Hyura lay awake on his straw mattress, his feet braced against the cold stone wall. His steel-gray eyes stared into nothingness, wondering how much longer he could pretend that tomorrow did not matter.

  The ceiling of living rock stretched above him—motionless, indifferent—as if silently observing his unrest.

  Breathing felt wrong that night. Each inhale seemed to falter halfway, trapped in a chest that refused to find rest.

  He rose without overthinking it.

  The gray tunic fell over his body as he stood, wrinkled and worn from use. It was light—little more than rough cloth—offering no protection from the constant chill of stone.

  The tunnel floor was cold beneath his bare feet when he stepped into the main corridor. Around him, magical stones hovered in the gloom, casting a dim blue glow that failed to fully chase away the shadows.

  He moved through passageways carved by generations of miners—irregular corridors that bore the weight of the city without ever receiving its gratitude. From behind wooden doors came the muted sounds of night: deep snores, hushed murmurs, the faint clink of metal utensils in the hands of those who could not sleep. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and minerals, a harsh smell that clung stubbornly to the skin.

  At the end of one corridor, the light changed. It grew brighter, sharper. Wind rushed in from that direction—cold and clean—carrying with it a distant echo of the outside world. One of the few places where the tunnels opened to the sky.

  Hyura could not approach too closely. A guard stood watch day and night beside the barrier, upright and unwavering, as though the world above feared the tunnel dwellers might flee en masse.

  The thought struck him as absurd.

  Where would they go?

  He stopped at a prudent distance, watching the faint hum of the barrier separating him from the open air.

  He never sought to get closer. It was enough to stand there for a few moments, trying to guess where the island drifted at that hour. Sometimes he wondered what those below thought when they looked up and saw that colossal mass of stone and earth gliding across the heavens—unaware of the lives crowded within it.

  That night’s guard was an older man, one who seemed to have spent more years standing than resting. His white armor still gleamed, though not flawlessly; the metal bore small marks—remnants of winters that had not been kind. A white-and-gold halberd rested firmly at his side.

  When Hyura approached, his gaze did not go to the weapon or the barrier.

  It went to the wings.

  White. Vast. Folded behind the guard’s back, extending from the armor like something too large for the narrow exit. They filled the space almost entirely.

  The Lynhe did not move from his post. He was part of the barrier itself. No words were needed to understand that beyond him, there was no place for Hyura.

  The guard sensed him before Hyura spoke. He turned his head slightly—just enough to show he was aware.

  “It’s not the hour for wandering,” he said without looking directly at him.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Hyura replied. “I just needed some air.”

  The Lynhe looked him over then. His eyes lingered a fraction too long on Hyura’s back.

  “The Trial is close,” the guard said. “At your age, sleepless nights are no surprise.”

  Hyura nodded, jaw tightening.

  “Don’t step any closer,” the guard added.

  “Can’t I… just look for a moment?” Hyura tested him.

  The man took his time answering—not out of doubt, but because he was measuring how much he could allow.

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  “From there,” he said at last, pointing to a mark on the ground. “Not a step beyond. The barrier does not distinguish intentions.”

  Hyura moved to the indicated limit. As he did, the magical barrier reacted strangely—a subtle flicker in the invisible pressure holding back the air. The guard frowned. In all his years, he had never seen a barrier falter that way.

  His eyes followed the shimmer… and then drifted, almost unwillingly, back to Hyura’s back.

  The Lynhe looked away, as though rejecting a thought.

  “Where are we?” Hyura asked, breaking the silence.

  “Forest,” the guard replied. “Dense. You wouldn’t see the ground even if the sky were clear.”

  He hesitated before adding, quieter:

  “It won’t be long before we pass over Korathia.”

  He did not look at Hyura when he said it. His wings tensed briefly, as if the thought itself unsettled him.

  Hyura said nothing. He simply stared outward, imagining the forest stretching endlessly below.

  After a while, he felt the guard’s discomfort. It was not new. He was used to provoking it. Every so often, the man’s gaze drifted toward his back—brief, searching—expecting to find something that was not there.

  Hyura lowered his eyes. He wondered, not for the first time, how easy it would be to go unnoticed, to stop provoking stares and awkward silences.

  The thought was as useless as ever. He let it go with a tired sigh.

  He turned back after a cold farewell.

  He had not gone more than a few steps when the first magical stone went dark.

  Then another.

  And another.

  The blue light retreated from the tunnel like a withdrawing tide. With each step, the air grew heavier, denser. A strange cold slipped beneath his tunic, sliding along his skin as though searching for something. Every external sound vanished, as if the tunnel itself had held its breath.

  Hyura stopped.

  It was not fear that froze him.

  It was something deeper.

  A sudden pressure crushed his chest, as though the air had decided not to enter his lungs again. His heart pounded unevenly, sweat dampening his palms.

  He tried to move.

  He couldn’t.

  Darkness closed around him—not as the absence of light, but as a presence.

  Something was there.

  He felt it at his back, too close, weighing down the air with invisible gravity.

  Then he heard it.

  Not a voice carried through the tunnel.

  A voice inside his mind.

  Hyura.

  His name echoed within him with unnatural clarity.

  Let me out.

  You know we are not accepted.

  You are different… and they never let you forget it.

  In every stare.

  In every silence.

  Let us end this.

  Free me.

  Sooner or later I will find the strength to escape.

  And when I do, none of this will matter.

  You cannot hold the Fallen God forever, Hyura.

  FREE ME.

  The word lingered in his thoughts, repeating again and again like an echo that could not fade.

  One of the remaining stones flickered, and for an instant Hyura thought he saw a silhouette reflected on the wall.

  His pupils dilated. His skin prickled.

  When he turned, nothing was there.

  The light returned abruptly, as if the darkness had never existed. Hyura gasped, drenched in sweat. He remained still for several moments before forcing himself forward, steps unsteady, trying to convince himself the tunnel was once again nothing but stone and silence.

  Nothing had happened.

  It had to be that.

  He turned into one of the narrower corridors and jolted when he saw a figure standing before him.

  Vaenia.

  Barefoot. Hair tousled. Rubbing sleep from her eyes.

  “I woke up and you weren’t there,” she murmured. “I went looking for you.”

  Hyura needed a moment before meeting her gaze. Then he forced his shoulders to relax.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Thinking about tomorrow.”

  She looked at him with quiet tenderness. No reproach. Only understanding.

  “Me neither,” she admitted. “I got up to talk to you. I thought maybe we could calm each other down. But when I saw you weren’t there…”

  “Sorry. I didn’t want to wake you,” he said, lowering his eyes. “Now we’ll both be exhausted for the Trials.”

  She gave a soft laugh.

  “I’d rather be a little tired and a little calmer. If it helps you too, even better.”

  A pause.

  “Where did you go?”

  Hyura hesitated.

  “To one of the lower openings,” he said at last. “Where the tunnels open to the outside. Within what’s allowed.”

  Vaenia frowned slightly. She knew he went there to think—but rarely that far down.

  “Did it help?”

  He thought of the barrier. Of the living darkness. Of the voice that had cut into his mind like a blade.

  For a moment, he almost told her everything.

  But the mere thought of speaking it tightened his jaw.

  “The guard said we’ll be passing over Korathia soon,” he said instead. “He didn’t sound pleased.”

  She crossed her arms, sighing.

  “You know how the adults are about that. The island hasn’t flown that close in centuries. And history says it never ends well.”

  Hyura nodded.

  Then he noticed it—a faint tremor in her small folded wings.

  The same tension he had seen in the guard.

  They returned together to the cave-house in silence. Hyura lay back on his straw bed, body tense, heart still pounding.

  The Fallen God…

  The name did not fully surface. Only a half-remembered certainty from old lessons—something defeated, something that should never return.

  He turned onto his side and shut his eyes tightly.

  He would say nothing.

  Not yet.

  Sleep came late.

  And it brought no rest.

  He dreamed of impossible light—and darkness devouring it.

  He saw no gods.

  Only the impact.

  The same crushing weight he had felt in the tunnel.

  Then the light exploded—

  —and within it, the memory he could never erase:

  Blood on his hands.

  Vaenia’s father leaning over him.

  “Wake up.”