The Heart of a Mourning Goddess

The Forest that Betrayed Him
\[FLASHBACK\]
The wind whispered a lullaby through the trees, sunlight trickling like gold dust across the leaves. For the first time in what felt like days, Darius felt warmth on his face—not from a fire, not from adrenaline—but from the sun itself.

He stood at the edge of the clearing, in front of the towering iron gates, half-buried in thick moss and vines. Their archway, weathered by time, stood like a monument to everything lost and hidden. They were ancient, older than the kingdom of Edralis itself, and whispered of a time when witches had thrived in the open.

Behind him, the Silent Forest stretched endlessly, a maze of shadow and decay. Even now, it pulsed with tension—as though the trees themselves breathed and watched.

But this clearing, this patch of peace beyond the blackwood thickets, shimmered with gentle magic.

A cool breeze stirred the grass at his feet, and the scent of fresh earth and wildflowers filled his nose. Birdsong trickled down from the trees. Life was right outside those gates. Real, unfiltered, gentle life.

He exhaled shakily, his voice hoarse and full of disbelief.

"I made it," he whispered, closing his eyes as the wind caressed his battered face. "I finally made it."

The weight of his journey—of every sacrifice, every wound, every whispered prayer—landed on him all at once. His knees buckled slightly, but he caught himself. He couldn’t fall now. He wouldn’t. Not here.

Turning, he looked back into the clearing. Delicate Varae Blooms spilled over curling vines, their petals glowing softly like moonlight trapped in glass. Each flower pulsed with slow, steady light—a heartbeat.

He walked to them, reverently. The air here hummed with magic, like the forest itself sighed in memory of what it used to be. Darius crouched low, dirt clinging to his boots and knees as he reached out and gently plucked one of the blooms.

The flower’s light flickered in his palm, casting a soft glow over his tired features. He turned it slowly, admiring it—the fragile miracle that might just help them all.

He allowed himself a single breath of hope.

Then—a sound.

CRACK.

The snap of a twig. Subtle. But wrong.

Darius stiffened. His head snapped toward the thick brush to his left.

He slowly rose, fingers closing around the hilt of his sword.

The wind no longer felt gentle.

His voice was a low growl. “Who’s there?”

Nothing.

His eyes scanned the trees. Every instinct screamed trap.

He remained still for a long moment, blade half-drawn.

Silence.

Just as he began to exhale, fingers easing from the hilt—they came.

“NOW!”

From the bushes, they erupted—like demons loosed from the void.

Ten. No—twelve, thirteen—witch hunters, fully armored, eyes gleaming with anticipation. Their anti-magic weapons glowed with null-light, casting twisted reflections on the forest floor.

Darius’s sword cleared its sheath with a sharp metallic ring.

The nearest hunter lunged.

Darius twisted, blade flashing—he sliced through the shaft of a spear, kicked the attacker back, and spun toward the next. A flurry of blows came at him—he ducked one, parried another.

But they just kept coming.

One hunter flanked his right, smashing a reinforced shield into his ribs. The breath was knocked from his lungs.

Another swept low—CRACK—a heavy boot slammed into his ankle.

He fell to one knee, catching himself with his blade.

They surrounded him, forming a circle. The clearing became a cage.

Darius swung wide, cutting into one of their shoulders—but it wasn’t enough.

A whip lashed through the air, long and serrated. It coiled around his back and yanked—flesh tore from his shoulder as the barbs bit deep.

He shouted, pain flooding his senses.

One hunter rammed a pommel into the side of his face. His vision blurred.

Still, he tried to rise. Sword raised, shaking.

They laughed.

“Still got fight in him!” one sneered. “How noble.”

Another hunter drew his whip again and lashed him across the chest. Darius screamed.

A third slammed the hilt of a hammer into his thigh, and he dropped, barely able to lift his arms.

His sword—ripped from his grasp—was flung away into the dirt.

They pounced.

The beating became merciless. Like animals, they descended on him—kicks to the ribs, punches to the face. One held him down while another spat on him. Another hunter laughed as he carved ‘TRAITOR’ into Darius’s shoulder with a jagged dagger.

His body convulsed with each strike.

His own blood painted the grass.

Eventually, he stopped moving.

One of them leaned in, grabbing him by the hair, lifting his head like a trophy. Darius’s good eye fluttered open, just enough to meet the hunter’s grin.

“Well, well. Look at this mess,” the man mocked. “Darius, was it? The Queen’s favorite dog? Thought you could hide from us forever, Eh?”

Another scoffed. “If we knew the bastard would fall this easy, we’d have hunted him sooner.”

“I almost feel bad,” a younger one said, laughing. “Almost.”

They pulled heavy iron chains and used them to bind his wrists, arms and ankles.

He barely felt it. He couldn’t move.

“Queen Lysandra will love this,” one of them smirked, tightening the chains around his throat like a collar. “Says she wants to make an example of you. Something poetic, I hear.”

“Oh, I heard she’s planning a full execution. Public. You’ll be a spectacle, hero.”

“She might even let the kids throw rocks at you first.”

The clearing that had been filled with sunlight, hope, and Varae Blooms now bore the wreckage of blood and cruelty. The petals dimmed as Darius’s blood soaked the soil, the forest once again silent as death.

And as they hoisted his limp body, dragging him through the gates like a
fallen animal, the Varae Bloom he had picked—crushed beneath a boot—flickered once more, then went dark.
\[FLASHBACK ENDS\]