Sleep brought no peace. It became a battlefield where I kept losing to myself. In the darkness of my subconscious, the most horrific visions came alive: I saw the faces of my friends—Elvindor, Mira, Liara—and I saw my own hands, smeared with unwashable, coal-black blood, tearing them apart. Severed heads, frozen in silent screams, lay at my feet, while from my chest burst that same monstrous, mad laughter—the kind that made the very heavens tremble. I wanted to stop, wanted to scream, but in the dream I only kept smiling, savoring the chaos.

  Outside, in the real world, my body thrashed in its bindings. My face twisted in pain, and a quiet rasp tore from my throat.

  Riza, unable to bear the sight of my suffering, finally descended. She flew close beside the horse, her eyes full of compassion.

  “He’s having nightmares again…” she whispered—so much bitterness in her voice that even the elven horses fell quiet.

  She drifted closer, almost brushing the saddle, and carefully—her hand trembling—stroked my hair. At her touch, the black strands stopped crackling with residual dark magic for a brief moment.

  Lucida, watching from the side, stayed silent for a long time. Her icy stare softened.

  “You have incredible potential, Riza,” she said quietly. “Even though you’re a demon… you have more strength and will than many warriors I’ve known.”

  Riza snapped her head toward her. Tears glimmered in her eyes, but her gaze was sharp as her spear.

  “This is because of you!” she breathed, steel ringing in her voice. “You’re the reason this is happening to him! You attacked him—rage blinded both of you! If you hadn’t started that fight, the seal wouldn’t have cracked!”

  Lucida went still. She looked down the road, and the shadow of the past—the same rage the girl spoke of—reflected in her eyes. She knew Riza was right. Anger at an old enemy had blinded her, making her forget that inside this body there was not only a monster, but a person.

  She smiled sadly, and the smile was strangely alive for a being who’d lived thousands of years.

  “I never thought,” Lucida let out a small, bitter chuckle, “that a little demon girl would scold me for losing restraint. You’re right, little one. We all made a mistake.”

  Elvindor rode up beside them, trying to ease the tension.

  “Don’t worry, Riza,” he said gently. “The capital is very close now. Mira will be waiting for him there. She’s a great healer—and his sister. She knows that seal better than anyone. She’ll heal him, you’ll see. Everything will be fine.”

  Riza sniffed and quickly wiped her tears with her fist. She touched my hair one last time, as if passing me what little calm she had left—then, with a powerful beat of her wings, she shot back into the sky. She didn’t want us to see her weakness.

  I kept sleeping—bound by magic and nightmares—but somewhere on the edge of my awareness, the warmth of her hand still lingered, keeping the Darkness from swallowing my heart completely.

  I came to beneath the vault of an enormous living tree. My whole body ached, and my wrists and ankles were bound again with elven ropes that bit into the bark itself. I was on my knees, my head heavy as lead.

  Mira stood above me. Her face was pale, and in her eyes was a mix of exhaustion and silent reproach.

  “You broke again, little brother,” she said softly, touching my hair. “I don’t even know what to do anymore. These seals… I poured all my strength into them so they would hold your darkness back, so it wouldn’t touch your feelings. And you shattered them again.”

  At that moment, Chaos stirred inside me. My eyes flared red; rage blinded me for a heartbeat. The ropes around my hands blazed with bright light, restraining a surge of mana. I jerked—then Mira quickly pressed her palm to my forehead.

  Her voice turned sing-song as she recited an ancient spell. The coolness of her magic poured into my mind, smothering the fire. The red in my eyes faded, and I sank into dreamless sleep.

  When I opened my eyes the second time, the ropes were gone. I lay on a soft bed of moss inside that same tree. Pushing the carved door open carefully, I stepped outside and squinted in the gentle forest light.

  We were in an elven settlement—houses here were part of the trees themselves, branches interwoven high above the ground.

  “Zenhald!” a bright shout rang out.

  Riza practically slammed into me, hugging so hard I almost fell back into the house. She trembled, face pressed to my shoulder. Arlis came up next.

  “You frightened us again,” he said with a half-smile. “But we’re glad to see you in your right mind. Seems it wasn’t for nothing we carry those ropes on every expedition—they’ve become a required part of your gear by now.”

  Soon the others came out as well. Lucida watched me with open suspicion; Elvindor with relief. Mira came last. Her eyes were red from tears, and when she saw me, clear drops rolled down her cheeks again.

  “Mira, why are you crying?” I asked, stepping closer.

  “Nothing…” she turned away quickly, wiping her face with her sleeve. “It’s just… it was a hard day.”

  That evening my sister and I walked through the woods. The rustle of leaves and distant birdsong should’ve been calming, but the tension between us was sharp enough to cut.

  “Listen, little brother,” Mira suddenly said, stopping by an old oak. “Didn’t you teach your student that eavesdropping is bad?”

  She gave a pointed look into the thick brush. The bushes rustled, and Riza stepped out with a guilty face.

  “How did you even notice me?!” she blurted, adjusting her cloak.

  Mira laughed softly—though the old joy wasn’t in it. “It’s fine, Riza. You can come with us.”

  But a minute later the laughter vanished. Tears began to run down my sister’s cheeks again. I stopped and took her hands.

  “Mira—what is it? Tell me.”

  “I… I just don’t know what to do, Zenhald,” she said haltingly, staring at the ground. “My seal… it keeps cracking. Every time you overdo it with mana, it shatters. I don’t know how to rid you of that darkness. That power… it’s slowly killing you.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t feel anything,” I argued.

  Mira looked straight into my eyes, and the pain there made my skin crawl.

  “It’s destroying you from the inside, Zenhald. When you’re yourself, you’re you. But every time you lose control and fall into that madness, you lose a piece of your soul. Your human ‘you’ gets erased. You’re slowly disappearing—making room for the monster you once were.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  I froze. “How… lose a piece of myself?”

  Mira hugged me, burying her face against my chest, and sobbed out loud.

  “Zenhald, they call me the strongest mage. I can heal any wound—but I can’t stop this! I don’t know how to save you… But I’ll search. I swear to you, I’ll find a way for you to stay yourself.”

  Riza stood nearby, her eyes full of fear too.

  “He… he’ll live, right?” she asked quietly.

  Mira pulled back, took a deep breath, and forced a sharp smile—the same encouraging smile she always gave me when we were kids. She turned to Riza.

  “Of course he will! Where would he go? So you’re my hopeless little brother’s student, huh?” Mira narrowed her eyes mischievously. “Tell me—did Zenhald ever tell you about our special training method?”

  Riza wiped a tear and shook her head. “No…”

  “Come on, I’ll show you!” Mira brightened, trying to chase away the dark thoughts. “It’s called: Flip, Find, Strike.”

  Mira pulled her massive spellbook from her belt. She flipped pages fast, then slapped her palm down in the middle of the tome.

  “Alright… let’s see… aha! Flame Tongue Strike!”

  In the same instant she snapped her hand forward, and a long, whip-like stream of flame lashed out, slicing a dry branch off a nearby tree.

  “Whoa…” Riza breathed, curiosity lighting her eyes.

  “Now you!” Mira handed her the book. “It’s a great way to train reaction and intuition. Flip it, Riza!”

  I stood off to the side, watching. Seeing Mira laugh as she explained fire control to Riza, I couldn’t help remembering how years ago she trained young elves the exact same way in our garden. For a moment it felt like no seal existed—no darkness, no Demon King.

  There was only us.

  Night in the elven village was quiet, filled with the scent of damp pine needles. We gathered around the roots of the Great Tree, lit a fire, and finally just ate—without thinking about chases or seals.

  Lucida began to speak. Her voice, low and singing, carried us back to a time when the world was a blank page, and the Father had not yet turned away from his children. She spoke of Light, Darkness, and her brothers.

  We listened, holding our breath—Riza with wide eyes, Mira thoughtfully rubbing her fingers together, even Elvindor frozen, afraid to miss a single word of that “living fairy tale.”

  When the fire began to die down and everyone started to drift away, I stood to go to my tree.

  But Lucida blocked my path. She said nothing—just reached out and slowly, carefully, began stroking my head.

  My body betrayed me instantly. I went still. All the stress, rage, and exhaustion of the day melted away. I sank to my knees in the soft grass, letting her continue.

  “I know only one creature who loved this kind of affection just as much,” Lucida said softly. Her fingers scratched behind my ear with practiced ease, and I could practically hear my own purr. “My little brother.”

  She paused, and her gaze turned piercing—like she was looking straight through me, beyond flesh and bone, into the core.

  “There’s a strange mixture in you, Zenhald,” she whispered. “I feel echoes of my brothers’ power in your mana. Zariil’s cold. Ignis’s rage. Krav’s emptiness… It’s impossible. But it’s there. How do you carry the legacy of Archangels?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly, eyes squeezed shut from the pleasure. “I just… I’m just me.”

  Lucida laughed quietly. Her laugh wasn’t sharp or cruel anymore—there was an ancient tenderness in it, old as the world itself.

  Morning seeped through the carved shutters of the Great Tree in golden threads. I felt strangely light, as if yesterday’s darkness had been just a bad dream. A familiar, gentle touch in my hair made me close my eyes with contentment.

  “Happy birthday, little brother,” Mira whispered, still softly scratching the back of my head. “You’re twelve now. Almost grown up… by human standards.”

  “Hm? What day is it…?” I stretched lazily, sinking into the pleasant calm. “Right. Twelve. I’m ancient.”

  I buried my face in the soft pillow, not wanting to break the moment. Mira’s warmth had always been my strongest anchor, and right now I simply enjoyed being myself—me, not that mad storm of rage.

  “Alright, enough lounging,” Mira flicked my nose lightly. “Get up, or you’ll sleep through your whole birthday. Someone’s waiting for you outside.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m up…” I grumbled, peeling myself off the bed.

  I opened the heavy door and froze on the threshold. My eyes widened.

  On the broad terrace wrapped around the Tree’s trunk—and on the lower levels—an enormous crowd had gathered. These weren’t random villagers. It was the entire history of our forest town.

  Arlis stood at the front, our loyal scout. He’d grown up; there was the wisdom of a spymaster in his eyes, but the moment he saw me, he broke into a boyish grin. Beside him stood Celia, whose plant magic now made everything bloom, and Feris, sturdy as an oak.

  I saw them all: Sova the quiet rune genius, mischievous Tyriel who never seemed able to stand still, and Lienna, now a great healer. White Wolf and Gray Shadow stood a little apart like eternal guards, but even on their stern faces I saw a shadow of pride.

  There were those who came later too: Ellian, Reynar, the old sage Vestir. And tiny third-generation elves—Liri?l and Arenis—who stared at me with awe, like I was a living legend from their stories.

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ZENHALD!” a thunderous chorus shook the leaves of the Great Tree.

  Behind me, Riza rushed up, radiant with happiness, and Elvindor, unusually solemn. Even Lucida stood nearby, leaning against the trunk—and in her normally cold eyes, little sparks of laughter danced today.

  “Didn’t expect you to have such an… army of admirers,” she snorted.

  “Me neither,” I murmured, feeling a lump rise in my throat. “So many old faces…”

  They led us to a huge table carved from a fallen ancient tree. It overflowed with treats: sweet elven sugar, Lienna’s best salves (in case we broke something again), fresh bread, and mountains of forest berries. A feast began like the forest hadn’t seen since the first victory over demons.

  Elves came up one by one, remembering our old training. Arlis showed new maps, and Sova bragged about runes he’d improved using my old notes.

  I sat at the head of the table, and beside me Mira and Riza kept piling food onto my plate. And in that moment, looking at the faces of those I’d protected and taught, I understood: the seal might crack, and the world might be full of horror—but days like this were worth fighting for, for every moment of my twelve-year life.

  The feast was in full swing, the air vibrating with laughter and old stories. It was one of those rare moments when the past didn’t feel like a heavy burden—it became a warm blanket that covered us all.

  General Reim, speaking with clipped words but unmistakable warmth, recalled his “first days.”

  “And to think I was once just a wooden toy,” he rumbled, adjusting his massive armor. “Zenhald simply breathed life into me. At first I was his amusement—and then… then I became a soldier. Who would’ve thought a child’s prank would grow into an entire army?”

  Mira joined in, eyeing me slyly. “And I remember how, at three years old, he made spoons levitate over his bowl when he didn’t want to eat porridge. I thought we had a very picky ghost living in our house. And his ‘living toys’… they kept stealing my hairpins.”

  The elves of the Branch Council interrupted each other, remembering how I pulled them out of captivity, how we built the first houses together, how Mira taught them not to fear humans. Their stories poured like a river—each one a piece of the foundation on which this town stood.

  Finally, when a small pause came, Arlis and Sova stepped forward. In their hands they carried a small casket made of silvery maple wood.

  “We thought for a long time, Zenhald,” Sova began, head of economy. “We didn’t know what to give a being… a human… who seems to have everything—or who can create anything himself.”

  Money… money would be perfect, a cynical thought flickered through my mind, but I pushed it away when I saw their sincere faces.

  “It’s a Ring of Memories,” Arlis said, opening the casket. “An ancient artifact we found in some ruins. It’s empty, but it can be filled. Pour your brightest emotions into it, and in your darkest hour—if you activate it—they will return to you, giving you strength to keep going.”

  I took the cold metal ring. In the same instant I closed my eyes and sent a stream of mana into it, mixed with the warmth I felt right now: Riza’s laughter, Mira’s joyful tears, the elves’ respect. The ring flashed with golden light for a moment and grew warm, sealing this happy moment forever.

  When the sun began to lean toward the horizon, painting the sky in heavy shades of crimson and gold, Mira and I climbed onto the highest branch of the Great Tree. Down below, the celebration still hummed, but up here there was only wind.

  “Time flies too fast,” I whispered, watching the sunset. “I’m twelve already. You’re fourteen… In a year you’ll finish the Academy and become a full mage.”

  I looked at my palms—small, childish hands.

  “How fast I’m aging.”

  I remembered the warmth of our parents in our estate—their smiles now impossibly far away. I remembered the elven Academy I arrived at when I was tiny. Everything flashed past like a bright kaleidoscope.

  Inside me lived a soul that had seen ages. I thought about how some of the elves down there would live thousands of years. Lucida—she was practically eternity itself.

  And me?

  My body had only a few decades, if I was lucky. For eternity, twelve years was one breath. But for me, right now—it was a whole life.

  Mira leaned her head on my shoulder. “Don’t think about eternity, little brother. Look at the sunset. It’s beautiful precisely because it doesn’t last long.”

  I closed my eyes, squeezing the Ring of Memories in my pocket.

  We were a spark in the darkness of space—yet tonight, we burned brighter than all the stars.