*PAST*


    Blood dripped from his hand, each crimson drop staining the pristine petals below. No rhythm. No pattern. Just random splashes of life bleeding away, seeping into the roots of a dying garden.


    Astraxian stood motionless, his alabaster skin marred by streaks of red. His face remained expressionless, yet there was something hollow in his gaze—something stretched thin, frayed beyond recognition. The body before him was familiar—too familiar.


    The garden, once untouched, had begun to wilt. The towering flowers of violet and gold, once pulsing with divine radiance, curled inward, their petals crumbling like brittle parchment. The silver leaves dulled, their whispered secrets fading into silence. The air, once thick with jasmine and something ancient—something uniquely *hers*—grew stagnant, suffocating. Even the eternal dusk had dimmed, shadows stretching long and hungry, creeping toward him like starving things.


    And yet, the ruin of this place was nothing compared to the ruin inside him.


    She lay before him, her form dissolving into ethereal mist, the slow, sorrowful unraveling of divinity. Her eyes—once filled with fire, with love, with fury—were now glassy and vacant, staring into the abyss he carried within him.


    A breath left his lips—soft, uneven. Then it twisted into a laugh.


    At first, it was just air, barely there, but then it grew—low and jagged, raw and bitter. A laugh with no joy, no relief. Just the echoes of something breaking apart, fracturing beneath the weight of itself.


    With sudden violence, he turned and drove his fist into the nearest wall of her home. The opalescent stone shuddered beneath the force, cracks spidering outward, catching the dim light like fractured starlight. Pain flared through his knuckles—sharp, grounding—but it was nothing. It was never enough.


    He exhaled sharply and dragged his bloodied hand through his hair, smearing crimson across his temple like war paint.


    Memories bled through the fractures of his mind.


    Laughter beneath violet moons.


    Hands grasping, bodies entwined, whispered promises carved into eternity.


    His fingers curled against her fading skin, his voice a breath of something too fragile to name.


    "Beautiful."


    The word felt wrong on his tongue. A eulogy. A confession. A wound that refused to close.


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    The air shifted. A whisper slithered through the withering garden. A breath. A voice.


    Not distant. Not a memory. Here. Now.


    "How many times has it been?"


    Astraxian’s breath stilled.


    He lifted his head sharply, his body locking into stillness.


    She was still on the ground before him—dissolving, fading. And yet, she stood in front of him.


    A specter of herself, unyielding, her form wreathed in something that was not light, not darkness. Eyes burning with something more terrible than rage.


    Judgment.


    "Do you even remember why you are doing this?"


    Her voice was not sorrowful. Not pleading. Only cold.


    His fingers twitched, as if reaching for something that was already lost.


    "I remember everything."


    The words came hoarse, raw, scraping their way from his throat.


    Lythara’s gaze did not waver.


    "Then say it."


    Silence.


    His lips parted, but no words came.


    The ground beneath her cracked further, the last remnants of the garden unraveling into dust. The weight of her stare pressed against him—crushing, merciless.


    "Coward."


    A final breath. A final flicker of her presence.


    Then, she was gone.


    The garden was dead now—withered beyond recognition. The once-lush sanctuary reduced to a husk, drained of all warmth, all beauty. The obsidian walls of the chamber pulsed with a slow, aching rhythm, as if the world itself breathed in mourning.


    Astraxian remained still. His bloodied hand trembled at his side, fingers curling inward, the drying crimson on his skin forming intricate patterns—glyphs in a language only madness could read.


    "Nothing changes."


    Her voice echoed in his mind.


    A slow exhale.


    Then, he turned and stepped beyond the ruins.


    ---


    The path stretched before him, winding through the remnants of what once thrived. The sky above held no sun, no stars—just an endless twilight, thick and heavy with something unseen.


    Beyond the dying garden, *they* waited.


    The Wardens stood in silence, their bodies bloodied, their faces hollow.


    Mira was the first to break it. Her silver hair clung to her skin, streaked with blood that was not her own. She did not look at Astraxian, only the horizon, as if trying to find something that was no longer there.


    Her voice, when it came, was quiet.


    "Where is Rowan?"


    A pause. A breath. Then, Casiel exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. His golden armor, dulled by battle, caught the dim light, but there was nothing triumphant in the way he stood—only exhaustion.


    "Dead."


    The word landed between them, sharp and final.


    Mira closed her eyes. If she felt anything, she did not let it show.


    "And his target?"


    Casiel’s voice was quieter this time.


    "Dead."


    Astraxian remained silent.


    They had all done it. Again.


    The air between them was thick, suffocating. Silence stretched, heavy as mist, pressing against their ribs like unseen hands. Then, at last, Mira spoke again, softer than a breath.


    "Go to the chamber. I’ll handle Rowan."


    The words settled over them like a funeral shroud.


    Astraxian’s fingers twitched.


    The chamber. Their tomb of forgotten moments. Their endless waiting.


    His mind was fraying at the edges, unraveling like the gods they had slain.


    *"Not again,"* he thought.


    But the chamber did not care for thoughts.


    The darkness swallowed them whole.


    And the waiting began.


    Again.