PROLOGUE

The devastation of the battle altered inexorably the scenery: the lush radiance of the valley was replaced by the putrescent and unsettling miasma of death. Numerous corpses, or at least what remained of them, decorated the area, giving the sight an unpleasant and miserable feeling.

The sun was setting, indifferent to all this.

A small group tried to piece together the remains of the dead bodies that rested on the ground as best as they could; but the conditions of some were so disastrous that they left no choice but to bury the little that remained, to give them at least some semblance of dignity.

In the midst of it, a young woman was kneeling on the ground while her hand tenderly held that of one of the fallen victims left in the area. Bitter tears bathed what remained of her dear friend as her long hair, blond as wheat, fell tousled over her shoulders.

A chaste kiss was placed on the forehead as a final sign of farewell.

The woman was shadowed by a larger and more majestic presence bathed in a pure white light with shining gray contours. Its shape was so breathtaking that it overshadowed the landscape itself with its sheer radiance.

The being was covered with shining scales whose color resembled the most precious platinum. The silvery white that covered it reflected the morning sunlight, giving rise to a prismatic effect that blessed the surroundings with its colors.

His shape and characteristics distantly resembled those of a giant lizard. But there was something regal and divine about him, his features screaming royalty and magnificence, regalia of a bygone and remote era whose perfection had been lost.

Attached to his body, a pair of gargantuan wings towered proudly. Their size was so immense that it would not have been foolish to think that they could cover an entire kingdom with their shadow.

Even before myths were written, when the world emitted its first wails and the beating of the first hearts began, his race had watched over creation, unwavering guardians of ancient truths and custodians of lost knowledge.

The dragon looked at the girl and the body lying beside her. More than once he tried to open his mouth to try to emit a sound, anything to end the painful silence, but failed to do so. His breath was a fire, and the air continued to be warmed by his continuous sighing.

The silence became more and more unbearable, placing an invisible wall between them.

In the end, it was the girl who spoke first: "It's useless, Tsa! Riku declined the resurrection. It seems that the weight of guilt he carried with himself was too great…" a muffled groan placed a halt to the woman's voice. She forced herself, for she had to be strong for everyone. Riku would have wanted it that way. "Even for him. I hope our leader has finally found the peace he seeked, at least."

The dragon uttered a lament, the sound of which could have been mistaken for the weeping of the land itself. An ancestral noise, the intensity of which covered with its sorrow the very essence of reality.

Riku's body was enveloped in a mysterious light, momentarily beginning to glow with a half-hearted intensity. For a tiny, minuscule moment, it seemed to come back to life.

The corpse stood up ungainly, almost as if it were a puppet being guided by an expert manipulator. The woman somersaulted to the ground, her mouth stupefied with surprise. She approached it, touching it slowly. The coldness of that corpse broke the illusion, bringing her back to reality.

"What are you doing? What is this blasphemy?" The horror of seeing her old companion reduced to that state, almost as if he had been an inanimate object devoid of will, was a deep stab in the heart of the woman.

"It's all my fault, Rigrit!" Tsa watched that pale imitation of life to which he gave form, but even that grotesque spectacle could not relieve his suffering. "If only I had been honest with you from the start, none of this would have ever happened. The world has lost one of its greatest protectors, and all because of my kind. No, because of me!" Tsaindorcus Vaision looked up to the sky, as the setting sun disappeared into the horizon. "I have… I have to do something! Anything! Why? Why? Why can't I do anything?"

Regret. Could a dragon have such a human feeling? Or was it only an imitation of what lurked inside the hearts of those who fought for him?

Rigrit dared not to give herself an answer.

The woman could not accept these words. No, it would have been more correct to say that she rejected them with all her being.

"You have nothing to do with what happened here, and I'm sure he too would agree with me; please don't tear your soul apart for what we've witnessed. That dragon, that filthy being, had nothing in common with you!" How could one compare that affront to all that was holy and wonderful, to her old mentor?

"I beg you, stop this insanity!" Rigrit continued, heartbroken but firm in her conviction. "I have already lost too many companions today; I will not let another one drown in despair." Tears came copiously out of her eyes. They had waited no longer for the woman to put an end to her holding back, and were now furrowing her face, finally free.

"Yet Riku and his friend would not have died if it wasn't for my father's lust for power." The dragon remonstrated. Shame. This was what Rigrit read in his face. A guilt that fell on his friend, and which nothing, she realized, could alleviate.

"And not only them! Even the Six Great Gods or the Eight Greed Kings perhaps would have had a better fate if not for him. Eventually these players found themselves catapulted into an unknown place only for the insatiable greed of my people. We have contaminated the world first, not them."

Rigrit collected her thoughts; what would have been the best thing to do? Try to console him? Tell the dragon that his father's mistakes didn't befall on him? Would it have had any meaning at that point?

Players. Advents. The Theocracy. Everything was a blur in her mind, and many details still did not fit together.

The only thing she knew, the only thing she could not accept, was that Riku was dead. And with him part of her.

In the depths of her heart, she had not yet forgiven Tsa for deceiving them. Yet, the memory of her companion who had saved her many, too many times, overcame any resentment she might have felt.

'Riku, how did you always know the best thing to say? Why do I feel so lost without you?' The whirlwind of those thoughts collided with the harsh and bitter realization of reality. Had it been a dream, or a nightmare, the awakening would have been even sweeter.

But Rigrit knew that at the dawn that was to follow, nothing would ever be the same again. The sky would seem less blue, the food less tasty, the beer less inebriating. Something had been torn, and trying to stitch the pieces back together was no longer possible.

"Here," the dragon leaned his old friend beside her, taking the utmost care that nothing could cause him the slightest disturbance, almost as if he were still alive. "Take care of him for me. Don't… don't leave what remains of his body to the mercy of vultures."

"I will honor his memory with my whole self," the woman replied. "He will live on. Just not in the way we wish."

It was time for goodbyes and, however difficult, it would not be sorrow that would accompany them in those final moments.

He was a legend now. And legends had no place among them, but high above, in the sky.

Whenever night would fall, Rigrit would be able to see Riku again among the stars. And she knew he would look at her.

At the same time, a hooded figure approached them, whispering words full of grief. "If only you had fought in your true form from the start. If only Riku hadn't sacrificed himself for us. If only I could have done something, anything. If only... if only... Only this remains for me, while my comrades lie here, alone."

Small and slender, the little Keno. She had always been a crybaby, but this time the tears that ran down her face were no object of derision.

"It wasn't your lies that hurt me. It wasn't your lies that did this. To be strong, to deceive friends as much as enemies... I understand that." Keno continued to wipe away her tears, which continued to flow faster than she could stop them. "I understand why you did all this. I really understand it. And yet... and yet I cannot forgive you. I can't."

The voice was filled with resentment and rage. Anger at the dragon for arriving when everything, by then, was too late.

But especially at herself. For her worthlessness. A feeling Rigrit knew all too well.

"My hands are stained with blood. Blood that is not mine…" Keno continued rubbing her palms, until the skin was consumed. "Whose blood is this? Yours, perhaps? Tsaindorcus Vaision, who are you? I thought you were my master, I thought you were my comrade, I thought you were my friend. Was it all false? Or was it all true? I don't know what would hurt more."

The other survivors had gathered around the girl. In all, only five of them remained, including Rigrit. The other three, a regal-looking elf, a thick-armored female ogre, and a man cloaked in shadows said nothing, but their gaze made it clear to the dragon that they shared the same feelings.

"I was your friend, I was your comrade." Tsa replied. "But most of all, I was my father's son. I will not attempt to justify myself, for there are no suitable words to do so." His scales were jewels of immeasurable value, whose hardness surpassed the purest adamantium and whose luster was more sparkling than any diamond. "Protector of the world. What a joke!"

The moonlight, which timidly began to make its appearance, covered his face, which appeared shattered.

"The sins of the fathers fall on the children. And I have run away from my responsibilities for a long time. I can't fix what happened here, but I can at least make sure it will never happen again. It's time to put an end to this endless cycle of destruction. I don't know if it will work, but let me make amends."

There was... peace in his words.

"Tsa, what are you going to do?" Rigrit asked, trying to keep her gaze on the figure about to take flight. The cloud of dust that was beginning to rise from the beating of the dragon's wings concealed his being from view.

"We are mad but we don't want you to hurt yourself. No matter what happens, we are companions to the end, remember? Just like Riku used to say. We can't lose you too." The woman tried to reason with her old friend and teacher, but it was too late, for the decision had already been made.

"If there is anything that you all have taught me, it is to act in accordance with your beliefs, no matter what the consequences." Hovering in the air, Tsa shone with a newfound glow. The sumptuousness of its figure would have brought envy even to the stars in the sky. "If wild magic started the advent, wild magic will end it."

"What will become of you?" A vice gripped Rigrit's throat. "Do not confuse martyrdom with hope, I beg you."

Keno also did not know how to respond. "Wait…" she tried to say. But the girl's voice was faint, and Tsa already far away.

"...Useless..." Muttered the elf between his teeth.

"Master," the other woman repeated those words, with no one to repeat them with her.

The hooded man merely lowered his head, remaining silent.

"Do not make this farewell sad. No more than it already is. My friends, I give you one last task: protect Eryuentiu! Don't let its weapons fall into the wrong hands. Especially in those of the Cardinals. Use the nation I founded, the Republic of Argland, to fight the Theocracy. And to keep Riku's dream alive."

"Will we ever meet again?" Rigrit asked.

"That, I don't know. But deep down in my heart I am relieved to know that I leave this world in your hands." The dragon gave them a final greeting as a warm feeling reminiscent of kindness emanated from his voice. "Eventually, we will find ourselves among the stars. If not me, you and everyone else for sure."

His figure had now almost completely disappeared.

"Goodbye, my friends, take care of yourself. Love this world as I have loved it!"

And with these words, he took off while what remained of the brave heroes remained motionless, quiet, to honor their lost friends for the last time.

CHAPTER 1: A light in the dark

Nazaire walked the streets of Silksuntecks.

In the sky, night was approaching. People were starting to close their shops and stands, ready to retire to their homes after a hard day's work. But not before sharing a word of parting and love, to rivals and friends alike. Competition, the spirit of commerce, flourished in the souls of merchants and workers; and abundance, never too much, poured out of every nook and cranny, of every open window.

The sweet scent of different delicacies, ranging from flavored buns with a thousand different seasonings to cakes whose chocolate flowed into the mouths of adorable brats, wafted out of doors left open, free to conquer the air with their perfume.

More than once, Nazaire had to turn down the invitation of some acquaintance to share a meal or a good glass of wine. More than once, Nazaire stopped to admire what was a simple scene of everyday life, completely enraptured.

It was not cold; a light breeze chased away the lingering mugginess, but Nazaire felt the need to huddle more tightly in the long black pastern she wore over her habit.

She had a prayer book with her, with a small marker pinned to one of her favorite passages. The pages were turned quickly, although the contents were known to her. On that starless night, Alah Allaf's grace and mercy enveloped her with the same intensity with which they had graced the Great Penitent.

As the streets were beginning to empty, only the city guards remained in sight.

A slight cough cleared her throat.

Nazaire, absent-mindedly greeted one of them, with whom she had crossed paths more than once on her route. The guard affectionately returned the greeting.

"Going somewhere?" He asked, offering his arm for support. He had noticed Nazaire's unsteady walk, concession to the bag of provisions she carried over her shoulder, and the numerous wrinkles that dotted her face.

"Only on the way home," Nazaire replied, rejecting that kind gesture gracefully. The guard was young and attractive, not yet a man made and finished. So splendid was he in his armor, shining and radiant like a blazing sun, that he made the woman's face blush and made her feel once more like a young maiden. "Not far to go, but I am infinitely grateful for such consideration," she said, lowering her head both in respect and gratitude. Respect for those who put their life on the line for the sake of peace. Gratitude for the gentleness shown to an old woman as hers.

"Very well. But be careful, my lady." A reassuring smile, the kind that would dispel all fears. "May Alaf's light illuminate your way, and Lagusa's fire warm your evening."

"I will, my gentle soldier." Not that there was any need. Nazaire had spent most of her life in the capital of the Slaine Theocracy, and the number of incidents that had required more than a bored shrug could be accounted for on the fingers of one hand. "May Imirduo grant you the fortitude needed to protect us all."

She took her leave of him, but not before reciting a few evening verses. It was only a few hours before midnight and vespers had long since said their farewells, so the invocation was short, but not lacking in intentions. As tradition dictated, a blessing wished upon one's neighbor was a blessing wished upon oneself.

In the center of Silksuntecks, the Six Great Cathedrals rose to the sky, until they touched clouds and stars with their tips, connected to a micro cosmos of small churches and palaces. With bricks and blood, they had been erected. Bricks as black as darkness, and blood even blacker. The blood of the last among the first men.

Nazaire had never visited a king's palace, nor had she ever laid eyes on the sumptuous dwellings that some people foolishly flaunted in order to stand above their peers, outside the Theocracy. Yet, it was certain in her heart that such beauty could not be equalled, that such terror and awe were not replicable, as they were work of the divine.

Entering that small citadel was like entering a world of its own. Members of the clergy, like little ants, kept moving from one point to another, endlessly busy. There was always something to do, someone to help. Priests and bishops passed papers and missives to each other, argued animatedly with soldiers and tribunes, accepted offerings from the rich and dispensed advice for those who were lost.

Most of all, of course, they were intent on celebrating the glory and magnificence of the Gods. It did not matter the time or the weather. Rain or shine, at the crack of dawn or when the moon was at its zenith, continuous litanies cheered with their musicality the passage of all who entered the inner part of the sacred city.

Yes, her nation was truly the jewel of humanity, the legacy of the Gods to mankind.

'Or so I thought in the past.'

Her pilgrimage stopped at the entrance to the Cathedral of Darkness. It was passed down to have been, among the six, the first to be erected. And it was also whispered that it would be the last to fall, should the time of humankind come.

At the entrance, an inscription was placed that read: "Purge your body of vices and sins, you who enter." A small bowl with holy water was offered by the priest who controlled the entrance of all worshippers, completely covered in a robe as dark as night, devoid of color except for a few star-shaped motifs that adorned it.

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"Sister, do you know what to do?"

Nazaire nodded, and then dipped her fingers in the water. Still wet, she brought them to her forehead first, to the rest of her face after, beginning to trace small approximations of the symbols of the Six Great Gods.

When that ritual was finished, she was invited in. The reception hall of the Cathedral of Darkness was cold, icy cold. Low-pitched organs played the same melancholic melodies again and again, while pleading choirs implored mercy.

Surshana's statue towered over everything and everyone, as it had done when he was still with them, in a past never forgotten; as he did in their present, always remembered; as he would do until the last breath was drawn. Only then would his work come to an end.

Nazaire approached it. Surshana's face was not visible, covered by a black veil, except for scarlet eyes that were always ready to observe the watcher, it was meaningless which way one looked. The rest of his body was also covered by a purple tunic, with no additional trappings. The left hand protruded forward, the only part to be shown off. On the left fourth-finger, a golden ring glittered warmly.

Nazaire had to lean forward a little to bring her lips to contact with the pure white bones, perfectly replicated by the craftship of the marble. She kissed it tenderly, taking care not to leave even the slightest trace of saliva on it. Then, after pulling away, repeated that gesture with the ring she wore on the same finger, on which was engraved the symbol of the God of Death.

'Remember that you must die,' were the words of the Cardinal when the sacred oaths were taken, long ago. In her memories, they were still fresh and new. 'Those who marry the God of Death, more than all, live with this reminder beside them.'

Many years had passed since then. Her natural husband had also died, and her children had left the nest, but Nazaire had never felt lonely. Surshana was always there, with her.

Nazaire felt a chill.

She had remained in contemplation until the late hour, when everyone, even the most faithful, began to retire. The woman was careful that others had not remained in the cathedral before she approached the statue again. Behind it, there was a door. It led to one of the Cardinal's offices.

Nazaire opened it. But she did not stay there for long. Below one of the desks, a trapdoor led to her destination: the underground of the church. A gigantic spider's web stretched beneath the capital, in the darkest part of the city, set so deep that the light from outside could shine through.

When she started her duty, thirty years ago, she had been assigned an expert guide to navigate the gigantic network of tunnels that lurked in the most secret part of the city.

But after years of trials and errors, she now knew the way perfectly. All those burrows no longer held any secrets for her.

After all, the point of arrival had always remained the same.

One of the bifurcations led to a small underground arena. Tradition had it that it was built by Imirduo, God of the earth, to train the first generation of Scriptures to fight the demihumans. There, in that place, had succeeded generations of valiant and unblemished heroes, whose history had helped to establish the Slaine Theocracy, with sweat, toil and sacrifice.

A sacred place, it was. Sacred like many others within Silksuntecks. In fact, it would have been very difficult to find a single space where history did not overflow in the capital.

But history, it was known, was also a harsh and implacable teacher who did not tolerate mistakes.

And a lesson was now taking place right in front of her.

Nazaire thought about closing her eyes, but forced herself to watch, no matter how painful it was.

Her pain was nothing, after all.

'Remember that you must die.'

Everyone would die one day. Even her.

A woman with long black wielded a sharp spear, pointed at no one in particular. She was challenged by a young girl with a delicate appearance and a fragile constitution. No more than a baby, who one would have ever guessed had left the cradle that long ago. Against all common sense, Nazaire watched them from afar, forcing herself not to intervene.

The child's hair was perfectly divided into two colors: the left side was pure white, while the right one a dark black that matched the other woman's hair hue. The eyes also preserved the same color symmetry, only inverted.

The little girl was out of breath, her face covered by blood. She was holding onto her right arm with the left one, meaning it was probably broken. Her fingers were clutching a metal club, on which the vital fluid had run down her forehead and arm, almost as if the red was rust that had contaminated the pure silver of the weapon.

'Merciful be the Gods. Today the lady seems to be in a good mood.'

The situation would have prompted anyone to rush to the child and get her to safety, which Nazaire, the first time she saw the scene, had foolishly done.

The other woman, Faine, had only looked at her that day. She had not raised her hands to her or done anything else to bring harm.

But Nazaire had felt her breath catch and terror devour her courage . It had been as if someone had slipped a sharp knife just under the skin, and forced her to watch as the blade slowly crept up to her neck, stopping just before it broke free with one fatal cut.

Since then, just addressing the woman was a source of stress and delirium. Even uttering a word made her break out in a cold sweat, and every time she saw Faine's cold, black eyes move slowly, recognising her presence, Nazaire was moved only by a primal instinct, begging her to flee.

When it came to Faine and the training of her daughter, there was no one who could get in the way.

'At least, not me.'

The blood of the Gods was strong in Faine. As it was in Antilene, her daughter.

And the blood of the Gods required sacrifice. A sacrifice that ordinary mortals like her could not understand, even if they wanted to. Not even if they aberrated it.

Faine's fist slammed into Antilene's face, the sound of breaking nose bones caused a deafening crack as the little girl fell to the ground, miraculously staying awake.

She got up, Antilene. The child was strong. Too strong for a child of that age, stronger than she should have been. Nazaire remembered her daughters, and how their every little step was an endless source of worry. Foolishly, she had believed that they were made of glass, and that every fall, every bit of damage would cause them to shatter into a thousand pieces.

And every time Antilene collapsed to the ground, it proved to her how stupid those worries were. Still, her heart could not help but break, almost as if the impact of that violence had been inflicted on her, and not on the child.

But Nazaire knew it was just nonsense. It was Antilene who would end up, inexorably, with her body full of wounds, and her bones shattered. What she repeated to herself, were only illusions to ease the guilt.

'You shall not meddle in the education of the elect. You will not be allowed to comment on Lady Faine's choices.' These had been the orders given. Orders that Nazaire had made her own and jealously guarded in a remote part of her soul. 'Gods can be cruel. They impose sacrifices as much on us as on those they bless with the blood. Be thankful for your good fortune, and be thankful it did not happen to you.'

And she had been, Nazaire. She was grateful to the Gods, always. She had been grateful when her blood, like that of her brothers and sisters, had not awakened. She had been when it had been forced upon her to marry a man she had never known. She had been grateful when that same man she had forced herself to love had met his end, in a hole forgotten by the Gods. She had been when her children had left her alone, to serve. As she had done. As she would continue to do.

She had always been that, Faine. Grateful. For she lived.

"If she dies, I will always be able to resurrect her." The coldness of Faine's remark never failed to leave her amazed. She kept repeating this, maybe more to herself than to Nazaire. Or, perhaps, it was addressed to neither. But only to that little girl who was so sad, and yet kept fighting.

"What if she should refuse resurrection?" Nazaire had dared to ask once.

Faine's eyes had closed, in contemplation. "Then that will have been her fate."

"Again," Faine said to the girl.

It was shocking how that little girl always managed to keep fighting despite her injuries and fatigue. Not that it made any difference: her every blow was easily neutralized and her mother's retaliations became more and more violent with each exchange.

'Today Lady Faine is just using her fists and no weapons, despite wielding a lance. Maybe she is in a good mood.'

The very concept of strength was wasted on Faine. Nazaire had never seen her fight. Fight for real. But she had heard stories. Stories of how the dragon lords could do nothing but bow before her; how the masters of death knew fear for the first time, once they crossed her scythe; how the spawn of the underworld rebelled against their masters in awe of the sacred blade coming down upon them.

Lightbringer. Blessed by The Fire. The storm that never stops.

Those were just some of the appellations by which Faine's person was referred to.

'Surshana reborn.' Just thinking that name sent a chill down Nazaire's spine.

"Again." Faine repeated with the same calm intonation of voice.

Being able to take her shots showed how exceptional her daughter was too.

What kind of monster would Antilene become in the future, once given time to blossom?

'No. Not a monster. Not a monster.'

Nazaire cursed herself.

Antilene had made a final, desperate attack on her mother's leg. The mace moved so quickly that Nazaire did not even notice the movement; but even that attempt failed, for where Antilene was swift, Faine was lightning fast.

A kick to the older woman was enough to send the girl flying a few meters, and bring her to the ground once more. The toe of Faine's shoe had hit just under Antilene's chin, and the little girl's blood began to flow profusely from another spot.

God's blood. Blood so similar to Nazaire's.

Faine reached out and grabbed her by the hair. Nothing more than a vulgar rubbish bag. "If I cut these off, would it make any difference?" Faine's hand had moved closer to her daughter's ears, reaching up to grip the tip. A tip so sharp. Proof of Antilene's heritage.

'Half-blooded. But never... never say that word.' Nazaire repeated to herself. 'Human. Antilene is human. She has been blessed with the blood. Only humans can be blessed with the blood. She has been chosen. Great are the Gods, in their wisdom!'

For a moment, Nazaire wondered if Faine would tear up what she considered an unforgivable affront. Little Antilene gasped for breath, her puny little body twitching with fatigue and pain.

If Faine had acted, how should Nazaire have acted? Ears could be reattached, with magic. It would have been painful, yes. Very painful.

But every hard lesson required a great price to be understood.

'Be strong, little Antilene. This is also a test.' Nazaire begged that the little one could hear her, and could find comfort. But how could she, if the words would not leave her mouth?

Be strong, she insisted. She had to be strong. Who had to be? Nazaire closed her eyes, to avoid having to look. What a coward. She asked for forgiveness. To the Gods, to Antilene, to herself.

And then…

"That's enough!" Exclaimed Faine after throwing Antilene to the ground, once more. "From tomorrow onward, I will be on a mission, and I expect to see some results when I return."

She turned to Nazaire, who felt herself dying on the spot. "Do you have anything to add?" Faine asked her, politely.

"No, my lady," Nazaire tried to appear as brave as possible. "I will pray that yours will be a journey free of danger." When would it ever be? "And with me... your daughter will also light a candle for your safety."

Faine smiled. It was a strangely sincere smile. "I know you will." Then shifted her attention back to her daughter. The smile remained on her face for an imperceptible time, and for a moment it would have been possible to think there it would have remained, until her gaze stopped on the little girl's pointed ears. Those damn ears. "As for my daughter…"

The expression had become impassive, almost as if it had never known any emotions. A stone mask. Was that the face of the God of Death, concealed by the statue's veil? Nazaire dared not imagine it.

"...Don't let her disappoint me."

And with these words, Faine left without even adding a parting word to her daughter.

Nazaire sighed, accustomed to the scene, and began with her work.

She took the child on her shoulders and walked to one of the rooms that served as her apartment. Candles at the ends of the corridors blew warmth, enclosing the darkness in a yellow with slivers of orange. The light never left those places, lest that realm of darkness forget Alah Alaf's gentle, comforting touch.

The apartment was not very big, and the first time she saw it, Nazaire marveled at how spartan it was: a bed, a poorly stocked kitchen, a shelf that was periodically filled with provisions and potions, and a small table to eat was all that adorned the room.

It was a servant's room, not a God's. Nazaire could not help but notice the irony whenever she crossed that threshold.

Antilene's everyday clothes consisted only of a tailored suit of armor and a woolen shirt, dark trousers and a pair of shoes. Adjacent to the main hall, a bathroom had been set up for her personal needs.

These days, the room had taken on a livelier aspect thanks to the gifts Nazaire had given her over the years: there was no longer a single ensemble but enough clothes to fill a small closet she had given Antilene for her birthday.

She had also managed to get hold of some disused toys that had become the most precious treasures for the little half-elf. In particular, a soldier with long hair showed more signs of use than the others.

"Hungry," Antilene whispered in a huff. Nazaire stroked her head as she laid her down on the bed.

'Another scar,' the woman noted. 'Right above the forehead. Where did I leave the scrolls?'

Nazaire stepped away for a moment, to return soon after with a roll of manticore skin and a few bottles inside which a greenish liquid floated.

The roll was unrolled, and a red glow struck the girl. Antilene's skin began to regenerate, returning to a natural state. Then Nazaire smeared a little of the potion she had taken with her, first on her arms and legs, then on the rest of her body. The clothes the girl was wearing were in a pitiful state, so she found it more efficient to tear them off in no uncertain terms.

'She's warm.'

Antilene's skin was a transparent white, almost angelic. But every time Nazaire touched her she was amazed at how much warmth that little girl made of pure, soft snow emitted. Antilene was burning. She was burning with life.

After treating her wounds, giving her new clothes, and making sure there was nothing else to do, the older woman began to prepare dinner while the child took the opportunity to rest.

Nazaire began to place the contents of the bag she was carrying on the table. Potatoes, veal and a vast assortment of vegetables, carrots and onions above all. Soon, a scent of stew overcame the closed smell that hovered in the small chamber.

Antilene got up just in time for when the preparations were finished.

'I swear this little girl has an internal clock that warns her when there is food nearby.'

Were the Gods not above hunger? But Antilene was not a God, after all.

Whenever they dined together, the youngest asked all the questions she could put together about the outside world. An overwhelming curiosity, there was no other way to describe it. But how could anyone have condemned her for that?

"Tell me, Nazaire, is the story of the battle of Fort Quarto true?" Her voice was melodious, and incredibly soft. "Did Goddess Lagusa really burnt alive ten thousand demihumans who had dared to try to devour her followers?" She asked, with her mouth still half filled with the stew they were eating. The child already showed an extraordinary intuition for the art of war. Table manners, on the other hand, required more extensive training. "That would have been... so cool!" Her eyes had lit up with a flame that could have rivaled that of the myth.

"And how do you know that? It was not in the material we studied this week. Nor in any of the past ones. I am old, but my memory is still good." Among her duties, Nazaire also had that of providing for her education. The little girl had a natural inclination for studies of the past and religious doctrine. On the other hand, mathematics and astronomy could have used some refinement.

Not that it was important.

Nazaire knew the story Antilene was citing, one of the most famous and gory concerning the Goddess of fire, but she believed that the girl was still too young to learn about it.

"It was in the book that Uncle Cassius gave me the last time he came to see me. It's called Six Great Stories about the Six Great Gods!" Antilene exclaimed with eyes full of enthusiasm. She loved stories about the great heroes and figures of the past, especially those involving the patron deities of the Theocracy.

'It's only natural to want to know more about your own family,' Nazaire admitted to herself. 'Because she is a child of the gods. The blood flows, in that little body.'

"Now I understand." Responded Nazaire, moved by the child's curiosity. "Well, if our illustrious Cardinal thought it appropriate to give you this gift, who am I to contradict him?"

In fact, the caregiver wished her superior had not shown -something more unique than rare- such initiative. But it was not up to her to syndicate the choices of the nation's representatives.

Of grievances, she would have had far too many.

"Let's see…" Nazaire touched her temples, availing herself of another spoonful of stew to prompt her memory. "The first men had built a small fortress after escaping from the bondage of King Belfagost, a monstrous lion-man with a mouth as big as this room." In reality, the mouth had probably been smaller, or eating for that non-human would have been highly inconvenient.

"Yes," nodded Antilene. "Such a big mouth," the small hands had spread, in what must have been an imitation of the size of the organ.

"The king had ten thousand soldiers, ten times the number of slaves," Nazaire continued. "And the first men, they were not armed, nor did they have means with which to defend themselves. They had only faith as a shield.."

"And that is when the Goddess came!" Antilene had leapt onto the table, fencing with an invisible sword against the image of the horde in her mind. Fortunately, not a drop had remained on the plate, or its contents would have spilled onto the little girl's clean trousers.

"Good manners," Nazaire reminded her. "A lady always knows how to behave."

"Sorry," the little girl had quickly returned to her seat, her face downcast.

"Apologies are accepted," Nazaire smiled at her, ruffling her hair. This put Antilene back in a good mood. "In you flows the fire of the Goddess. My task is to teach you to tame it."

"The same fire that burns the enemies of humanity! The same fire that put an end to King Belfagost and his tormentors!"

"Yes," the story was not yet over. "The prayers of the first men were heard, and Goddess Lagusa rushed to their aid. Such was her fury, that the non-humans burned for days on end, in a perpetual state between life and death, until the Goddess deemed that they had served all their sins. Only desert remained at the end. And for years, nothing more grew in those lands, until Goddess Egarda decided to bless them with her tears. Fire and Water, two sides of the same coin. Like Wind and Earth. Like Light and Darkness."

"Those monsters must have been screaming for days," exclaimed Antilene. And, at that moment, Faine's face could be seen in her daughter. Along with something else, something much more dreadful. "I bet it was a beautiful sound! A symphony, like the ones they perform in the theater."

'The screams of demi-humans, like ours, are not a symphony.' But this, Nazaire, avoided saying. What she did say, however, was: "Since that day, many pilgrims have been traveling to that place, to pay their respects and gratitude."

"Eheh, that's incredible." Antilene exclaimed in wonder, her eyes shining full of admiration. But it took only a moment, however, for her expression to darken. "Do you think one day I will be able to see it too? Maybe the three of us could go together. Me, you and mom."

"Of course, I don't see why not." Nazaire lied. Who knew it, maybe one day she would be able to convince the cardinals to let Antilene out into the outside world.

A reward, for such a courageous child, was mandatory.

'But I strongly doubt that Lady Faine would join us.'

Another thing she did not say. Silences were more than words, in that place.

"In the book, there was also another story that I liked a lot," the half-elf resumed, distracting Nazaire from her thoughts. "It spoke of Egarda, the Goddess of water, and of the love she felt for her children. There were no great battles, no frightening monsters. Only the ways she spent time with her sons and daughters: the games they played, the food she prepared for them. They must have been very happy!"

The caregiver immediately understood where the half-elf was going. Egarda and the immense love she felt for her offspring had become a point of reference for all the mothers of the nation. All but one.

"I know that mom has a lot to do, but why does she never find a moment for me? Is it because I am weak and I cause her shame? Am I such a failure?" A shadow fell over Antilene's expression. A shadow that never seemed to leave the child. "Or is it because I look like him?" Antilene had started touching her ears, which she always meticulously hid under her hair. Even when it was only her and Nazaire. Only when she was alone.

'Oh, sweetie. If only I could tell you. But would you understand? Can a daughter understand her mother's pain?'

Nazaire had heard that question countless times and, may the Gods forgive her, had never told the truth.

It did not matter how much Antilene's father was present in his daughter's gaze. It did not matter how marked the resemblance between the two was. It did not matter, because Antilene was Antilene. And the Elf King was the Elf King.

Lady Faine saw ghosts where Nazaire saw only a helpless, sweet child. Ghosts, yes. Ghosts and shadows, yes. In that smile... in that smile that sometimes made her blood run cold.

"I'm sure it's not true; it's just that your mother is a very important and busy woman. The whole nation stands on her shoulders, it pains her a lot not being able to spend more time with you." Nazaire comforted Antilene, trying to convince herself rather than the girl. "Lady Faine is tough, but only because she loves you so much. She truly loves you so much." She repeated, for emphasis. Maybe then she would be able to fool them both.

What she had said was the truth, after all. She just omitted some pieces of reality.

"If you say so, I believe, you auntie!"

Auntie, Nazaire didn't deserve that nickname, but what else could she do?

'How I hate my weakness.'

It was she, whom Lady Faine should have punished. Nazaire's body was old, useless. It could be battered by the wounds of training, it could be subjected to the tortures of the flesh. Nothing to waste.

But to what end?

"Rather, since tomorrow it will be just you and me, why don't we cook something special? You could help me prepare those omelets you like so much."

And to help, Nazaire just intended for her to be a spectator.

'The child's hands will only have to hold a weapon. The hilt of the swords will be her best friend and the point of the spear her playmate. Her mind shall be honed in the art of war, and her education shall focus on the charity of faith, and the cruelty of battle.'

These had been the sacred instructions of the Cardinals. Nazaire's life had been one of service. And so, that time, like all the others, she had decided to serve.

Maybe they could have sung a song. The ballad of the elusive wind, the fire of the defeated hero, or the rain of the grieving mother. Yes, a good song always made things better.

Always.

"Really? Can we use those aromatic spices you used last time? Can we? They tasted sooo good!" A grin of satisfaction appeared on Antilene's face. Many would have called that diabolic grin off-putting, but for Nazaire nothing was more adorable.

"Ahaha, of course we can! But, in truth, I wanted to try a different recipe that was recommended to me by a friend of mine. Let's make a deal: if you promise to go to sleep early and to study all morning tomorrow, we will use both recipes. Double portion of omelets!"

"Hurray, cheer! I promise I will be the most obedient child in the world. Thanks, aunt Nazaire!" Antilene said, hugging her gently. The warmth of her little body so close to the old woman.

After they finished dinner, the two cleared the table, quickly rearranged the kitchen, and played together until it was time to go to sleep.

As promised, the half-elf went to bed immediately, exhausted from the day.

After making sure she was in the world of dreams, Nazaire turned off the lights and went to rest in the room she had been assigned.

'Sleep well, Antilene. May your dreams be rich in joy and happiness.'