The next day I woke up, and the first thing I felt was disappointment.

  Not the cold of stone.

  Not the damp of a cave.

  Not the smell of blood and ash.

  A soft bed.

  A white ceiling.

  Silence.

  I sat up sharply, fingers clawing into the sheets, and looked around.

  The same room.

  The same window.

  The same faint scent of herbal brew.

  “So… it wasn’t a dream,” I whispered.

  The door opened quietly.

  The same elf came in—tall, calm, with the tired eyes of someone who’d seen too much and was too hard to surprise…

  at least, usually.

  He sat at the table, unrolled a scroll, and without looking at me, said:

  “State your name.”

  I swallowed.

  “Lu… Lucida,” I said uncertainly. “I think.”

  He lifted his gaze.

  For a fraction of a second.

  Then nodded and began to write.

  “Age?”

  I thought.

  For a very long time.

  “A lot,” I answered honestly.

  The quill froze.

  “You don’t look like an elf,” he said after a pause.

  I gave a faint, crooked smile.

  “And I don’t feel like one.”

  He didn’t respond. Just kept writing.

  “Do you know how long you were… there?”

  “Definitely more than fifty years.”

  This time he looked up sharply.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I drew a deeper breath—and the words started spilling out on their own.

  I talked.

  About the war.

  About fire.

  About screams.

  About the Demon King.

  About Arthur.

  About Merlin.

  With every sentence, the elf’s face changed.

  Calmness cracked.

  His brows rose, slowly.

  His fingers squeezed the quill too hard.

  “That’s… impossible,” he breathed.

  “They…” I leaned forward. “They defeated the Demon King?”

  He stared at me like he was looking at a ghost.

  “That war… ended almost three centuries ago.”

  The world lurched.

  “They won?” I repeated.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He swallowed.

  “Yes.

  The great heroes Arthur and Merlin won.

  The Demon King was killed.

  They… cut off his head.”

  I fell silent.

  A minute.

  Maybe two.

  Then I laughed.

  Loud. Ragged. Wrong.

  “They…” The laughter caught in my throat. “They managed…”

  Hah… hahahaha…

  They killed him…

  The elf watched warily.

  “So…” I cut the laughter off hard. “They’re not alive?”

  He hesitated.

  “Arthur… died a very long time ago.

  Merlin…” He paused. “Merlin is still alive.”

  I sprang up.

  “MERLIN IS ALIVE?!”

  My head spun, but I didn’t care.

  “Where is he? I need to see him. Now.”

  And then it hit me.

  Like lightning.

  Three centuries.

  I hadn’t been there fifty years.

  Not a hundred.

  Nearly three damned centuries.

  My legs buckled. I barely stayed upright.

  “He’s very old,” the elf said quietly. “Very.”

  “I don’t care.”

  I took a step—almost fell. Straightened. Took another.

  “Where are you going?” he jumped up.

  “To Merlin.”

  “Wait. You need to know—

  Arthur and Merlin’s bloodlines have long since mixed.

  Only royal families know exactly where Merlin is now.

  But…” He faltered. “The current king’s daughter studies at the Academy. In the capital.”

  “What’s her name?” I snapped.

  “Princess Elinia.”

  The name echoed somewhere deep.

  Like an echo.

  “Where is the capital?”

  He pointed.

  “Seven days by horse.”

  “Good.”

  I reached the door, opened it—

  and collapsed onto the floor.

  “Stop!” the elf shouted, rushing over. “You need rest!

  I’ll pass this on to Trem… maybe they can help you.”

  I pulled myself up against the wall.

  “I’ve waited enough,” I rasped. “Too much.”

  I walked.

  Slowly.

  Very slowly.

  Stairs.

  One step.

  Second.

  Third.

  On the last one I stumbled and fell again.

  The elf caught me before I hit.

  “Where are we?” I whispered, gripping his sleeve.

  “In a temporary infirmary.”

  “And the city?”

  He exhaled.

  “New. They’re only building it.”

  He sat me back down on the bed.

  “Stay. I’ll run for them immediately.”

  I nodded.

  I had no strength left.

  But under the fatigue and pain, one single feeling burned:

  If Merlin is alive…

  If the Demon King is dead…

  …then this world moved on without me.

  About two hours passed.

  I sat by the open window and listened.

  Behind the building, life boiled.

  Voices.

  Dwarves argued loudly, rough and hoarse.

  Humans laughed, carried beams, cursed over ropes.

  Elves spoke more quietly—smoothly, as if weighing every word.

  Footsteps.

  Hammer blows.

  Wood creaking.

  The smell of fresh stone and wet earth.

  Alive.

  Finally… living sounds, I thought.

  I sat in peace and just listened.

  Without rushing anywhere.

  For the first time in a very long time.

  Three hours later the door opened again.

  The same elf entered first.

  Behind him—three more.

  Two humans.

  One elf.

  And a dwarf—stocky, gray in the beard, with sharp, attentive eyes.

  The elf nodded toward me.

  “Here she is.”

  They came closer.

  “Your name is Lucida?” the middle-aged man asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  The name sounded… strange.

  Unfamiliar.

  After so many years of silence, hearing it out loud almost hurt.

  “You were in that cave?” the second asked carefully. “Almost three centuries?”

  I lowered my gaze.

  “Yes.”

  I told them.

  About the war.

  About how Merlin, Arthur, and I divided the forces.

  I went east.

  They went west.

  About the mountains.

  About the trap.

  About how everyone was slaughtered.

  When I finished, the elf beside them nodded slowly.

  “I… read about it.

  The chronicles mention a detachment that died in the mountains.

  Led by a… legendary warrior.”

  He frowned.

  “But the name… the name didn’t survive.”

  I lifted my head.

  “And the name Lucida… does it mean anything to you?”

  They exchanged glances.

  Then the man said softly:

  “I’m sorry… but no.”

  The dwarf scratched his beard, squinting.

  “Also… you don’t really look like an elf or a dwarf.

  More like… a human.”

  He paused, then added:

  “They say a strange sword was found with you.

  It gives off cold.

  And…” The dwarf hesitated. “You have scars on your shoulder blades.

  Forgive my bluntness.”

  I looked up.

  At the ceiling.

  “No.”

  My voice was steady.

  “I waited so long.

  And now… I’m free.”

  I looked back at them.

  “Yes. That sword is mine.

  And the scars…” I smiled faintly. “That’s a very old story.

  Most likely, not even a legend of it survived.”

  I hesitated, then asked:

  “By any chance… archangels? Angels?

  Do those words mean anything to you?”

  One of them smiled awkwardly, then turned serious again.

  “No.

  That’s considered fiction. Legends about messengers of god.”

  I laughed.

  “God?” I exhaled.

  “Father?”

  The laugh came out on its own.

  “Hahahahaha…”

  They recoiled.

  “He isn’t with us,” I said calmly. “He abandoned us.”

  They stared at me in shock.

  “And the names…” I continued. “Ignis. Zariil.”

  Silence.

  “No,” the elf said. “Never heard them.”

  “And you?” I looked to the other elf.

  “Nothing,” he answered.

  I smiled.

  “I see…

  So you’ve forgotten them too.”

  I was left alone.

  The only one who still remembered.

  “What are your plans?” the man asked cautiously.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  “I’ll find Merlin.

  I need to meet him.”

  He nodded.

  “Please stay in bed one more day.

  Tomorrow you’ll be able to leave.”

  I thought…

  And agreed.

  I lay back down.

  And for the first time in a very long time, I felt not emptiness—

  but peace.