Poll's chest heaved as he jolted awake, his mind reeling from the vivid dream he couldn't quite place. Sweat clung to his skin, and his breaths came in shallow gasps. What the hell was I dreaming? He dragged a trembling hand through his hair, his eyes darting around the room until they landed on Elowen.
Her face looked ghostly pale, with dark circles etched under her reddened eyes. It was clear she'd been crying—no, sobbing—for hours. Her vulnerability struck him like a blow.
"Elowen, what's wrong?" Poll's voice was raw, confusion lacing his tone. "Why are you crying? You look... you look awful."
Elowen flinched but didn't say a word. Her lips trembled, but no sound escaped. Instead, her eyes told a story of anguish and loss, one Poll wasn't ready to understand.
And then it hit him—like shards of ice stabbing into his mind. Memories of the battlefield surged forward, chaotic and unrelenting. His mother's desperate cries, the blinding light of magic, the sickening thud of her body hitting the ground. His hand shot up to his face as a pained groan escaped him.
"How… how could I forget that?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. His gaze snapped back to Elowen. "Where is she? Where's Mother?"
Elowen's silence was deafening, her expression unreadable as fresh tears welled in her eyes.
Panic flared in Poll's chest, and he threw the blanket off, swinging his legs off the bed. His body felt heavy, but adrenaline pushed him forward. He bolted down the stairs, his bare feet pounding against the wooden floor, his heart racing with every step.
At the base of the stairs, the air was heavy—suffocating. His father, Eryndor, sat in the dimly lit hallway, slouched in a chair. The man's usually commanding presence had crumbled. His eyes were bloodshot, his face hollowed, as though he hadn't slept or blinked in days.
"Poll," Eryndor said, his voice hoarse, the weight of grief thick in every syllable. "You're awake. Thank the gods." He paused, his gaze piercing but tired. "You shouldn't be here."
Poll barely heard him. His attention had locked onto the long table a few paces away. A figure lay motionless atop it, covered in a white shroud. The world seemed to tilt as Poll's mind refused to process the truth staring him in the face.
"No…" His voice cracked as he stumbled forward, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. Trembling, he reached for the cloth. Time slowed as his fingers closed around it, and with a deep, shuddering breath, he pulled it back.
His mother's face greeted him. Seraphina Nightvale, her beauty unmarred but eerily still. Her skin was cold, her lips pale, her once-bright eyes now closed forever.
The realization crashed over him like a tidal wave. His breath hitched, and tears spilled silently down his face. He couldn't move, couldn't speak.
"Poll," Eryndor started, his voice softer now, but Poll didn't respond. He turned on his heel, his expression twisted in anguish, and began walking away. His steps were unsteady as he made his way toward the basement door.
"Poll, don't—" Elowen's voice broke from behind him, but he ignored her.
He pushed open the door and stepped into the cold, dimly lit room, locking it behind him. The air was damp, the silence deafening. Poll sank into the lone chair in the corner, his head dropping into his hands.
Memories of the battlefield surged through his mind—chaotic flashes of blood, screaming, and his mother's final moments. He had lost control, blinded by rage and grief, and now, as the flood of emotions consumed him, the weight was unbearable.
Tears streamed freely down his face as he whispered to the empty room, his voice breaking. "Mother… I'm sorry. I couldn't save you."
He stayed there, trembling and broken, the memories replaying in an endless loop. Upstairs, Elowen leaned against the door, silent tears trailing down her cheeks as she listened to Poll's muffled cries, powerless to comfort him.
Poll froze mid-step, his body trembling. He clenched his fists and took a deep breath, muttering under his breath, "Okay… I can handle this. It's not the first time I've lost someone close to me." His voice cracked despite the resolve he tried to summon. Wiping the tears from his face, he closed his eyes, but the battlefield came rushing back in vivid, gut-wrenching flashes.
The battlefield froze as Seraphina's chest rose one final time before falling still. Her lifeless form lay in the blood-streaked dirt, her presence fading like a dying ember. Poll knelt motionless, his hands trembling. His wide, tear-filled eyes were hollow now, his lips parting as if to speak—but no sound came.
Time itself seemed to shatter.
The silence was broken by Tiara's cold chuckle. She reached down and grabbed Poll's arm with an iron grip, yanking him back and forcing him to his feet. Her crimson eyes gleamed with malice as she tightened her hold, her nails digging into his skin.
"Stay back, little mage," she sneered, her voice sharp with mockery. "Don't go breaking on me just yet. I'm not finished playing with you."
Poll didn't resist. His body was limp, his head bowed, his gaze fixed on his mother's still form.
Liana watched the scene unfold, her heart pounding in her chest. "Poll…" she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her hands gripped her twin blades tighter, her knuckles white.
Suddenly, a new presence entered the fray. A sharp hum filled the air, and light shimmered from the shadows like a beacon piercing through the darkness.
A man stepped forward, his movements swift and precise, like a blade cutting through the fabric of time. His presence commanded attention—a Sage-Class Purifier had arrived.
Eric Wondler stood tall, his silhouette framed by the radiance emanating from his gloves, powerful artifacts of purification magic. His every step was deliberate as he surveyed the scene, his golden eyes narrowing at the sight of Tiara gripping Poll.
"You coward," Eric spat, his voice firm and commanding. His tone carried a weight that made even the bravest falter. "Taking an innocent boy as a hostage? You call yourself a warrior?"
He moved closer, his gaze locked on Tiara with unflinching intensity. But before he could say more, his words faltered. Eric's sharp eyes darted to Poll, and for the first time in years, a chill ran down his spine.
Poll's body had begun to change. His skin shimmered faintly, and tendrils of heat radiated from him like steam. His eyes, once wide and grief-stricken, were dull and distant, locked on the lifeless figure of his mother.
Eric's breath caught in his throat. "What… is this?" he muttered under his breath, his gaze shifting between Poll and the bloodied woman on the ground. "That's his mother…" he realized, his voice barely a whisper.
Tiara's sharp instincts flared as she glanced back at Poll. A sudden wave of unease swept over her. The air around him was shifting—spinning, darkening.
"Interesting," she muttered, her grip on Poll loosening as she took a cautious step back. But even as she moved, her heart raced. A foreign, primal fear gripped her—something she hadn't felt in centuries.
Poll's lips began to move, though his voice was barely audible. "I… hate this…" he mumbled, his words trembling like a distant storm. "I hate this… This isn't right."
The steam emanating from his body thickened, swirling around him like a cocoon. His eyes, once soft and blue, began to glow with an unnatural light.
Tiara froze. For the first time, she felt the chill of genuine dread. Her instincts screamed at her to retreat.
"What are you?" she hissed, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to mask it.
Poll's head slowly lifted, his glowing eyes locking onto her with an intensity that made her step back again. His aura began to spin faster, forming a vortex of heat and raw energy around him.
Eric took a step forward, his fists clenching. "This aura… It's not human," he said, his voice laced with disbelief. "What the hell is happening to him?"
From the shadows, Tiara lunged forward, her crimson eyes blazing with renewed resolve. "You little brat," she snarled, her hand crackling with dark energy.
But before she could reach Poll, Eric moved. His figure blurred with blinding speed, his artifact gloves glowing brilliantly. His fist struck Tiara with immense force.
"Purification!" he roared, the impact sending her flying back. The ground beneath them cracked and trembled under the sheer weight of his power.
Tiara landed with a grunt, her expression darkening. Her crimson eyes flared as she rose to her feet. "You're in my way," she said coldly, her tone void of amusement.
Poll's voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"Shut up. All of you," he said, his words calm yet chilling.
The battlefield froze as a wave of oppressive energy erupted from Poll. Everyone, even Tiara, felt the temperature plummet. The suffocating weight of his presence pressed down on them, sending chills racing down their spines.
Eric staggered, his wide eyes locked on Poll. "What… the hell is this?" he muttered, his voice trembling.
From the shadows, Eric's companions emerged. A tall woman with flowing black hair stepped forward, her dark robes shimmering with faint magical energy. Luna, Arch-high-ranked mage, surveyed the scene with a sharp, calculating gaze.
"This aura…" Luna whispered, her voice filled with disbelief. "What the hell is this?"
Poll's aura swirled violently, the vortex growing denser, darker. His glowing eyes turned toward Tiara, and for the first time, her confidence wavered.
"I'll destroy you," Poll whispered, his voice cold and detached.
The battlefield shuddered, the promise of destruction lingering in the air.