Menma's eyes were filled with fury, his hands shaking as he pointed his sword at Garrick.
"You really think we're just going to let him go?" he barked at Annie, his voice cracking from the sheer frustration and betrayal that still burned within him.
"After everything he's done to us? The lies, the illusions, the pain? And now what—we just act like it never happened?"
Annie, calm but firm, took a deep breath. "We're not letting him go," she said. "But if there's one thing we know, it's that his powers might be the edge we need against the Purgatorists."
Menma scoffed. "And you think Garrick is just going to behave? Follow orders like a well-trained dog?"
He laughed bitterly, gripping his sword tighter. "The first chance he gets, he's going to try and kill us all. Just like he already tried—multiple times!"
A moment of silence passed before he looked down, voice softer now. "I'm sorry… Mother."
He lunged.
But Annie was faster. Her chain of light shot forward, wrapping around Menma's sword mid-strike, halting it inches before it reached Garrick's chest.
Another part of the glowing chain whipped around and struck Menma on the head, knocking him out cold. His body slumped as Annie gently held him with her other hand.
"I'm sorry, Menma," she whispered, voice trembling. "But I had to."
She raised her hand and activated the teleportation rune. Menma vanished in a burst of soft light, his unconscious body sent to the healing chambers within the village.
Without hesitation, Annie turned to Garrick. With a second gesture, she teleported him as well—but not to comfort or safety.
Instead, Garrick materialized inside a prison, one half buried deep underground and the other open to the icy winds above. A space made to hold monsters. A space made to hold him.
Annie stood for a moment, eyes burning with silent determination, then vanished from the forest.
Inside the village's treatment room, the atmosphere was lighter than expected. Dozens of witches—some bandaged, others already healed—talked among themselves while sipping warm tea or drinking potion mixtures.
Conversations buzzed with chaotic energy—some voices still stunned from Garrick's illusions, others laughing and boasting about their battle techniques.
Outside, Lunara had already stepped into the winter sun, fully recovered. A few older witches, still tipsy from the celebration, glared at her with mock annoyance.
"Bah! We lost our bet on you!" one shouted.
Lunara chuckled, then bowed deeply. "I'm sorry."
Her genuine humility disarmed them. They looked at one another, then at her, and softened.
"Ay, don't worry. You fought like a storm," another said, waving her off. "You made us proud."
Menma woke up shortly after, groggy but determined. His feet barely touched the ground before he was already storming outside to find Garrick—but was halted by Lunara.
"Menma!" she called, smiling. "Congratulations on the win."
He blinked. "Since when are you so polite?"
She grinned. "Annie's training. Ten months of it." Then, with exaggerated dramatics, she said, "She would've beat my ass if I didn't learn forgiveness and kindness."
Menma raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
"But don't get it twisted," she added smugly. "I'm still ahead of you. We can't fight again, so that means I've got the most wins. Yippee!"
"You suck," Menma muttered.
"You suck more," Lunara shot back.
He rolled his eyes, mumbling something under his breath as he left to find Garrick.
Not far away, Zayne arrived on the island in a blur of speed, the wind howling behind him as he crossed the fields. Birds scattered, grass bowed from his velocity, and a witch watching from the village edge turned to Annie.
"I think we've got company."
Annie looked into the distance and smiled. "Yeah. We do."
Zayne slowed down before her, the energy around him dissipating as he caught his breath. Annie offered him a drink.
"You're late to the party."
Zayne sighed, accepting the cup. "Tell me I didn't miss all the fights."
Annie smirked. "You did."
Just then, Menma arrived, storming toward them. "Where is he?" he demanded. "Where did you put him?"
"The prison," Annie said calmly.
Before he could ask more, Zayne interrupted. "Put who?"
"Sit down," Annie said. "I'll explain everything."
They sat together, the wind settling into a gentle breeze around them. Annie told them about the battles, about Garrick, about everything that had happened.
Zayne wasn't surprised. "Of course he's still alive," he said. "He's always been a sly fox."
The tension melted into food and drink as the witches around them recovered. The stars began to twinkle above.
Later that night, Zayne walked to the prison with a chunk of meat and a flask of wine. He sat near the bars, looking at Garrick.
"Sup, little fox."
Garrick smirked. "You've gotten soft. Drinking with witches now?"
"If you told me ten years ago that this would be my life," Zayne said, shaking his head, "I'd have called myself a fool. But I made a promise to my father. And after hearing what Annie told me… I couldn't ignore it."
Garrick's tone turned bitter. "And us? We were close. Friends. No—brothers. You ruined it."
Zayne's voice dropped into a cold anger. "We lost because we were weak. You blamed everyone else… but maybe we weren't strong enough to protect what mattered."
Then, his voice softened again. "They're not the monsters we thought. If I hadn't joined them, I'd regret it for the rest of my life."
He poured wine into both cups and held one through the bars. "Drink. You'll need your strength."
He left the food behind, turning to leave. Garrick remained silent, staring at the wine, memories of their childhood flashing in his mind—back when they weren't enemies.
Zayne returned to Menma, who was sitting near the fire.
"What about the siblings?" Menma asked. "And the villagers?"
"I left them on good land," Zayne said. "They've got homes, farms, guards. The kids—they're in the castle. Being trained. Cared for."
Menma nodded, visibly relieved. "I can't wait to see them grow. To fight beside them one day."
As the night deepened, witches lay scattered around the fire, half-asleep or laughing drunkenly. Menma and Lunara argued in the corner about who was dumber, their insults turning ridiculous. Saphyra laughed so hard she spilled her drink.
Annie approached Zayne.
"Everyone's ready for tomorrow," she said, her voice quieter now. "Do you think we'll get to have more nights like this after we come back?"
Zayne didn't answer at first. Then, raising his cup, he smiled faintly. "That's why it's important to live now."
Annie raised her cup as well. "Thank you—for training Menma. For staying with us."
They drank together, not as warriors—but as people preparing to face the storm.
But while the witches gathered their strength, so did the darkness.
In the heart of Purgatory, beneath skies blackened with ash, Vel'Zorath stood on a mountain of bones—his monstrous gaze sweeping over an army of skeletons, werewolves, and goblins, all kneeling in silence.
One by one, they bowed… and in unison, they roared. The war had already begun.