[???]
"…Just…what was that?"
The words left Guinevere's lips in a quiet breath. Dante…there had been no sign. Not a single footprint. Not even the faintest kind of any residue.
Gone.
Swallowed.
Like the world had blinked, and erased him from the page.
Guinevere's brows furrowed, her slender fingers twitching by her side as if reaching for some spell—some diagnostic anchor that might allow her to trace him—but there was nothing. The laws she knew, of mana that threaded through all magic, had simply…not applied. It hadn't been like teleportation, or foreign intervention, or any spell she had studied in her sleepless nights within various libraries.
It had been something else.
"I didn't even feel it," she murmured to herself, slowly beginning to walk. "No surge. No glyph. No cast. No will behind it."
Her voice trembled, not out of fear, but from frustration. Frustration at her own limitations. Even as a court mage of Galadriel—she had seen and felt nothing until it was too late.
It was Dante who had sensed it. Dante, who—somehow—knew.
And in that infinitesimal instant, he'd acted. He'd reached out and shoved her aside, instinctively, protectively, just as the shadows—those impossible, silent things—rushed up like a wave to consume him.
She should have been faster.
She should have done something.
"That fool…" she breathed, a sound that hovered between laughter and grief, "always so heroic…"
Her knees weakened, and she lowered herself slowly onto a piece of stone, the area around her eerily quiet now—save for the low groan of the wind scraping across the ground. Her hand covered her mouth, and she exhaled sharply, letting the wry smile slip through. A hollow sound escaped her throat, half a chuckle, half a sigh.
"…Of course you'd pull something like that," she whispered to the absent sky. "Throw yourself into oblivion just to keep someone else standing. You stupid, beautiful idiot."
A pause.
Then, softer:
"…I can see why Mother loved you."
The words came before she even realized what she was saying, and for a long, aching moment she just stared down at her hands. The fingers that could invoke magic more powerful than most trembled faintly, curled inward like she could still feel the push—of the last contact they'd shared before the shadows claimed him.
Lyra had always spoken of how her mother fancied Dante in passing tones. Lyra talked about how she'd known from the way Alyssia's voice softened when his name arose. The way her red eyes, normally so sharp and wrathful, would dim ever so slightly. She remembered stories shared, about a man who never hesitated. Who stood before monsters. Who made promises to a girl who once believed herself cursed. And she remembered the way Lyra always stopped just before the ending.
Now, perhaps…perhaps fate was finally cruel enough.
"If he comes back…" she whispered, "if he ever comes back…maybe she'll finally say it out loud. So best come back, Dante." she said, louder now. "Because I'm not letting this story end like that. Not with you disappearing into some shadow realm like a brooding idiot. Not when we still need you. Not when she—when we still have things left to say."
Her voice faltered again, and she looked down at the ground beneath her heels.
Her mother still needed to be saved.
"Are you well, Guinevere?"
The voice cut through the lingering silence, gentle.
Guinevere's eyes blinked, slowly coming back into focus as the weight of her thoughts dissolved into the breeze. Her liliac gaze lifted toward the source, her expression unreadable.
Approaching from across were two silhouettes, walking in tandem, Lyra and Mikoto. The latter looked for all the world like a noble girl with a nasty temper who had just been forced to walk too far in uncomfortable heels.
Guinevere exhaled softly through her nose, the faintest quirk of a smile playing on her lips. The two of them, together…then that means—
Her thoughts crystallized in a single truth: Aelfric was dead.
Lyra's red eyes were already scanning her up and down, inspecting for injury, but the worry beneath them betrayed her true concern.
"You look pale," Lyra murmured, her voice low, almost scolding, like a mother checking her stubborn child for bruises. "Are you injured? Did something—"
"I'm fine, Lyra. Truly." Guinevere smiled, though her voice was softer than usual. "Just…there's much to say, but we can talk after it's done. For now…I take it Aelfric is no more?"
"Yeah, he's dead as hell," Mikoto replied dryly, crossing his arms with an exaggerated scoff. "Took forever, but I finally made him shut up." Then, with a biting edge in his voice, he added, "I'm guessing you got the soul? Or were you just sitting around doing nothing while I did all the actual work?"
Guinevere didn't flinch at the venom in his words. She merely raised an eyebrow. "Oh hush, Mikoto," she said with a smile that was more amused than offended. "You say the most adorable things when you're cranky."
And then, with a slow motion, she lifted her hand to her chest.
From within her a soft red light began to pulse. It glowed, swirling gently in the air. Slowly, the small glowing orb drifted outward from her sternum, hovering just above her palm.
The soul of Alyssia.
Lyra's breath caught audibly in her throat.
For a moment, her world froze. Her eyes locked onto that little orb with an intensity that melted the hard edge from her face. The world around her faded—none of it existed anymore.
Just that soul.
Just her.
"…Alyssia," Lyra whispered, and her voice trembled not from fear, but longing—three hundred years of it, bottled into a single syllable. Her hand drifted near her chest as if the name physically hurt to say. Her lips curled into a fragile smile, sadness and hope clashing violently in her expression. "Worry not, dear… You, I, and Guinevere will be together…not long from now. Just hold on, just a little longer."
"Yeah, yeah. Sentimental junk," Mikoto huffed, clearly uncomfortable with the air getting too heavy for his liking. "Let's get this over with before you two start bawling."
He snapped his fingers and the air immediately responded. Two circular white glyphs unfurled beneath and above the space in front of him. They expanded slowly.
Then came the form.
A soft wind rustled across the area, from within the white glyphs, a shape emerged—a body, dainty and draped in white, hovering just inches above the ground as if born on strings.
Her body was perfect.
A delicate girl's frame, neither too tall nor too short—graceful and petite, sculpted with care. She wore a flowing white gown. Her long, white hair flowed in gentle waves, reaching her waist. Her lashes were long and curled, resting gently over closed eyes that radiated peace. Her skin was porcelain-pale, almost glowing, untouched by hardship. Her expression…soft, serene and innocent—like one suspended between dreams and life.
"She should function like any other normal human," Mikoto said flatly. "You two hags should count yourselves lucky I'm this good with anatomy. My Creation Magic is just that perfect."
His voice somehow didn't diminish the awe of the moment.
Lyra and Guinevere both stared, astonished.
"It…it looks just like her," Lyra murmured, stepping closer as her fingers hovered just shy of touching the still form. Her voice cracked at the end, as if saying it aloud made it real.
"Of course it does," Mikoto spat. "You practically begged me to sift through your memories to get every little detail right. I don't make mistakes. So yes, you better be grateful."
Then, slowly, he extended his hand. Alyssia's soul pulsed once in Guinevere's palm before drifting over, like it knew its body waited.
Mikoto's fingers opened as it hovered above the new vessel.
("I just need to make the connection. Stabilize the tether from the Ninth Plane. Let the soul thread anchor into the vessel…Partial Arcane Ascendance should be more than enough…")
The ground trembled.
Then light.
Brilliant, hellish red glyphs erupted like tectonic plates from the earth and sky both, spiraling outward in symmetrical arcs—perfect circles with runes that glowed. The earth beneath them cracked in odd patterns.
Mikoto's eyes closed.
The red light from the glyphs poured upward and downward, surrounding both body and soul. The orb pulsed faster now, its glow deepening—reaching out, craving the warmth of flesh and breath once more.
And then the contact.
The soul descended.
As it touched the vessel's chest, a radiant pulse erupted outward. The body trembled, then relaxed. The skin flushed ever so faintly. A warmth returned to her limbs, subtle but there. The soul fused, not in conflict—but in harmony.
A perfect union.
A rebirth.
And for the first time since her fall, Alyssia breathed again—soft and slow, like the first breath after a long sleep.
Lyra's knees buckled, one hand over her mouth, the other pressed to her chest. Guinevere remained frozen, her eyes wide.
Even Mikoto dared not say another word.
Because in that moment…she was back.
And the world, for a moment, felt whole. Alyssia's chest continued to rise again and again.
Her breaths were shallow yet serene. Every movement of her chest seemed like a miracle. Lyra could hardly breathe. Her fingers twitched with a need to reach out, to touch Alyssia's face, to feel the warmth, to confirm that this wasn't some illusion, some cruel joke played by someone.
"You're welcome," Mikoto broke the silence, flicking a lock of hair behind his ear as he straightened his posture. "Honestly, this whole thing was a pain in my ass. I don't even know why I helped you two hags out. But don't get the wrong idea, I didn't do this for you or anything like that. Though he's dead, this is just to spite that Aelfric bastard."
Lyra didn't respond with words.
She took two slow, stunned steps toward him—her black heels crunching softly against the ground.
And then she lunged forward and hugged him.
Tightly.
Without warning.
Without a shred of hesitation.
Mikoto's entire body went rigid as if he'd been struck by lightning, his arms lifted at his sides awkwardly, eyes bugging out in disbelief as his soft cheek pressed into Lyra's shoulder. She smelled like ashes, blood and violets.
"…What are you doing?" he said flatly, blinking once.
Lyra didn't answer at first. Her breath was trembling, soft against his neck. "…You brought her back to me."
"I am aware, hag now let go." he replied with a blink.
She said nothing more. She just stood there, holding him.
And something flickered across Mikoto's face. Another emotion and confusion. Like an error in a calculation that shouldn't have been possible. He looked up at her as if struggling to process the gesture—her warmth, her trembling, the moisture that clung to her lashes.
"You're crying," he said bluntly. "That's unnecessary."
Guinevere watched them, her lips curling faintly into a smile despite herself. "You really don't get it, do you?"
Mikoto's eyes flicked toward her, face unreadable. "Get what, exactly?"
"You did something that mattered," she said softly. "To someone who needed it."
"Tch," he scoffed quietly, though the sound had no true bite. "I didn't do it for sentiment. Like I said, I just wanted to get back at Aelfric one last time."
Even so, Lyra didn't release him. Not yet.
He stood awkwardly within her arms. "You've made your point. Let go."
She exhaled once more—shaky, but peaceful—and finally pulled back. "Sorry," she murmured, not looking sorry at all. "I forget how cold you are now."
"Seems better then being a dopey idiot," he muttered, brushing down his gauntlet where she'd touched him, as though unsure what to do with the sensation. "You should be thanking my Creation Magic, not me."
"I am thanking you," she said quietly, meaning every word.
Before she could say more—before she could find words large enough to carry the weight of her gratitude—Mikoto's eyes suddenly narrowed.
His expression didn't shift wildly. He didn't gasp. He didn't panic. But something in his form told them everything.
"…Something's wrong."
And then, without a word of explanation, Mikoto moved.
He threw one arm out toward Lyra, palm open—and Alyssia's floating body shot backward, straight into Lyra's arms, the momentum enough to stagger her two full steps back.
Lyra held her protectively, instinct overriding confusion.
"Mikoto?!" she called out, panic rising.
Guinevere turned, her hand readying with mana. "This is—!"
They didn't have to wait for an answer.
The wind came first, not natural wind. A wall of presence that pushed through the air with no heat, no chill—just pressure. It slammed into Lyra and Guinevere without warning, throwing them back like toys tossed by a child.
Lyra turned mid-air, twisting her body to protect Alyssia as they tumbled, skidding across the earth. Guinevere hit the ground beside her, her dress fluttering violently around her.
And then the light dimmed.
They looked back.
And Mikoto was gone.
No—he was still there—but he was already halfway swallowed by a mass of shifting, black-violet shadow, a collection of appendages spiraling downward from an invisible rift in the sky. They wrapped around him—coiling around his torso, his legs, his throat—but not harming him.
"…Hn," he muttered flatly, looking down at his bound limbs as though mildly annoyed. Then, as the tendrils began to close, he tilted his head upward. "…That motherfu—"
And the shadow closed around him like the mouth of a large monster. He was gone, the air snapped shut. No trace remained. Only the faint outline of where he had stood.
Lyra didn't move for a moment. Her arms tightened around Alyssia's form. Guinevere was silent, eyes wide.
It was almost as if because he had brought one back.
He had been taken in return.