapped around the half-elf, paralyzing him. His body stiffened, frozen mid-motion. His furious glare locked in place, seething but helpless.

—We need to take her from here. Once we extract the fragment, you know what will happen,— Khaled murmured, approaching his sister's body.

Her son, however, did not speak a word. His protest was in the tension of his shoulders, in his hardened, unmoving stare, in his silent refusal to let his mother's body be taken from this sanctuary—his sacred refuge.

But something else caught the mage's eye.

Among his sister's belongings lay an ancient enchanted wooden box—the same one she'd given him centuries ago. A magical compartment, unassuming on the outside, vast within. He touched it reverently, as if awakening a reliquary of memories. Lifted the lid with care.

Inside, books.

Worn scrolls, titles in forgotten tongues, all speaking of curses, necromancy, ancient legends, and arcane methods to draw power without harm. There were treatises on freeing someone from an invisible prison—texts that, at first glance, seemed mere tales. But now, in Khaled's hands, they carried new weight.

His sister had spent countless nights buried in these studies. Searching for answers. Trying to solve not just her own burden, but his. A silent, persistent, solitary quest.

And he… had never known.

Rage burned in him. Guilt dragged like sludge through his bones.

Everyn would pay.

The cursed goddess had given divine fragments to mortals too fragile to contain them—and in doing so, she had shattered bonds, destroyed lives, turned love to ashes.

Khaled's hand trembled as he ordered:

—Remove his gag.

Liandre obeyed at once, pulling away the cloth covering the boy's lips.

—DON'T TOUCH HER!— Kinlly roared, fury blazing in his eyes. —Don't touch her secrets! You don't deserve them!

He writhed against the arcane bindings, fighting like a restless shadow.

Khaled stepped closer, his voice steady but not unkind.

—What was here that Nádia devoted herself to?— he asked. —What kept her in this place so long? Tell me your name.

—Kinlly,— the boy muttered, uncomfortable. —And why should I tell you anything more?

The mage knelt to meet his gaze, eye to eye.

—I didn't come to desecrate my sister's grave. I came because I needed to see her… speak to her. One last time.

And there, up close, he saw it.

Kinlly was promising. There was something in him beyond words—an instinct, a tempered fury, the speed and precision of one born among blades and shadows.

And yet… there was Nádia in his eyes.

—She studied endlessly,— the boy said at last, his voice less harsh. —She came here believing forbidden books held answers. And she searched… for a long time.

Kinlly turned his face away, staring at the room's dark corner.

There, atop a makeshift throne of bones, lay a body—or what remained of it. Crossed bones, a tattered cloak, an air of dead royalty. A pirate. A king among criminals. A man who, even in death, seemed to rest with dignity.

—My mother loved him,— Kinlly continued, a thread of tenderness piercing the pain. —Together, they tried to find a way to cure her blindness.

He closed his eyes briefly, as if reliving an impossible memory.

—Even blind, my mother still played. Even sightless, she read. With her hands, with her soul. And from that love…

He hesitated.

—…from that love, I was born.

—Here?— Khaled was stunned.

Liandre stayed silent, but his worry was palpable. The mage was still wounded, blood seeping through his robes, dripping onto the ship's stained floor.

—So what if it was here? Was there a better place?— Kinlly snapped, irritated—and even more so at being caught. He strained against his binds.

—Did my sister speak so ill of me that you'd hate me?— The mage was bewildered. They'd always been close. If anyone would stand by him, he'd thought it would be her.

—No,— Kinlly tensed, glaring. —But I watched her wither. After my father's death, the grief never left. The hours she spent searching. The dread she felt when you'd come grew worse. I heard her say once, "I want him free, but it means the end of my family." I never understood those words. Not until one day, she fell asleep… and never woke. Grief consumed her so completely, she gave up on waking. And since then, I've guarded her tomb.

The elven sleep. From sorrow? Khaled had never allowed himself to think Nádia could surrender to despair. Yet he knew the weight of carrying a fragment of power. Knew that if forced to choose, he'd pick power over kinship—had always known. And that knowledge had eaten at her, killed her slowly. The sorrow of losing her human prince, then her son, had made her relinquish the beautiful life she'd dreamed of.

Khaled pressed a hand to his lips, sudden nausea rising. Tears fell without warning. Kinlly didn't understand. He'd thought he grasped his mother's message, yet here was his uncle, weeping for her.

Khaled stood, dizziness from blood loss washing over him. But Liandre steadied him, firm. The mercenary had never seen him like this—so broken, so pale, so vulnerable. The mage closed his eyes, letting the tears fall, letting the guilt consume him. Someone so brilliant, extinguished in a damp, filthy alcove. The stench was vile.

—I'll take them…— Khaled said.

—What? You can't cast in this state!— Liandre protested.

—Gather the bones. They both deserve Encanthia—not this place. They'll be laid to rest in green pastures, returned to nature.— Khaled drank a healing potion, then a concentration draught. Even if it wasn't enough, he began to chant, ignoring Liandre's protests.

The mercenary had no choice. He carefully lifted the skeletal remains, praying they wouldn't crumble to dust. If the mage was reckless now, it was because he felt it deeply.

Khaled teleported them to Encanthia, and the world shifted. The smell of salt and rust gave way to the sweet perfume of wildflowers and dew-kissed leaves. The air itself breathed differently here—slower, calmer, more alive.

They appeared in the heart of Lòrëlin, one of the elven forest's most sacred glades. A clearing guarded by ancient oaks, their branches entwined so high they seemed to brush the sky. Twilight light filtered through golden leaves, casting soft beams that danced like curious spirits over the moss-carpeted ground. Exposed roots formed sinuous patterns, almost like arcane sigils, and at the center flowed a crystal-clear stream, its waters so pure they mirrored the sky like an enchanted glass.

Flowers in impossible hues bloomed on branches and stones, some glowing faintly gold, others whispering songs in tongues only the eldest elves still understood. Translucent butterflies flitted between petals, and shy creatures peered from the bushes—silver-furred deer, iridescent birds, even a pair of giggling fairies who vanished at the visitors' approach.

Here, Khaled and Nádia had laughed together so many times. In this glade, she'd confessed her fears, her passions, her dreams. Here, she'd once closed her eyes to listen to the forest's songs and said: "If I could choose where my heart rests, it would be here."

And now, he would honor that wish.

Weak but determined, Khaled began drawing the ritual circle with golden petals plucked along the way. Each motion was met by a whispering wind, as if the forest itself paid homage. Liandre stood silent, watching, while Kinlly—though resistant—seemed moved by the place. For the first time, his eyes held something beyond anger: longing. Pain. He realized his uncle wanted to honor his mother, and it touched him. She'd deserved more than a tomb of saltwater. Here, she would sleep for eternity.

The magic Khaled wove with such effort pulsed like an ancient heartbeat, awakening the power slumbering in the elven earth. When the last symbol ignited with golden light, the ritual circle blazed—and the transformation began.

The bones resting on the bed of leaves did not linger. First, petals sprouted around them, soft and fragrant, as if the forest wished to embrace them. Then, the bodies dissolved into golden motes, like stardust, lifting gently before being absorbed by the living soil. Flowers spiraled upward, guided by magic and memory, forming a natural tomb—not of stone, but of life.

Where Nádia and the pirate had lain, a living sanctuary arose. At its heart, a new tree grew with supernatural speed. Unlike any other in Encanthia, its trunk bore veins of silver that shimmered in the twilight, and its leaves were long, slender, shifting between pale gold and deep blue—the colors of Nádia's eyes in life, before and after magic.

Around the tree, unique flowers bloomed in rings. Their petals were thin as crystal, translucent, with a light of their own, and their scent was delicate and sweet, like the perfume Nádia once wore. Some sang faint musical notes when the wind stirred them—a whisper of her voice, of the songs she'd sung among Encanthia's willows.

Interwoven branches arched upward like unfurled wings—a silent tribute to the freedom she'd craved. Among the roots, a subtle formation of moss-covered stones emerged, and upon them, carved by the earth itself, appeared an inscription in ancient elvish:

"Where love and sorrow met, life bloomed anew. Here lie those who sought sight, even in darkness."

The sanctuary was alive. It breathed with the forest. Not a tomb in the human sense, but an eternal home. A place where Nádia's love now flourished forever. And where Khaled, at last, felt his sister was at peace.

—Thank you,— Kinlly managed, his voice thick. Tears he'd long suppressed fell freely. Seeing something so beautiful, so full of meaning, finally gave his grief an outlet.

Khaled watched him with tenderness and, for the first time in years, smiled truly.

—This was Nádia's favorite magic,— he murmured, soft as a secret. —I learned it thinking I'd never use it… But she dreamed of a splendid tree born from true love. And I made it. For her.

A brief silence, broken only by the whisper of leaves.

—And now you must go,— the mage said, steel returning to his voice.

—What?— Kinlly startled.

—A battle is coming. I won't risk my sister's last trace.— Khaled's tone brooked no argument. —If you want me in your life, seek Jean and Tilka in Casca Grossa. If not… our paths end here.

He reached toward the boy. Kinlly opened his mouth to protest, but the words died unspoken. In an instant, his body dissolved into shimmering particles, scattering like dust in the wind. Seconds later, he was back on the moldering ship—alone among the remnants of what had been and would never be again.

Khaled had no time to grieve. The heat of tears still clung to his skin; the taste of fury lingered on his tongue. A touch on his shoulder brought him back.

—You'll fight in this state?— Liandre stepped forward, steady but uneasy. His eyes tracked the fresh blood on the mage's robes.

—Yes,— Khaled replied. —We've no time. The fragment is exposed—that's all that matters now. He met the mercenary's gaze. —Don't worry. Just trust me. Understood?

He wouldn't say it aloud, but if he could, he'd have put Liandre to sleep with a gentle spell—just to keep him safe. But he needed him. His strength. His sharp mind.

—I'll protect you. Just hold on.

Liandre hesitated. His hand already gripped his sword, ready for battle. But his heart wavered.

—Wouldn't it be better… to flee?— he whispered.

Khaled shook his head. His eyes burned with a rage centuries in the making.

—No. Not this time.

Something in him had shattered. The loss of Nádia. The weight of guilt. The words left unspoken. It all burned inside him like an uncontrollable wildfire. He would run no more. Retreat no more. He would see this through—and make every responsible party pay. For her. For himself.

If the gods wanted blood, they'd have it.

But not his.

—Just follow the plan, Liandre.

Khaled drew on the power once more. Arcane energy flooded his veins, sudden and bitter. His body, though wounded, grew stronger, more resilient. Slowly, he shaped the magic he needed, ready for what was coming. And it took only moments for them to reappear.

Gilgrim, Randyr, and Laurent materialized in unison, their feet landing with purpose. Each knew their role. Each was ready to block any escape. But Khaled had no intention of fleeing. Instead, an arcane mist began to spread through the forest ahead, shrouding everything in an eerie veil. Whispering sounds, faint echoes of wildlife, filled the air—a dense, tense atmosphere.

Laurent took his place in the shadows, tracking unseen traces. Randyr stepped forward, an immovable wall. Gilgrim, ever perceptive, sought the old comrade she knew so well. They expected tricks. Hiding.

They didn't realize Khaled wasn't hiding.

He was waiting.

And this time, he would fight.

The air between them crackled with unspent magic as Gilgrim's fingers twitched toward her dagger. She knew Khaled's tells - the slight narrowing of his eyes before an illusion, the way his left pinky finger curled when preparing a counterspell. But the man standing before her now was different. The carefully constructed mask of the Silver Tongue had slipped, revealing something raw and dangerous beneath.

—You look like hell, princeling— she said, her voice rough as gravel. The nickname, once spoken with mocking affection, now carried an edge. —That wound's still weeping. You won't last three exchanges.—

Khaled didn't flinch. The blood dripping from his shoulder painted crimson patterns on the silver-veined leaves beneath his feet. When he spoke, his voice was calm as still water, but the forest itself seemed to hold its breath.

—Then it's fortunate I only need one.—

The attack came not from Khaled, but from the forest itself. Roots erupted from the ground like serpents, wrapping around Randyr's massive legs. Flowers bloomed unnaturally fast, their pollen exploding into golden clouds that sent Laurent into a fit of coughing. Only Gilgrim moved fast enough, rolling away with feline grace, her dagger already singing through the air.

Liandre intercepted it with his sword in a shower of sparks. The impact reverberated up his arms, but he held firm. This was the dance they'd rehearsed a hundred times - the warrior creating openings, the mage striking with precision. Except now Khaled wasn't weaving delicate spells from the rear. He strode forward like a storm given form, his staff leaving trails of blue fire in its wake.

Gilgrim barely dodged the first arcane bolt. The second grazed her shoulder, leaving flesh sizzling. She snarled, tasting copper - fear or blood, she couldn't tell. This wasn't the Khaled she knew. The scholar who debated magical theory over wine, who hesitated to harm even bandits. This was something else. Something that looked through her rather than at her.

—Khaled!— she shouted, not in challenge but in something perilously close to pleading. —This isn't you! The fragment's twisting your——

The words died as an invisible force clamped around her throat. Khaled's outstretched hand trembled, but not from weakness. From restraint. He could crush her windpipe with a thought. The knowledge flashed in his eyes, warring with something deeper.

—You misunderstand,— he said softly. —For once, I see perfectly clearly.—

A sound like shattering glass split the air as the wards around the sacred glade collapsed. The tree marking Nádia's resting place shuddered, its crystalline leaves chiming in distress. And from the fractured earth between them rose the reason for all this death, all this pain - a sliver of divine power no mortal was meant to touch.

It burned with cold fire, this stolen piece of a god's soul. Even Gilgrim, who had crossed continents and battled demons, had to look away from its terrible beauty. But Khaled reached for it bare-handed.

—Don't!— Liandre's warning came too late.

The moment Khaled's fingers closed around the fragment, time itself seemed to stutter. His back arched as power flooded his veins, turning them luminous beneath his skin. His scream wasn't entirely human - it held echoes of the Tree's prophecies, of Nádia's last lullaby, of centuries of carefully constructed control unraveling at once.

When he opened his eyes, they were no longer the color of twilight, but of the void between stars.

—Now,— he said, and the word vibrated with unnatural harmonics, —we end this.—

The ground heaved. The very air thickened with magic gone wild. And as the last defenders of the old order prepared their final stand, Khaled did something none of them expected.

He smiled.

Not the polished smile of court, nor the bitter smirk of the betrayed. But the terrifying, joyous smile of a man who has nothing left to lose, and all the power in the world to burn.