The air in the throne room seemed to vibrate again when another ethereal voice rose, but this time it was masculine, deep and grave.
—Angyara...
The male figure seemed freshly arrived at the Threshold, his essence still vibrating with the energy of someone who had not long ago crossed to the other side.
His form, although similarly distorted and ethereal like his mother's, possessed a different fragility, as if time had not yet had the chance to fully wear down his features.
He was tall, his faint silhouette reflecting the stature of someone who, in life, had been strong and protective.
The figure's eyes, though now dark and hollow, shone with an immeasurable love, the same love Angyara had felt on the nights when her father wrapped her in his arms, telling her stories under the starry sky.
She felt her breath catch. A torrent of memories rushed over her with overwhelming force.
She remembered the forest, the blood, her father's lifeless body collapsed on the ground. The last image before everything turned to darkness.
The feeling of having lost him forever flooded her again, and the pain welled up from the deepest corner of her being, like an open wound that never healed.
—Dad! —she screamed, unable to hold back, her voice broken by the mix of emotions boiling inside her.
She ran toward him, her small feet echoing on the Ætherstone as her tears began to fall uncontrollably.
The world around her disappeared; there was no throne, no Umbral Council, no serpentine shadows. Only him. Her father. The only figure who had been her refuge in life, now an apparition she longed to cling to.
But when her arms reached their target, when her hands tried to embrace her father's body, everything dissolved into a sigh of shadows. There was no body, no warmth, only emptiness.
Her hands passed through her father as if trying to grasp smoke, and her own momentum sent her crashing to the ground, too weak to hold herself up.
—No! —she cried, overwhelmed with pain.
The tears poured more intensely, soaking the floor. The helplessness and agony overwhelmed her, deeper than any physical wound. Her mind couldn't comprehend why she couldn't touch him, why the Threshold denied her that simple comfort.
Watching the scene unfold before his eyes, Sorgos lightly tapped his staff against the floor, producing a dry sound that echoed through the throne room. His words, barely a whisper, were lost in the shadows, known only to him.
The darkness itself seemed to stir with his murmur, as if the Threshold was responding to his presence.
Angyara felt something cover her body, though she couldn't see it. It was as if a fine layer of skin formed over her being, a strange sensation, soft but foreign, as if she were being wrapped in an invisible membrane.
Her mind, still submerged in the chaos of emotions, was slow to react. She wanted to stand up, but her legs kept trembling, the weight of the encounter with her parents too overwhelming. The pain of not having been able to touch her father still throbbed in her chest, like an unending torture.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her hands passing through the void, unable to grasp what she desired most.
But then, she felt a hand.
It wasn't like her father's, intangible and elusive, but a warm, maternal hand, firm in its gesture.
The soft, warm voice of her mother was the first thing Angyara heard as she looked up.
Her presence, now tangible and comforting, caused the tears in the girl's eyes to pause for a moment.
—Shh, my child, I'm here —her mother whispered, wrapping Angyara in her arms.
The young girl trembled at the contact. For the first time, she felt her mother's touch, the warmth of a gesture she had never believed possible.
—Mom... —she whispered, her lips trembling, clinging to that sensation.
—Daughter... —her mother whispered, enveloping her with her voice like a protective blanket. The love in her words knew no bounds, it was maternal, immortal.
Angyara buried her face in her mother's chest, crying uncontrollably.
Her fingers clutched at the fabric of what seemed to be her mother's dress, though it fluctuated between solid and ethereal, afraid that this warmth would also vanish like her father's had.
—Mom… I always wanted to know you, to be with you —she sobbed.
The tears continued streaming down her face, but now they flowed with a mixture of sadness and relief.
The mother said nothing, just held her tighter, allowing her daughter's tears to run their course.
Her eyes were filled with tenderness, but her gaze betrayed a deep pain, as if deep down she knew this moment would be fleeting.
—My little girl... —her mother whispered, her voice breaking though still full of love—. I'm so sorry I couldn't be with you. But I'm here now... and I will always be, even if you can't see me.
Angyara, her eyes still wet with tears, nodded weakly. Her mind, exhausted by the pain and confusion, couldn't fully grasp what was happening, but a small spark of peace ignited in her heart with each word from her mother.
Then she felt another hand on her shoulder, a large, familiar hand, and she slowly turned.
Her father, that figure who had once been intangible, was now touching her. She couldn't believe it—there he was, wrapping his large hands around her small one.
—Dad... how is this possible? —she asked in disbelief, holding on to the contact with her parents as if it were the only thing keeping her world together.
—What matters now is that we're here with you —her father said softly, leaning down to kiss her forehead.
Angyara closed her eyes, trying to memorize that moment, engraving it deep within her soul.
Meanwhile, Ralkar watched silently.
Something in the mother's expression caught his attention. It wasn't just the sadness of the situation; it was the way she looked at the father. She didn't recognize him. It seemed that, although she remembered her daughter, her husband's face was that of a stranger to her.
"What they fear most," Ralkar thought, "is the inevitable."
He knew the rules of the Threshold well. The longer a soul remained there, the more memories faded, as if the place itself consumed them.
Angyara was the last persistent fragment in her mother's mind, the only link still connecting her to her former life.
But soon, she would forget her too.
"It's only a matter of time," he told himself, watching the scene with a mixture of pity and resignation. "Only a matter of time before everything they were disappears..."
Angyara's father, however, seemed aware of what was happening.
His gaze, full of love, turned to his wife, and though he said nothing, a flicker of sadness crossed his face as he saw that her eyes no longer recognized him.
But he didn't dwell on it. It wasn't the time for his own pain.
Ralkar, knowing the truth, moved silently, his bare feet softly echoing on the ground.
He stopped a few steps from the family scene, observing with a mixture of respect and pity.
With a slight nod of his head, he closed his eyes and, in a voice barely perceptible to the ears of the living, spoke directly to Angyara's parents.
—I know what you fear —Ralkar whispered, his tone devoid of arrogance this time—. But I promise you something... —He paused, and his gaze softened as he looked at the small figure of Angyara, still clinging to her parents—. I will take care of her. Until my last breath, she will never be alone. She will never be abandoned.
The mother lifted her eyes, her gaze piercing Ralkar as if measuring him, searching for a sign of truth in his words.
The father, still holding his daughter's hand, frowned with a mix of distrust and desperation.
—Why should we believe you? —the father asked, his voice laden with pain and concern.
His form wavered as if he might fade, but his spirit still fought to remain present, to protect what he loved most.—. We don't know you. And yet, you tell us that our daughter will be under your care...
Ralkar, with a faint bitter smile, lowered his head slightly in a gesture of respect.
—You can't. But I promise you this: Angyara will be my responsibility. As long as I breathe, I will do everything in my power to keep her safe. I will not let her suffer alone.
The father lowered his gaze, processing the words. The mother, her face still filled with tenderness for her daughter, hugged Angyara tighter against her chest.
They analyzed every word. They didn't trust him; they didn't know who this man was, but there was something in his presence, in the certainty with which he spoke, that suggested a power beyond the ordinary.
It was clear he was no ordinary man, and only someone of great skill in the Arcane could have brought their daughter to the Threshold.
Both parents finally nodded, resigned to the inevitable.
—Take care of her... —the father said softly, more to himself than to Ralkar—. If you can... take care of her.
Ralkar gave a slight nod.
—You have limited time here. We will remain at the Threshold for a few more days, but not much longer —Ralkar continued—. King Uldraxis has already been more than indulgent, but at some point, his own memories will fade entirely, and she... —he paused, choosing his words carefully— she will have to learn to walk without you.
—But for now, take advantage of this time. Fill her heart with memories, with love. Prepare her soul for what is to come, because there is nothing more you can do.
The parents exchanged glances, a shared pain that went beyond death. They knew their time with her was limited, but they wanted to make the most of it, to console her and, as much as possible, prepare her to face life without them.
Angyara's father gently squeezed his daughter's shoulder, bending down to kiss the top of her head. He knew these words were true, he had felt it from the moment his memories began to fade, like mist being swept away by the wind.
All his wife had left was her love for Angyara, and she knew that soon even that would become a distant shadow.
But for now, while it still existed, she would give her all.
—My little one... —he whispered, leaning toward her—. Never forget how much we love you, Angyara. You will always be in our hearts, even when we are no longer here. You must be strong, stronger than you think.
—Why are you saying that, Dad? We're together now... right?... if you always stay here... we can be together. —Angyara's voice was a mix of hope and desperation, as if resisting the truth her father was trying to tell her.
Her mother stroked her hair, with a painfully tender gaze as she tried to keep her composure.
—I don't want you to go... I can't do this alone, I don't want to be alone. —She barely managed to say through tears, her voice breaking with pain.
—You will never be alone, my daughter. We will be with you, together... in your memories, in your heart. That is what matters. And when you need us most, you will feel us, even if you cannot see us.
His voice trembled, but his tone was firm, with the strength of a mother who knew she had to comfort her daughter one last time.
—Live, my girl —her mother whispered with a tone that tried to be strong—. Live for us.
Both parents wrapped her in a warm embrace. She felt their hands, their bodies, but deep in her heart, she knew these would be their last moments together.
—Be happy, Angyara...