Javier took a deep breath, forcing his mind to steady. The roaring inferno raged around them, the heat licking at his skin, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and flesh. Irene had chosen death, and in doing so, had unleashed devastation. But he would not allow himself to be killed that easily.
His father had taught him two ways to counter a sacrificial spell—bind the curse, then neutralize it. He had no time to hesitate.
Javier pressed his burnt palm to the ground, drawing upon Gaia—mother of nature herself.
"Dřâthën vëräth, näl thirîn vënâ.
Dřälîth vërä, näl šhërä Välën—
Möräth Šëlvën: Gaiäth Vënäl!"
(Translation:
"Chained be the wrath, caged be my sin.
A curse upon me, yet locked within.
When my death is certain, herself she reveals—
Primal Genesis: Gaia's Seal!")
The earth trembled in response, cracks splitting the ground beneath them as unseen forces worked to restrain the flames. The intensity of the fire dulled, its rampage slowed, but it did not disappear. It still burned. It still devoured.
Javier clenched his fists. It wasn't enough. Binding the curse was only the first step. Now, he had to neutralize it completely, that was the difficult part.
And for that—he had to sacrifice something.
One of his five senses.
But the cruellest part? Gaia would choose.
He had no say in what he would lose.
Javier exhaled sharply, pushing aside his fear. He had no other choice. He had to act—now.
Lifting his charred hand once more, he called out the final incantation.
"Elyën näl dräv, näl śhërä thirën,
Näl Äshë, näl väshë, řälëv nälïn.
Sën näl vërä, řälë näl śhër,
Thëräl řäv, näl řäshü, näl šhërä.
Lórįš rævéth řävë, näl šhenath řävën—
Möräth Šëlvën: Ëklîpsë Növär!"
(Meaning:
"Light may fail, and sound may cease,
But neither fire nor fate can bend my knees.
I give my sight, my voice, my pain,
Yet stand untouched, unscarred, untamed.
The flame burns strong, but my will is stronger—
Primal Genesis: Eclipse Nova!")
The words had barely left his lips when darkness swallowed his world.
Javier staggered back, his breath catching in his throat. His sight—gone.
The inferno screamed in defiance before suddenly imploding, collapsing upon itself like a dying star. The flames, once furious and wild, faded into nothing. The spell was broken. But at a cost.
Javier couldn't see.
His body trembled, his burnt wrists aching. He tried to heal himself, but the damage was too severe. His vision refused to return. The price had been paid.
A tense silence fell over the battlefield. The soldiers stared at their captain, unsure of what to do. Irene was gone. The fire was gone. But at what cost?
Time passed—an eternity in the dark.
And then, four hours later, light returned.
Javier blinked, vision hazy at first before sharpening. He let out a slow breath, realization hitting him like a hammer.
Irene never intended to kill them.
If she had, the sacrifice required to break the spell would have been far greater. A lifetime of blindness, or perhaps something even worse. Instead, it had only taken four hours.
She had held back. Even at the brink of death, she had spared them.
Javier ran a hand down his face, his fingers trembling. What if her abilities hadn't been sealed?
A cold sweat dripped down his back.
If Irene had been at full strength, none of them would be alive.
His vision was blurry at first, but as he stood before Lord Draven—the very man responsible for his father's lost arm—it sharpened to perfect clarity.
"Majesty is under my protection now," Lord Draven said, his voice steady, absolute. "If you want her, go back and tell Nyxelene to come herself." It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.
The weight of his presence settled over them like an unseen force. Even Javier, who had heard countless stories about Lord Draven, couldn't help but feel it. The man didn't just command authority—he was authority.
"Can you believe the mouth on that guy? Mentioning the Queen's name so casually, like he—"
The soldier speaking cut himself off mid-sentence, swallowing hard as Draven turned his gaze toward him. His steps were slow, deliberate. Everyone knew what was coming, but no one dared to speak.
The moment he drew closer, three of the five soldiers dropped to their knees, unable to withstand the sheer pressure of being in his presence.
Then—he stopped.
Javier's hands were already on his daggers, his grip firm but not reckless. Draven's eyes flicked toward them, his interest piqued.
"Oh… those daggers," he said, his tone shifting slightly. "Where did you get them?"
Javier hesitated. He had been warned about this man, told countless times by his father what to do if they ever crossed paths.
"If you ever face him, words might serve you better than your daggers."
"My father gave them to me," Javier finally answered. "On my seventeenth birthday."
Draven exhaled through his nose, studying him for a long moment before giving a knowing nod.
"I see," he mused. "You must be Orin's son."
Someone his father couldn't defeat—Javier knew all too well that he wouldn't stand a chance either.
After barely surviving Irene's Judgment by Fire, he had originally planned to return to Runevale after a few days of searching. But to think he would actually find her—and with the King of Persia, no less. His body was battered, his burns still raw, and his men were in even worse condition. Fighting now was out of the question. He finally made up his mind. They would return to Runevale.
Javier stepped forward, his gaze steady despite the dull pain in his wrist. "It's true that Persia and Runevale are not on good terms. But if you choose to protect the girl, you'll forever be on the queen's bad side." His voice carried no threat, only fact.
Lord Draven, composed as ever, regarded him with a calm, calculating look before speaking.
"Tell me, what crime has she committed for Nyxelene to want her dead?" His tone was steady, yet laced with something unyielding. "This is unbecoming of someone who claims to be Orin's son—chasing down a harmless girl as though she were a fugitive."
Javier clenched his jaw but said nothing. His fingers flexed around the hilt of his dagger before he finally responded.
"Very well. If you insist on protecting her, then there is nothing I can do but inform the queen of this sudden development." With that, he turned, his men falling in line behind him, battered and exhausted.
"Lord Draven, should we really let them leave just like that?" Starlion asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his long sword, tension still lingering in his posture.
Draven didn't even glance at him. "Let them go. He is Orin's son, after all."
Javier paused before stepping into the shadows, turning his head slightly.
"Remember, Majesty," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Lady Nyxelene always gets what she wants. Sooner or later, she will have your life."
I inhaled sharply. My fingers curled slightly to steady myself, but I lifted her chin. Fear flickered in my eyes, but there was something else too—determination.
"Not this time," Lord Draven said smoothly. His deep voice carried easily through the air, unwavering, absolute. "Because what she wants is in the hands of the King of Persia."
His piercing gaze rested on Javier for a moment before he turned his back to him, his cloak shifting with the movement. Even in stillness, Draven commanded presence—a quiet storm waiting to break.
Javier didn't linger. Without another word, he and his men disappeared into the night.