Darkness.

Not the gentle kind that exists behind closed eyelids, nor the quiet hush that comes with nightfall.

This was suffocating — a void so absolute it felt alive, pressing against skin, crawling under fingernails, swallowing breath, swallowing warmth.

In the middle of that endless black…

a tiny shape trembled.

A little girl, no older than seven, sat curled into herself — arms wrapped tight around her legs, chin buried against her knees. Her hair, impossibly pale and soft as winter snow, was the only thing in this lightless world that glowed — a faint, fragile halo of white in a sea of nothing.

Her eyelashes fluttered.

Her small fingers twitched.

Then — slowly — she lifted her head.

Wide amethyst eyes blinked into the void, and the moment she realized she wasn't home, wasn't anywhere she knew, her breath hitched sharply in her throat. Her tiny hands clutched each other, knuckles whitening with fear.

"W-Where… am I…?"

Her voice cracked — thin, trembling — dissolving instantly into the darkness, as if swallowed.

She forced herself to stand — legs unsteady, toes curling against a floor she couldn't see but somehow felt. Her chest rose and fell quickly, frost condensing faintly with each shivering breath.

She hugged herself tighter, and in a voice barely above a whimper, she called out:

"Mama…?"

Silence.

"M-Mama… where are you?"

Her feet took a tiny step. Then another.

Darkness shifted around her, like a living thing drawing closer.

Her voice strained, desperate, fragile.

"Dada…?"

"Dada, where are you?"

Nothing answered.

Her tiny frame shook violently, and tears slipped down her cheeks — disappearing before they hit the unseen ground. She swallowed hard, breath trembling.

"Mama! Dada! Please—answer me!"

But the void only grew colder.

Then —

A sound.

Not loud. Not clear. More like an echo slipping through a crack in reality.

Two voices — muffled, distant — arguing.

The girl froze.

Her head snapped toward the only corner of darkness where something was changing.

A faint glow began to bloom.

A soft, silver-gray light pushed back the void just enough for two figures to come into view — like silhouettes rising from a deep ocean.

The little girl's breath caught.

"M-Mama…?" she whispered.

The woman standing in the faint light had long, flowing hair — the same soft white as the girl's. A veil draped over her shoulders, swaying as she gestured sharply. Her voice trembled — with anger, with fear, with heartbreak.

The girl took a step forward, eyes wide with recognition, hope breaking through panic.

"Mama…!"

But the woman didn't hear her.

Her voice rose — clearer now, tinged with desperation.

"Is this… really what you have to do…? After everything?"

Facing her stood a broad-shouldered man with dark hair — tall, imposing, yet visibly exhausted. His voice cracked with frustration.

"Yes."

His fists clenched.

"Can't you understand me?"

The woman shook her head violently, tears slipping beneath her veil.

"I will never support you!"

Her voice broke — loud, raw, shattered.

The man's expression twisted — not with sadness, but something colder. He let out a brief, bitter chuckle.

"I don't need you."

The girl's eyes widened — breath catching in her throat.

"Mama…? Dada…? Please stop… please…"

The woman's knees buckled — her body collapsing as though the strength had been ripped from her bones. She fell to the floor with a soft thud, shoulders trembling, fingers clawing desperately into her veil.

The man turned away.

Cold.

Final.

Not looking back even once.

He began to walk — each step echoing like chains dragging across stone.

The little girl's heart fractured.

Tears poured freely now, her tiny frame shaking uncontrollably.

"No… no…"

She took a step.

Then another.

Then she ran.

Her small feet slapped against nothingness, her voice breaking into screams.

"DADA!! DADA, WAIT!"

Her hands reached out desperately toward his fading figure.

"Please don't go!"

He didn't turn.

"DON'T GO! Please… please don't go!"

She choked on sobs, breath coming in painful gasps.

"Stay with me! Stay with me!"

Her voice shredded into agony.

"Father!!!"

Her screams echoed through the void, swallowed by the endless dark —

her pleas trembling like a dying star, unheard, unanswered.

"Why…?"

Her tiny knees hit the ground.

"Why do you have to go…?"

Her little voice cracked one final time.

"Why do you have to leave me…?"

And in that darkness —

The only sound was a child's heart breaking.

***

The infirmary room was quiet—too quiet. The kind of stillness that felt heavy, like a blanket suffocating the air itself. Even the mana lamps lining the walls seemed to dim their light, as if respecting the frailty of the girl lying unconscious on the bed.

Selena lay there like a fallen snowflake—still, pale, untouched by movement. Soft bandages wrapped her wrists and forearms where the mana backlash had seared her skin. Her hair—normally pristine and sharp with cold brilliance—now spread across the pillow in gentle disarray, strands tangled like frost caught in a storm. The faint rise and fall of her chest was the only sign that she was still breathing.

Luca stood closest to her, hands resting lightly on the railing of the bed. His eyes were shadowed—worry seeping through the cracks of the composure he always kept. Lilliane hovered beside him, her delicate fingers twisting nervously with her sleeves, her gaze flickering from Selena's face to her own trembling hands. Sylthara remained on the opposite side, arms crossed, ears twitching stiffly on her head—her feline eyes sharp but troubled, as if she were sensing danger she couldn't quite name.

The door creaked open.

Elder Huldor stepped inside, his heavy boots landing with dull thuds that broke the fragile silence. The smell of forge-smoke clung to him, yet his expression softened the moment his eyes fell on Selena.

"How is the girl now?" his deep voice asked, rough but not unkind.

Luca turned, straightening instinctively in respect. "She is stable for now," he answered, though the uncertainty in his voice was unmistakable.

Huldor moved closer, the runes on his cloak giving off a faint, reassuring glow as he examined her from a short distance. His weathered face remained unreadable, but the slight tightening of his jaw said enough—he had expected this to be worse.

He nodded once, gravely.

Luca hesitated.

Then, unable to restrain himself, he spoke.

"Elder… may I ask something?"

Huldor gave him a brief side glance—assessing, weighing—before he inclined his head.

"You may."

"What… exactly caused her mana dissociation?" Luca asked, the words low, almost brittle. "She never loses control. Not like this."

The dwarf elder exhaled slowly, rubbing a thumb along the braided end of his beard. He turned his gaze back toward Selena, and for a moment his stern features softened with something akin to pity.

"There can be many reasons," he began, voice deep, resonant. "But the most common—and the most dangerous—comes when someone forces themselves to suppress their emotions for too long."

His eyes flicked to Luca.

"If a person keeps everything locked inside… jams every feeling, every ache, every grief into silence… then the moment even one thread snaps—those emotions surge all at once. It overwhelms their mana, their body, and their mind."

Luca's breath stilled.

Huldor went on, expression darkening.

"As for what may have triggered it…"

He paused.

His gaze lingered on Selena's unconscious face, and something hardened in his eyes—understanding, regret, maybe even anger.

But he didn't finish the sentence.

Instead, he simply shook his head, turned away, and strode toward the door.

"Let her rest," he said quietly. "It is all you can do for now."

And he left.

The silence that followed felt heavier, colder.

Luca stared at Selena for a long moment, his mind racing. Then his expression sharpened—something clicking in place.

He looked at Sylthara and Lilliane.

"Stay with her," he said quietly, his voice suddenly firm. "I'll be back soon."

They nodded immediately, sensing the urgency in him. Luca didn't wait. He spun on his heel and strode out of the room, boots echoing down the corridor as he disappeared.

---

His room was dim.

He pushed the door open with more force than necessary, breath tight, heartbeat louder than usual. His hands trembled—barely, but enough that he felt it—as he reached into his storage ring and pulled out a communication crystal.

For a moment he just stood there—staring at the faintly glowing surface.

Then he exhaled.

And activated it.

Light flickered.

A soft hum filled the room.

And then—her image formed.

A woman with long, flowing white hair—hair identical to Selena's—and a delicate veil draped over the lower half of her face. Her posture was elegant, her presence serene and powerful.

The Tower Master.

Luca immediately bowed.

"Greetings, Master."

Her eyes softened in amusement, a small smile forming beneath the veil.

"How are you, my disciple?"

Luca didn't answer.

He straightened slowly, gathering breath as though preparing to plunge into icy water.

"Master… there is something I need to tell you."

Her smile faded.

Her posture shifted—straightening, sharpening—as she sensed the gravity in his tone. The warmth drained from her eyes, replaced with razor focus.

"Go on."

Luca swallowed, then forced himself to speak steadily.

"We are in the dwarven lands… challenging the Forgeheart Crucible. Yesterday, Kyle and Aurelia…" He shook his head—it wasn't important right now. "Today, during her turn—Selena…"

The Tower Master's face froze.

Luca continued, voice tightening.

"She suffered mana dissociation."

It was like watching ice shatter.

Her composure broke in an instant—her eyes widening, breath hitching sharply behind the veil. Her hand—not trembling, but moving too fast—reached out toward something outside the frame.

And then—

the call cut. Abruptly.

The crystal dimmed.

Luca stared at his reflection in the now-dark surface, stunned.

"Master…?" he whispered.

She had never… ever done that before.

Was she angry? Shocked? Terrified?

The uncertainty twisted in his chest like a knife.

He exhaled, low and disappointed, rubbing his forehead.

Maybe she's busy… maybe something urgent happened…

Still, he shook his head and left the room. He had no time to dwell on uncertainty.

Selena needed him.

The moment he turned the final corner, chaos greeted him.

Reporters—dozens of them—clustered outside Selena's room, their quills scratching rapidly, magical recording tools flashing. They pushed against the guards, shouting over each other.

"Is the Weiss heiress injured?!"

"Was that magical outburst intentional?!"

"Has another human failed the trial—?"

"Move aside—!"

Luca's jaw clenched. A headache pulsed behind his eyes.

He stepped forward, palms raised in a forced semblance of politeness.

"Please. Do not disturb her. She is resting. The trials are not—"

Two reporters shoved closer, quills already reaching.

"Can you confirm if she lost control of her elements—?"

"Is she conscious? Is she—?"

That was it.

Luca's patience snapped.

He grabbed the door handle—

—and slammed it shut with a force that rattled the wooden frame and sent several reporters stumbling backward.

Silence fell for a heartbeat.

Inside the room, Luca leaned against the door, eyes closing briefly as he let out a frustrated breath.

He opened them again…

and walked toward Selena's bedside.

His mind a storm of questions—

but above all else:

Selena… what on earth are you going through alone?

Hours slipped by without anyone noticing.

Time inside the dim infirmary moved strangely—slow, syrup-thick, but unbearably fragile. Outside, the sun had shifted from its high perch into a gentle orange slant, painting the stone walls with tired warmth… but inside, nothing changed.

Selena didn't stir.

Not once.

The healers had come and gone, their footsteps hushed, their movements delicate as if afraid a single loud breath might disturb the precarious threads holding her together. A dwarven runner delivered a message from the Elders—quiet, respectful, almost apologetic:

"The trials will be cancelled for today. Further proceedings will resume tomorrow."

No one argued. Not even Sylthara, who always had something dry and sharp to say. Not even Lilliane, who usually tried to smile even in the darkest moments.

The three of them stayed where they were—anchored to the unconscious girl lying between them.

The only sounds were the soft hum of mana crystals and the rhythmic rise and fall of Selena's chest, thin as spider-silk, fragile as frost on a window. Lilliane sat on a chair now, elbows on her knees, fingers interlocked tightly as though she were praying—though she couldn't form the words. Sylthara leaned against the wall, arms folded, her ears twitching in restless worry she tried hard to hide.

And Luca…

Luca hadn't moved from her bedside.

His hand rested lightly on the bedsheet near hers—not touching, but close enough to feel the faintest warmth. His eyes, normally sharp and unwavering, were clouded with heavy thoughts… and something like guilt.

He watched her face—the soft flutter of lashes, the faint pale hue of her cheeks—and exhaled slowly.

The silence settled again… thick, unmoving, suffocating.

Then—

A tremor.

Small at first. Barely noticeable.

A glass of water on the bedside table quivered, ripples forming on the surface. Lilliane lifted her head, confused. Sylthara straightened sharply, ears twitching.

Luca's brows furrowed.

Was that… an earthquake?

The tremor intensified—this time strong enough to rattle bed frames, to send dust drifting from the ceiling.

Lilliane gasped, grabbing the railing of Selena's bed.

Sylthara braced herself against the wall, eyes narrowing into golden slits.

The ground rumbled again… louder now… deeper…

A heavy, metallic clang echoed through the entire dwarven territory—deep, booming, carved from centuries of tradition.

GONG.

The sound rolled across the mountain.

Then again—

GONG.

The windows rattled.

Luca stood abruptly, his chair scraping back.

Another tremor shuddered beneath them.

GONG.

The ground shook so violently Lilliane stumbled and Sylthara grabbed her before she fell.

Luca reached out on instinct and steadied the bed to keep Selena from rolling.

And then—

GONG.

GONG.

Five tolls.

Exactly five.

Luca felt his blood run cold.

The dwarven guard outside their room shouted something—panic slicing through his normally proud voice.

Boots thundered across the hallway.

Shouts rose from outside, dwarven tongues barking urgent commands.

Sylthara's ears flattened. Lilliane clutched the bedsheet, trembling.

Luca's heart thudded once—hard enough to echo in his skull—before instinct flooded his mind.

Five bells.

Not for celebration.

Not for drills.

Not for trials.

Only for—

Catastrophe.

He turned toward the window, eyes lifting toward the distant furnaces, the stone towers, the sky glowing with molten light.

A dread coiled in his stomach, tightening until the breath caught in his throat.

Have the cultists…

attacked the dwarven lands… too?

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