Lying broken and blood-soaked upon the ground, his life bleeding into the soil beneath him, Liam's vision was hazy—flickering and fading like a dying flame—but even in that state, his eyes found Mabel. Only her.
It was the second time he'd seen her face—really seen it. The first was during their initial sparring match, a blur of fists, movement, and tension. And now... here, at the edge of death, her face stood out like a fading portrait in his mind. Simple, elegant and unforgettable.
Even now, as blood painted her skin and her body hung limp against the twisting root that impaled her, she looked graceful. How the hell could someone look that good while dying? How could anyone still carry such quiet beauty when the light was draining from their hazel-brown eyes?
Something in him cracked.
Emotions surged—wild, feral and consuming.
Sadness, hatred, sorrow, and guilt. But above them all, there was something darker. Resentment. Raw and poisonous. The kind that simmers deep in the marrow, waiting for a reason to erupt.
His fingers twitched in the puddle of his own blood. Every nerve screamed in protest, but he tried to rise anyway. The massive root lodged in his stomach made that nearly impossible. It had missed his lungs and heart, barely dodged his ribs, but had torn through his stomach, diaphragm, and grazed the lower spine. The sheer girth of it guaranteed the bleeding wouldn't stop.
And still, despite the agony, Liam's crimson eyes—dull and glossed with pain—burned with a lethal promise. A silent vow. He would kill them. All of them. No matter what.
Then his strength began to falter as the world darkened. His vision tunneled, and consciousness slipped away.
In the void, there was silence.
No light. No ground. Just an endless abyss stretching in every direction, swallowing even the notion of space. Liam floated there—weightless, motionless, emotionless.
He asked himself a single question:
How did he fail again?
How did he manage to let someone he cared for fall before his eyes?
He knew Mabel was a 7-star, and he was just a 5. Knew they'd barely scratched the surface of knowing each other. Yet, for reasons he couldn't put into words, he cared. Deeply. Enough that her suffering carved holes into his soul. And worse still, he didn't even fully understand what he felt for her. Not yet.
But he knew this: she mattered.
She mattered the same way the Silverharts mattered. That alone was enough for him to let his guard down around her. Enough to see her as more than a fighter. Enough to make him feel.
Drifting, numb, he felt a familiar emptiness creeping back. A sensation he'd buried long ago.
When his grandfather died, Liam had been only ten. He'd cradled the old man's fading body, stained in blood, watching life drain from the one person who never gave up on him. That day shattered something inside.
Then came the forest. The darkness. Draven. His mentor taught him how to kill, how to survive, and how to bury emotion beneath layers of icy detachment. Liam wore that mask for years and it got him through. Helped him conquer the forest and return to a world he barely recognized.
Then came the Silverharts.
A family that didn't hesitate to welcome him. Basically and adopt him. And love him.
They didn't ask for anything in return. They just accepted him. And for the first time in years, he started to feel like himself again—piece by piece.
He never showed it. Not the full extent. But deep down, he loved them.
And then came the Academy. Friendships he never thought he'd make. Bonds that slowly chipped away at the emptiness inside him. Bit by bit, the darkness shrank.
Now it was back. Cold, hollow, and starving.
He felt stupid. Some might call him pathetic—falling this hard for someone he only started opening up to five days ago. But that didn't change what he felt. Didn't dull the ache in his chest.
Still drifting in the void, something suddenly pierced the silence.
He was confused because that wasn't his heartbeat. But he focused, trying to find the source.
He tried to search the endless black, but before he could move, the darkness shattered like glass—and light swallowed him whole.
Back in Sylvathar's sanctuary.
The illusion of paradise greeted him once more. The false serenity of lush green, of paradise rooted in violence. Towering roots twisted like serpents through the earth, pulsing with that otherworldly glow.
He stood still, somehow aware but not truly there. As if he were a ghost watching through a veil.
His eyes darted around.
Far in the distance, the cocoon of vines still held Sheila, motionless and untouched.
Morenelle stood engaged in combat with Nyxie—not that it could truly be called a battle. The Nyxarion was doing her best, but Morenelle overwhelmed her with brutal ease. Even with Nyxie's regeneration, she was being punished relentlessly.
And then… he saw her.
Still pinned and still unmoving.
And that heartbeat—that heartbeat—was coming from her.
Liam realized, in that surreal space between life and death…
He was hearing Mabel's heart.
Staring at her with an expression twisted in disbelief, Liam's brows furrowed.
Mabel was still alive.
He took a step forward, almost in a daze—but his foot hit something solid. No, not something... someone.
He looked down slowly.
It was himself—his real body—lying bloodied and broken in the dirt. A twisted reflection of agony and defeat. His eyes were barely open, glossed over with death's touch, yet they still burned with one thing:
Even in that fragile, dying state... the hatred lingered.
Liam's gaze drifted from the bleeding corpse back to his own hands—translucent, colorless. He was naked, but not in body. In essence. Like a whisper in the wind, formless but feeling. Every breath of this strange space carried weight. Cold weight.
He still couldn't save her.
Mabel was hanging by threads, and he was just a ghost watching.
The flicker of hope didn't just dim from his eyes—it vanished. In its place, a cold, glassy glare took root. Detached and inhuman. A spark of darkness now shimmered in his eyes as they locked onto one thing.
Liam didn't see Mabel anymore. Or himself. Or the pain.
That was the only thing his mind could process now. It was all that mattered.
And as that thirst brewed in silence, a voice slithered through his mind like smoke curling into a sealed room.
A familiar and mocking voice.
"Seeing as we both don't like her, why don't we make a deal?"
Liam's head snapped around, eyes scanning the empty void. There was no one there—but he knew who it was.
"Aesmirius..." he said, the name falling from his lips like a blade being drawn.
A low chuckle echoed. "Yes. It's me."
"I see your pain, Liam. I feel it. And more than that, I understand it. You want revenge, and I can give it to you. I can even go a step further..." His voice turned soft, seductive. "I can save Mabel's life."
Liam's jaw clenched. His eyes widened, if only a little. There was desperation in him—undeniable—but he didn't move hastily.
"Why should I trust you?" he said, steadying himself. "Last time we talked, you threatened to kill me. Wanted nothing to do with me. So what's changed?"
Aesmirius sighed, a theatrical, exaggerated breath. "Ah, yes... that. Look, kid, that was then. I knew almost nothing about you. You were just another walking shell I didn't care to bother with. But now? I see your value. And I see what you could be... to me."
His tone grew urgent. "Time's not exactly on our side, Liam. So here's the offer: Let me out and take control. I'll save her—both of them, even the princess rotting in that vine prison. And I'll kill that wretched bitch who did this to us. And then the useless worm himself... Sylvathar."
His voice turned ice cold. "I'll end him too."
The deal hung in the air like a sword over his head. The weight of choice felt almost heavier than anything he'd carried before.
Yes, he wanted Mabel saved. More than anything right now. And Sheila... she wasn't his responsibility, but she deserved better than what she got.
But something in Aesmirius's words caught his ear.
"To us?" Liam asked, narrowing his eyes. "What's she done to you?"
"What else?" Aesmirius replied, as if it were obvious. "She hurt Mabel."
Liam's eyes narrowed further.
"You think this is just about your naive and uncertain little crush? Please. My reasons may differ, but I need her alive just as much as you do."
There was something unsettling about the way he said that. Possessive. Not of Mabel... but of purpose.
Liam tilted his head, saying nothing.
Aesmirius pressed. "So? Do you want this or not?"
Liam exhaled, lifting his eyes like he could pierce through the air and look right at the devil tempting him.
"...What do you want in return?"
And at that, Aesmirius laughed softly—amused and pleased.
"Oh, that's simple. You see..."
Back in the waking world, scarcely a minute had ticked by since Mabel's body went limp—presumed lifeless—and now Morenelle stood triumphant, pressing her heel into Nyxie's neck as thorned roots coiled tightly around the young Nyxarion's throat. The dragoness thrashed against the vines, her claws tearing into the earth, but it was no use.
Her roar echoed—but it was hollow. Strangled and dying.
Morenelle leaned down with a smile far too wide to be sane. "I've always despised dragons," she said, her voice a venomous purr. "Watching one squirm in agony…? Brings me bliss."
She rose again, lazily lifting her hand as more roots coiled together into a jagged lance of bark and bone. "Just as worthless as I imagined," she hissed, aiming it directly for Nyxie's heart.
Nyxie knew. That was it. There was no breaking free this time.
But before the final strike, her gaze—wild and glowing—turned sideways, drawn to a figure sprawled a few paces away.
His body lay twisted, soaked in blood, motionless. But it wasn't the stillness that caught her. It was the guilt—her guilt—twisting in her chest. She had failed him. Her duty. Her bond. Everything.
She couldn't speak, but if her heart could form words, they'd scream one thing:
As her bright blue eyes locked onto his, something changed.
In the quiet between heartbeats, she saw it—barely noticeable, like a glitch in time.
Liam's eyes, once glassy and unfocused, flickered.
The air around them thickened instantly, as if the sanctuary itself sensed something had shifted. The roots trembled, the wind stilled, and the entire atmosphere changed.