Episode 1

The forest seemed alive, as if it had been holding its breath for centuries and was only now releasing it in long, heavy sighs through the whispering branches. Its emerald canopy hung thick above me, so dense that only narrow blades of sunlight broke through, cutting streaks of gold into the dimness. The air was damp, heavy with the smell of moss and earth. Beneath me, the mud was cold, soaking into my cloak, seeping into my bones like a slow, merciless poison. My body felt like a broken vessel, cracked and leaking life with every ragged breath I managed to draw.

"We don’t have much time, Lucien," I whispered, my voice hoarse and thin against the endless symphony of the forest. "Please, you have to do it now."

Lucien knelt beside me, his shadow falling across my failing body. His arms pulled me close, strong but trembling, a desperate attempt to hold me together. He buried his face against my neck, and when he spoke, his words were soaked in grief.

"I can’t," he said, choking on the admission. "I simply cannot."

"Why not?" my voice cracked, my strength stretched thin, but I forced the words out anyway. "Have you finally lost faith in me? After everything we’ve done, after all the battles, the scars, the nights we thought we wouldn’t see dawn—have you lost faith now?"

His head snapped up. His eyes, usually steady as the horizon, now burned with a storm of hurt and fury. "Don’t you dare say that," he growled, his voice breaking into rawness. "Don’t you understand the risk? If this ritual fails, if it consumes you—" his throat tightened, his hands gripping me harder. "If you vanish, how could I live with it? How could I live knowing I was the one who ended you?"

Despite the agony twisting through me, I reached up and touched his face. My fingers shook, but I managed to brush them along his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin. His eyes searched mine, torn between hope and dread.

"I’ll come back," I told him, my tone soft, but certain. "I swear it, Lucien. This isn’t the end, it can’t be. We’ve run out of roads, and this is the only path left, you know it as well as I do."

He let out a sound that was part sigh, part sob, defeat, reluctance. His embrace loosened, like he was afraid even his arms could shatter me further. Then, with trembling hands, he drew his sword. The polished steel caught what little sunlight trickled down through the trees, a cruel shard of brightness in the gloom. He raised the blade, holding its tip just above my heart. His entire frame shook, his jaw clenched tight as though he were holding himself back from collapsing entirely.

I gave him what little I had left—a smile, fragile and fleeting, but real. "Remember what I told you," I whispered. "This isn't our ending, I refuse to let it be."

"And if you’re wrong?" his voice was nothing but cracked glass. "If your promise breaks, I will never forgive myself, not in this life, not in any that follow."

The moment hung between us, unbearable in its silence. But then the world intruded. The ground seemed to tremble beneath the rhythmic pounding of hooves, horses. Many of them, drawing closer. My stomach turned cold.

"Now, Lucien!" my urgency cracked the quiet. "They’re coming—now!"

I grabbed his hand, his fingers clenched so tightly around the sword’s hilt that his knuckles had gone white. With what remained of my strength, I guided the blade. The steel pressed against me, and then, white-hot agony tore through my chest. It ripped my breath away, searing everything inside me. The forest spun, the sounds blurred and faded, swallowed by silence. Somewhere in the distance, I heard his cry—a sound too raw to be human, a sound that broke me in ways the sword never could. Then darkness closed in, vast and endless, and I was gone.

...•••...

...(650 years later)...

The first thing I felt was sunlight. Not warmth on my skin exactly, but a glow that slipped through my eyelids, tugging me awake. My eyes blinked open to find a golden stripe of morning cutting across my bedroom wall. The curtains hadn’t done their job, but I didn’t mind. I stretched, arms lifting high above my head, feeling a pleasant ache ripple through muscles still tired from the chaos of moving.

Cardboard boxes were stacked like crooked towers around the room, reminders of my unfinished business. I hadn’t unpacked, hadn’t bothered to arrange the little fragments of my life into this new space yet. The room was still strange, sterile, waiting to be claimed.

Swinging my legs over the bed, my feet touched the marble floor—cool, smooth, grounding. I padded across to the window, pushing it open wide. The city’s air rushed in, crisp and bright. Somewhere below, I heard traffic, voices, life buzzing forward.

Today was the day. My first day at university.

Excitement and loneliness tangled together in my chest. Independence was what I’d wanted, what I’d fought for. My parents had supported me without hesitation, cheering me on as I left home to chase the dream that had haunted me since childhood. Painting, specifically. It was in my bones. I’d bled for it on canvas more times than I could count. Now, at last, I had a place to nurture that passion properly.

Still, the ache of loneliness was real. A new city. No familiar faces. Just me, my brushes, my sketchbooks, and the fragile hope that this choice was the right one.

At my desk, I flipped open my laptop. The glow of the screen lit my face, pulling me fully into the present. My schedule was there, neat and official. Everything was in order. Relief trickled through me. I transferred the documents to my phone—better safe than sorry—before shutting the laptop and heading to get ready.

I dressed carefully. Not fancy, but deliberate. Jeans, a fitted top, a jacket that suggested confidence even if I didn’t fully feel it yet. My hair fell in loose waves, brushed out until it caught the light. A light spritz of perfume—the floral kind I always wore—was the last step, a small anchor that reminded me of home.

The university was a twenty-minute walk away, the city unfolding around me as I went. My heart beat fast, but not from nerves alone. There was a sense of standing at the edge of something vast, unknown.

...•••...

The university’s main corridor was chaos. Students streamed through it in every direction, voices rising and falling in an ocean of noise. Bags swung over shoulders, laughter burst from clusters of friends, papers fluttered.

I clutched my phone, the university map open like a lifeline, and navigated carefully through the crowd.

Eyes followed me as I moved. I felt them, sharp and lingering, heard the hushed comments that trailed behind. "She’s stunning," someone whispered. It wasn’t new. I’d grown used to stares, to the odd comments, to beauty being noticed more than anything else about me. It was never something I took pride in. If anything, it was exhausting. Beauty was skin-deep, and skin was fragile.

I found my locker easily. Cool metal beneath my hand, relief. But when I glanced to the side, someone was already standing there.

A girl with a wide, toothy smile stared straight at me, eyes sparkling like she’d been waiting just for me. I gave her a cautious smile in return, polite but uncertain. Her grin somehow grew wider.

"Hi!" she said brightly, thrusting out her hand. "I’m Sasha. You are absolutely gorgeous. Are you new here?"

Her energy was like a sunbeam I hadn’t asked for but couldn’t avoid. I shook her hand, caught off guard by the firm grip, and before I could say anything, she pulled me into a hug. Quick, but warm.

I stiffened at first. Strangers didn’t hug me. But oddly, I didn’t hate it.

"I’m Elara," I said once I’d regained my composure. My voice sounded quieter than usual. "Yes, I’m new. Fine Arts."

Her gasp was dramatic. "No way. Same! Well, sort of. I’m more into photography than painting, but still uh, arts. That means we’re stuck together, okay?"

I laughed under my breath, a sound that surprised me with how natural it felt. She really was a whirlwind.

While I arranged my sketchbooks and paints inside the locker, she lingered beside me, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

"Do you paint too sometimes?" I asked, partly curious, partly trying to redirect her boundless energy.

Her smile faltered for the first time, just a flicker. "Not really. Like I said, I’m more of a photography person. Old buildings, sunsets, vintage vibes—stuff like that. Oh, but you?" her grin returned, mischievous. "You’re basically aesthetic personified," she winked.

I rolled my eyes but smiled anyway. "You just met me and you’re already dropping lines like that?"

"Don’t worry, don’t worry," she laughed, hands raised as if to surrender. "I’m strictly into guys. I just have an appreciation for beauty, that’s all. Occupational hazard of being an artist."

She winked again, and I shook my head, unable to stop the chuckle that slipped out.

With my bag packed, I slung it over my shoulder. Sasha immediately fell into step beside me as I made my way toward the lecture hall. She chattered non-stop, her words bouncing with excitement, filling the silence I hadn’t realized was weighing on me.

And maybe, just maybe, I thought as I listened, this new beginning wouldn’t be so lonely after all.

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