The first step
Days passed, yet Orion remained, his body still as a statue, his gaze locked upon Lisa's lifeless form. Three days without food or water had drained him; his once-vibrant red hair now clung to his forehead in tangled, greasy strands, his skin pale as moonlight, his striking crimson eyes hollowed by exhaustion. He sat in the suffocating silence of this godsforsaken place, trapped within the unyielding blue simmering barrier that kept him from the only thing that mattered—his sister's body.
He had tried everything. Every rune, every spell, every desperate plea to the heavens above and the abyss below. He had screamed until his throat was raw, struck the barrier until his knuckles bled. He had even tried breaking the necklace—the accursed pendant that hung from his neck, the very thing he suspected held the key to this prison. But it defied him, remaining pristine, as if mocking his desperation. It was impervious to steel, fire, and even his own searing rage.
The portal stood behind him, shimmering ominously, the only exit from this forsaken realm. Yet he remained, waiting. He didn't know for what. Hope? A miracle? The slow decay of time to swallow the last remnants of what once was? No, he waited because he couldn't leave. Not while she was still here. Not while her body lay rotting before his eyes, her once-dark hair now matted, half her face reduced to charred flesh and exposed bone.
Even as the stench of death thickened the air, he did not move. He endured it, as if suffering through it was some form of penance, as if witnessing her decay would brand the moment into his soul and keep her from slipping away completely.
Regret was a cruel thing, a beast with a thousand fangs. It gnawed at him relentlessly, whispering in his ear, asking him the questions he dared not answer.
What hurt the most?
Was it the sight of his sister's waning life, the way her fingers had clutched at him as if trying to hold on to a world that had already abandoned her? Or was it the weight of her sacrifice, the knowledge that she had given everything for him while he had been powerless to stop it?
Or was it his own words—his last, thoughtless, cruel words? Words spoken in frustration, words he had never thought would be the last she would hear from him. The memory burned like fire in his chest, each syllable a thorn pressing deeper, poisoning his veins with grief.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look at her once more, committing her image to memory—the torn remnants of her robes, the lifeless hand that once ruffled his hair, the hollow sockets that once held the warmth of her laughter. This was the last image of his sister. The final chapter of Lisa's existence.
Then, something shifted in him.
A realization settled into his bones, heavy and cold.
It was not the barrier that kept him here.
It was not the portal that held him back.
It was him.
Leaving meant acknowledging the truth. Leaving meant accepting that she was truly gone. That once he crossed that threshold, he would never see her again. The moment he stepped through that portal, Lisa would exist only... in memory.
As the saying goes, Acceptance is the first step of grief. And the hardest to take.
His body trembled before he finally rose, his muscles stiff and aching from days of stillness. The cold, unyielding ground had been his anchor, but he forced himself to abandon it. His hand reached for his sword, fingers wrapping around the hilt like a drowning man grasping for something solid. It was the only thing left to him now. His only tether to the world beyond this place.
He turned, step by step, toward the portal, his breath uneven. Just before stepping through, he hesitated, glancing over his shoulder for one final look at his sisters remains. His heart clenched. His fingers curled tighter around his sword. Then, with a slow exhale, he stepped into the unknown.
---
The transition was instant yet disorienting. The moment his foot touched solid ground on the other side, his legs buckled, forcing him to one knee. His sword struck the floor with a dull clang as he used it to steady himself. A wave of nausea rolled through him, his stomach twisting violently, but he swallowed it down, forcing himself to breathe.
"You seem to be handling it well. Most people vomit their first time."
The voice was ancient, withered yet rich with amusement, wrapping around the chamber like a lingering ghost. It held the weight of centuries, yet spoke with the familiarity of an old acquaintance.
Orion's head snapped up, the haze in his mind clearing instantly. Recognition struck like a bolt of lightning. His exhaustion, his grief, his weakened state—all of it was drowned beneath a surge of searing anger.
His fingers tightened around his sword's hilt. In a single, fluid motion, he unsheathed the blade and lunged at the source of the voice. His strike was precise, aimed straight for the throat.
But su hiss utter suprise, there was no resistance at all. Not even flesh.
His sword passed through empty air, as if he had sliced through mist. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts as he staggered forward by his own momentum, before regaining his footing.
A chuckle echoed through the chamber, deep and knowing. "Aiming for the jugular, are we? You truly seem pissed this time."
From the shadows, a figure emerged—tall and draped in dark robes, his features carved from time itself. It was a face Orion knew all too well.
His grandfather.
Or rather, what remained of him.
The old man regarded him with an expression that was almost wistful. "But alas," he murmured, "I am merely a projection. Your blade cannot harm what does not exist."
Orion said nothing, his breaths sharp and uneven.
"You look like hell, boy," the old man observed, his tone oddly detached. "I imagine you've been through quite an ordeal."
Orion tightened his grip on his sword, his knuckles whitening. "Lisa is dead."
His grandfather sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment, as if weighing the weight of those words. "I see."
Orion's fury flared. "That's all you have to say?" his voice cracked, hoarse from grief and rage. "She's dead, and all you can say is 'I see'?"
The old man's gaze softened, but his voice remained calm. "What else would you have me say, Orion? That I can bring her back? That I can undo what has been done?"
Orion's chest heaved, his breaths uneven. He wanted to scream. To curse the gods, the world, the cruel, twisted fate that had brought him to this moment. But he couldn't. He couldn't change anything.
His grandfather sighed, glancing at him with something that might have been sympathy—or something close to it. "Grief is an abyss, Orion. It devours everything if you let it. But you have to choose whether to drown in it or climb out."
Orion said nothing.
The old man watched him for a long moment, then muttered under his breath, "as for anger, even I have moments when I'm pissed at that damn geezer."
Orion frowned. "What?"
His grandfather shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Never mind that. We have much to discuss. But first... get up. You look pathetic."
Orion rage still bubbled inside him, at his cryptic words. His entire being tremb3l in pure anger. But before he can make single move, a terrible pressure like weights of mountain decent over him, forcing him to his knees.