Primordial Flame? So this Crimson Flame draws on the world’s origin—then why is that power in Mist Bloom’s hands?

Aphelia glanced at the cluster of souls. She didn’t even need to ask; they spoke again.

“The Mist Bloom in your memory is only an incarnation split off by this world.”

They spoke with a calm made to wake the dead, unnervingly serene. Several souls split off, drifting forward. Soul-force surged before Aphelia, and she threw up a guard.

The unleashed power wasn’t aimed at her. Wandering wraiths were crushed by an unseen hand; the spreading energy opened into an azure maw. Through it, the sight left Aphelia stunned.

Her heart hammered. The Crimson Flame beside her crackled like cheering embers, but she felt weighed down, breathless. What end-times could carve a scene like this?

A world smothered under yellow sand stretched to the horizon. The sky had shed its blue for a collapsing, shifting gray. In the midst of that boundless grit, a colossal black monolith speared upward, and Aphelia’s gaze locked onto it.

“Go in and see. At least until you can reach it again.”

For some reason, the ethereal voice held a hint of sigh, where before it had been purely mechanical.

It didn’t move Aphelia. She knew this was a higher being, not one of the human‑named Eldritch Gods—but that didn’t mean she trusted them.

Seeing she wouldn’t move, the beings didn’t press her. More souls peeled away and merged into the open passage. In a blink, a great pull seized Aphelia and dragged her through, before she could react.

The next moment, she stood on endless sand. The passage yawed behind her; a step back might take her out. One soul drifted to her side.

“Come with me, Aphelia.”

“Why should I—”

“The answers you want are ahead. Don’t you want to know who Mist Bloom really is?”

The soul glided straight toward the monolith, not waiting for her reply.

Watching passage and guide grow small, Aphelia grit her teeth. If what they said was true, if answers lay ahead…

She hurried after.

The distance wasn’t far, yet the soul insisted on a steady walking pace. Aphelia didn’t dare overtake or fly. Her instincts warned her: don’t act rashly here.

It gave her time to look. The nearer she drew, the more her shock grew. Beneath the sand lay a vast, intact city. By the monolith, half-buried buildings showed through, their lines clearer with each step.

Crack.

She had been lost in the sight. The sound snapped her back—she’d stepped on something.

“Wait… is that a human bone?!”

She recoiled, staring at the white shard, shaped like part of an arm. She flared power and blasted the sand aside. The sight that surfaced made her scalp prickle.

The broken arm was only the tip of an iceberg.

Some strange force seemed to cloak this place, preserving it at the edge before flesh turned to bone. Under the sand, a yawning pit opened. Countless white bones tangled together—some standing, some lying—as if their last moments were pure torment. Twisted, layered, writhing into a pale mound. Around the pit, nothing clawed upward. No bones struggled to escape.

“Seen enough?”

The airy voice was cold and mechanical, as if the scene were nothing at all.

“What is this place?”

Aphelia fixed her eyes on the drifting guide. The black monolith, the buried dead—ice crawled down her spine. Her danger-sense stabbed at her mind like needles.

The soul didn’t answer. It turned to leave.

“If you won’t explain, I’m walking out and fighting your body outside, to the death!”

She hated the threat. In truth, she was at most among the strongest of humans; against a higher being, she could probably only force a mutual ruin.

But this place was wrong enough to break a mind.

The figure halted and sighed, heavy. She stepped into the sea of bones; ghostly blue soul-light poured down into the white. The airy voice spoke again.

“This is the last remnant of an ancient civilization.”

The final words came with a rising shape from the bones. As the guide-soul merged fully into one skeleton, a mature, beautiful, black‑haired woman stood before Aphelia. She wore only torn scraps of cloth, her lush curves half‑hidden.

She didn’t seem to care about Aphelia’s stare. She walked up, gentle‑voiced.

“Well? Can you keep going with us?”

Even in this barren waste, Aphelia’s caution didn’t vanish. Her cheeks flushed at the sight; she bit down, shrugged off her coat, and draped it over the woman.

“With power like yours, at least cover up.”

This time, it wasn’t the airy voice that answered. The black‑haired woman smiled, warm as spring. She reached out and ruffled Aphelia’s hair, like an elder sister.

“Aphelia, you’re still so gentle.”

Aphelia stared, taken aback. From this woman, she felt clear emotion and a living pulse, the opposite of that cold mechanical soul.

The ethereal voice sounded again.

“Heron, Aphelia is yours to guide.”

“Yes. I understand.”

The woman—Heron—nodded, as if replying to a twisted presence in the star‑dark beyond. Aphelia stood stunned by the sudden shift.

The dead had risen before her eyes.

“Don’t drift off, Aphelia. Come. Time is precious.”

Heron smiled. She moved like any living person—no, she was one. Aphelia had seen too many necromancers, absurd rites masquerading as resurrection, their returned always puppets. She could tell puppet from person, especially with the Crimson Flame in hand; it read souls cleanly. Before Heron, the Crimson Flame stayed quiet.

Had these higher beings mastered true resurrection?

Aphelia’s throat went dry. A terrible hope flared and was pressed down; two currents of thought battled in her mind, enough to drive her mad. Staring at Heron, she asked without thinking,

“Lady Heron… are you dead, or alive?”

As if she’d expected it, Heron only smiled, took Aphelia’s hand, and led her onward.

“Alive, of course. Whole and living. It truly is the miracle of reviving the dead. Don’t be shocked.”

Thunder cracked in Aphelia’s mind.

If the dead can return… then Violet might have a chance.

She didn’t notice her nails digging into her palm, scarlet beads dripping down, seeping into the sand.

Heron cut her spiraling thoughts. She turned, gazed deep into the pit of bare bones, and sighed.

“Aphelia, don’t fixate yet. I’ll explain everything step by step. Decide once you understand.”

Heron’s words pulled Aphelia back. She gave a sheepish smile and walked on with Heron.

“Lady Heron, from your tone… you know me?”

Aphelia breathed deep, quieted the restless waves of her mind, and remembered Heron’s earlier line. She had almost missed this thread for the glitter of a miracle.

“Of course, Aphelia.”

Heron hid nothing. She lifted her slightly wavy hair, her eyes full of tenderness.

“I’m your mother. If I couldn’t remember you, what right would I have to be one?”