And then I unleash myself upon the world around me.
The force tears apart and remakes in a blinding wave—holy, absolute, annihilating only to create. Light floods the valley, brighter than flame, louder than thunder, erasing sound as it crashes into Dagda’s unraveling essence.
His rage meets me head-on.
His refusal.
His fury.
And it breaks. He breaks.
Dagda does not simply fall—he collapses inward, like a great divine abyss has sucked him into the ether, his presence consumed from one thought to the next. There is no time for mercy. Only finality as his time in this world comes to an abrupt end.
And still, the power does not stop.
I turn it. Wield it to rise above desolation and serve a far greater purpose.
I open my hands and guide the force outward again, reshaping it, rethreading it through the land. Life surges from me in waves, rushing into the wounded earth like rain after centuries of drought.
Charred trees shudder as life fills them. With this renewal, bark knits, branches extend, split, and bloom with dense clusters of healthy leaves. Roots reweave and grow beneath my feet, drinking deeply as green erupts where ash still falls. Grass unfurls in rippling sheets. Flowers tear through scorched soil in bursts of color and breath.
The forest inhales, and as it breathes out, expanding over more ground, as if to reclaim what was once taken.
The wind answers my call—and forms a tempest. It races outward, lifting debris, mending stone, rebuilding what fire took. Walls straighten. Roof beams slide back into place as if guided by unseen hands. Shattered glass reforms. The house pulls itself together around its heart.
Her sanctuary restores itself.
The garden answers last. It reawakens with fervor. Vines snap back onto trellises. Soil darkens, rich and fertile. Leaves uncurl, heavy with promise. Every seed she ever placed into the earth reaches for the power pouring from me.
Then my knees hit the ground.
The light recedes, narrows.
It funnels back to me and buries itself beneath my skin.
Eridessa lies motionless beside me, her body broken and burned, her life flickering so faintly it nearly escapes my grasp. Panic claws at my chest, sharp and sudden, but I force it down. I gather what remains of the power—what I can still control—and feed it into her slowly, deliberately.
Carefully.
Life flows from me into her. Moments pass like lifetimes. A desperate hope falls like a prayer from my lips.
“Come back, Eliora. Come back to me.”
I die a thousand deaths as I wait for a sign that she’ll stay.
“Please, love.”
Then, finally, her skin warms beneath my hands. Her breathing shifts and deepens. Color returns to her cheeks. The burned flesh recedes, as though time itself rewinds, drawn backward by will and devotion. A soft glow rises beneath her skin, mirroring my own.
The next prayer is one of gratitude to my maker. Because fate has been merciful and she still lives.
She is whole now. Remade. Alive.
The relief at the thought nearly crushes me.
I lift her gently and cautiously, as though the world itself might shatter if I move too fast. She weighs nothing in my arms. I press my lips to her forehead again, overwhelmed by the emotion her return has brought.
I carry her inside, promising as I do that harm like this will never come to her again. And if she ever leaves this world, I will demand that God take me with her.
