It had been a few days since the calamity at Hollowmere, since the miracle was torn in half and cast to the winds.
The river had been their salvation and their punishment—a cold, unrelenting torrent that spared their lives only to spit them out on a forgotten shore beneath a slate-colored sky. Alistair had awoken first, half-drowned and shivering, clutching onto Maria's broken form as though she were the last remnant of sanity in a world unraveling.
He remembered the drag—the agonizing, slow pull of her weight against the muddy riverbank. His arms and legs failed him more than once, but he didn't stop until they were beneath the withered canopy of dying trees. Somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere he could think.
But nothing could prepare him for what he saw.
Her arm. Gone.
No blood anymore, just torn cloth and bandages soaked in the memory of it. He'd done everything he could—burnt the wound , wrapped it in cloth, prayed .
"What a terrible wound..." His voice was hoarse with guilt. He couldn't look directly at it. He had stood between her and Morgana, yes—but in that final instant, in that impossible moment between the world and whatever was beyond it… something else had reached through. The beast.
It had not merely lashed out—it had touched the miracle itself. Corrupted it. Bitten through divinity. That was the thought that refused to leave him.
That thing had pierced reality.
It had stolen her arm as if to mark her, to leave a parting gift no man or magic could undo.
The forest they dwelled in now was unlike any Alistair had ever set foot in. Not that he'd traveled far in his short life—but this place... this place was old. Not in years, but in memory. The kind of age that clung to the bones of the earth and hummed in the wind. The kind of forest where ancients once walked and left their breath behind in the leaves.
And it watched them.
Not with malice, not like the shadows of Hollowmere or the beasts that stirred beneath the moon—but with something older. Something curious. Measured.
Alistair had kept the fire burning, but it was never truly his fire. The wood never ran out. The flames danced blue some nights. And once, he could've sworn they whispered in a tongue that made his spine ache. He wasn't sure if it was the fever or the forest.
Then came the lights.
Tiny, flickering things at first—dancing at the edges of his vision like falling stars caught in the branches. But they grew bolder with each passing hour, circling Maria's unconscious body like mourners… or guardians.
And when the third night fell and Maria stirred, they revealed themselves fully.
Creatures no taller than a man's thumb, with translucent wings that shimmered like dew under moonlight. Their forms were lit from within, pulsing with a soft golden hue, as though they carried the last warmth of summer in their chests. Some bore specks of green, others silver or pale blue. Their eyes—if you could call them that—were knowing and far too ancient for something so small.
Alistair stared, awestruck and wary. He'd heard of them, in tales spun by firelight and softened by his grandmother's crumbling voice.
"Fou...? Fex...?" he muttered, brow furrowed, reaching for the half-forgotten names like a drowning man for driftwood. "Fair… fairy?"
One of the winged creatures tilted its head, as if amused. Another buzzed around him, dragging a scent of wildflowers and pine through the damp air.
Fairies.
Not the gentle sprites of nursery tales. These ones had presence. They watched him like judges. And still… they hadn't harmed him. They had tended Maria's wounds in silence, placing moss and woven leaves soaked in glowing sap. They had sung songs—soft and wordless—that lulled the fever in her bones.
Alistair dropped to his knees, overwhelmed. "Thank you…" he whispered to no one and all of them at once.
The fairies didn't answer—not with words. But the wind shifted. The fire flared a shade brighter. And somewhere above, high in the branches, an unseen voice whispered.
A few more days passed. Maria was finally on her feet—worn, pale, wrapped in barkwoven cloth and moss-bandages, but alive.
"Well, things could've been worse… I guess?" she laughed, light and dry, as she flexed the empty air where her left arm used to be. It should've been a mournful sight—this knight of the church, noble and unyielding, now wounded beyond all recovery. But she carried it with a strange levity, as if she felt reliefed and free of something.
Alistair, however, couldn't lift his gaze. His hands were clenched, knuckles pale, eyes glassed with tears he refused to shed.
"I'm sorry," he finally said. Just above a whisper.
Maria tilted her head, lips quirking. "It couldn't be helped. The least we survived."
Then she stepped closer.
Her gaze sharpened, studying him not as the boy she'd dragged through divine fire, but as something else. A flicker of thought passed through her eyes—dangerous, determined.
She leaned in, inspecting his face, like one might assess a weapon just pulled from the forge. "Yes. Definitely… that might work."
Alistair blinked. "Wha—?"
"You'll make it up to me," she said, voice calm but cutting. "By stopping her. It might be possible now, considering the bond you share."
"I will take my leave," Alistair said at the same time, his voice rising with firm resolve. "I will find Morgana."
Her name hung in the air like an old wound reopened.
That was it, then. The real wound. The source of his shame. Not just Maria's injury. Not just the miracle gone awry. But the very thought of leaving Maria Behind and going on his own path.
Maria's face darkened—only slightly—but her eyes softened.
"I figured as much," she said. "She won't stop, Alistair. You saw what she summoned—what leaked through her. That thing wasn't born of this world. If she loses herself to it, there won't be a second miracle."
"I know," he said, his voice strained but steady. "But I have to try. There's still… something of her left."
"Maybe," Maria replied. "Or maybe she's already gone, and all you'll find is what's wearing her skin."
Alistair said nothing.
The fairies flitted silently around them, dimming their glow, as if in mourning of what must come.
The forest listened closely to their exchange, the wind rustling through ancient leaves like a whisper of judgment.
"Aaargh!" Alistair cried out as Maria unceremoniously kicked him to the ground.
"Oh yes," she huffed, brushing dust from her tunic with one hand, "almost forgot the most important part." She raised both arms to clap—then paused, eyes flicking to the absence where her left arm once was. A twitch, a grimace, but she powered through, like a knight marching through a field of ghosts.
"Go? Go where?" she snapped, voice sharp enough to slice through bark. "Was that empty head of yours knocked loose in the river? Damaged even more? Are we seriously doing this right now?!"
Alistair blinked up from the ground, startled, only to yelp as Maria planted her boot squarely on his chest with all the grace of a woman who'd run out of patience three worlds ago.
"Look at this!" she bellowed, yanking her cloak aside and rolling her shoulder in sharp, jerking circles—the severed arm twitching with invisible pain. "Do you see this?! No? Of course you don't! BECAUSE THE DAMNED BEAST ATE IT! And you—you absolute troll-brain—you want to run off into the forest? On your own?! What, exactly, do you plan to do, huh? Charm the trees? Ask the rain for directions? You'd be dead before you even picked a direction!"
"Nngh," Alistair groaned under the weight of her fury and her foot.
"I should've pierced your heart the moment you opened your mouth!" she snarled, applying more pressure, eyes ablaze. "Would've saved me the trouble and maybe—just maybe—I'd still have my bloody arm!"
With a dramatic sigh and an equally dramatic kick, she sent him rolling away. Spinning on her heel, she stormed a few paces forward—then pivoted and pointed at him like he was a roach that owed her rent.
"You are going to be my missing arm until we make it back to Calendor. Understand? My arm! You fetch, you carry, you stab what I tell you to stab. You so much as blink without permission and I'll knock the rest of your thoughts clean out of that hollow skull!"
Alistair winced, coughing. "No... I need to get back to Morgana—"
"*Good. Good. G—*Huh?! HUHHHH?!" Her voice pitched higher with each syllable, like a kettle about to burst. "Did you even listen to what I just said?! Were the words too complicated?! Or do you need me to draw you a picture in blood?!"
She marched over, fuming, drawing back her fist with the clear and present intention of punching some divine sense into him. But just before impact—pause.
Her eyes narrowed. Something shifted behind them.
"Wait a minute…" she muttered, staring straight into his eyes. "Those aren't the eyes of some lost idiot floundering in a foreign land. You know something. Don't you? Could it be… you actually have a way of finding her?"
A second passed.
"...Or maybe you really are just that bold and stupid."
And with that, the punch landed. Not hard enough to break bone—but definitely enough to shake loose a few regrets.
She turned without another word.
"That's gotta beat some sense into you for now. Until then—stop using that pea-brained head of yours. Don't think. Just follow orders. You've already caused more trouble than most men do in a lifetime—and we're only getting started."
She stormed off into the underbrush like a thundercloud in boots, the fairies flitting behind her like sparks thrown from a forge.
Alistair lay in the dirt, groaning, eyes wide with disbelief.
But before he could gather the strength to rise, Maria's boots crunched back through the leaves. She stopped beside him, hands on hips, expression... conflicted.
"Ah…" she mumbled, voice lower now, as if the rage had been temporarily rebooted. "Yes. Actually, I—I have no idea where we are."
She gave him a sheepish grin, the kind that tried and failed to look innocent. "I just woke up after all."
She fidgeted a little, brushed some moss off her cloak, then forced a brightness into her voice. "Do you... mind showing me around?"
Alistair stared up at her, utterly bewildered.
"…Is this what divine punishment feels like?" he croaked, rubbing his bruised ribs.
Maria folded her arms, sniffed, and poufed dramatically—shoulders rising, lips pursing, chin tilted just slightly too high. "Now now, let bygones be gone. Life's too short for grudges, you know."
It might've sounded convincing… if not for the way her remaining fist clenched like it was imagining his skull as a stress ball.
From the trees, laughter echoed—tiny, high-pitched, and unmistakably mischievous.