Several hours later, the grand silence of Pungence’s living room was broken only by the ragged sound of Ziraiah’s sobs. She lay curled on the floor, a small, broken figure in the vast space, her grief a tangible weight in the air.

  Eryndor stood over her for a long moment, his own sorrow a cold, still thing locked behind his eyes. He did not offer a hand to lift her up. Instead, he slowly sat on the floor beside her, crossing his legs.

  “Do as I do, Ziraiah,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

  He closed his eyes. A subtle shift occurred in the atmosphere as mana began to stir around him, coalescing into a visible, shimmering aura. He was activating Endor’s Flow.

  Ziraiah’s crying softened. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, leaving smudges of salt and sorrow. Pushing herself up, she mirrored his posture, crossing her legs and closing her swollen eyes. A moment later, a second, flickering aura of mana ignited around her, synchronizing with her brother’s rhythm.

  “Match my output,” Eryndor instructed.

  The energy in the room intensified. The gentle circulation of mana became a violent, swirling vortex, whipping at their hair and clothes. Beads of sweat formed on their brows, tracing paths through the grime of battle and grief.

  “Just like any muscle, the core grows stronger with exhaustion and repair,” Eryndor explained, his voice a steady anchor in the storm they were conjuring. “This is the path every mage walks to increase their capacity. Our capacity was extraordinarily large from the very first day we awakened. Until recently, we never ran out of mana, never truly exhausted our cores. So, they never had a reason to grow.” He opened his eyes, their green intensity boring into her. “How long can you maintain Endor’s Flow at maximum output?”

  “I… I don’t know,” Ziraiah admitted, her voice strained.

  “Now we will find out. We will maintain it until our cores are exhausted… and in doing so, we will grow stronger.”

  After only five minutes, a thin trickle of blood escaped Ziraiah’s nose. The first sign of mana strain. A sharp, tearing sensation lanced through her core, and she gasped. “Ah!”

  “Endure it,” Eryndor commanded, his own composure unflinching. He snapped his fingers, and with a soft chime of glass, dozens of healing elixirs materialized in the air around them, hovering like a constellation of hope. A moment later, a matching rivulet of blood traced its way from his own nostril.

  “Valerius has most certainly been taken,” Eryndor continued, his voice hardening. “Whoever overpowered him was formidable. If we are to retrieve him, we cannot remain as we are. We could be marching into the enemy’s den. You saw what happened on Plunder Island—how we were rendered powerless by a single man. If my intuition serves me right, his abductors are of that caliber.”

  Now, blood began to seep from the corners of their eyes, mingling with their sweat like crimson tears. The pressure within them was immense.

  “I feel your sorrow, Ziraiah. Your anguish,” Eryndor said, his voice softening for the first time. “We have lost too much today. Though we cannot bring back the dead, let us do everything in our power to retrieve our brother.”

  With a trembling hand, Ziraiah stretched out her fingers. One of the floating elixirs shot into her grasp. She drank it in one desperate gulp, feeling the tear sensation in her core instantly mend, the bleeding ceasing. Eryndor did the same, his movements precise and controlled.

  And without another word, they began again.

  “We will not stop until the day of the funeral,” Eryndor stated, the declaration final. “Will you see this through, Ziraiah?”

  She met his gaze, her eyes, though bloodshot, now blazing with a fiery resolve that had burned away the helpless tears.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice clear and strong. “Yes, I will.”

  The only sounds in the room were the low hum of their circulating mana and the ragged pull of their breath. The air itself seemed to thrum with the power they were forcing through their straining cores.

  In a lull between waves of exertion, Ziraiah’s voice, thin and frayed, cut through the silence.

  “You’re not speaking like your usual self.”

  Eryndor’s eyes remained closed, his face a mask of concentration, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Because I am not my usual self,” he replied, his voice hollow, stripped of its customary elegance and poise.

  Ziraiah opened her eyes, her gaze softening as she studied her brother’s profile. The rigid set of his shoulders, the faint tremor in his hands—he was a statue on the verge of cracking. Poor Eryndor, she thought, her heart aching with a fresh wave of sorrow. He’s broken, but he doesn’t want to show it. He’s carrying the guilt of losing Mercy, the shame of not being able to save me…

  A single, warm tear escaped, tracing a clean path through the dried blood and sweat on her cheek. As it fell, it triggered a memory, bright and vivid as a summer sun.

  She was five years old, hiding behind a tree, sniffling after a squabble with Valerius. Footsteps approached, and there was ten-year-old Eryndor—but not the calm, composed brother she would come to know. This Eryndor had a wide, easy smile that reached his sparkling green eyes. He knelt before her, his voice full of boyish bravado.

  “Don’t worry, Ziraiah,” he said, taking her small hand in his. “You can always count on me. If Val bullies you again, you come and tell me, okay? I’ll go teach him a lesson!”

  The memory faded, leaving behind the ghost of that smile and the echo of a promise made in a simpler time. A true, gentle smile touched Ziraiah’s lips—the first in what felt like an eternity.

  In that moment of clarity and love, the mana around her, which had been wavering with her emotional turmoil, suddenly surged. It grew brighter, steadier, and more potent, as if fueled not by strain, but by resolve. She closed her eyes again, and together, the siblings continued their silent, painful vigil.

  And so they continued, seated in the same spot, two figures forging their grief into strength as the sun set and rose again outside the windows. They did not move for three days.

  ---

  Three days passed.

  Three days of smoke, silence, and mourning.

  The rain had not stopped since Heful fell. It was as if the heavens themselves could not forgive what had been done.

  The funeral was held in the royal courtyard of Zitry. The sky was gray and heavy, weighed down by clouds that pressed low over the city. A thousand black umbrellas dotted the marble terraces, and banners of mourning hung from every tower — white for the civilians, black for the fallen royals, and gold for the heroes who never returned.

  The air was cold — the kind of cold that seeps into the bones and makes grief feel heavier.

  Eryndor and Ziraiah stood side by side in the front row. Both were dressed in black, faces pale and hollow. They hadn’t spoken much since that night — not because there was nothing to say, but because no words could reach the depth of what they’d lost.

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  Before them lay rows of caskets draped in silk — King Juval, Andrea, Mercy, Sierra, David, and hundreds of others. The names of nobles, soldiers, and citizens filled the courtyard like a dirge carved into stone.

  At the far end stood Pungence. His coat was soaked through, his hair clinging to his face. When he stepped up to the podium, the murmurs died away. Even the rain seemed to hesitate.

  He looked out at the crowd, then down at his trembling hands.

  “I have lived a long time,” he began softly, his voice raw but steady. “Long enough to know that no kingdom, no fortress, no man… is truly unbreakable.”

  He paused, his gaze distant. “And yet… every time I looked at Heful, I thought — this city will stand forever. Because its people were brave. Because its king was wise. Because its children believed in tomorrow. Because… I was here.”

  His eyes lifted toward the mourners, rain streaking down his cheeks like tears. “But I was wrong.”

  A ripple of silence spread through the courtyard.

  “I was wrong,” Pungence said again, louder this time. “Because courage alone isn’t enough to stop fate. Because even strength has limits. And because I — who swore to protect you all — failed.”

  He bowed his head, his voice breaking.

  “I failed King Juval. I failed Andrea. I failed every soul who trusted me with their lives. The royals who came here seeking peace, the nobles who came to celebrate, the families who came to see their loved ones — I failed them all. I betrayed their trust… and because of that, you lost your mothers, your fathers, your children. So many taken before their time.”

  The silence that followed was unbearable — only the soft patter of rain filled the space between hearts.

  “But hear me now,” he said, raising his head, voice trembling but resolute. “Their deaths will not be forgotten. Their names will not fade. For every drop of blood spilled that night, a seed of resolve will grow in those of us who remain. We will rebuild Heful — not as it was, but stronger. Kinder. Wiser.”

  His tone softened, heavy with sorrow and sincerity.

  “To those who lost someone they loved — you are not alone. I carry your grief, as I carry my own. And though I could not protect them… I give you my word...”

  He turned, meeting Eryndor and Ziraiah’s eyes.

  “…So long as I stand, no evil shall befall you.”

  His words trembled at the edge of tears. “So let us honor them not with despair, but with defiance. Let us live in a way that would make them proud. That… is how we repay the dead.”

  When he finished, the courtyard was utterly still.

  Then, one by one, the mourners bowed their heads.

  Ziraiah closed her eyes.

  Eryndor didn’t move — but his fists clenched until his knuckles turned white.

  The bells tolled — slow, deep, final.

  The coffins were lowered into the earth.

  And as the last echo faded into the rain, the city seemed to hold its breath —

  as if even the world was mourning with them.

  Elsewhere — in a cold, dimly lit room.

  A wall of screens flickered with static and fractured light.

  Images of Heful — before and after — looped endlessly. Glorious towers. Bright skies. Then fire, ash, and ruin.

  A man sat before them, silent except for the rhythmic clatter of his keys. His fingers moved fast but precise, the pattern deliberate — mechanical yet human.

  Across the main screen, the title appeared in stark white text:

  > THE FALL OF HEFUL

  By The Camera Man — The Omniscient Watcher

  His desk was buried in photographs.

  The cracked dome of the once-proud city.

  Streets turned to rivers of molten stone.

  Bodies half-buried in rubble and dust.

  And one haunting image — Eryndor, kneeling in the rain, surrounded by silence.

  The glow from the monitors reflected faintly across his blue mask. He reached for a recorder and pressed play.

  The audio crackled to life. Through the static came a voice — heavy, sorrowful, echoing faintly through the hum of machines:

  > “Their names will not be erased…”

  It was Pungence’s speech — broadcast across the world.

  The Camera Man kept typing as he listened.

  Each keystroke fell like a heartbeat — steady, weighted, final.

  He wrote what the speech did not say.

  > The city fell within ten minutes.

  Three hundred million dead.

  Seventy-eight million survived — protected by an unknown phenomenon described as translucent spheres.

  The cause of the destruction remains uncertain. Witnesses report a confrontation between multiple entities — among them King Juval and a Dragoon. The Dragoon vanished after the event.

  One man stood against an army — an Elvhein. Omfry was defeated. Dreados was slain by Princess Eliana. Princes Zelion was captured after Omfry killed King Juval. Richard of the Orken Unbound was last seen engaged in a lethal battle with an unidentified man. Princess Eliana pursued him through a portal and vanished.

  All of this began because Pungence — the world’s strongest man — was trapped in another dimension for ten minutes. Ten minutes in which a world burned.

  Photographs of the chaos surrounded him.

  Valerius versus Richard.

  Eryndor’s desperate stand against the army.

  Ziraiah’s battle with Omfry.

  Eliana against Dreados.

  And finally — a blinding image of Lorde and Richard colliding midair, light and crimson swallowing the sky.

  It was as though the camera itself had been there — standing beside them, recording the end of a kingdom.

  The Camera Man leaned back, rapping his knuckles softly against his mask.

  On one of the screens, the aerial footage replayed — the heart of Heful, now a crater. The city that once gleamed with vitality was nothing more than a scar carved into the world.

  Through the static, Pungence’s final words echoed once more:

  > “We will rebuild Heful…”

  The Camera Man stared at the screen, the light flickering across his expressionless mask. His voice came out low, almost human beneath the metal.

  He pressed a single key.

  The lights dimmed. The upload began.

  > Archive Entry 2124 — The Fall of Heful.

  As the file sealed itself, every monitor in the room froze on the same image —

  the endless crater where Heful once stood.

  A silent monument to loss.

  And a reminder that even gods can bleed.

  Then the printers in the corner whirred to life.

  Sheets of fresh paper slid out one by one — crisp, white, and damning.

  Headlines blazed across them in bold black ink:

  THE FALL OF HEFUL — A CITY ERASED IN TEN MINUTES.

  The Camera Man didn’t move at first. He simply watched as the pages piled higher, the sound of printing filling the cold room like rain on steel.

  Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under him. He crossed one leg over the other, hands resting behind his head.

  The screens still glowed — images of ruin reflected across his mask.

  He exhaled softly through the filters and said to no one,

  “Truth always prints itself.”

  To Be Continued...