Supreme Hunter of Beautiful Souls

While Kael dealt with the living world... his girls were... on the edge of their own futures...

[With Irelia...]

The sound came before the pain.

Screams. Metallic. Human. Inhuman.

Then the smell—burnt iron, charred flesh, the sweet sourness of recent death. And finally, the pain: a dull ache in her shoulders, as if the weight of the world were being carried on steel plates attached to her body.

Irelia opened her eyes.

The sky above her was red, but not from the sunset. Red with fire. With floating ashes and clouds torn by invisible claws. The wind howled like a lost child, and each gust brought with it the memory of battles she didn't remember fighting.

She was lying on her side, half buried in mud blackened with blood and soot. As she tried to get up, she felt the creaking of her armor—not just the plates and straps, but her own flesh trying to remember how to exist.

Her body was taller, stronger. Muscles shaped by constant practice, scars scattered across her forearms and collarbone. The hand she reached out to the ground was hers—but not really. Her nails were worn, calloused. Her fingers trembled slightly. Too much experience, too much time.

She was 22 years old.

But she had not lived any of the days that separated her childhood from that moment.

Irelia sat up. She took a deep breath. She coughed up soot. And only then did she see the field in front of her.

It was a valley. Or at least it had been one. Now it was an irregular crater dotted with bodies, broken banners, and fleeting shadows. Some soldiers were still fighting—but they were distant visions, like moving paintings, painted with brushstrokes of agony.

And then she saw it.

Among the piles of bodies, there was a name carved into the bloodstained stones with living runes: "Kael." Not as a hero. Not as a victim. But as a commander.

Irelia's mind spun, trying to understand. Her heart screamed questions, but her mouth remained closed. Every muscle seemed to know what to do. Her feet moved with discipline. She rose like a warrior—even though she had never trained to be one. She recognized herself and did not recognize herself.

A sharp noise to her left.

She turned, instinctively pulling the sheathed sword from her back—a sword she had never seen before, but which fit perfectly in her hand. The blade seemed to vibrate at her touch, recognizing her as its owner.

Before her stood a shapeless creature, made of solid mist and flaming eyes. It was not real. It was not matter. It was an echo, a reverberation of the world that existed inside the mirror. But it was lethal.

Irelia did not hesitate.

She screamed—a hoarse, ancient scream—and lunged at the creature with a fury that was not hers, but that lived in her muscles. The fight was brief. Brutal. The creature's black blood splattered her face. And when she fell, panting, to her knees, the sword stuck in the ground, she felt a tear run down her cheek.

But she wasn't crying from pain. She was crying from emptiness.

She didn't remember becoming this woman.

And yet she was.

She looked around. She saw soldiers saluting her in the distance. A messenger galloping toward her, shouting something about the next offensive, the next decision, the next choice that would cost lives.

And in that moment, something inside Irelia broke—silently.

She realized it.

This was the price Eleonor had mentioned. Growing up without living. Being admired without understanding why. Carrying glories and traumas that did not belong to her, but now lived in her skin.

She stood up again. Firmer, more upright. But something inside her had died.

And something else was born in its place.

A woman shaped by memories that were not hers. A commander who cried when no one saw. A soul trapped between what was and what never had a chance to be.

As the bells rang in the rear, summoning the troops to what could be the final battle, Irelia took her first step.

Not as a brave girl.

But as a legend already written—forced to live it.

[With Sylphie]

When Sylphie opened her eyes, there was no pain.

There was silence.

A silence so absolute that it seemed to stifle even thought. No wind, no sound of footsteps, no heartbeat. For a moment, she wondered if she was still alive.

Then the sound began.

An echo. Of something that had not yet happened.

She was standing, and she didn't know how. Her body was the same—taller, firmer, the contours of youth replaced by adult solidity. But there was no pain in her muscles. No cuts. No scars. Just... silence.

The floor beneath her feet was polished stone, cold as the bottom of an ancient lake. Around her, the hall stretched in all directions, like an endless spiral. The ceiling did not exist—or was made of darkness. And the walls? They were mirrors.

Thousands of them.

Tall, narrow, wide, crooked. Some stained, others gleaming. Each with a different frame: rooted wood, twisted iron, chipped glass, human bone. No two were alike. But they all showed the same thing:

Sylphie.

Or almost her.

In the first mirror on the left, a Sylphie smiled with her fingers covered in paint, her hair tied back awkwardly, sitting in front of an unfinished canvas. The light was soft. There was peace in her eyes.

The artist.

In the second, a Sylphie wore a dark cloak, her hands in ritualistic gestures, her mouth whispering words that made the glass tremble. Behind her, books floated. Spirits waited for orders.

The sorceress.

In the third, she was wounded, running through a snowy forest, a child in her arms. Her eyes were hard. Her breathing was desperate. She disappeared among the trees like a hunted animal.

The fugitive.

In the fourth, the mirror was cracked. And inside it, Sylphie with empty eyes. A partially exposed skull. Pale skin. Dead. But still standing, as if refusing to fall.

The dead woman.

Sylphie took a step back.

The hall responded. The mirrors began to light up, one by one, as if waking up. And then came the voices—each version of her whispering phrases that overlapped, scrambled, until they formed an indistinguishable cacophony.

"You chose love and lost the rest."

"You chose power and lost yourself."

"You chose to run away and lost the world."

"You chose nothing, and now you are no one."

She covered her ears, but it was no use. The voices were inside her.

Her heart racing, she ran.

Mirrors rose in her path, like doors that opened by themselves. Each room she passed through showed a new timeline. Sylphie as queen. Sylphie as beggar. Sylphie as murderer. Sylphie as mother. Sylphie with Kael by her side. Sylphie killing him with her own hands. Sylphie dying in his arms.

So many versions of her. So many different deaths.

And then, in the center of the hall—or perhaps at its end—there was a covered mirror.

Unlike the others, it reflected nothing. It was hidden by a white cloth. Silent. Motionless.

Sylphie stopped in front of it, panting.

For some reason she didn't understand, this mirror frightened her more than all the others.

But her fingers were already moving. Pulling the cloth. Trembling.

The fabric fell with a whisper.

And there, in front of her, was herself.

Not an alternate version. Not a different Sylphie. But her.

The Sylphie who was afraid. Who loved Kael, but didn't know what that meant. The Sylphie who tried to be calm, but was made of contained storm. The Sylphie who never made a choice big enough to change her life—until now.

She reached out to the mirror.

The reflection did the same. There was no distortion. No delay. It was like touching her own soul.

And then, the mirror shattered.

Not into shards. But into light.

A silent white explosion enveloped her. All the other mirrors went dark. The voices ceased. The floor disappeared.

And Sylphie fell.

She fell inside herself.

Until she landed softly in a snowy field. The sky was gray. And a distant shadow walked toward her. A male figure. Tall. Determined.

Kael.

But she didn't run to him. She didn't call his name.

She just stood there. Waiting. Knowing, now, that the choice was not between being or not being. It was between accepting what one was — or living the illusion of another life.

And at that moment, she was not the sorceress, nor the fugitive, nor the dead woman.

She was herself.

And that would be enough.

[With Amelia]

The first thing Amelia felt was the cold.

Not the cold of the weather, but the cold of stone buried deep beneath the earth. The kind of cold that cannot be dispelled with blankets or bonfires, the cold that comes from the absence of sky.

She opened her eyes slowly.

The cell was narrow. The walls were damp stone, with no windows. A single iron door with a small barred opening. The light that came through it was pale, almost sickly, and fell like a sentence on the cracked floor.

And then she saw him.

Sitting in front of her, as if he had been there for hours, perhaps days, was herself. Only older. Decades older.

Her hair was gray, cut short. Deep wrinkles lined her face, but not from smiles. From tension, from exhaustion, from choices repeatedly carried on her body. She wore something simple, dark, almost monastic. Her hands were folded in her lap. Her nails were cut with military precision. No jewelry. No vanity.

But the look...

Oh, the look.

Cold. Cynical. Tired.

And yet alert.

The older Amelia smiled.

It wasn't a cruel smile. Nor was it kind. It was... inevitable. As if she already knew exactly what the younger woman would think when she saw her.

Amelia said nothing.

But the feeling came so clearly that it seemed to take shape in the cell:

"I hate you."

The older one raised an eyebrow. Not surprised, but satisfied.

"I would hate myself too," she said, her voice hoarse, deeper, as if each word had been dragged out by the years. "But you'll learn. In time. You always learn."

"What... is this?" the young Amelia finally spoke. Her throat was dry. Anger was beginning to warm the cold. "A dream? A spell?"

"No," the older woman tilted her head. "It's a choice. Not yet made. But coming soon. And, as always, it's yours."

"I would never... never become you."

The older woman smiled more strongly. A smile that seemed like pity.

"It's already started, my dear. With every 'it doesn't matter,' with every 'just this once,' with every 'it's for the greater good'... you've already started walking toward me."

Amelia jumped up, her hands clenched, her body shaking.

"No. I have principles. I have people I love. I bled so I wouldn't be corrupted."

"So did I," the older woman pointed to a visible scar under her collar. "But do you know what happens when you bleed for everyone, all the time?"

She approached, her eyes fixed on the young woman's.

"You bleed until you dry up."

Silence returned. Heavy. Awkward.

Amelia felt her heart racing. But there was something worse than anger. Doubt. Because inside her, in some muffled corner, she knew that parts of that woman... already existed in her.

"What if I choose differently?" she murmured.

"Then I cease to exist," replied the older woman, calmly. "But the choice is not just between me and you. The choice is who you are willing to let die in order to remain good."

"I'm not a murderer."

"Not yet." The reflection stood up now. Taller. More solid. A living wall. "But the world doesn't care who you are. It only responds to who you decide to be when no one else can stop you."

The cell began to shake.

Cracks in the stones. The door contorting. The light flickering. Everything seemed about to collapse.

"Time is running out," said the older version, already distancing herself. "And one last thing..."

She stopped in the shadows.

"When you make your choice... don't blame me. I'm just you with the courage to do what was necessary."

And then she disappeared.

Not with magic. Not with smoke. She just... faded away, like a reflection that was never there.

Amelia was alone. In the cell. In the cold.

But now there was a key in her hand.

She didn't know where it had come from. Nor whether she should use it.

But she knew one thing.

With every step she took from now on, she would have to choose whether to walk toward the light—or to accept, little by little, becoming what already awaited her at the end.

And that would be her sentence.