The witches' hideout was unlike any other.

On the outside, it was just a sheer wall of stone and roots, hidden beneath the misty forest. Inside, it revealed itself as a subterranean palace, alive to its very essence. Long, vaulted corridors intertwined like the veins of a colossal organism, each wall covered in shimmering runes that pulsed in hues of gold and green. The light came not from torches or lamps, but from the inscriptions that breathed, emitting a soft glow that seemed to match the heartbeat of those who entered.

Sylphie sat in a circular chamber, her back against a pillar covered in healing symbols. The designs moved like rivers of energy, winding through the stone and seeping into her skin. The fever that had once consumed her had vanished, the tremors had stopped, and the intermittent glow in her eyes now remained steady, like a sun trapped in her irises.

Across the room, Amélia was also recovering. Her hands, covered in scratches and bruises, were enveloped by streams of silver light that slowly closed each wound, like invisible weavers stitching flesh. She kept her eyes closed, exhausted, but her shoulders finally relaxed.

Irelia remained standing, leaning in a corner, her arms crossed and her sword leaning against the wall. Even enveloped in the same restorative glow, her posture was that of someone who couldn't afford the luxury of rest. Her eyes roamed every detail of the chamber, as if expecting something to suddenly emerge from the stones to attack them.

And, in front of them, seated on a simple chair, was the princess. Her black cloak still covered her almost completely, the hood casting shadows over her face. Since they had passed through the golden portal into this room, she had not uttered a single word. She had simply stood there, motionless, watching. A silent presence, yet immensely heavy.

The sound of light footsteps broke the silence.

The hideout's receptionist appeared through the archway. The same woman who had greeted them before—slender, with short hair, her features strangely symmetrical, as if she had been sculpted more than born. She carried an open scroll in her hands, the runes glowing gold.

"Identity confirmed." Her voice echoed, clear, almost musical. She looked up at the four of them. "Disciples of the Witch Queen."

The effect was immediate.

The princess lifted her head, surprise flickering beneath the shadow of her hood. Her silence was broken, though her voice remained controlled.

"Disciples...?"

Amélia opened her eyes but said nothing. Irelia straightened, her hand sliding over the hilt of her sword as if it were a natural reflex. Sylphie simply took a deep breath, not looking directly at the princess.

The receptionist continued:

"The hideout is open to you." My duty now is to ensure everyone's presence remains secret. She closed the parchment, bowing slightly before leaving.

When the stone door closed, silence reigned once more.

The princess tilted her head to the side, staring at the three women. Her voice was firm, but slightly lower, as if still absorbing the information.

"You... are disciples of the Witch Queen."

Amélia looked away uncomfortably. Irelia didn't move, only twisted the hilt of her sword as if testing its weight. Sylphie closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"I didn't know someone... like me... would have such important guardians," the princess added, almost like a confession.

Irelia broke the silence first. The exhaustion in her voice was palpable, but there was also a firmness.

"The title doesn't matter. What matters is that you're alive. And, if it's up to me, you'll stay that way." She sighed, leaning back against the wall. "But I'm tired. Very tired. I think we'd better rest for at least a day before we go out to look for him."

The name didn't need to be said. Everyone knew who she was talking about.

Amélia opened her eyes slowly, leaning against the armrest. There was a melancholy weariness in her gaze, but also a stubborn confidence.

"There's no need for us to go after him." Her voice was soft but firm. "He'll come back."

Irelia turned to face her.

"Are you so sure?"

"I know Kael," Amélia replied, with a half-smile that didn't reach her eyes. "He always comes back."

Silence hung for a few moments. Until Irelia looked away, snorting.

"Hmph. Useless optimism."

Sylphie said nothing. She was too still, unmoving, her golden eyes fixed on the ground.

Irelia noticed.

"You've been silent for too long." Her voice was a cut through the air. "What happened to you?"

Sylphie slowly lifted her face. Her eyes weren't glowing with fever now, but with something deeper, as if they reflected memories no one else could see.

"Well..." she began, her voice low but clear. "When I recovered... I used the time in this room to connect."

Irelia frowned.

"Connect?"

"With the forest," Sylphie continued, her tone calm, almost distant. "Or what was left of it. The fire... the destruction... there were still echoes. Memories." The trees don't speak like we do, but the fallen leaves, the scorched earth... everything still carries impressions. Fragments.

Amélia leaned forward, attentive. The princess remained still, but her fingers curled around the arm of the chair.

Sylphie closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, the golden light pulsed brighter.

"The leaves told me that... Kael was captured."

The word fell like a blade in the center of the room.

Amélia started, her heart pounding.

"Captured...?"

Irelia pushed away from the wall, her sword clinking as she was gently drawn from its sheath.

"Are you sure about that?"

"It's not a premonition," Sylphie replied firmly. "It's what the earth itself showed me. He fell. They trapped him."

The princess finally spoke, her voice cold but filled with something new—perhaps fear, perhaps disbelief. "If he was captured... then he's still alive."

The three disciples looked at her, surprised by her comment.

The princess lifted her chin.

"And if he is alive, he won't be for long. Unless we do something."

The silence that followed was heavy, but none of them dared break it immediately.

The silence after Sylphie's revelation seemed heavier than the very rock that supported the hiding place. The runes on the walls pulsed slowly, like an ancient heart beating deep within the earth, casting golden and greenish light over the tense faces of the four women.

Irelia was the first to break the stillness. Her voice sounded dry, hard, sharp as the blade she always carried:

"It doesn't matter," she said without hesitation. "If he's been captured, there's nothing we can do. We'll leave him behind. What matters now is getting you to Azalith, princess. That is our duty."

The words echoed through the hall, each syllable imbued with implacable coldness.

The princess took a deep breath. Her eyes, half-covered by the hood, shone with something between firmness and fear. A lump was stuck in her throat, but she forced her voice out.

"I don't want... anyone to die because of me." The confession sounded bare, almost fragile. "If I have to leave him, so be it. I won't allow you to sacrifice your lives for me."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Amélia looked up first, her expression tinged with disbelief, as if the princess had just said the most foolish thing possible. Irelia arched an eyebrow, her mouth curling into a lopsided smile. Even Sylphie, who had remained silent and shadowed, raised her golden eyes in surprise—and something else.

Then came laughter.

At first, restrained, almost shy. Amélia raised her hand to her lips, but couldn't stifle the laughter that escaped. Irelia let out a deep, husky laugh, laden with irony. And even Sylphie, the most reserved of them, let her shoulders tremble, a crystalline laugh breaking her usual serenity.

The sound echoed through the room, strange and out of place compared to the tension that had been moments before.

The princess remained still. The laughter bothered her. Her chest tightened, confused, almost offended. Her eyes narrowed beneath her hood.

"What... is so funny?"

Irelia took a deep breath, still smiling, and answered first:

"You really don't understand, do you?"

Amélia shook her head, still chuckling, tears beginning to well in the corners of her eyes.

"It's not a matter of dying for you, princess."

Sylphie spoke then, her voice soft but firm, her golden eyes shining as if reflecting invisible flames:

"It's a matter of destiny. His. Ours." She tilted her head slightly. "Kael isn't someone we simply leave behind."

The princess blinked in surprise. There was something in the tone of those words she didn't understand.

Amélia straightened in her chair, her laughter giving way to a calm gravity.

"You only need worry about one thing. Getting to Azalith. Everything else... is up to us."

Irelia twirled her sword in its sheath, the metal singing against the leather, before leaning it against the wall. Her smile faded, replaced by cold determination.

"That's it. Stop tormenting yourself with deaths that haven't even happened yet."

Sylphie finished, her voice low, almost like a prayer: "Fate always exacts its price. Ours has already been paid."