İlyara (POV)
As İlyara watched the woman across from her touch Arın, she couldn't fully name what was slowly rising inside her; it wasn't merely discomfort, nor was it simply anger—something had been crossed, a line that felt as though it could never be undone.
No one should have been subjected to something like that… but when it came to Arın, that thought twisted into something harsher, something that compelled her to protect him.
In this unfamiliar world, it had always been Arın who stood beside her in the moments she felt most vulnerable. Because of that, she felt a closeness toward him—something she couldn't define, yet couldn't deny.
She became aware of that familiar anger stirring deep within her and, instead of suppressing it, began to draw it slowly to the surface. That was what she had learned from Elna; not to hide her emotions, but to find them and bring them forth. Even so, it was still something difficult to control… and she had never tried it on another person before.
When she noticed the black smoke rising from her hands, a faint smile curved at the corner of her lips; this time, it was actually working. But she wasn't the only one who noticed.
"Number Three," said Veyra, her gaze sliding directly to İlyara's hands. "Kill her."
After speaking, she leaned back against her throne, as if she already knew the outcome.
Arın looked at Veyra first, then turned his gaze to İlyara and took a step forward… but stopped there.
In an instant, İlyara rose to her feet and turned toward Number Three behind her. The man, without hesitation, grabbed her shoulder and swung the dagger in his hand toward her.
İlyara caught the dagger-wielding hand by the wrist and fixed her gaze on the emotionless eyes of the Morhena.
Number Three trembled slightly at İlyara's touch, his gaze locking with hers. İlyara pulled the arm she was holding sharply toward herself. His body jolted with the sudden movement; his head dropped forward involuntarily, bringing his face level with hers. He couldn't pull his eyes away from hers even for a moment.
"What are you doing? Kill her!" Veyra shouted.
But Number Three's focus was now entirely on İlyara.
The ground beneath İlyara shifted, and this time there wasn't even the familiar sensation of falling; it was as if the weight of her body had vanished all at once, and her sense of direction had lost all meaning.
There was nothing around her to hold onto, nor any space in which she could place herself—only a boundless darkness that seemed to pull everything into itself, leaving her suspended within it.
This darkness was nothing like the minds she had entered before. There had always been something there—however scattered—a thought, a feeling, a fragment of a memory… but here, there was nothing. No sense of a beginning, and no sense of an end.
And in that moment, she realized.
This was not a human mind.
This… was the mind of a Morhena.
An unknown, formless void stretching beyond comprehension… like an empty shell that should not have existed at all.
For a moment, she thought she would find nothing—that this darkness would swallow her whole and she would simply disappear within it.
But then, deep within that emptiness, she felt the faintest tremor—something, far below, resisting its own absence.
And İlyara remembered what she had learned from Elna; when you entered someone's mind, you first fell into their emptiness, and then that emptiness would begin to pull you toward the memories it held… if there was still something left to remember.
As that thought settled in her mind, a faint movement touched the corner of her lips; she had found it.
The darkness began to unravel, almost imperceptibly.
First came the sound.
The sharp clash of metal against metal…
Then the image took form.
When İlyara turned, she found herself standing in the middle of a battlefield. Soldiers clad in gray armor were slaughtering each other without mercy, the sound of clashing weapons filling the air.
And then she saw him.
Number Three… among the dead bodies.
İlyara hesitated for a brief moment; there was nothing in what she was looking at that she could hold onto. No reaction resembling fear, no instinct that pointed toward survival… only a hollowed-out stillness, directionless and empty.
When she couldn't find what she was searching for, her mind drifted, if only for an instant, to the man on the bridge; that heavy, oppressive feeling—the weight of inadequacy, of worthlessness, of knowing that no matter what he did it would never be enough—was still there within her.
This time, she didn't suppress it; instead, she took it as it was and placed it into that emptiness before her.
As that feeling tore away from her, the memory began to dissolve, and when İlyara found herself back in the throne room, she noticed an irregular movement ripple through Number Three's body.
His fingers loosened at first, then the dagger slipped from his hand and struck the stone floor, the sound echoing through the room.
Number Three did not move; his knees slowly gave way, and he sank down where he stood, without lifting his head, his gaze fixed on a single point as he remained like that.
He showed no response to anything around him—he did not look at those who entered, nor did he carry even the slightest trace of what had just happened; he simply remained there.
Veyra's eyes widened for a brief moment. She recovered from the crack at once, straightened her posture, and spoke without taking her gaze off İlyara.
"Number Two…" she said in a calm voice, then, sharpening, "…do something."
İlyara drew her gaze away from Number Three, turned it to Veyra, and began walking toward her with the faintest hint of a smile.
What rose within her this time was different; it was not merely a sense of power, but something that left a mark wherever it touched, something that burrowed deeper the more it was pulled back.
And İlyara realized that it was not when she used it that it grew—but when she let it go, something in her diminished.
The moment she saw Arın draw his sword and rush toward her, he was already there. He was fast—too fast. Her eyes widened in fear, and a sharp ache pierced her chest.
Was he attacking her?
As Arın swung his sword, İlyara reflexively shut her eyes and dropped to the ground. She braced for the metal to meet her flesh, but instead heard the sharp clash that followed the strike—metal against metal.
"What are you doing? Number One!" Veyra shouted.
İlyara slowly opened her eyes and lifted her head.
Arın was clashing with Number Two. Their swords were locked against each other, crossed, as they stared at one another with expressionless faces.
Seizing the moment, İlyara sprang to her feet and moved away from both of them. Number Two turned his gaze toward her, but he couldn't break through Arın's defense.
İlyara's shoulders loosened as she turned back to Veyra—this time, she ran.
The moment Veyra saw her coming, she slipped from her throne and rushed toward the door, but İlyara gave her no chance to escape; she lunged forward and tackled her. They hit the hard ground together and rolled.
Veyra lay on her back as İlyara climbed on top of her. She didn't understand where this strange aggression inside her was coming from… but she didn't let go. On the contrary, she tightened her grip.
This was her only chance.
Veyra was going to die.
Yes… she was going to die.
Struggling beneath her, Veyra shouted, "Number Three! Number Four!"
İlyara planted her knees on either side of Veyra and pressed her full weight down on her, then took her head between both hands and forced her to meet her gaze.
"No!" Veyra shouted. "The shadow of the Ancient—"
The door burst open with a loud crash; several Morhena flooded inside.
By the time İlyara noticed those entering, it was already too late. The ground beneath her had already begun to give way.
Darkness swallowed her. It was becoming easier each time. Moving through another mind quickened İlyara's heartbeat, stirring a thrill within her that she couldn't quite explain. The chaos outside had lost its meaning; once she entered someone's subconscious, her connection to the outside world was severed. There was only her… and the memories.
"Dad!" a little girl called out.
When İlyara turned, she found herself inside a house. Across from the girl stood a man clad in gray armor—a Taşkan.
The man lifted the girl into his arms. "You can't come with me, Veyra," he said.
The girl immediately pouted.
"But if you get hurt, I can heal you," she said, holding out her hands.
A gentle smile appeared on the man's face. "Of course, my little one… but you need to grow first," he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
The girl protested at first, but when her father tickled her, she burst into laughter.
İlyara turned once more.
This time, she found herself in a place that resembled a hospital.
A Taşkan sat on a stretcher with his back turned. He was wounded; a doctor was silently tending to his injuries. Directly across from İlyara stood a woman—Veyra—watching them in secret.
İlyara didn't linger in this memory; she turned away again.
This time, she found herself inside an old wooden cabin. It was a single room. A young woman who had just given birth lay on the bed, a swaddled baby in her arms. A man approached, first kissing the mother, then the baby. He must have been her husband.
The door burst open all at once. Everyone in the room turned their heads in that direction, and İlyara looked with them.
A Taşkan stepped inside; his armor was torn in places, his body marked with open wounds. His head was lowered, his face cast in shadow, and no matter how much İlyara strained her gaze, she couldn't make it out.
"Taren…" the man said, his voice strained.
The Taşkan dropped to one knee, leaning on his sword. "They're getting close," he said, breathless. "We have to take her now."
The woman turned to the person beside her.
It was… Veyra.
"The time has come," she said calmly.
Veyra held out a small piece of paper and a pen. The woman set the baby down on the bed and began to write a few words.
Without realizing it, İlyara moved closer. Veyra no longer held her attention. She couldn't take her eyes off this woman.
The moment she looked at the paper, she froze. The sound of her own heartbeat echoed in her ears. Her gaze flicked to the baby for an instant, then returned to the paper.
Then she began to study the woman's face—her eyes, her nose, her lips…
Was she… her mother?
It couldn't be real, not just because a name was written on a piece of paper. This had to be a coincidence.
The moment her gaze drifted toward the closing door, the cabin vanished.
In its place came bodies—everywhere. Women in long robes… men in gray armor…
A sound of crying caught her attention.
As İlyara carefully moved through the dead, the heavy stench of decay filled her lungs. This no longer felt like a memory… it felt real. She had never experienced anything like this before. Not in any memory.
When she looked toward the source of the sound, she saw her.
Veyra.
A Taşkan lay in her arms.
Motionless.
His face was covered in wounds.
"No…" Veyra said softly. Her voice sounded as though it had been worn down by screaming.
Her hands were soaked in blood, glowing with a green light. She kept pressing her palms against the man's wounds without stopping. The wounds were closing… but his skin was beginning to turn purple.
Night flickered into day for a brief moment, then collapsed back into darkness. Yet Veyra remained seated among the dead.
Suddenly, she straightened. She gently lowered the man's body to the ground and dropped to her knees in front of him.
"Forgive me," she said.
She tore away his armor; her bare body was briefly revealed beneath. Then she placed her hands over his heart.
And drove her nails in.
As the congealed blood spread between her fingers, the green light surged from her hands once more—stronger this time. More uncontrolled.
Veyra's breath caught. A faint whimper slipped from her lips.
"Come on… come on, work," she whispered.
The light swelled and quickly enveloped the man's body, intensifying as it took hold; with each pulse, the glow grew stronger, and the scream rising from Veyra sharpened in equal measure.
İlyara turned away at once to shield her eyes, yet even from behind, she could feel the force of the light.
Then, all at once, everything stopped—the light vanished, and the scream with it.
"Taren…" Veyra said, her voice weary, yet carrying an unextinguished hope.
When İlyara turned back toward them, she saw the man's body slowly rise; his head lifted, and his eyes, as if they had been watching her all along, found her directly.
The wounds on his face were completely gone.
And in that moment… she knew who he was.
"Arın…"