The golden leaf descended from the branches like a living feather, dancing in lazy spirals until it landed between Arien and Nyra. Their touch was almost reverent, and at that moment, a whisper ran through the ground—not a tremor, but the long sigh of something ancient finally awakening beneath their feet.
The trees around them bent their branches as if observing an ancient ceremony. The air grew denser, saturated with the scent of freshly cut roots, damp wood, and the echo of unfulfilled promises. A breeze coming from the hollow trunk of the mother tree wound around them, bringing with it a strange, almost maternal warmth.
Nyra looked up, her eyes reflecting gold.
— "We've reached the threshold. The Breath between the Branches… it's the forest's limbo. Here, everything can be forgotten… or remembered forever."
Arien ran his fingers along the hilt of his stone blade, feeling the vibration intensify as if it recognized the gravity of the place.
— "Is this where the next fragment is?"
Nyra shook her head, her voice lower.
— "No. Here is where its keeper resides. The Guardian is not a memory—it's what prevents memories from becoming truth."
The golden leaf floated ahead, rising like an ancestral guide. The roots uncurled beneath their feet, forming a suspended corridor of branches and low mist. Arien gripped his stone blade, the fragment in its pommel pulsing amber, beating like a second heart alongside his chest.
They advanced slowly. The path twisted in on itself, its sharp turns making each step more tense. The forest's silence became absolute—no insects, no usual rustling of leaves.
Soon, the fresh scent of earth was replaced by an acrid, cutting smell, as if burnt leaves had been cast into the breeze. The glowing roots overhead flickered erratically, as if trying to warn them of danger.
A few meters ahead, a sound began—the sibilant lament of wind squeezed between dry branches, growing until it filled all the space around them. The corridor opened up, revealing a circular clearing.
In the center, a whirlwind of leaves spun slowly. Black, silver, some still green—all floated around an indistinct figure, made of condensed wind, shifting shadow, and leaves that cut the air like blades. It was the Guardian of the Breath.
The Guardian lifted its face, its eyes like abysses of wind.
— "Two who carry what was left unsaid. Have you come to seek what should not be remembered?"
Nyra stood firm, her voice thick with respect.
— "We don't seek revelations. We seek balance."
The Guardian moved, its blurred form swelling with the wind.
— "Balance demands confrontation. Will you cross me… or listen?"
The Guardian's gesture was subtle—just a slight inclination of long hands, as if commanding the forest's own breath. The next instant, a crash swept through the air. The hovering leaves exploded into a furious movement, being hurled so quickly they became cutting blades, spinning in a vortex of shadows and claws. The roar of wind mixed with the shrill sound of a thousand knives colliding, as if the very space were being torn by living fury. Darkness doubled, shadows stretched at the edges, and the tornado seemed to pulse from the inside out, threatening to swallow everything.
Arien shouted to Nyra, both of them rolling to opposite sides as the whirlwind expanded.
— "He doesn't want to talk!"
Nyra braced herself on an exposed root, blood running from her shoulder where a shard of leaf had struck.
— "He's made of everything that's been smothered! He only responds to those who face their own fears!"
The battle erupted, raw and visceral. The whirlwind expanded furiously, walls of twisted wind and sharp leaves spun around them like living ramparts, blocking any glimpse of the horizon beyond the clearing. The air was dense, electrified, each leaf cut like a blade, and the whole setting turned into a theater of elemental forces. The ground quaked underfoot—not just from fear, but roots pulsing in convulsion, as if the forest itself felt every impact, every blow, every unspoken truth exploding in the space between Arien and Nyra.
Arien leapt over a root, blade in hand, zigzagging forward to avoid being cut by the leaves. Each strike met only air, or the leaf blades split and recombined into new, smaller whirlwinds.
Nyra summoned roots that burst from the soil like living serpents, trying to pin down the tornado's core. But the Guardian floated upward, hurling spikes of wind. One pierced Arien's leg, tearing his clothes and throwing him against a trunk.
Arien gasped, the pain burning. The Guardian descended, now multiplied—dozens of smaller shadows, copies made of leaves and mist, spreading around the two. They moved in sync, spinning like frenzied dancers, every step leaving cuts on the ground and in the air.
Nyra barely had time to get up before being surrounded. She tried to channel a barrier of roots, but the copies sliced through them like paper. The noise was deafening—the howl of the wind, the tearing of leaves, the crack of breaking branches.
Arien rolled, dodging a wind blade that sliced just centimeters from his neck. The heat of the fragment in his weapon burned hotter, the crystal pulsing blue. He realized that ordinary attacks wouldn't be enough.
Nyra, fallen and bleeding, rose with effort.
— "They are reflections of what we keep silent… we need to speak! It's not just about shouting or fighting, Arien. It's about admitting, even with fear, the truths we've buried deep. Only by confessing our pains, weaknesses, and fears can we dissolve these specters. They feed on silence—and the only weapon we have is the courage to say what we've never told even ourselves."
Arien, through gritted teeth, replied:
— "Then let's finish this, once and for all."
He closed his eyes, ignoring the pain. The whirlwind spun faster around him, shadows multiplying.
— "I wanted to die in Mahran. Because I couldn't save them!"
At these words, one of the shadows exploded into golden leaves.
Nyra, her voice trembling, shouted:
— "I still hate my people. For forcing me to be half!"
Another shadow fell, shattering on the ground.
The pattern formed: with each truth spoken, a specter shattered, screaming before vanishing in wind and dust. But the central Guardian grew more frenzied, the attacks more violent.
One of the copies grabbed Arien by the ankle, dragging him down. He fell, rolling in the mud, the blade slipping from his grasp. The wind's sound in his ears was a cacophony—broken promises, whispers of the dead, the echo of Mahran's voices.
Nyra leapt at the copy, stabbing an animated root into the shadow's chest.
— "I'm afraid I'll never be whole. Afraid I'll forget who I truly am!"
Another shadow shattered, the whirlwind slowing for a moment.
Arien recovered the blade, standing shakily.
— "I'm afraid of being too important. That all of this depends on me!"
Another copy exploded.
Now the clearing was a storm of golden, black, and silver leaves. Each confession tore the air, each pain spoken brought down the Guardian's army.
The Guardian retreated to the clearing's center, its mask cracking. But before the final blow, it resisted still.
— "You do not remember everything. Speak. Speak what you still hide!"
Nyra looked at Arien, her face stained with blood and earth.
— "Sometimes… I think I should have stayed alone. That I only hinder your journey."
Arien staggered closer.
— "I… I fear I'll never be able to forgive. Not myself, not anyone."
At last, the tornado dissipated, the clearing filled with a thick silence, saturated with exposed truths and opened scars. The Guardian faltered, falling to its knees in the center of the spiral of fallen leaves. Its wind-formed body fragmented into small currents, and the mask on its face was now a mosaic of glowing cracks, each fissure pulsing deep blue. Its eyes—living whirlwinds of energy—reflected not just the battle's end, but the weight of everything finally spoken. It looked at Arien and Nyra as if seeing beyond time, and its voice echoed through the quiet, full of exhaustion and approval: "So… you remember."
Arien felt his blade vibrate—it was no longer just a weapon, but an extension of everything he'd carried thus far. He stepped forward, step by step, as the wind faded. Silence returned to the clearing, broken only by the glow of the Static Flame in his blade.
He drove the blade into the center of the Guardian's mask.
There was no blood. Just a dry impact, then a crash—a wave of wind and sound swept the clearing, sending leaves and golden fragments into the sky. For a second, everything was silent. Not even the wind dared blow.
The Guardian's body dissolved into particles of air and light, and where the whirlwind once spun, a pedestal of living roots appeared. Atop it, a golden mask, marked with the spiral that turned slowly, reflecting the light of a new dawn.
Nyra approached, breathless, her eyes full of tears.
— "The fragment of the whisper. Speaking was the price. Speaking what we never said."
Arien touched the mask. At that moment, he saw—even if just for the blink of an eye—his sister Líara's face. She was smiling, alive within a memory that no longer hurt, but warmed. For a moment, there was no pain.
They remained silent, both exhausted and scarred, clothes torn, skin covered in cuts, but their hearts lighter—as if the forest had accepted, at least for now, the burden of secrets revealed.
The mask glowed. The Breath between the Branches was now also the whisper of truths pronounced.
Arien and Nyra looked at each other, accomplices. They knew they had defeated more than a guardian: they had defeated their own silences.
And, deep within the forest, the roots and leaves vibrated—not in threat, but in approval.