--Incomplete--

Soraya knelt amidst the ruins of battle. The ground soaked with the blood of soldiers, monsters, and fallen comrades, the acrid smoke of fire stinging her eyes, she knew it was over.

The head of the dark lord, her king, was among the carnage, severed and discarded like so many others. His reign had ended. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The taste of defeat filled her mouth as her breath came in ragged, exhausted gasps. It shouldn't have ended like this.

A sword pointed at her throat. It was Gerald, the paladin whose blade had already claimed countless lives in this war. Her rage, burning hotter than the fires around her, flared. She grasped for her sword and lunged at the paladin with all her fury, but her exhaustion betrayed her. Her own movement was too wild, too uncoordinated, and his sword sliced across her face—an accidental strike from brow to cheek. The wound was deep, her blood pouring down her face as she winched at the pain.

She touched her bloodied cheek, then, a voice reached her ears. Tristan. The king of the paladins approached. He saw Gerald’s bloodied sword and her wounded face but offered no sympathy. She began to cry, her body trembling as she knelt before him, looking up into his unforgiving eyes.

“P-Please,” Soraya pleaded.

Tristan’s brow knotted as he knelt to her level. His hand reached out. He brushed the blood from her face as she cried harder. The tears mixed with the blood. He examined her with a kind of detached curiosity, but there was no pity in his eyes.

"You've chosen the wrong side," Tristan said. "Justice prevails, and you’ll face it now. It’s time to answer for your sins, Soraya."

Her heart sank as she thought Tristan would help her. She removed her hand to his and launched herself at him. Fury exploded, at the same time devastated. But as expected, Gerald intercepted her and pinned her down. Tristan didn’t even flinch.

A woman stepped forward, and Soraya recognized her. Becka. They had once studied magic together. But in this war, Becka stood beside Tristan, looking at her with pity. Their enemy.

“What shall we do with her?” Gerald asked.

“Put her in the prison,” Tristan said simply, turning his back on her. "That will be her fate." And with that, he walked away.

Then, she screamed after him. “You coward! Kill me! You should have killed me on the battlefield, not leave me to rot!” But he didn’t look back.

She was dragged away, shouting and cursing his name.

Seasons passed. Winter’s cold, spring’s renewal, summer’s heat, autumn’s decay—all of it meant nothing in the darkness of the prison. No visitors came except those who brought her food, and they never spoke a word.

One day, she learned that Tristan had taken Becka as his wife. The great paladin king had abandoned his vow of chastity. She had heard the whispers. Her rage reignited like a dormant volcano, and she screamed through the prison walls.

She was told of the wedding, of the celebrations, and in the prison, she howled with madness, driven insane by her isolation and the betrayal of the man she had once thought she could understand.

More time passed. A son was born, and the kingdom celebrated. It was the perfect distraction, and the guards were careless. Soraya escaped from her cell with a burning desire for vengeance. She made her way to where Tristan’s newborn son lay.

“Soraya, please… don’t hurt him,” Becka begged.

Soraya laughed. “You think I’m here to talk? You stole everything from me! You, with your innocent face, spreading your legs for the paladin king, making him sin and forsake his vows!”

“P-Please, Soraya, have mercy. He’s just a child!”

Something inside her twisted as she looked at the crying baby on her arms. The boy looked so much like Tristan which made her lip quivered, and before she realized it, she had bitten down so hard on her lower lip that it bled.

The moment shattered when Tristan bursted into the room, followed by knights. Her mind screamed for vengeance. The urge to exact her revenge was overwhelming, but her body still wouldn’t obey. Her muscles refused to act. Tristan’s gaze held hers, cold, as the knights moved in, surrounding her. She was paralyzed, trapped by her own weakness.

Gerald stepped forward and pried the baby from her arms. His movements were careful, almost gentle, as if he pitied her. Pity? The thought burned her like acid, yet she could do nothing to stop him. He handed the child to Becka, who was already crying in the corner. Soraya watched, helpless, as Becka embraced her son close, her tear-streaked face pressed against the boy’s tiny head.

The knights grabbed Soraya and forcing her to her knees. The weight of their hands pressed down on her shoulders, but the true burden came from within. She was defeated again.

She knelt there, surrounded by her enemies, her eyes lifted to the family before her. Her breath hitched as tears welled up in her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but they spilled down her cheeks, hot and bitter. Jealousy and hatred ate her.

She hated them all.

The villagers gathered in the square that night, stones in hand, ready to throw them at her, who was tied to a wooden pole. Ropes bound her hands, her feet, and her waist. The fire was lit beneath her feet, and the flames began to creep toward her.

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The rocks pelted her, and the fire climbed higher, she lifted her gaze toward Tristan and Becka, standing side by side. She felt pain but she refused to scream.

Instead, she laughed—wild, deranged laughter that silenced the crowd. “ You think this is over??” she roared through the flames. “You’ll never know peace. Not in this life, not in any life after. I curse you! You will witness pain, suffering. It will follow you, haunt you. Every firstborn son of your bloodline will carry the weight of my curse. You will all go mad, just as I have. Until your last breath, you will suffer!”

Her laughter like a dark omen. Fear gripped the hearts of all who listened, and Becka gave a nod to someone nearby.

Then, an arrow flew through the air until it pierced to Soraya’s heart.

Her villainous laughter stopped and the fire consumed her body as she died.

Three thousand years had passed, yet Soraya’s soul found no rest. In the shadows of time, something pulled her back from the void. Her form was incomplete, her body a mere echo of what it once had been, but the curse she had unleashed so long ago had bound her to this world once more. Vengeance simmered in her every thought—this time, she would finish what she started.

Her first return was brutal. The sentries at the border never saw her coming, and she moved like a shadow, a blur of death. Her hands, cold and hollow, took their lives before they could even scream. Yet, as their body drained, she felt nothing but the void where her face should be. The battlefield from centuries past crossed her mind—her last moments of rage and defeat. Her master needed to return, and she would see it done. Nothing else mattered.

Then, she crossed paths with him—a descendant of Gerald, the very paladin who had scarred her face and dragged her to the dungeon all those years ago. Her rage ignited at the sight of him. Though her void face could not show emotion, fury burned inside her. This man was of no use to her, but revenge? That was something she could take.

With the dagger owned by the man, she left him coughing up blood, her magic burning in her hands as he fell to the ground. But as she turned to leave, she heard something—someone. A woman knelt beside him, whose soul wasn't belong to this world. She was desperate, trembling, trying to save him. Soraya stayed in the shadows, eavesdropping. A cursed prince... and the skull. The words sent a thrill through her. She had been right. The man had known something, after all.

But this land... it was not the battlefield she had died on. The Paladin King's descendants had built their kingdom far from those ruins, yet to her, it all felt the same. This place, too, would crumble beneath her wrath.

She watched as the man’s life slipped away, the woman looking guilty over his body. Soraya felt a shift inside her—an old power slowly reawakening. With his death, a piece of her strength returned, but it was not enough. Not yet. There was a desperate hunger biting at her soul. Whoever had brought her back had done so incomplete, and she would make them pay for it. But first, she needed more power. More faces.

With a grin that did not fully form on her void-like face, she carefully observed the woman from a distance. The woman was beautiful, a perfect disguise for Soraya’s purposes. If she was to hunt the every shields' descendants, she needed a face that would allow her to blend in, something far more human than the void she had become.

She focused, channeling her limited power, attempting to replicate the woman’s face. The magic felt sluggish, weak from the centuries of imprisonment and the incomplete resurrection. She could sense the process was imperfect even as she began. Her powers were not yet fully restored, and shape-shifting, once effortless, now required considerable effort.

As her features changed, she realized the copied face wasn’t quite right. The woman’s beauty was still there, but subtle imperfections marred the transformation. The eyes were slightly too narrow, the nose a little too sharp, and the lips curled at odd angles. It was close enough, but not flawless. Soraya glanced at a nearby bucket of water. The face would pass among common folk, though those who looked closely might notice something off.

But it didn’t matter. The woman she had copied was unaware. Soraya had kept her distance. There was no need to kill or even approach the woman; Soraya’s power, despite being weakened, still allowed her to observe and imitate from afar.

It’s not perfect, she touched the uneven edges of her new face, but it will do for now. The humans wouldn’t notice the small flaws. And with this borrowed face, she could move more freely, biding her time until she regained her full strength.

Walking among humans once again, the memories of battle were still fresh in her mind. As if the war had been fought only yesterday. She strolled through the market, running her fingers over the fruits at the stalls, smiling absently at the vendors. They, in turn, began to grow suspicious, realizing she had no intention to buy. Their anger boiled, but it was nothing compared to the fury building in her.

With a flick of her hand, she summoned fire, setting the stall ablaze. The vendor’s shock turned to panic as flames devoured his goods and wooden parts of his stall. She laughed and glanced around at the festival decorations, then, her gaze settled on unlit lanterns. With another wave of her hand, she set them all ablaze, their sudden gust of fire drawing gasps and screams from the Draxuropolians.

The knights who moved to intervene found themselves blocked by a wall of fire she conjured between them. But her magic was still limited, her strength not yet fully restored. She could feel her powers draining with every flame she cast, and her body weakened. Yet even as her energy fluffed, she sensed it—a familiar presence. One she had waited centuries to confront.

Tristan’s descendant stood at the edge of the smoke, watching her. Expecting her.

He looked so much like Tristan—handsome. His bloodline had not weakened. But she had long since learned that men like him were all the same—weak beneath their honor, easily manipulated by their desires. They all deserved to be punished, especially what Tristan did to her. He betrayed her.

Her hands blazed with fire as she cast another flame toward the descendant. The burst of heat forced him to back away. His expression changed as he locked eyes with the face she wore. He wasn’t sure whether to run or fight. His lips parted.

“You??" he mumbled, stepping back cautiously. "Why are you even HERE??"

The sound of his voice, the way he questioned her as though he had the right to—like he was the one who belonged here—made her blood boil. But her lips curled into a twisted, maniacal grin, and she spat back with venom.

“Why am I here? You dare to ask me that? I am your reckoning!"

She flicked her hands again flames before the descendant could speak again.

"Run while you can, descendant. Run, and watch your world burn!"

She let out a roar, which pushed him to a decision.

“Run!” Soraya shrieked. “Run, little rat, but you won’t escape me! No one can!” she followed behind through the alley. “I can sense the curse on you! I’ll find you, and I’ll finish what your ancestors started!”

But even as her voice echoed, her strength was failing. She could feel it. Her body shuddered, her magic weakening. Her chest heaved with the effort to keep the flames alive, but it was no use. The power that had once coursed through her was now a mere ember. The stolen face she wore beginning to blur and warp, the void returning. She was weak—too weak to continue like this. She cursed under her breath.

She couldn’t keep wasting time. She needed more power. She needed to find the rest of the descendants. Only through them would she regain her full strength. Only through them could she bring her master back into this world and reclaim the power that was once hers.

I need to find them. I need to be whole again. And when she was, she would finish what she had failed three thousand years ago. Vengeance, not just for herself, but for the king she had served, for the blood she had spilled in his name.

The descendant had escaped her for now, but it didn’t matter. Because she knew that he would lead her to what she sought. To the skull.