Chapter 148: Golden Eyes

Eiravelle slowly stood up, her body trembling from the effort, and she saw how Ruthina had passed out while those monsters ravaged her. The omega lay crumpled on the forest floor, her white gown torn and stained, her blonde hair spread around her like a broken halo.

She looked so small, so fragile, so utterly broken. Eiravelle felt something twist inside her chest, something that was not quite anger and not quite grief but something far more dangerous—something cold and sharp and absolute.

She took a step forward, and the monsters that remained—the ones who had been circling her, waiting for their chance—felt something crawl under their skin. It was a sensation they had never experienced before, a feeling that something was terribly, fundamentally wrong.

They glanced behind them and saw Eiravelle’s golden eyes, glowing and shining brighter than anything in this dark world, brighter than the red moon, brighter than the stars that had been swallowed by the crimson sky. The light radiated from her like heat from a forge, and the monsters trembled. Some of them took a step back, their instincts screaming at them to flee, but there was nowhere to run. The forest that had been their hunting ground had become their prison.

"Impossible... You’re not a saint," one monster murmured, its voice barely above a whisper. It was a creature of teeth and claws and hunger, a thing that had been born from Ruthina’s darkest memories, and yet it could not stop the fear that was spreading through its twisted body.

It had faced holy warriors and blessed priests, but this was different. This was something it had never encountered, something that did not belong in this world of shadows and nightmares.

Eiravelle’s gaze fixed on the creature, and there was no mercy in her eyes, no hesitation, no doubt. "You all had tormented her for a long time, and it’s time for you all to be gone," she uttered, and her voice was not her own. It was deeper, richer, resonant with a power that came from somewhere beyond herself.

It was the voice of something ancient, something that had been waiting for this moment for a very long time. The trees seemed to bend toward her as she spoke, and the red moon above flickered, as though it too was afraid.

The monsters tried to attack her. They rushed forward with a loud roar, their claws extended, their jaws open wide, their eyes blazing with fury and fear. There were dozens of them, maybe more, all of them twisted and grotesque, all of them hungry. They came from every direction, from between the trees and from behind the rocks and from the shadows themselves, and they were determined to destroy her.

But the moment they approached her, the moment they came within reach of that golden light, they dissolved into golden air without even being able to touch a skin or a strand of Eiravelle’s hair. There was no violence in it, no struggle, no blood. Just a soft, gentle dissolution, as though they had never existed at all. The light did not burn them or tear them apart; it simply unmade them, returning them to whatever void had spawned them.

The ones that were left tried to run. They turned and fled toward the darkness, toward the twisted trees and the shadows that had spawned them. Their screams of terror echoed through the forest, a sound that was almost human in its desperation. But with a swift motion of Eiravelle’s hand in the air, she turned them into the same thing that had happened with the previous monsters.

They dissolved into golden motes of light, their screams swallowed by the wind, their bodies breaking apart into nothing. No violence, just grace and elegance. It was as though she was not destroying them but simply erasing them, removing them from existence as easily as one might wipe dust from a window.

When the last monster was gone, the forest was silent. The red moon still hung in the sky, but its light seemed dimmer now, less oppressive. The howling wind had died, and the trees stood still, as though they too were waiting, watching, holding their breath. The only sound was the soft rustle of Eiravelle’s gown as she moved, and the faint, labored breathing of the omega who lay on the ground.

Eiravelle slowly approached Ruthina, and she saw that the omega was covered in wounds. Her white gown was shredded, and her skin was torn and bleeding, and her face was contorted with pain even in unconsciousness. There were scratches on her arms and bruises on her face, and a deep gash on her shoulder that was still oozing blood.

Eiravelle knelt beside her and gathered the rabbit’s body in her arms, holding her close, feeling the warmth of her against her chest. She kissed her forehead, slowly, gently, and as she did, Ruthina’s wounds began to heal. The cuts closed, the bruises faded, and the blood dried and disappeared, leaving behind only smooth, unbroken skin.

"Please wake up," Eiravelle whispered, her voice soft and tender, the voice she used when she was speaking to Qazaevelle. She held Ruthina close, rocking her gently, willing her to open her eyes, to come back, to return to the world of the living. She could feel the omega’s heartbeat against her chest, faint but steady, and she clung to that rhythm like a lifeline. "Please, Ruthina. Arielle is waiting for you. Everyone is waiting for you. You just have to open your eyes."

And to her surprise, Ruthina suddenly stabbed her.

The pain was sharp and immediate, a white-hot burst of agony that radiated through Eiravelle’s chest. She threw up blood, the crimson staining Ruthina’s white gown, and the glowing golden eyes suddenly disappeared, replaced by wide eyes of shock and confusion.

She looked down at Ruthina, at the omega she had been holding, and she saw that Ruthina’s eyes were open, but they were not the eyes of the gentle, kind omega she knew. They were wild, terrified, the eyes of someone who was not fully awake, not fully aware of what she was doing. There was a knife in her hand, a small blade that Eiravelle had not seen before, and it was buried deep in Eiravelle’s chest.

"Ruth..." Eiravelle gasped, but the word was barely a whisper, barely a breath. She could feel the blood pouring from the wound, could feel her strength draining away, and she did not understand. She had saved Ruthina. She had destroyed the monsters. She had healed her wounds. Why was Ruthina hurting her?

And even in the real world, while Eiravelle was sleeping inside the circle, she also vomited blood. The crimson liquid spilled from her lips, staining her gown, pooling on the floor beside the salt circle. Her body convulsed, a violent shudder that shook her entire frame, and then she went still, her face pale as death.

Qazaethel panicked. She lunged forward, her hands reaching for Eiravelle, desperate to touch her, to help her, to do something. But Dawn caught her arm and held her back.

"No! You’re gonna put her in danger if you mess with the circle! That is her protective barrier!" Dawn warned, her voice sharp and urgent. She had seen this before, had studied the old magics, had learned about the dangers of dream walking and the barriers that protected the dreamer’s body.

If Qazaethel broke the circle, if she disturbed the salt or the candles, Eiravelle’s body would be left unprotected, vulnerable to whatever was happening inside the dream.

Qazaethel clenched her hand into a tight fist, her nails biting into her palms, her entire body trembling with the effort of holding herself back. She wanted to scream, wanted to rage, wanted to tear the world apart until Eiravelle was safe. But she could not. She had to be calm. She had to be strong. She had to trust that Eiravelle knew what she was doing, that Eiravelle would find a way to survive.

"Can someone do something about this?!" Qazaethel roared, and her voice echoed through the infirmary, raw with fear and fury. Qazaevelle kept crying, the baby’s wails filling the room, making the atmosphere more frantically panicked. The servants who had gathered outside the door flinched at the sound, and the guards shifted uneasily, their hands on their weapons, unsure of what to do.

"Your majesty, please calm down," Liv said, trying to calm Qazaethel, her voice steady and soothing. She had positioned herself between Qazaethel and the circle, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, ready to intervene if the sovereign lost control. She had seen Qazaethel angry before, had seen her furious and vengeful and cold, but she had never seen her like this—desperate, terrified, on the verge of breaking.

"You expect me to calm down when Eiravelle just vomited blood?!" Qazaethel snapped, her eyes blazing. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, could feel the fear clawing at her throat, and she did not know how to make it stop. For the first time, what it meant to be truly helpless. She had power. She had authority. She had an army at her command and a kingdom at her feet. But none of it mattered. None of it could save Eiravelle.

"Qazaethel! Calm down! Panicking would make this situation worse!" Dawn said, her voice firm and commanding. She was not the sovereign, but she was a queen in her own right, and she knew how to handle a crisis. "We need to think clearly. We need to act rationally. If we panic, we’ll make mistakes, and mistakes could cost Eiravelle her life."

Qazaethel once again had to gather all her strength to compose herself. She took a deep breath, then another, forcing her racing heart to slow, forcing her trembling hands to still. She was the sovereign. She was the one who made the hard decisions, who carried the weight of the kingdom on her shoulders. She could not afford to fall apart. Not now. Not when Eiravelle needed her.

"Liv, summon Lordess Xelvyn and Lady Yvaine. Demons can travel faster inside dreams without problem. They can help Eiravelle and Ruthina," Dawn said, and Liv immediately walked out to summon Xelvyn and Yvaine. Her footsteps echoed in the corridor, fading into the distance, and then there was silence again, broken only by Qazaevelle’s soft whimpering and the crackle of the candles.

Arielle continued to rock Qazaevelle in her arms, her own face pale with worry, her eyes fixed on Eiravelle’s still form. The baby’s cries had quieted to soft whimpers, as though she could sense that something was terribly wrong, that her mother was in danger. Arielle held her close, murmuring soothing words, but her gaze never left her sister.

She thought of everything Eiravelle had done for her, everything Eiravelle had sacrificed, and she felt a pain in her chest that was almost physical. Eiravelle had always been the strong one, the one who endured, the one who survived. But even the strong could break.

Qazaethel stood where she was, her hands clenched at her sides, her eyes fixed on Eiravelle. She looked paler than before, and Qazaethel saw the subtle wobbling of her body, the way her shoulders slumped, the way her head drooped. She was fading. She was slipping away.

The blood on her gown was spreading, a dark stain that seemed to grow larger with each passing moment, and her breathing was shallow, so shallow that Qazaethel could barely see the rise and fall of her chest.

"Please... Please come back to me, Eiravelle," Qazaethel prayed, and that was all she could do. She could not enter the dream, could not follow her wife into the darkness. If she did, she might put Eiravelle in danger. Eiravelle had vomited blood, which meant there was something inside that dream that they were fighting, something that was hurting her. Interfering might escalate the situation, might make it worse.

And Qazaethel remembered what Eiravelle had said, what she had explained before she had entered the dream. Ruthina only trusted Eiravelle because, in the rabbit’s mind, Eiravelle was her saint.

To Ruthina, everyone else was a stranger, a threat, someone who wanted to harm her. If Qazaethel entered the dream, if she appeared before Ruthina without the guise of the saint, the omega might panic, might fight back, might do something that could not be undone.

So Qazaethel waited. She stood in the infirmary, her daughter crying in Arielle’s arms, her wife bleeding on the floor, and she waited. She waited because there was nothing else she could do. She waited because she had to believe that Eiravelle would come back. She waited because the alternative was unthinkable.

The candles flickered, the salt circle gleamed, and the air in the infirmary was thick with the scent of blood and fear and something else, something that might have been hope. Qazaethel fixed her eyes on Eiravelle’s face, on the pale, still features of the woman she loved, and she willed her to come back.

She willed her to open her eyes, to smile, to say something teasing, something gentle, something that would let Qazaethel know that everything was going to be alright.

But Eiravelle did not move. Her body remained still, her breathing shallow, her face slack. And Qazaethel felt something inside her chest crack, something that had been whole and was now breaking, and she did not know if it would ever be whole again.

She thought of their wedding night, of the way Eiravelle had looked at her with such love and trust, of the promises they had made to each other. She thought of the first time Eiravelle had told her she was pregnant, of the joy in her eyes, of the way she had laughed and cried at the same time.

She thought of Qazaevelle’s birth, of the moment Eiravelle had placed their daughter in her arms, of the way the world had seemed to stop, just for a moment, as they became a family.

She could not lose that. She could not lose Eiravelle. She would not.

"Please," she whispered, and her voice was barely audible, barely a breath. "Please, Eiravelle. I need you. Qazaevelle needs you. You promised you would come back. You promised."

The candles flickered, the shadows danced, and the salt circle gleamed. And somewhere in the darkness, in a forest of nightmares and memories, Eiravelle was fighting for her life, fighting for Ruthina, fighting for the chance to return to the people she loved.

Qazaethel waited. And she prayed. And she hoped.

It was all she could do.