I lean forward, peering past Dorcha.
I want to see him.
The one who killed him.
There.
I've never seen that elf before.
And the sight of him is… nauseating.
He's shorter than the others I've met.
His eyes are a sick, bile-yellow, made even sharper by the ashen gray of his skin—like a rat's.
His hair looks like a tangled bush of thorns.
Greasy. Dull white. Filthy.
His face is carved with scars, his body heavy, slack.
Not agile. Not refined.
How did someone like this overpower a warrior like Dorcha?
That—
What does he think he's doing now with that burning vine, bristling with barbs, clenched in his hands?!
He wouldn't dare keep going.
Not on his body.
He stares at Dorcha.
Cruel.
Satisfied.
A shiver runs through me.
"He won't… come… save you," he says, savoring every word.
"By now… she'll be dead. Drowned."
You wish I were dead.
Dorcha—
He moves.
Or am I imagining it?
No. No—he's really moving.
Then he's not dead.
"He'll kill you," Dorcha rasps.
There's barely any breath left in his voice.
It's almost unrecognizable.
But he's alive.
"Yes?" the elf replies, amused. "I can't wait."
The vine hums, vibrating in his grip.
Whatever you're about to do—
I won't let you.
I try to channel my power through the narrow opening, but I'm too late.
With a fast, brutal strike, he lashes Dorcha's chest again.
"Dorcha!"
It hurts to watch him.
The barbs tear into his skin, which sizzles beneath the scorching heat.
His body jerks violently.
He screams.
Loud.
The air fills with the horrific stench of burnt flesh.
Then his voice fades, and he—
Does he pass out?
Does he die?
I can't tell.
Tears blur my vision.
I want to scream.
To obliterate that wretched elf.
Dorcha trusts me.
I'm his only chance.
I can't waste it.
Even if that means… killing him.
"An assassin is still an assassin," Dorcha once said.
Then maybe… I am one too.
But if there's even the smallest chance he's still alive, I have no other choice.
"Wrap me," I whisper. "Shield."
Energy floods around my body, sealing me inside a translucent barrier, like a second skin laid over my armor.
My spear isn't enough.
I need a vine too.
One smooth motion—
and it coils into my hand.
"Be precise," I hiss. "And lethal."
Now that it's empowered, I slip out of my hiding place.
Silent.
Low.
Like a lioness.
The elf's back fills my vision.
I hate him.
I can't give him time to react.
I spin the vine through the air and snap it around his own.
Then I pull with everything I have.
Done.
He's disarmed.
He looks around, confused.
I leap, spear raised.
He turns.
"There you are—so you fin—" he starts.
I hurl the spear straight into his heart.
All my strength.
All my will.
It pierces him clean through.
I swear I hear a crack.
And somewhere deep inside, my soul rejoices.
He collapses, writhing on the ground.
"Bitch—"
Never as much as you.
I stay tense. Focused.
Ready to fight again.
I scan the shadows, searching for movement.
Nothing.
No one.
I can finish this.
I grab the spear and rip it free.
The sound is unbearable.
His filthy yellow eyes roll back.
Finally—
He dies.
…
Is he dead?
Is he really dead?
Oh—Mother.
I killed him.
I… I really killed him.
For real.
Nausea surges up my throat.
My legs start shaking.
I stagger to the cavern wall and brace myself against it.
I killed him.
For real.
I can't breathe.
In. Out.
Out. In.
Dorcha needs me.
I have to calm down.
…
What—
what's happening?
Everything starts to shake.
The walls.
The ceiling.
The ground beneath my feet.
The rock splits open with a crack.
"Dorcha!"
I run to him and hurl my spear at the vines binding his body.
Free, he collapses like dead weight.
Damn it—we're going to be crushed like ants in here!
I grab his shoulders, shaking him, but he doesn't respond.
He's in terrible shape.
I try to lift him.
He's too heavy.
"Come on—up!" I grunt.
Stones begin raining down from above.
"Dorcha! Wake up, Dorcha, please!"
Blood makes his body slick—how am I supposed to—
No choice.
I hook my arms under his and drag him.
It's easier this way.
That rock—
it's about to smash his leg.
"Levitate!" I scream.
His body freezes midair.
Just long enough for me to pull him clear.
Then the boulder crashes down, shattering into a thousand pieces.
I retreat to my old hiding place…
and finally, the trembling stops.
Thank the heavens.
I lower Dorcha gently against the wall.
I need to think.
How do we get out of here now?
—
And what is that light?
I shield my eyes, disoriented.
It's blinding.
Slowly, I manage to open them again.
At the heart of the glow, there's a red chest trimmed with gold.
What is it?
Should I open it?
I use my spear, keeping my distance just in case.
A soft click.
The lid opens.
I step closer. Careful.
Inside, there's a small cushion—and resting on it, a fragment of parchment etched in golden script.
It rises, floating up until it hovers before my face.
Could this be…
the Elves' Secret?
If it is…
My hands are trembling as I take it.
I read aloud:
"Never grow weary of embracing that truth which allows you to see life in its deepest reality."
Strange.
What does that even mean?
I place it back inside the chest.
I close it, then—just as Baelkers instructed—I mime slipping it into an imaginary pocket.
A golden bracelet materializes around my wrist, set with a small green stone.
Around it, six empty slots.
Probably meant for the other Secrets.
I stare at it.
Is this what it cost?
Letting my closest friend hang between life and death?
Dorcha…
Brave.
Protective.
Proud.
Unyielding.
It's all my fault.
All of it.
If I hadn't asked him to help me…
he'd be safe at home right now.
With his father.
And his mother.
I told him the Elves were good.
And I believed it.
I really did.
…I'll never forgive myself for this.
The least I can do is get him somewhere safe.
Somewhere protected.
Far away from these traitors.
I have to heal him.
Then I'll find Grogher—and while I keep going with the mission, I'll beg him to take Dorcha home.
Yes.
That's the right thing to do.
First, I need to find a way out.
I can't take Dorcha with me right now.
I have to cover him.
Make sure he's hidden. Safe.
I turn back toward him.
…
Huh?
Where did he go?
You've got to be kidding me.
"Dorcha! Dorcha, where are you?"
That's impossible.
Where could he have gone in his condition?
"Dorcha!"
I have to find him.
Now.
Right now.
I rush back toward the cavern.
The ceiling has collapsed.
Everywhere I look, the ground is littered with shattered stone.
Amid the rubble, I can see what's left of the elf's body.
Torn apart. Broken.
It doesn't affect me at all.
It was horrible.
But he deserved it.
"Dorcha!"
Where the hell did you go?
How did I not notice?
"DORCHAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
No answer.
No sound.
Nothing but the echo of my own voice—and a small pebble I accidentally kick, skittering across the ground.
I lean against the nearest wall and slide down to the floor.
It's too much.
All of it.
Too much.
I break down.
Sobbing.
Breathless.
Inconsolable.
And then…
the cave begins to blur—
its edges melting, reshaping into something else.
-----
Where am I?
What kind of room is this?
In front of me, there's a wall made entirely of water…
and it reflects the cave I was in just moments ago.
Applause erupts around me.
Cheers. Shouts. Excitement.
I jump to my feet and spin around.
I'm stunned.
Aeltiàfisar.
Baelkers.
Grogher.
Inmus.
Nalar.
They're clapping like mad.
They look… happy.
And between them and me—
Dorcha.
Not a single scratch on him.
He's looking at me with pride.
And something else.
Respect.
He steps closer.
"You did well."
My throat tightens.
I could cry.
He's safe.
There's a knot in my chest.
I reach out and touch him, just to be sure.
Then I look at him again.
"So… you were never tortured?" I whisper.
He smiles.
"No. As you can see, I'm fine."
"But this morning—when you were taken—"
"Aileen," Baelkers cuts in gently. "This morning, Dorcha wasn't by your side. He's been here with all of us since last night. The trial had already begun."
I stare at them, one by one.
I'm numb.
I can't believe what I'm hearing.
The sheer madness of it.
I want to slap Dorcha.
Agreeing to something this cruel.
Idiot.
Fool.
Moron.
All of them.
I want to slap them all.
My fists clench, trembling.
I squeeze my eyes shut as tears spill over.
Damn them—I don't want them to see me cry.
I feel wounded.
Mocked.
Baelkers and Aeltiàfisar exchange a glance.
Then Aeltiàfisar steps forward and places a hand on my shoulder.
I recoil instinctively.
He doesn't push it.
He just looks at me, kind.
"It means, Aileen, that you have overcome the first great trial—the Trial of Illusion. An ancient hallucination, created to guard the First Secret. Vivid. Shaped by your fears and doubts, but also by your hopes. Your greatest fear was the possibility of having to kill. The illusion led you to believe you had done so. But it never happened in reality. You feared that you hadn't learned enough during these two magical months. And yet, you proved to yourself that you had. Finally, deep down, you fear that Dorcha is suffering—that he cannot truly find himself. The thorned vines binding him were a reflection of how you perceive his pain. And in your heart, beyond the desire to find all Seven Secrets, there is also the wish to help him become whole again."
Blah, blah, blah.
Such beautiful words.
Empty.
Useless.
Fine. It was a trial.
I knew I had to face one.
Wasn't I preparing for this very thing?
But like this?
Like some massive joke?
I'm angry.
And exhausted.
By all the clouds—
I was so naïve.
So tragically stupid.
Air.
I need air.
Before I explode, I turn and walk out of the room.