A Whispered Prayer at Sanctuary’s End

Sulfuric mist descended from the cliff's edge. GROAARRR!

The mist split; a dragon soared from the valley—its black scales gleaming like scorched glass, its eyes glowing a deep purple that Aurellia recognized instantly.

BOOOM! A sulfurous breath roared. Ragna jumped forward, cleaving the heat wave with his palm; Ayato struck the flank—ZHAP! ice spikes nailed the edge of its wing, FWOOM! fire from his fingernails swept the sooty path to prevent it from spreading to the bushes.

The dragon swept back; the cliff shook. Irea sliced through the air currents, holding back the crown of fire from consuming the group. CLANG! The tip of the tail flashed past; Ayato was thrown back a step, his knees absorbing the fall.

"Ayato," Aurellia's voice was flat. "Lock the base of the left wing—one-fifth of a beat."

He looked at her; there was a pulse he recognized—a resonance like a gentle pull in his sternum. Ayato connected his palm to the black scroll at Aurellia's waist; click—Aurellia's Black Orb responded, tilting only a quarter—not perfect. A current of thick, cold energy nudged his pulse; the world momentarily shortened to a single line.

"Enough," Aurellia hissed.

Ayato regulated his breath—three tight—two loose—then locked the dragon's legs: ice spikes multiplied into a grid; Aurellia pulled the creature's own darkness from its scales—KRK!—cutting its dark path momentarily.

Ragna was already moving: he twisted his wrist—click—the red crystal on the back of his hand glowed, a handle grew, a blade bloomed. A halberd was born in his grasp; one swing—VOOM!—the space around contracted following the blade's arc.

"Warm-up round," he murmured.

ZRAAAK! One strike sliced a panel of scales; the second landed between its ribs. The dragon screeched angrily, diving wildly. CRAAK! Its teeth snapped and grazed Ragna's side—blood sparked in the air. Ragna kept pressing; BOOOOM! a flat blow hit the base of its neck—the dragon collapsed like a tent with its ropes cut.

Silence fell—brief but heavy.

Ragna fell to one knee, holding back his burning breath. Irea was already at his side, patching the wound cleanly and precisely; dragon mucus was scraped from the edges.

"I'll stay," said Irea, without dramatics. "He's bleeding internally. You go ahead—I'll catch up."

Ragna turned his head, his slanted smile breaking in half. "Don't... take long. Lys is waiting for us!"

Irea remained dry. "If you walk now, you're dead. Choose: stay quiet or I'll tie you to a branch until you calm down."

"Hey! I'm not a desert monkey," Ragna brought his forehead a fraction closer.

"True," Irea finished the last knot, neatly. "Monkeys are smarter than a small brain that lights fires while leaking like this."

Ragna chuckled—half annoyed, half resigned.

"Go," Irea looked at Ayato and Aurellia. "Take the left stone path. There's a net on the right."

Aurellia nodded. "We'll proceed." She looked at Ayato and Cielle. "Short distance. We'll test the traps as we go."

The closer they got to Sanctuary, the heavier the air felt, like stale water. The aura of monsters thickened, sharp on the tongue. Twice they almost stepped into circles of mirror-salt that reflected their steps; twice Ayato froze the reflection as thin as glass to prevent distance deception. ZZZT! A web of binding threads dropped from a branch; Cielle cut it with a shadow slash soft as a strand, resonating to Ayato: Lys.

"Teleport access to Sanctuary has been broken since last month," Aurellia explained while deactivating small charm stakes in the ground. "The ring gate routes are jammed—the core was likely damaged. So we're forced to walk."

Ayato gave a short nod. "Thinking about it, no wonder Lys was confident enough to give me information about Sanctuary when we first met. With this many traps, it's impossible to penetrate without knowing them first."

"You're right," Aurellia agreed. "But I think what made her feel safest was that the Orb was protected by the strongest people on the continent."

"I figured as much," Ayato shrugged. "But who would have thought I and the orb bearers would be adventuring together on a mission to save Lys."

"Fate is strange sometimes."

Cielle suddenly tensed. Her blue eyes shifted to the right—click—her resonance touched Ayato's pulse: another vampire. She ran.

"Cielle!" Aurellia shot after her. "Her trail goes right—I'll follow her!"

Ayato moved to follow—then stopped mid-step. A strange sensation came from the left: a cold that wasn't cold, a taste of iron on his tongue, a subtle pull in his breastbone as if his name was called without sound. His premonition was bad, but clear.

He parted the bushes to the left.

The center of the pull was like a well without a lip: sound was muted, grass lay flattened pointing inward. Ayato emerged into a clearing—too late.

At the edge of a half-remaining seal circle, stood a man in a black robe. Veyric. His eyebrows raised—a blink of surprise at seeing a visitor at the end of his ritual. In the center of the circle, Lys lay—hair disheveled, necklace askew, lips pale.

"A pity you're late," Veyric stated flatly, like reporting an experiment result. His palm pressed the air—KRK! The rune lines cracked. "The gate of salvation will open soon."

He pushed Lys—not roughly, not gently—just enough to place her body right at the center of the sigil. Black light rose like cold smoke, coiling around her.

Ayato charged. ZZHAP! The air at the edge of the circle thickened; a net of sigils nailed the space—his movements were trapped like an insect in resin.

"Farewell, Master." Veyric gave a small bow to Lys—dry, almost respectful—then stepped into the crack in the seal. The Sanctuary gate opened—darkness grinned from the threshold. Veyric entered without looking back.

BRRAAAK!

From within Sanctuary, strange monsters hatched: thin bodies with glass-like skin, heads like crescent skeletons, many legs; they scurried out, seeking prey like a newly unleashed hunger.

Ayato reflexively scooped up Lys, creating an ice pillar—CRRAAK!—a pillar soared. He climbed—as high as the canopy—while the horde below swarmed, climbed, gnawed at the pillar whose coldness rattled their teeth.

"Lys!" Ayato held her cheek. Silence.

He only then realized how severe the cold radiating from her body was—not the cold of ice, but a darkness consuming boundaries.

Lys's eyelids trembled—then flew wide open: black circles lurked, purple pupils glowed, as if she wasn't the Lys Ayato knew. Her face broke into a smile—not joyful, but a hysteria too neat.

"Lys...?" Ayato's voice cracked.

Lys freed herself from his carry, floating slowly. Between her palms, four elements gathered—dull earth lightning, clear wind dust, fire that swallowed color, ice as old as stone—rolling into a single black ball whose density swallowed light.

"Stop—!" Ayato reached out.

WUMMM! The ball shot into the sky—exploded at the zenith—then split into four and scattered to the four winds.

Wherever the fragments passed, the world coughed:

---City wards squealed and died.

---Ring gates sparked with reverse currents, swallowing anyone who approached.

---Magic devices on soldiers' belts suddenly broke; mana compasses spun wildly.

---In villages, magic lamps pulsed black then shattered into small shadow insects that bit.

―Calamities fell one by one, scorching all forms of civilization that had been built.

Ayato froze atop the pillar—staring at Lys grinning with satisfaction under the moon. Shock squeezed his gut; his thoughts snapped.

Lys tilted her palm—without a word. FWOOM! A ring of wind exploded around her, carrying spinning ice shards like saws.

Ayato dropped the pillar, BRUK!—his right palm raised an ice shield; TING-TING-TING! the shards were blocked. He countered with thin fire from his fingertips—FSSST!—merely deflecting the trajectory.

Lys tapped the air. GRRROK! An earth pillar slammed up from below, angling towards his ribs. Ayato slapped an earth magic stone to the ground—KRK!—a ramp of stone grew crosswise, shifting the boulder's momentum sideways.

WHUP! Windy twigs elongated into spears; their tips froze, their cores boiled.

Ayato tightened his breath—three tight—two loose—microscopic ice threads spread to deflect vectors; fire at his fingernails only sterilized scratches that got through.

Lys closed her fingers—click—the four elements wove into a single blunt wave cone: wind pushing, fire expanding, ice tensing the air, earth weighting the core.

"Lys!---"

DOOOOM!

The wave hit Ayato's thigh--waist--chest—hard but without intent to kill. The world overturned; Ayato was thrown through bushes, tumbling on damp soil, CRASHING into a giant root. The dark radius of Sanctuary was left behind—shrinking to a stain at the edge of his vision. The horde that had climbed the pillar lost interest; their attack vector was broken.

Ayato coughed, lungs burning. Amid the ringing in his ears, he realized the pattern of the assault: designed to push, not penetrate. Behind the hysteria in those eyes... remained a choice: to keep him away from the mouth of darkness.

"Lys..." his voice cracked.

He forced himself up. Every joint protested, his breath short. The forest ahead blurred—and from the direction of the swamp, a foul aura made his skin shiver. That aura didn't belong to a Sanctuary monster—this was someone.

He crouched, then ran stumbling towards the swamp—and there he saw Irea...

The foul aura assaulted him even before he approached the figure. The aura of darkness shrouding Irea eroded his joints; Ayato's health plummeted—he hadn't had time to fortify himself with magic or drink a potion.

"Irea?" Ayato called—hope scorched by the wind.

The reply: a magic spear.

SWIISSSHH!

A wind spear passed a hand's breadth from his cheek—KRAK! the tree behind him snapped. A second attack followed, lower, more personal; Ayato's breath tore.

He tried to raise his empty palm—the command didn't connect. His joints felt poured with lead; his breath shortened and disobeyed. The aura around Irea blackened, pressing on his nerves.

ZZZRAAP. A wind spear launched—in his eyes it slowed: clear strands spinning, reflecting a broken twilight.

Ahh... everything feels slow... is this my end?

Ayato slowly began to close his eyes. Different from usual, this attack was on another scale.

No way I can survive... besides, I'm so tired...

If this is really my time, at least... it will end by your hand, Irea—my savior from that day.

The spear tip almost touched his neck—

KRAK-KRAK!

A flash of bluish-yellow lightning split the air; the smell of ozone struck. Blades of grass stood on end instantly.

TING!

From the tip of the lightning, a magic segment was embedded—like a glass plate—and liquid sigils sprayed from its center, deflecting the wind vector and breaking the spear's edge.

An aura of light-lightning-wind spun briefly; Aurellia stepped out from the remaining glow, her coat fluttering, the ends of her ponytail standing static. She pushed Irea back with a single palm pressure; the wind blade collapsed before fully forming.

Aurel didn't look back. Her voice was clear and cold:

"It's not yet time for me to say welcome back. It seems we have to go pick up everyone who got lost on their way home, isn't that right? Ayato."

A small light returned to Ayato's eyes—enough to stand. He nodded, though his body trembled. With Aurel by his side, he grasped the remnants of calm in his chest.

"Right."

"In that case," Aurel drew a sigil line in the air. "We'll fetch them by force—one by one—from behind the darkness."

KRAK-KRAK! Bluish-yellow lightning bloomed briefly; the smell of ozone sliced through the swamp.

GRRRR--- Silver fur blackened at the edges; Dark Fenrir stepped out from Irea's shadow, his breath flowering with thick ice. On the other side, Irea stood with dark eyes, pupils elongated; the air around her was sliced by wind and thickened into vapor.

Aurel tilted her chin. "I'll handle Fenrir. Irea—yours!"

Ayato nodded.

WHUUM! Fenrir pounced; Aurel sliced the air—SHRAAK!—constructing a crosshatch of light bars, binding the angle of his leap. FSSST! Fenrir's freezing breath whitened on the bars; Aurel twisted her wrist, lightning crawled over the grid—TRAK!—hissing at Fenrir's teeth. Strands of Aurel's hair stood fine with static electricity; she shifted her soles, placing wind beneath her feet, gliding half a palm's width above the mud.

Fenrir disappeared into the shadows—reappeared behind. Aurel was waiting; a triangle of light locked in the air—TING!—coiling around Fenrir's neck, not hurting, restraining. "Sit," she murmured—calm, firm.

...

SWIISH! Two wind spears dove diagonally. Ayato crossed his palms—microscopic ice threads deflected the vectors, merely shifting the angle; thin fire from his nails soothed the edges of wounds that got through to prevent spreading.

Irea tapped the ground—GRROK! A pillar slanted up from below his knee. Ayato jumped short, his heel touching the surface of an ice disc the size of a palm he grew in the air—click—making him pivot out of the line. The hem of his robe was wet by pressurized water Irea spun from the right; he whipped back with a flat fire gust—not attacking, just breaking the water column into mist.

"Come back, Irea," Ayato uttered—hoarse, not pleading; a stated fact.

Irea didn't answer. The wind on her shoulders thickened into pseudo-wings; she shot forward with a third spear, lower, straight to his ribs.

Ayato stepped in. Half a step. His left palm lightly struck the spear's shaft sideways; his right palm touched Irea's wrist—a gentle cold sealed her pulse for an instant.

The world slowed—not from magic, but from a resonance awakening.

Irea's Orb hummed low.

The question rose: love or hate?

CLICK.

Darkness reflected like glass. A projector lit up.

First, a man's voice from behind the wheel:

"Sorry... I'm not ready. Let's end this."

A car door closed. Taillights receded. A stomach not yet showing under a cheap dress—a hand with nothing to hold.

She pressed her brother's number—pick up, please...

Her brother panicked, "Wait there, I'll pick you—"

BRAAAK! A quick news clip: brakes failing, white airbag, windshield cracked like a spiderweb, screaming sirenes.

Her parents' house: cold.

"What have you done?"

"Because of your stupidity, we lost our pride and joy."

A pair of slippers pushed outside the door. The door locked from inside. Rain recorded her face.

On an overpass late at night:

wind poured cold into her bones. She stood on the railing, leaning over the passing trains below.

Her hand went to her stomach; the small bump just becoming noticeable.

"If I jump, I'm a murderer," she whispered.

She climbed down from the railing—knees weak. Crying without sound.

The nights that followed:

a thin rented room, peeling paint.

Sometimes she hit her stomach—twice, three times—

then stopped; terrified of her own hands.

"Sorry... don't go," she said to something she now called 'you'.

After birth:

back-breaking work. Morning cashier shift, afternoon dishwashing, night promoter, then entertaining in a small club. Smiles for rent; swollen feet; returning home when the sky was pale.

An elementary school child coming home bruised—coincidentally she came home early that day.

The small face was battered, uniform torn, table cracked; a plate shattered on the floor.

She was angry—went to the school.

The teacher's room. The bully's parents looked down over their glasses.

"A prostitute, right? Here's money for damages."

A wad of bills thrown on the desk; some hit her cheek.

A dry laugh. "Educate your own child first. Don't bring your profession to school."

KLEK. Something broke in her chest—

returned home with a different silence.

At the doorstep, she looked at her child—and from somewhere, hatred stood with her.

"Turns out you're the same," she said coldly. "You also want to torment me."

From that day on:

bottles on the floor, drunkenness becoming a habit.

When the child grew older, could work part-time—

her hand grabbed the pay envelope, "Compensation—you owe me your life."

The small face shrank at the end of the corridor.

The years passed like a dull knife until one night:

the child exploded—hands on her neck.

Air choked. Her eyes widened.

But suddenly loosened; the grip didn't close on death.

She ran—outside, to the outskirts, under a bridge—

empty bottles, wet cardboard, nameless cold.

The projector slowed. Under that bridge, she curled into the smallest possible shape, holding back the world with her elbows.

Darkness pulsed—returned to the resonance space.

Ayato saw it all without closing his eyes.

Only after that face turned—old, tired, cracked—

did his words emerge from a place no longer thorny:

"I am grateful you gave birth to me."

He took a breath, his voice softening.

"I stop here. I don't ask you to forgive me; even if you don't, I will still pray for you. If you are still alive in that world, I hope you find happiness—however small: a roof that doesn't leak, a piece of warm bread, and a hand that doesn't hit. If there's no one... let this prayer find you."

From his chest, something was released—a clear bubble the size of a marble, inside it a small spark like the first firework. The bubble floated slowly, as if glancing back for a moment, then left.

Under a bridge, a shabby old woman hugged an empty bottle. The smell of diesel and stagnant water rose from the river surface.

Plop.

The bubble burst without sound before her face—into light fragments that melted on her skin.

She jolted. Something opened in her head—not a new memory, but a different way of seeing. She saw: the little child waiting at the doorstep, the snatched pay envelope, her own neck once choked by the hatred she nurtured herself. And beneath all that, one naked truth: the only one who was always with her in the hardest times... was her child.

Her shoulders shook. Tears long turned to salt finally flowed.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand—slowly, clumsily—then took a long breath. A small dedication was born in her chest: not beautiful words, just an intent to atone in the way she could—stop running, stop drinking, walk the path home... or, at least, stop hurting anyone who resembled that child along the way.

The small prayer of the child from another world—had been delivered.

Simultaneously with that event, the girl who had been standing in a pool of dark mud—slowly the water cleared, and a small smile appeared faintly drawn on her face.

CLICK.

The swamp returned. Ayato's hand was still on Irea's wrist.

The Orb on Irea's chest glimmered; its blackness peeled away layer by layer, leaving behind a stubborn clarity. The dark eyes blinked—the dark gleam extinguished. Irea exhaled, her shoulders sinking.

On the other side, Fenrir, who had been snarling, now lowered his snout; Aurel's light bars loosened but ready to close again if needed. Aurel held lightning at two fingertips—a fine reticulation—as a warning. "It's over, yes?" she asked flatly, but with relief hidden at the edge of her breath.

Ayato set his breath—three tight—two loose—and nodded. "Yes."

Irea looked at Ayato for a long time, then nodded once. "Thank you."

Aurel lowered her hand; the lightning receded to a glimmer. "In that case," she looked towards the pulsating shadow of Sanctuary, "we've retrieved two of the lost. Next."

Ayato rotated his shoulder—pain remained, but it was orderly. "Ragna. Cielle. Lys."

Aurel drew a new sigil line; the wind laid a path before them. "Let's go. We'll fetch the rest—by force, if necessary."