On the northern line, the Valkyrie slumped amid ruins, blood streaking her brow, while Crimson Flame seared her wounds, knitting flesh like a blacksmith at the forge.

No pity clung to her; corpses carpeted the ground, and a skewered head on a spear made her look like a blood-drenched war god.

The snowfield, once pure as bridal silk, was drowned in red.

“You’re just the same…” A flat voice rose beside her, soft as drifting ash.

She snapped her head toward a pure-white figure, white as new snow, then exhaled long, closed her eyes, and sank back like a spent wave.

“Yeah. I’m the same. Blood on my hands past counting, like tally marks carved into bone.”

She let herself go limp, lying in the rubble, setting down her guard like a shield and leaving her safety to that white silhouette.

“And stop dumping last wishes on me. I’ve handled enough graves. Don’t rope me in again.”

“I won’t. This time, I’m here to say goodbye, like winter’s last leaf letting go.”

“I know,” she answered, steady as stone.

The white figure blinked, caught off guard, then reached out; pure light unspooled from her fingertips like silk toward the Valkyrie.

“Come on. After all these years, you think I can’t tell? Every time you show up like this, it’s last words time—”

“It was only once…” she murmured, a little wronged, like rain bruising a petal.

The hand she offered was caught and held; warmth pooled between their palms, a hearth proving that she still existed.

Crimson Flame poured from the Valkyrie’s arm like paint, giving color; the pure-white outline resolved, silver hair surfacing, light knitting into a flawless body, while the Valkyrie paled like moonwash.

The flames that mended her wounds guttered, embers sinking into ash.

The white figure became whole, like dawn condensing into a person.

Her face almost matched Aphelia’s, yet sharper, more valiant; beauty measured to the grain, like a god’s careful draft.

She knelt beside the Valkyrie, unbothered by blood and grit, a lily blooming from mud.

A plain white dress draped her; silver hair fell like a waterfall to her thighs; porcelain hands turned and clasped the Valkyrie’s, and her gentle eyes held a lake’s quiet.

Seeing that face unveiled, even the Valkyrie went red-eyed, a storm clawing behind iron composure; she opened her mouth and found no words.

“You always try to carry the sky alone,” the silver-haired woman laughed, fingers combing hair smooth as silk, helpless and fond.

“I’m not hearing another shadow hand off last words.”

“What if I’m not here for last words?” she teased, tilting her head like a crescent moon.

She winked, a white-clad imp; the Valkyrie stalled, then caught the play, irritation sparking at the corners of a reluctant smile.

White light bloomed from the woman’s palm, a warm current washing the Valkyrie, sheathing every open wound like spring thaw over ice.

In a blink, bone-deep gashes turned back to fair skin, and color returned to her face like sunrise on snow.

“Every time you settle your will, you bother your old lover; ever think how that feels?”

That mild smile melted the Valkyrie’s fire; she sighed, then shamelessly pillowed her head on that lap, a meadow soft and springy.

“Old lover? Sure. An old lover should be put to use…” She chuckled, windbells in a hush.

A soft gasp slipped from her, blush climbing; a slender hand had drifted over the curve of her hip like a swallow’s wing.

She batted the hand away with mock reproach; in her blue eyes, memory and reluctance rippled like light over water.

“Mist Bloom…”

“Don’t say that name. I forgot it long ago.”

“Mist Bloom… For someone dead like me, a name is what still remembers, like a lone lantern in fog.”

She smoothed the Valkyrie’s waist-length hair, strands sliding like satin; her voice was light, and weary.

“This time, I won’t come back. Even my concept will go quiet, like a word erased from the page.”

“Only when she takes back that power will this world split open to more paths, like ice breaking to let a river run.”

“Yeah. The moment you started your last-words talk, I knew, like a bell struck in my bones.”

“So… the world ahead, I’m leaving it to you. It’s unfair. My duty, your burden. Her—or me—I’m entrusting to you.”

White motes rose around her like snow reversed; the body newly solid wavered, and the Valkyrie, cheek on her lap, felt the shift and let tears bead and fall.

Feeling that tiny shiver like a leaf in wind, the silver-haired woman smiled and whispered.

“In the future, let’s meet again, Mist Bloom.”

She closed her eyes, waiting like a candle surrendering its last light.

But as her lashes fell, an arm hooked her waist, fierce and unreasonable; warm lips met hers, scent and softness familiar as home.

The feeling pouring through that kiss steadied her heart, a tide leveling the shore.

The Valkyrie wept and held her like a conqueror guarding a standard; a thousand words burned away, drowned beneath a single deep kiss.

At last their lips parted, tide ebbing from stone.

On snow dyed red, the Valkyrie sat alone amid ruins; beside her lay a gorgeous Crystal Blossoms, silent as a fallen star.

In the Mage Tower, the pure-white figure beside Aphelia began to fade; Merlin’s eyes flew wide as he tore a portal open and stumbled into the battlefield, reaching like a drowning man.

The white figure only smiled and slipped past him, voice cool as shade.

“Merlin, wake up. She’s not me.”

“Why?! You’re lying, aren’t you?!” His cry cracked, and he lunged for the drifting light.

She did not answer; she only shook her head, then burst into a sky of motes and scattered, leaving Merlin rooted like a statue, stunned.

High on the observatory, the tower spirit wept; fingers interlaced, her chant trembled like a frayed string.

Violet didn’t know who had vanished, yet an empty ache opened in her chest, and grief rose like tide by instinct.

Merlin dropped to his knees; nails cut his palms, and his howl ripped the air raw.

Days later, in the Mage Tower, the wind traced the stones.

After that fight, Aphelia felt like she’d gained something and lost something, pockets of sand trickling from one hand to the other.

She could taste the edge of a domain, one more step like a foot on a threshold.

She remembered nothing of the pure-white shadow Violet mentioned, but the fact stood like a marker: that shadow had saved her.

For that alone, she grieved its passing, a low ache like rain in the bones.

She hadn’t seen Merlin since; the tower spirit said he’d burned too much, but what Violet told her hinted at deeper water.

Still, Merlin had done her no harm; she wouldn’t pry into someone else’s heart, and she let the matter lie like a stone in a stream.

After a few days of rest, the day to enter the Abyss arrived, heavy as a storm front.

“Master Merlin arranged it. Someone will take you to the Abyss,” said the tower spirit, voice calm as glass.

“Because of the World Will, a vast region around it blocks teleport arrays. You’ll port to the nearest town, and your escort will be ready.”

She walked them to the portal, reciting cautions as if counting prayer beads; you don’t meet a world’s will without care.

“Violet, you don’t have to go with me. It’s my problem,” Aphelia said, a frown like a drawn bow.

“Aphelia, with how you throw your life away, I’m not letting you go alone. Kill me here, or accept it,” Violet answered, iron in her tone.

“But—”

“No buts. I’m at least a Titleholder. I can keep myself alive,” she said, resolve ringing like steel.

Aphelia sighed, the fight leaving her shoulders, and yielded.

“If so, please step forward. I’ll start the array,” the tower spirit said, lifting a hand like a conductor.

A silver-white teleport circle bloomed before them, space humming like a held breath.

Aphelia drew in air, then led Violet into the light.