A withering flower at devil's mercy

The tunnel loomed before them—a cathedral of stone carved into the mountain's depths, its entrance an immense, gaping maw that seemed to breathe. This was no ordinary passageway. A force lingered there, unseen but undeniable, pressing against the air like the weight of a thousand unspoken prayers.

Leila stood among the Amanécerians as they bowed their heads in reverence, murmuring sacred verses. She mimicked their gestures, though her own whispers were not of devotion but of desperate pleading. She prayed for mercy, for passage, for deliverance.

A flicker in the air caught her attention. A shimmer, like moonlight brushing against a veil of silk, rippled across the entrance. Then, as if granting silent permission, the unseen barrier faded.

The procession stirred. Step by step, they crossed into the mountain's embrace. More evacuees emerged from the winding pathways behind them—hollow-eyed, weary, but determined. Relief swelled in Leila's chest. They had made it. They were safe.

Or so she thought.

The tunnel widened, revealing a sight that stole her breath.

A vast, hidden city stretched before her, carved into the very bones of the mountain. It was a place untouched by war, unspoiled by the ruin they had fled. Colossal stone pillars, hewn from the rock itself, lined the cavernous expanse, their sheer size lending the illusion that they bore the weight of the mountain above. Towering statues stood in silent vigil—guardians of a forgotten era. Some radiated wisdom, their sculpted faces serene, while others exuded unyielding power, their expressions fierce and commanding. Though still as stone, their eyes seemed to follow every weary traveler, watching, judging.

Yet, for all its grandeur, the city was far from tranquil.

The wounded lay in scattered clusters, their low groans filling the air. Mothers cradled starving children, their bodies fragile as withered reeds. Some prayed, whispering to gods who had long since abandoned them. Others simply stared ahead, hollowed out by grief too deep for words. Healers and clerics rushed between them, their robes stained with the evidence of ceaseless work. The scent of medicinal herbs barely masked the sharper notes of blood and decay.

The wagon carrying Leila jerked to a stop before an immense structure of gleaming white marble.

"Let's go."

Octavius dismounted first, then turned, offering his only arm to help her down.

Leila hesitated. The weight of unfamiliarity pressed against her chest. She was a stranger in this place, alone but for the child in her arms—a child she wasn't sure she could protect.

Eyes turned toward her. Some curious. Some wary. But most too burdened by their own suffering to linger. Even so, she instinctively tightened her grip on the infant, pulling the fabric of her shawl higher to conceal its delicate features.

Then she looked down.

Her breath caught.

Two blood-red eyes—Draco's eyes—stared back at her.

A violent tremor seized her hands. Memories surged, raw and suffocating. The monster who had haunted her days and nights, the one who had carved wounds into her soul—his blood ran in this child's veins.

Her grip tightened. The shawl shifted—

A firm hand closed around her wrist.

"Leila."

Octavius's voice was steady, grounding.

She gasped, vision swimming. The cold tide of realization washed over her, and slowly, hesitantly, she loosened her hold. The weight of her fear receded—but not entirely.

Wordlessly, she followed as they ascended the temple steps. Each step was heavier than the last. Exhaustion clawed at her limbs, dragging her down. Her breath came in shallow gasps.

Octavius sighed. Then, without warning, he lifted her into his arm and carried her effortlessly.

"Try not to make it obvious you're not from here," he murmured.

Heat rushed to her cheeks, but she said nothing, only nodded and kept her head low.

Inside, suffering reigned.

The temple was no place of peace. It was a battlefield of the wounded. The air reeked of charred flesh, drying blood, and the acrid bite of medicinal tinctures. Agonized cries echoed off the stone walls, punctuated by frantic orders shouted over the chaos.

A scream cut through the din.

Leila turned.

A man thrashed violently, his face twisted in a mask of pure agony. Several attendants struggled to restrain him.

A surgeon loomed over him, face impassive, scalpel poised. The man's leg—swollen, blackened with infection—was beyond saving.

The blade came down.

Leila recoiled. Her stomach lurched.

Before she could react further, a heavy cloak swept around her, shielding her from the sight.

"Don't look," Octavius murmured.

His tone was not unkind. Just knowing.

She swallowed hard and pressed forward, following him deeper into the temple. The wounded stretched in endless rows. This was no mere place of healing—it was a lifeline, the final refuge for those who had nowhere else to go.

At the far end of the temple, a stable boy waited.

Octavius reached into his pouch and placed a gold coin into the boy's palm. "A pegasus," he said.

The boy nodded and disappeared into the stables. Moments later, he returned, leading a creature of pure majesty.

Leila's breath hitched.

The pegasus shimmered in the dim light, its sleek coat catching the glow of the temple's torches. But it was the wings—massive, powerful, folded neatly against its sides—that truly held her captive.

A horse that could fly.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, awe eclipsed her fear.

Octavius mounted effortlessly before pulling her up behind him.

"Hold on tight," he instructed.

She obeyed, clutching him as the pegasus neighed, wings spreading wide.

Then they were airborne.

The city fell away beneath them. The wind tore at her shawl, biting through her exhaustion. For the first time, she saw the world from above—its vastness, its fragility. Mountains stretched endlessly, their peaks clawing at the sky.

They soared past towering structures built into the cliffs, climbing higher, higher, until they reached the highest peak.

A fortress loomed before them, carved seamlessly into the mountain itself.

The guards at the gate braced for their arrival.

"Halt!" one demanded, stepping forward. "State your purpose."

Then his eyes widened in recognition.

"Open the gates!" he called.

The heavy doors groaned as they swung open.

Octavius dismounted swiftly. "Come," he said, offering Leila his hand.

She followed, eyes darting over the grandeur of the palace carved from stone. The weight of history pressed down on her, its echoes in every pillar, every archway.

Then, movement in the garden caught Octavius's eye.

A woman stood there, wiping tears from her face.

He froze. His breath hitched.

"Mother?"

The word barely left his lips before he was moving.

"Mother!"

Aurora turned, as if afraid to believe what her ears had heard.

Then her breath caught.

Octavius stood before her, alive. Whole.

A sob broke from her throat as he rushed forward, enveloping her in his embrace.

She trembled, gripping him as if he might vanish. Tears streamed freely now, her disbelief crumbling under the weight of joy.

Leila stood apart, watching.

For all the pain and chaos they had endured, for all the darkness yet to come—this moment was untouched.

A moment of homecoming.

A moment of hope.