Deborah's POV
Memory seems far less reliable than I once imagined.
In that final moment before leaving Tirfothuinn, I held Matthew tightly, tilting my head as I pressed my lips to his.
For that single heartbeat, the world fell silent—it was just us, breathing each other in.
His lips carried a faint warmth—gentle yet steady—as if his very essence had melted into that kiss, wrapping around me and drawing me deeper.
I tried to imprint that moment in my mind, sealing away that tenderness as a permanent mark upon my heart.
No matter what lay ahead or whether I could still hold on to this love, I would at least keep it locked within me, forever remembered.
But as time slipped by, that sensation faded from my memory, like grains of sand brushed away by the wind.
The image grew hazier, his warmth slipping from recollection. I could barely recall the details of Matthew's face, only the softened outline of him close beside me.
His arms had felt so strong, holding me close to his chest, and his heartbeat—steady and grounding—beat within every shared moment, carrying his truth with each pulse.
Closing my eyes, I tried to recall every detail of that kiss, to relive the thrill of that moment.
But the more I grasped at the memory, the more it slipped like water between my fingers, leaving only a faint trace, like a dream receding into darkness.
Yet, even as the details blurred, my yearning for Matthew grew stronger—like ripples spreading out endlessly, filling my heart, impossible to hold back.
A quiet sadness washed over me, flooding my senses.
I was almost certain that I'd never see him again; the one who had once been so vividly real, that fierce and abiding love, would remain only within memory.
Yet, I held tightly to that memory, even as it faded, unwilling to let go, because it was the one glimpse of Matthew's tenderness that had touched my life.
Now that both Maeve and Deborah's final wishes have been fulfilled, I am left adrift, uncertain of what lies ahead.
Will I lose this body at any moment? Will my soul once again descend into the depths of Magmell? These questions hover over me, shadows that refuse to fade.
But one thing I do know: since fulfilling those wishes, my powers have grown significantly.
My strength has increased, and the range of spells I can cast has expanded, as though new incantations are rising from the depths of my mind.
Now, I can summon moonlight, absorb the sun's energy, heal wounds, and even make plants grow and bear fruit rapidly.
These powers free me from worries over food and water during my time wandering the surface, providing a sense of safety in the barren world above.
One spell in particular has proved astonishing—Animacommunicatio.
When I touch a corpse and recite, "Spiritus Vocare," I can glimpse fragments of their memories, especially the moments surrounding their death.
I can ask questions through sheer force of will, and though the dead can choose silence, they cannot lie. Regardless of their response, I am allowed only five questions.
However, Animacommunicatio's toll on my stamina is immense—more than any spell I have cast before. Each time I use it, I must proceed with caution.
This spell has proven invaluable during my travels among the remains of a ruined underground city.
Through Animacommunicatio, I learned that the land beneath my feet was once Falias's ruin—only a week ago, magma had engulfed the city, leaving no survivors among those unable to escape. The bodies littering the ground were those who attempted to flee but perished due to radiation exposure.
Unprepared, only a few managed to escape.
For those who did, stepping out onto the surface world, even if it ended in death, could be seen as a final gift.
Animacommunicatio allowed me to glimpse Falias's reality, a city eerily similar to Murias: over fifty thousand residents, golden-eyed slaves of pure bloodlines, a breeding center called Tirnanog, the FDB military force guarding the city, the EI resource research institute, and Falshi Quarry. These uncanny similarities chilled me, as though each of these underground cities had been crafted into a mold, a systemized prison.
It seemed the five great families of the Sky Cities had forged a silent pact in their rule over these cities.
Each governed their own underground city in identical ways, using them to serve their purposes.
The Lee family's Sky City—Hybrasil—had become a dead city, destroyed by Chad's brutal campaign.
Murias, governed by the Lee family, suffered a similar fate not long after, buried mercilessly under magma.
This leads me to question whether the destruction of Falias also signals the demise of the Sky City above it—Caersidi, ruled by the Blackwood family of mages.
The workings and balance of power between the five Sky Cities are far more intricate than I once imagined.
Each of the great families holds distinct roles.
The Thorne family supplies advanced technology among the five, lacking supernatural abilities themselves but possessing technological expertise upon which the cities deeply depend. Their technology powers the entire city, making them indispensable in the Sky City hierarchy.
The Vandran family served as early financiers and resource providers, particularly in discovering Falshi minerals, and over centuries, they remained one of the most steadfast pillars of the Sky Cities.
The Lee family served as priests, counterbalancing the Blackwood family of mages. Both families possessed a natural resistance to Enigma radiation, sparing them from surface exposure's deadly effects.
The Sky Cities had integrated our two families not for balance but to wield that balance to subdue the werewolves.
The most enigmatic was the Edwards family. Their role remained a mystery, though Father had never hidden their influence. Though there was no evidence to suggest they had supernatural abilities, the other three families of the Sky Cities obeyed their every command. The Lee family alone maintained any degree of independent judgment.
I have always suspected that the Lee family's downfall was Edwards's design.
They opposed Father's proposal to relocate Murias's residents to a new underground city, seeing it as a waste of resources.
Father, however, felt differently. He looked upon the residents of the cities with compassion, willing to pay the price to give them a chance at life, even if it meant challenging other families.
I can't help but wonder if this was the very reason the Lee family was wiped out.
But I have no proof.
Throughout my journey, there was only barren wasteland and corpses as far as the eye could see.
No living soul, no other creatures—not even birds or insects in the sky.
The dry air of the desert suffocates all life; every corpse quickly dries in the blazing sun and fierce winds, reduced to hollow husks. Whenever I cast a spell to coax plants into a brief life, they wither and die almost immediately after bearing fruit, as though this land rejects all forms of existence.
Desiccated bodies lie scattered in the desert, their faces frozen, features clear, eyes and mouths bleeding in their final agony.
Without exception, these people perished from Enigma radiation, and under the relentless sun, they dried quickly, weathered by wind until they were but shadows of themselves.
Reaching the top of a sand dune, I spotted a boy lying on the ground, around seventeen or eighteen years old. Remarkably, he seemed to be alive, though his breath was faint, as if he clung to life by only a fragile thread.
I hurried to his side, checking his condition. His breathing was so weak it was nearly imperceptible. His lips were parched and cracked, his skin bleached pale, as though he might slip away at any moment.
Taking a deep breath, I pulled a small knife from my pocket. Without hesitation, I made a swift cut across my palm, feeling the sting as blood welled up immediately.
Gently, I lifted his head, trying to drip my blood into his mouth, but he was too weak even to swallow.
"Hey, wake up. Come on, drink this," I whispered, hoping he might hear my voice and respond in some way. But he remained motionless, his face devoid of any signs of life.
Frustrated, I lightly patted his face with the back of my cut hand, urging him to respond.
Finally, he stirred, his cracked lips twitching ever so slightly.
Relieved, I squeezed my hand a bit tighter, letting the blood fall, one drop at a time, into his mouth.
After a few moments, he began to swallow, slowly taking in the life force I offered him.
A flicker of hope kindled in me—he was reacting, clinging to survival on some instinctual level.
After a few sips, he drifted back into unconsciousness.
Carefully, I laid him back down on the sand, exhaling slowly.
Glancing down at the wound on my hand, still trickling blood, I closed my eyes and softly murmured a healing incantation, "Anima Sanatio." Under my gaze, the wound closed and healed, leaving my hand whole again.
Though such magic drained a fair amount of my energy, it dulled the pain and helped me stay alert.
As night fell, the temperature dropped sharply.
I invoked a plant-growth spell for myself, coaxing apple trees to sprout from the sand, bearing a few ripe apples as sustenance for tonight.
Next, I gathered some dry twigs, casting a simple spell to ignite them, "Ignis Ardens."
A small fire sprang to life against the dark backdrop of night. Though modest, the flames provided enough warmth for both me and the boy through the cold night.
The boy beside me began to stir, his eyelashes fluttering as he slowly opened his eyes.
He was awake.