She could neither go nor stay.
Four years of struggle had shown her the truth—there was no way back. She possessed no secret patron, no hidden talent, no stroke of luck.
Four years; four years of clawing at doors that would not open, of shouting into the void until her voice was hoarse. Magic had carried her here, but it seemed to have abandoned her, like a fickle friend who vanishes when most needed.
She had offered and pleaded, fought and suffered—yet still, it was not enough.
Her journey had begun with magic and myth, the material of stories.
Looking back, nothing could feel further from what it once was.
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Time had worn away at her, her memories fading like old photographs left too long in the sun. Everything that had once felt extraordinary began to lose its charm, while the warmth of home—once so simple, so real—slowly transformed into a distant dream.
It was better to do it herself. It felt like a quiet kind of rebellion. Perhaps it wasn’t defeat that had settled into her bones, but a kind of acceptance—the final acknowledgment that the world had never made her any promises.
She stood in the center of the room, her gaze lingering on the faintly glowing runes etched into the walls. For a moment, she let herself imagine that they might answer her—that the magic might, at last, open a door she had yet to see. But the silence stretched, unbroken, and she let out a quiet breath.
With trembling hands, she extinguished the candles one by one, their light winking out until only shadows remained. The scent of vanilla mingled with the last wisps of incense as she climbed onto the chair in the center of the room. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as though each step carried the weight of her entire life.
She tied the noose with care, her fingers steady for the first time in years. With a final breath, Magdalena looked around her sanctuary—her prison—and bid farewell to Creation.
The chair fell.
And then, silence.
