A Princess’s Choice
The air hung heavy, like a breath the village had been holding too long.
The moment the royal envoy rode in, everything changed.
A knight in polished silver dismounted first, the golden phoenix of Aurarios gleaming on his chestplate. His presence alone drew the villagers into silence. Behind him, mounted warriors scanned the square—eyes sharp, hands resting on their hilts.
“By decree of King Olymion,” the knight announced, “the warrior Hiro is commanded to present himself at the palace immediately.”
Silence.
Hiro’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t surprised. Not after Velgria. Not after the beasts, the shrines, the whispers of his name spreading like sparks on wind.
The King wanted him.
To inspect him. Control him. Maybe use him.
But Hiro wasn’t someone to be summoned.
His golden-ember eyes flicked toward Elysia.
She stood still, staring at the knights. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. They had come for her, too.
Of course they had.
Her father had waited long enough. Now he would reclaim her—not as a daughter, but as a symbol. A pristine piece of royalty, untainted by war.
This was her out.
Back to marble halls and silk-draped windows. Back to a world of comfort and ceremony—safe, distant, clean.
But all she felt was hesitation.
The knight’s gaze locked on her. “Princess Elysia, your father commands your return. He will not wait.”
A lump caught in her throat. She swallowed it.
Obedience had always been her default.
She could already see it—her life rewritten by a father’s will. A life behind golden bars. A life untouched by pain… or purpose.
But she had changed.
She had *seen* monsters. *Felt* helpless. *Wished* she could do more. And sometimes—she had.
She took a breath. The choice was already made.
“Tell my father I will return—when I’m ready.”
The knight stiffened. Villagers gasped. Even Athena raised a brow.
“You would defy him?” the knight asked coldly.
Elysia met his glare without flinching. “I would follow my own path.”
A ripple passed through the knights. Their formation tightened—but the leader raised a hand. No more words. They turned their horses and rode away.
The dust settled in silence.
Elysia exhaled, the weight in her chest beginning to lift.
She had chosen. And she would not regret it.
A smirk tugged at Hiro’s lips. “You sure?”
She tossed her hair back with a flicker of defiance. “Someone has to make sure you don’t burn down every village you visit.”
Phinx trilled, wings flaring in amusement.
Athena said nothing. She only watched, golden eyes unreadable.
But inside, she understood.
The girl had walked away from her crown.
And the boy had walked away from Olympus.
The world whispered as it watched them go—two fates diverged, never to return to what they were.
The Road Not Taken
Arrival at the Sickened Village
The village was quiet. Not peaceful—just quiet in the way a wound scabs over before the infection spreads.
Hiro rode at the front of the party, eyes sharp beneath his hood. The wind stirred the dying trees, their leaves already browned at the tips despite the season. A river ran beside the road—narrow, but too still. Its surface reflected nothing but sky. No fish, no birds, not even ripples.
Phinx shifted on Hiro’s shoulder, feathers flickering dimly. He hadn't made a sound since they crossed the last hill.
They passed the village marker: a splintered wooden sign hanging crooked on rusted nails. The name had long since peeled away. Only a red ribbon fluttered from its base—tied tight, like a warning.
Athena, silent as ever, kept to the rear, her gaze watching the shadows between buildings. Elysia rode closer to Hiro’s side, the folds of her cloak drawn tightly. She was staring at the river too.
No one greeted them.
Not a single villager waited on the path. No children running. No merchants calling out. The village was alive—but only just.
They entered the square. A crumbling well stood at its center, boarded shut with planks crossed like broken limbs. Several buildings had windows darkened by thick cloth, and the others… had none at all.
A girl appeared at the edge of the square, no more than six. Barefoot, hollow-cheeked, a clay jug in her hand. She looked at Hiro. Then Elysia. Then held out the jug.
Phinx hissed—an unnatural sound for him. His wings flared wide.
And then—he ignited.
Fire erupted from his back in a flash of instinct, arcing forward before anyone could stop it. The flames struck the jug, shattering the clay in an instant.
The water inside hissed. Not from heat—but from something else. The liquid sizzled as it struck the ground, bubbling like bile. It left behind a black smear on the stones that did not dry.
The girl didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She just stared at the spot where the jug had been, then turned and walked away.
Elysia stepped forward, her voice caught. “That was—”
“I know,” Hiro said, his voice low. He stared at the smear. It wasn’t water anymore.
Athena dismounted. Her golden eyes scanned the buildings. “We’ll find answers. But be cautious. Whatever did this... it still breathes.”
The Wells Run Dark
They split up.
Not far—just enough to get a clearer picture of what they were dealing with.
Hiro moved toward the well, past the shattered clay and the black smear that still hadn’t dried. The boards sealing the well were old, water-stained, and bent outward—as if something had tried to crawl out from below. He crouched near the edge, fingers brushing the stone lip.
The coldness that touched his skin wasn’t natural. It was the kind that clung to bone.
He reached inward—not to strike, but to listen.
He’d never used lightning this way before. Not to burn. Not to destroy. But to sense. To feel. The way it flickered across steel, found its path through armor—it had instinct. Maybe it could feel corruption too.
A thread of power sparked across his palm. He let it drift toward the stone.
The reaction came fast.
The current stopped—and recoiled.
Not like it struck stone. Not like it grounded out. It was… pushed.
“The water seems to be pushing back my lightning…” Hiro muttered, his brow furrowing. “How is that even possible?”
He pressed his hand to the well's rim. The storm inside him steadied, coiling tighter.
“Lightning’s supposed to find weakness… move through resistance. But this…”
It wasn’t resisting.
It was repelling—like two forces that refused to mix.
Something down there didn’t want to be touched.
—
Elysia moved toward the edge of the square. A young boy sat on the step of a sagging home—curled into himself, eyes wide and vacant. His lips were dry. His skin pale. She knelt beside him gently.
“Are you hurt?”
No response. But his breathing was shallow. His whole body shivered with fever.
She laid her palm to his forehead.
She didn’t hesitate—called on the warmth, the light. It came, golden and soft, flickering between her fingers.
But the moment it touched him—it recoiled.
The light didn’t fade. It *refused*.
Her breath caught.
“This power has worked before,” she whispered. “But now… it’s pushing back.”
She tried again. The warmth surged—but the boy stiffened, gasping.
His eyes opened—barely.
“It hurts inside,” he said. Just above a whisper.
Elysia drew back. Her hand still pulsed with light—but it no longer felt like a gift.
The problem wasn’t that she couldn’t reach him.
It was that **something else** had already gotten there first.
—
Athena stood at the far end of the square, silent before a tattered shrine nearly overtaken by earth. The original carvings were scratched out with deliberate fury—symbols torn from the stone like history erased.
She brushed the dust away and found newer markings.
Underworld script.
A jagged mouth encircled by twisted flame—etched with shaking hands.
Her jaw tightened.
“You’re moving faster than expected,” she murmured. “But why here?”
—
They regrouped in silence.
Hiro spoke first. “The well isn’t just poisoned. I tried to sense it—with lightning. It pushed back.”
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Elysia nodded, voice low. “My healing… it didn’t work either. Something repelled it.”
Athena turned her gaze toward the forest edge.
“This isn’t mortal corruption,” she said.
“This is divine.”
Sparks in the Deep
The sun died early that day.
Clouds thickened above the village as dusk crept in, smothering the light in a haze of gray. Lanterns were lit, but their glow felt distant—muted, like fire burning through fog.
The villagers shuttered their homes. No one said why. They simply moved, as if by instinct. As if they knew what night would bring.
Hiro sat near the old well, cloak pulled tight around his shoulders. He didn’t like the way the silence pressed against his ears.
Phinx refused to perch, wings twitching every few seconds. He circled the square, low and tense, his usual flame now a pale and flickering thing.
Athena moved along the edges of the square, saying nothing, but always watching. Her steps were steady. Her expression unreadable.
Elysia stood near the elder’s house, arms wrapped around herself. She wasn’t afraid. But the stillness in the village didn’t feel like silence.
It felt like something lying in wait.
And somehow, she could tell—it was hiding something it didn’t want her to see.
Then—just as the last orange glow faded from the sky—
The air shifted.
Not a sound. Not a whisper.
Just pressure.
A weight that pressed down on the village like a storm cloud, unseen but undeniable.
The firelight dimmed.
The wind vanished.
And for a breath—nothing moved.
Phinx screeched, wings flaring as if something had brushed too close to his flame.
Hiro stood. His eyes scanned the dark.
“It’s coming.”
Athena turned, her gaze sweeping toward the edge of the village.
She didn’t speak right away.
Then—quietly—
“No. It’s already here.”
Then they saw it.
A figure stood at the edge of the square.
Thin. Bent. Cloaked in something that didn’t reflect the firelight.
Its head tilted at an angle that wasn’t human.
Behind it—another.
And another.
They didn’t walk forward. They just… appeared. Shadows that had always been there, but only now chose to be seen.
The villagers didn’t notice them.
But Hiro did.
And so did Phinx.
“Elysia—get ready,” he said, hand tightening around his sword hilt.
His pulse quickened—not from fear, but recognition.
These weren’t beasts.
They were messengers.
Harbingers of something deeper.
Phinx circled above him, flame rising.
The corruption wasn’t creeping anymore.
The Ones They Couldn’t Save
It began with a sound.
Not a scream. Not a roar.
Just the soft crack of wood under weight.
Hiro turned—too late.
A figure hurled itself from the roof of a nearby home, limbs twisted, eyes hollow. It struck the ground hard, rolling, bones cracking—but it rose again.
It was a boy. Barefoot. Skin pale and stretched too thin, his veins black and moving like worms beneath his flesh. His mouth opened, but no words came—only a ragged wheeze.
Elysia froze. “That’s the one I tried to heal…”
The boy lunged.
Hiro’s hand shot to the hilt of his blade—
—but he didn’t draw.
Phinx dove first, wings flaring, fire streaking low. The flames curved—controlled, careful—forcing the boy to stumble back without burning him.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. He kept coming.
Then—
From the alley to their left, another shape emerged.
Then two more.
Shadows peeled themselves off walls—faces they had seen earlier. Villagers. All of them.
Their eyes were empty, their limbs stiff, but they moved with purpose. Not wild. Not frenzied.
*Directed.*
Another child staggered forward—black veins etched like cracks across her skin.
Elysia stepped forward. “They’re still alive!” she cried. “Don’t kill them!”
Hiro stood between her and the advancing crowd. His hand still hovered at his blade—but he didn’t move to strike.
He looked at the boy again.
That wasn’t rage in his eyes. It wasn’t hunger. It was something trapped—twisting beneath the surface.
“I know,” Hiro said quietly.
He let out a breath and lowered his hand from the hilt.
*I can’t kill them.*
*There has to be another way.*
*Athena said Zeus used lightning to tear the sky apart...*
*But what if that’s not all it can do?*
*What if I channel it—*not to destroy,* but to protect?*
*Let it flow through me. Not just from me.*
*Become one with the storm.*
Lightning sparked across his shoulders. But this time—it didn’t lash out.
It sank inward.
Through his spine. Into his limbs. Wrapped around his muscles like armor made of stormlight.
Not to destroy.
But to endure.
He opened his eyes—golden-ember sparks flickering like stormfire in the dark.
“I’ll find another way.”
And then—he moved.
The battle had begun.
Lightning in the Blood
Hiro moved like lightning made flesh—swift, silent, crackling through the chaos. Each step blurred into the next, his body humming with stormfire. He didn’t swing to kill. He struck with the flat of his blade, with fists, with momentum. The current danced through his bones, enhancing every motion.
But there were too many.
For every corrupted villager he dropped, two more stumbled forward—veins crawling with black rot, eyes empty but reaching.
Phinx streaked overhead, fire bursting from his wings in narrow arcs. His flames burned only what they had to. He understood now—this wasn’t war. This was a rescue.
And Hiro was starting to falter.
His breath came harder. His limbs shook from restraint. Power wanted to surge outward, wild and brutal—but he held it back. They’re still alive, he kept telling himself. They can be saved.
A scream tore through the square.
Elysia.
He turned, just in time to see her kneeling beside a fallen child—the same boy she’d tried to save—now choking on shadows. His body twitched, shadow creeping up his throat like choking smoke. His hand reached toward her weakly. Not to attack.
To beg.
Elysia froze, breath catching in her throat.
His skin was cold. His pulse—barely there.
The rot was stronger now. Clinging. Feeding.
She pressed her hands harder to his chest.
Not with desperation.
With decision.
“You don’t deserve this,” she whispered. “You’re not a monster. You’re still in there. I know you are.”
The shadows writhed. The boy’s body convulsed.
Nothing happened.
For a moment, she thought she had failed again.
Her hands shook. Her vision blurred.
But then—
Something stirred.
Not in the sky.
Not from the earth.
From within.
A soft warmth gathered beneath her palms, like something inside her was beginning to awaken.
A quiet pressure built beneath her palms, steady and alive.
Then—light.
The boy gasped.
The shadows screamed.
The light surged outward—not in a blast, but a wave. It rolled over him like a tide, washing through his veins, forcing the blackness to retreat.
It hissed. Fought. Shrieked.
But it couldn’t stay.
The boy arched, then collapsed into stillness.
His chest rose.
Steady. Alive.
Elysia stared at her hands—still glowing, still pulsing with something ancient and wild.
Still uncertain.
She exhaled. “I did it…”
Hiro, watching from across the square, felt something shift in his chest.
She wasn’t just fighting beside him.
She was rising.
The warmth swelled beneath her palms—then surged.
Her eyes snapped open—bright, unblinking. Light poured from them, not gold, not green—something in between. A radiant force that felt older than memory.
Then—
It happened.
The glow flared outward in a burst of pure energy, flooding the square in a blinding wave.
Hiro turned just in time to see it—
The corrupted villagers frozen mid-step. The rot recoiling. The black veins withering like frost under sun.
The explosion wasn’t violent. It wasn’t loud.
It was clean. Final.
And when it faded—
The silence that followed was real.
The mist was gone.
The children. The elders. The broken.
All of them, lying still.
Breathing.
Alive.
Elysia’s glow flickered. Her shoulders slumped.
She tried to say something—to Hiro, to anyone—but no words came. Her lips moved. Her legs gave out beneath her.
She collapsed into the dust, the faint echo of light still clinging to her hands.
Hiro was already there to catch her, kneeling beside her as the light dimmed.
His voice was low. "Elysia... I’ve got you."
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then—behind them—the villagers stirred.
Whispers in the Aftermath
The light was gone.
The village square stood still—silent, scorched, and breathless.
Elysia lay limp in Hiro’s arms, the final sparks fading from her fingertips. Her chest rose slowly. Alive. Spent.
Around them, the villagers stirred.
Someone gasped. Another began to cry.
Children blinked as if waking from a dream. Elders gripped the edges of walls. A man fell to his knees—not to pray, but because his legs gave out.
Hiro stayed kneeling, holding her gently, protectively.
No one cheered. No one ran.
They just watched.
An old woman whispered, “She cast it out…”
A young voice followed. A girl no older than ten, staring wide-eyed at Elysia from her mother’s arms.
“She burned the darkness…”
No one else spoke. The words were too heavy. Too close.
From the far side of the square, the boy Elysia had healed stirred. His fingers curled against the dirt. His eyes opened, dazed—but clear. He breathed, soft and steady.
Hiro’s gaze tracked him, then fell back to Elysia. She hadn’t moved.
Athena stepped out from the edge of the square, arms crossed.
She didn’t speak right away.
Her gaze swept across the stone where the light had bloomed, then settled on Elysia.
“That wasn’t a healing spell,” she said finally, her voice calm and analytical.
Hiro looked up. “Then what was it?”
Athena didn’t answer. She knelt, brushing her fingers through the ash. The stone beneath was clean—untouched by rot.
“It was instinctive,” she said. “But focused.”
She stood slowly, brushing dust from her gloves.
“She’s changing,” she said, quieter now. “That much is clear.”
Then she turned and walked away.
Hiro stayed with Elysia, watching the villagers shift and murmur—not certain, not fearful, but hushed. Waiting.
Not for explanation.
Just to understand what had happened.
He looked at Elysia again, the faint glow now gone from her hands.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t over.
The Glow of Elysia's
The light was gone.
The village square stood still—silent, scorched, and breathless.
Elysia lay limp in Hiro’s arms, the final sparks fading from her fingertips. Her chest rose slowly. Alive. Spent.
Around them, the villagers stirred.
Someone gasped. Another began to cry.
Children blinked as if waking from a dream. Elders gripped the edges of walls. A man fell to his knees—not to pray, but because his legs gave out.
Hiro stayed kneeling, holding her gently, protectively.
No one cheered. No one ran.
They just watched.
An old woman whispered, “She cast it out…”
A young voice followed. A girl no older than ten, staring wide-eyed at Elysia from her mother’s arms.
“She burned the darkness…”
No one else spoke. The words were too heavy. Too close.
From the far side of the square, the boy Elysia had healed stirred. His fingers curled against the dirt. His eyes opened, dazed—but clear. He breathed, soft and steady.
Hiro’s gaze tracked him, then fell back to Elysia. She hadn’t moved.
Athena stepped out from the edge of the square, arms crossed.
She didn’t speak right away.
Her gaze swept across the stone where the light had bloomed, then settled on Elysia.
“That wasn’t a healing spell,” she said finally, her voice calm and analytical.
Hiro looked up. “Then what was it?”
Athena didn’t answer. She knelt, brushing her fingers through the ash. The stone beneath was clean—untouched by rot.
“It was instinctive,” she said. “But focused.”
She stood slowly, brushing dust from her gloves.
“She’s changing,” she said, quieter now. “That much is clear.”
Then she turned and walked away.
Hiro stayed with Elysia, watching the villagers shift and murmur—not certain, not fearful, but hushed. Waiting.
Not for explanation.
Just to understand what had happened.
He looked at Elysia again, the faint glow now gone from her hands.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t over.
The Cost of Power
The room was dim—one of the few homes still standing at the village edge. A makeshift cot had been set near the firepit, its embers low and soft. No one had spoken in some time.
Phinx sat curled beside the bed, wings tucked, feathers dim.
Elysia lay still beneath a blanket, breathing shallow and even.
Hiro hadn’t moved from his place beside her.
It wasn’t silence.
They were waiting.
Hiro’s gaze drifted over Elysia’s face—pale, calm, distant. Not afraid. Not broken. Just… spent.
He remembered the boy. The rot curling up his chest. The way she dropped beside him without hesitation.
And the light.
She hadn’t done it to prove anything.
She hadn’t done it for power.
She’d done it because she couldn’t stand to see someone suffer.
That truth hit harder than any blow he’d taken in the square.
“I couldn’t stop it,” Hiro muttered, voice barely audible.
Phinx turned his head, blinking slowly.
“I was fast. I was strong. I still couldn’t stop it.”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, staring down at the wooden floor.
“She saved more people than I did.”
He wasn’t bitter. Not even proud.
Just... stunned.
He reached out and gently touched the edge of the blanket covering Elysia’s hand.
“You didn’t just fight with us,” he whispered. “You gave up something... just to help.”
A flicker of warmth stirred in his chest. Not fire. Not lightning.
Gratitude.
She didn’t need power.
She already had courage.
He exhaled, sitting back as a quiet resolve settled in his bones.
If she was changing, he’d stand beside her.
Not to shield her.
To walk the same path.
He looked down at his own hands.
Lightning hadn’t been enough. Not when it mattered most.
“Next time,” he murmured, barely louder than a breath, “I’ll know how to cleanse it too.”
*I have to.*
Phinx let out a quiet trill and finally stepped closer, resting his head near Elysia’s shoulder.
And for a little while, that was enough.
Whispers in the Smoke
The sky was still bruised with the last traces of night when Hiro stepped into the clearing behind the village.
The morning was cold. Not sharp—just enough to sting his breath. Mist hung low across the field, rising in coils that reminded him too much of the rot that once choked these streets.
He moved anyway.
Barefoot in the grass, sword in hand, breath steady.
A slow form. Not sparring. Not striking.
Just movement. Focus. Control.
Lightning flickered faintly at his fingertips—not erupting, not wild. Just enough to feel it hum beneath his skin. He guided it along his arms, across his shoulders, down his legs.
Not to attack.
To understand.
Each breath was timed. Each movement measured.
If he was going to purify something, he couldn’t rely on rage or instinct.
He had to learn to listen to it.
Let it flow through him. Not just out.
Athena stepped into the clearing, her boots quiet on the dew-slick grass.
“You’re up early,” she said, eyes scanning the arcs of lightning flickering through Hiro’s movements.
“I never stopped,” he replied, lightning curling along his forearm, then vanishing.
She studied him for a moment, then got to the point. “I checked the water source again.”
Hiro straightened. “And?”
“There were markings near the reservoir. Etched into the stone. Faint—but intentional.”
He frowned. “Runes?”
“Corruption sigils. Old. Not divine. Not even Underworld standard,” she said. “But aligned with something I’ve seen once before—deep in the old records. Cult work.”
That made Hiro pause, his shoulders stiffening. “So this was planned?”
“Engineered,” Athena confirmed. “Achlys was only part of it. Someone helped spread the corruption. And they wanted it traced to something else.”
A silence passed between them.
Then Hiro turned his gaze back toward the trees, fingers flexing faint sparks.
“Then we’ll find them.”
The Burden of Belief
By the time Hiro returned to the village, the sun had fully risen.
Smoke curled from chimneys. Tools rang through the air. The sound of life returning.
But as he walked past the homes and market stalls, something else followed him.
Eyes.
Not just watching—**waiting**.
Some bowed their heads. Others simply whispered, hands resting over their hearts. A child slipped a flower into his path and ran.
He didn’t speak.
He hadn’t gotten used to this. He wasn’t sure he ever would.
At the center of the village, near the old well, a handful of villagers worked in silence.
Stone. Freshly cut. Rough but careful.
They were building something.
A new shrine.
And this one didn’t just carry Athena’s mark.
It bore **his**.
A phoenix wrapped in lightning.
A sigil he’d never carved—but they had. From memory.
He stood still, watching.
One of the villagers looked up—an older woman with cracked hands and soot-stained skin. She nodded once, then said, “You brought the storm.”
Then another, from behind him: “And the healer.”
A third voice: “Without you, none of this would’ve happened.”
The words weren’t praise.
They were belief.
Hiro looked down at his hands.
“I didn’t heal them,” he said, quietly.
Athena’s voice came from the shade of the blacksmith’s porch.
“They’re already telling stories. Carving your name into stone.”
“I didn’t ask them to.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He didn’t argue. He couldn’t.
