"Paull! Come on, boy, get up! The sheep won't herd themselves!"
Paull groaned, face-first in a pile of snow. His legs flailed helplessly.
"I didn't see the hole, okay!?" he shouted into the snowdrift, voice muffled. "Who knew snow could be that deep?!"
His father loomed over him, arms crossed and grinning.
"Well, now you do. Lesson learned."
Paull scrambled out like a drowning man, covered head to toe in snow and looking like a poorly made snowman. He shook himself off and huffed.
"Yeah yeah, I can't wait to turn fifteen and finally quit being a sheep herder. I'm destined for greater things—like not chasing suicidal sheep every morning!"
His father barked out a laugh."Now now, don't knock herding! Builds character! Back pain too—but hey, it's a package deal."
Paull muttered under his breath as he adjusted his snowshoes, which flopped awkwardly."Feels more like a punishment from the gods."
"Oi! Heads up—Little Betsy is making a break for the lake again!"
Paull's eyes shot wide."Again?! What is wrong with that sheep?! Does she want to freeze to death!?"
He turned and saw the sheep delicately tiptoeing across the ice like she was heading to a spa day.
"Oh for—BETSY NO! NOT THE WATER!" Paull shouted as he launched into a frantic waddle, his snowshoes flapping wildly.
He looked like a panicked penguin trying to fly—arms flailing, knees knocking, snow spraying everywhere as he zigzagged toward the oblivious sheep.
"WHY are your survival instincts SO BAD?!" he cried.
Behind him, his father chuckled, leaning on his staff.
"Don't worry, son! Herding gets easier with age!"
"YOU SAID THAT Two YEARS AGO!" Paull shouted back as he dove after the sheep and disappeared into another snowbank with a muffled oof.
His father shook his head, grinning."...So does the back pain."
___________
"We're home! Honey!"Henry Haddock's booming voice rang through the frosty air as he kicked open the cabin door. A gust of warmth rushed out to meet them, fogging up his glasses instantly.
"Henry! Paull!" came the cheerful voice of Melle Haddock from deeper inside, the sound of clinking dishes following her words. "Welcome home, boys! Let me guess—Betsy tried to drown herself again?" she called out with a laugh.
Paull groaned and slumped forward as he kicked off his snowshoes. "That sheep has zero will to live. I'm convinced."
Henry chuckled as he stomped snow off his boots. "She's got spirit! Dumb spirit, but spirit nonetheless."
Inside, the cabin smelled of roasted vegetables and some kind of game meat—probably venison. Melle was already setting the table, her hands moving fast and practiced as she herded a few steaming dishes into place.
Herding the sheep in the northern woods was a full-day ordeal. Getting them to graze in this cold, let alone not freeze solid, was a miracle. Bringing them back took half the night. Most people in southern towns would be asleep by now. But in these woods? This late dinner was normal.
Paull paused, brushing snow from his coat and hat. He looked around the cozy cabin—lit by a flickering stone-hearth fire and warmed by thick furs and the smell of home. It might be harsh outside, but here, in this moment, it was safe.
He sighed, finally letting his shoulders drop as the tension of the day melted off. Snowflakes clung to his lashes as he hung his coat by the door and dropped into his favorite chair like a dying man. "Someone please tell me I'm not herding sheep when I'm twenty."
"Depends," Melle said without missing a beat. "Are you planning on making it to twenty?"
Henry snorted.
The three of them shared a laugh, the kind only a family can have after a brutally cold day.
Outside, the snow never stopped. Here in the North, it snowed all year round. The only way to tell the seasons was by how deep it piled. Right now, it was fall—just barely manageable. Winter meant retreating to the communal town hall, pooling resources, and surviving together as one.
That's how things were done out here. And though Paull dreamed of leaving someday, tonight… this was enough.
He glanced at his father.Henry Haddock was an odd man. Despite the frozen world they lived in, he always seemed to radiate warmth. Like a walking hearth. Maybe it was his smile, or the way he looked at Melle—eyes crinkled with joy, heart already home.
Paull didn't get it. Not yet. But some part of him hoped… maybe one day, he would.
__________
"Pualle..."
No—Zai.
His eyes shot open, glowing with an eerie blue hue. Magic shimmered in his vision, twisting reality into threads of spellwork and illusion. The warmth, the comfort—it was fake. A lie."This isn't real," he muttered, voice hollow. "An illusion... Lula's? No. This doesn't feel like her. Then why? Why home? Why today?"
He sat up in bed—small, fragile, childlike. The room looked just as he remembered: wooden beams, frost-kissed windows, and the scent of old pine. But it was wrong. Dead wrong.
Zai's face was emotionless as he slid from the covers. His bare feet touched the cold wooden floor, and he didn't bother with a coat, or boots, or gloves. The snow outside bit into his skin, but he didn't flinch.
None of this was real.
He wandered through the cabin—quiet. Too quiet. Normally, his father would be up, reading by the fire. A merchant's son turned woodsman, always with a story on his lips. But the chair was empty. Cold.
Zai stepped outside.
Snow swirled around him, silent and consuming. The northern woods stretched out endlessly, just as they had in his childhood. But this time, there was no warmth. Just silence and frost.
He walked toward the village.
Toward death.
Smoke on the horizon. Then—flames.Screams.He saw the fire take them.Grandma Fouta—her head rolled into the snow, eyes wide and glassy.Mr. Sath—unrecognizable, blackened and twisted.Little Hertha—no more than five—pinned beneath a shattered cart, unmoving.
Zai turned away, unable to bear it. But this memory wouldn't let him go.
He walked. Slowly. Towards the hollow tree.
His hiding place.
And then he saw it again, like a cruel play repeating:A younger version of himself—stuffed inside the tree by trembling hands."Stay quiet," his mother whispered, choking back fear. "No matter what."
She and his father ran—trying to draw the attackers away.
And it worked.
Until the mage came.Until the fire consumed her.
His father, face set and eyes empty, took up an old woodsman's axe. He screamed as he fought. He even killed some of them.
But it only took one arrow. Straight through the skull.
Zai blinked. Forced himself to watch. To remember.
He clenched his fists, the cold biting through his skin. He welcomed the pain.
"I will remember," he whispered. "I must. For them."
But something was wrong. The memory—wasn't right.
Zai's eyes narrowed. His magical sight picked up something odd—new threads in the illusion. Details he hadn't seen as a child.
He stepped out of the tree, now older—closer to his current self. He scanned the chaos. His breath caught.
Armor. Not scavenged. Polished. Uniformed.
These weren't bandits.
These were soldiers.
He moved closer, squinting through the smoke, until he saw it—a crest.
A silver eagle on a red shield.
House Garcia.
Zai's heart sank. "No... no, they weren't raiders... they were..."
He looked up the hillside, above the burning town. Knights watched from the ridge. Cold. Silent. Unmoving.
And in front of them, astride a white horse, was a boy.
A noble.
Slightly older than his childhood self. Blonde hair. Proud face.
Donavan.
Zai staggered backward, breath catching in his throat.
"He... he was there...?"
Donavan sat tall in the saddle, watching the destruction like it was a pageant. A performance.
Zai remembered now—the way Donavan always looked at him. Not like a friend. Not like a rival.
Like a loose end.
A witness.
Someone to be erased.
Zai's hands trembled with fury, his voice barely above a whisper.
"So that's it... You knew. You let it happen. You smiled while my world burned."
The illusion began to warp, the snow now falling in reverse, the fire freezing mid-air. The dream collapsed around him.
But Zai stood firm, staring at the false sky above.
"When I wake up, Donavan..."His eyes flared like dying stars."I'll show you what real pain feels like."
______________
Zanaria stood silently, arms crossed, her eyes glowing faintly with restrained magic as she watched her students suffer under Farya's illusion. The Dream Eater was practically giggling with delight, skipping circles around their bodies as they convulsed in the spell's grip.
Zanaria hated this. Hated being forced to wait.
But she wasn't just standing there.
The moment Farya had begun her twisted game, Zanaria had sent a silent magical distress signal—high-level, complex, layered with her personal arcane signature. The message was headed straight to the one person who might stand a chance against the witch currently wrecking her classroom:
The Perfect Witch.
"Now we wait," Zanaria muttered. "And hope she's in a good mood."
Then Zai's body twitched.
Convulsed.
Zanaria's breath caught in her throat—but not from fear. From expectation.
Farya, mid-laugh, paused. "Wait, what's—?"
Zai's eyes snapped open, glowing faint blue with raw, untamed power.
He'd broken the spell.
Zanaria's lips curled into a satisfied, knowing smile.
Of course he figured it out. That's her student.
So clever. So determined. So—
"—Just like his mo—teacher. Yep. Teacher. Definitely meant teacher," Zanaria muttered quickly, shaking her head and brushing imaginary dust from her robes. "Not his mother, obviously. Because I'm not. That'd be crazy. Absolutely crazy."
She coughed. Then whispered to herself, "Maybe one day..."
Zanaria stared blankly into space.
Then blinked, shook her head again, and scolded herself aloud, "Gods, why am I like this…"
A small nervous laugh escaped her lips as Farya turned, eyes narrowing at Zai's awakening
Zai stood up slowly, his breath steaming in the cold air, blue light still faintly glowing in his eyes.
But he didn't look at Farya.
He didn't even glance at Zanaria.
He looked at Donavan.
Zanaria's eyes narrowed, confusion flashing across her face—until something cold and heavy sank into her chest.
The future.
The vision.
Zai... the Star Eater.
Her talk with Donavan, so long ago—or maybe not long enough—echoed in her head like a curse.
This… this could be the moment. The moment where it all begins.
"Fuck," Zanaria whispered, and without thinking, she stepped forward. Her boots crunched in the frost. "Fuck fuck fuck!" she hissed under her breath, weaving her way between her student and the boy he now glared at like an executioner.
She stopped directly in front of Zai, planting herself between him and Donavan.
"I'm so proud of you," she whispered too quietly for anyone else to hear, "but fuck if I'm gonna let you destroy the world."
Out loud, she said, "Zai, whatever you saw in there—there's a fifty percent chance it was fake. Maybe more. You know how illusions work, especially hers."
Zai didn't blink.
His voice was low. Dangerous.
"Teacher… he was there."
Zanaria froze.
"I saw it. I remember it," Zai said, fists clenched at his sides. "It was House Garcia that did it. It was them. He was there. Watching. Just watching."
"I'm going to—"
Zanaria grabbed him by the shoulders, eyes locking with his.
"No."
He tried to move, but she held him firm.
"You're going to do nothing, Zai," she said firmly, voice trembling with power. "Because just like I told you before—none of this is real. Not fully. Not reliably. It was a dream. A trap. If you want to hurt someone, hurt the witch who made this mess."
She didn't look at Farya. Didn't have to. The witch was grinning somewhere behind them, no doubt enjoying every second.
Zanaria's voice softened, just for him.
"Don't let her choose your path for you."
Zai trembled slightly under her grip. Whether from rage or heartbreak—she didn't know.
But the light in his eyes flickered.
A good sign.
For now.
Farya laughed, twirling in place, arms outstretched like she was savoring a fine wine.
"Ohhh, such a touching scene!" she sang, voice dripping with mockery. "It tastes magnificent. The rage. The sorrow. I wonder how the rest will react when—"
ZzzzzzzzzRAK!
A blinding rod of pure light screamed past her cheek, cutting it open with surgical precision. The scent of scorched flesh filled the air.
Farya's laughter died in her throat.
She froze—eyes wide with horror. "No... no, not her—"
She turned to run, but it was too late.
SNAP.
Chains of radiant energy slammed around her wrists and ankles mid-step, yanking her down like a marionette with snapped strings. She hit the ground with a scream, the snow hissing as the chains burned into it.
Above her, standing atop a crooked lightpole, Dulla descended like judgment itself.
Silver-gold armor shimmered against the pale sky, her cape fluttering like torn moonlight. Her dark hair flowed like ink and her eyes—her eyes burned like twin stars, merciless and eternal.
Farya whimpered. "Shit."
She flinched, bracing for a blow—and got it. Not from Dulla's fist, but from a concentrated bolt of solid light to the chest, knocking her flat and writhing in the snow.
Dulla landed silently beside her, cold as the winter wind.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
She merely reached down, grabbed Farya by the back of the neck like a misbehaving dog, and hoisted her up without effort. The chains shimmered tighter.
Zanaria blinked. Her mouth opened slightly in awe.
Dulla gave her a single, crisp nod.
Then turned and walked away, dragging the Dream Eater behind her like trash being taken out.
Zanaria exhaled slowly, the tension leaving her shoulders.
"…Well. That was faster than I expected."
Her eyes lingered on Dulla's form, vanishing into the snow-glow distance.
"She's grown a lot," Zanaria murmured to herself, almost fondly. "Still terrifying. But damn effective."
She smiled.
The Perfect Witch had arrived.
Zanaria turned back toward Zai, her face caught somewhere between exhaustion and fear. Not fear of him—fear for him.
She held up her hands slowly, like she was trying to soothe a cornered animal.
"Zai... just calm down. Please. Just for a second."
Her voice trembled slightly. Not because she was afraid he'd lash out at her, but because she could see it—feel it—that barely contained storm beneath his skin. The magic in him was boiling. His eyes were still glowing faintly, full of fury, betrayal, and confusion.
"I'm... I'm not good at this kind of thing, alright?" she admitted with a sigh. "Emotional stuff. Guiding students through... whatever this is. I'm more of a throw-fireballs-at-people kind of mentor."
She forced a weak smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Donavan will wake up in a second. Just... talk to him. Get the truth out of him. And then—if it's real, if everything you saw was true—then kill him. I honestly don't care."
She stepped a little closer, resting a firm hand on his shoulder. Her tone dropped low.
"But promise me something first."
Zai blinked, his breathing still ragged, barely keeping his power in check.
"Promise me," Zanaria said quietly, "that you'll never do anything like that again. What I saw in your eyes just now… that wasn't revenge.
______________
Donavan screamed into the void, his holy blade glowing bright—then dimming with each swing, as if disgusted by the hand that held it.
"Where's your magic now, huh?! WHERE IS IT?!"
CRACK.
Zai's skull shattered under the force of Donavan's strike—blood, bone, and gray matter spraying across the shifting dreamscape like snow in a storm. But even before the corpse hit the ground, another Zai appeared behind him, silent, still… waiting.
Donavan didn't hesitate. He ripped into the next one, severing the torso in a clean, wet cut.
"STAR EATER!" he howled. "I'LL FUCKING END YOU!"
More Zais. Dozens. Hundreds. Endless.
Crush.Stab.Squelch.Burn.Break.Dislocate.
At some point, Donavan lost his sword—snapped in half by his own hands, more out of madness than necessity. He used his fists after that. And when they bled, he used his teeth.
One Zai he strangled slowly, pressing his thumbs so deep into the eye sockets it made a sick pop. Another, he pinned and peeled away skin with a burning sigil, inch by inch. One he tore open with bare hands, listening to the ribs snap like dry twigs. Not a single one screamed. Not a single one fought back.
They just watched him, as if judging.
And Donavan kept going.
There was no rage now. Only method. Only craving. He wanted to make Zai feel something—fear, pain, regret. Something.
But Zai just watched. Always watched.
Eventually… Donavan began to whisper things. Things no one would forgive. Things he wasn't sure were his own thoughts anymore. His shadow flickered oddly—stretching longer than it should. A suggestion of things he might've done between deaths, during the moments no one in the waking world would ever see. Hands trembling. Movements slow. Lingering.
He didn't remember every detail. He wasn't sure he wanted to.
And if Henrietta knew what he'd become in here—what he enjoyed—she'd never look at him again. Not as a hero. Not as a friend. Not as anything.
That was fine. If his place was hell, then Zai's would be there too.
Time meant nothing. His armor reformed, blessed blade reappeared, body restored to its prime again and again—but his mind was worn raw. He stood over another Zai, panting. Still, the boy's face was expressionless.
Donavan grabbed him by the throat, lifting him high, muscles trembling from strain he couldn't feel.
"Why?!" he roared, voice cracking. "WHY DID YOU DO IT?! Tell me why! Just TELL ME!"
Zai only looked at him. Not with fear. Not with guilt. Just… pity.
Donavan screamed, and screamed—and screamed. His hands around Zai's throat in the dream tightened until the world itself began to splinter. The ground beneath cracked like glass, sky pulsing like a heartbeat gone wrong. His raw hatred had pushed the dream beyond its limits. Reality itself twisted under the pressure of his wrath.
And then—He woke up.
Donavan shot upright with a gasp, drenched in sweat, his body trembling, eyes bloodshot and feral. He could still feel Zai's phantom neck in his hands, still hear the squelch of crushed skulls, the crack of ribs beneath his fists.
Instinct took over.
He turned, eyes darting—and found Zai.
Standing across from him. Awake. Watching.
But this wasn't the boy Donavan had grown to distrust. This wasn't the quiet mage who muttered to himself in dreams or stared too long at stars. No. For a split second—just a blink—what Donavan saw was the Star Eater.
The glowing blue eyes.The empty, infinite gaze.The same unflinching stare that had haunted his dream as he killed him over and over.
Donavan staggered backward, breath caught in his throat. Rage and terror collided inside him. Every instinct screamed attack, but some deep, buried will to survive told him the truth—If I charge him now... I die.
And then the image shifted. The monster… faded.
Now, all that stood before Donavan was Zai.Bruised, shaking, face drawn and pale. Those same glowing eyes, yes—but they weren't filled with power now. They were filled with something worse.
Exhaustion. Confusion. Pain.
Zai looked at him like a broken mirror—each shard reflecting a question."Why?""How long?""What did I do?"
He looked like someone who had seen too much and remembered even more.
Donavan's fists clenched at his sides. His rage didn't vanish—it sat beneath the surface like a serpent, coiled and waiting—but it no longer ruled him.
Then, quietly, a voice broke through the tension.Zanaria.
She stepped between them, gently placing a hand on Donavan's shoulder—not to stop him, but to ground him. To remind him he was still here.
"Kid…" she said softly, her voice tired and unsure, "just tell him the truth. That might be the only way you survive right now."
Donavan didn't respond immediately. His eyes flickered—not with rage , but with fear. With hesitation. With the weight of memory and trauma.
He opened his mouth—But what would he say?