Elaria's Training
Lyra stood at the head of 2,000 soldiers, her sharp voice cutting through the air as they practiced formations. She moved with precision, her twin swords glinting under the sun. Yet, her thoughts drifted to a memory she couldn't forget.
It was during the Siege of Elaria. Cornered by a demon general wielding massive axes, her body had faltered, strength failing her. She remembered the sound of the axes slicing through the air, ready to deliver the killing blow.
But then Jareth appeared in a blur of speed, his fiery wings blazing as he launched a devastating kick to the demon's head. The force was so great it sent the massive creature hurtling back.
"You look like you could use a hand," Jareth said, glancing at her with a grin.
"You made it," she whispered, relief washing over her.
"Of course," he replied, his voice steady. "I'm not letting this city fall. Not today."
He charged forward, his Godsword cutting through the demon with ease, his presence radiating power and reassurance.
Snapping back to the present, Lyra shook her head. "Focus," she muttered, but Fujin's voice teased in her mind.
"Thinking about Jareth again, aren't you?"
"I wasn't!" Lyra protested, her face warming, but the Goddess of Wind only laughed.
Jareth's Ascent
The spiraling staircase coiled upward like the spine of a beast, its stone steps worn by the weight of countless years. Jareth climbed, his Godsword resting against his shoulder, each step a steady drumbeat against the silence.
The third floor loomed ahead, swallowing him in dim light. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the chamber, cast by grotesque statues lining the walls. Twisted, gnarled figures—frozen in silent screams, hands clawing at the air as if reaching for something long lost. Their hollow eyes, deep and empty, seemed to follow him.
A breath of unease curled in his chest.
Then, the ground shuddered. A low groan rumbled through the chamber as cracks spiderwebbed across the statues' bodies.
Stone crumbled. Limbs twitched.
Then they moved.
Jareth exhaled slowly, gripping the hilt of his blade. "Of course," he muttered. "I can't even climb stairs in peace."
The statues lunged, their heavy limbs cleaving through the air with unnatural speed. Jareth ducked, twisting away as a massive stone fist slammed into the floor where he had stood, shattering the tiles. Sparks erupted as his first strike glanced off a statue's thick hide. It barely left a scratch.
"Tch. Tougher than they look."
His keen eyes traced their movements—stiff, rigid, forced. A flaw. Then he saw it—the faint glow at their joints, the chink in their armor.
A smirk flickered across his lips.
Jareth surged forward, his Godsword carving through the air in a brilliant arc. The radiant steel found its mark, piercing the knee joint of the nearest statue. The creature faltered, collapsing with a deafening crash. One by one, he dismantled them—efficient, merciless, precise.
As the final statue crumbled, Jareth lowered his blade. His breath came heavy, sweat dampening his brow.
Yet the silence felt heavier.
A Moment of Rest
Jareth sank to the floor, cross-legged, the Godsword across his lap. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, letting the tension drain from his body.
For a moment, the world was quiet.
Then—
A whisper. A shift in the air.
His eyes snapped open.
From the shadows, assassins emerged, their blades catching the dim light.
Jareth clicked his tongue. "Can't you let me get a damn break?"
They moved as one, fast and merciless, blades flashing like vipers. But Jareth was faster. The Godsword ignited in his grip, its light cutting through the darkness. He twisted through their attacks, each swing of his blade swift and final. Shadows scattered. Bodies dissolved.
Then silence. Again.
Jareth let out a slow breath, wiping blood from his cheek. The fourth floor awaited.
The Fourth Floor: Shadows of the Past
Cold.
The moment Jareth stepped onto the fourth floor, the air shifted. The weight of it pressed against his skin, thick with something unseen.
Darkness swallowed the chamber whole. He could barely make out the ground beneath his feet, let alone the walls.
Then—
A figure emerged.
Jareth stopped dead.
His breath caught.
"No... this can't be." His voice was barely a whisper, trembling with something he hadn't felt in years.
The figure stepped into the faint glow of his Godsword's light.
His mother.
A soft smile touched her lips, warm, familiar. "My son." Her voice, the voice he had longed for, was gentle as ever. "Don't be sad anymore. I'm here now."
Jareth's chest ached. His vision blurred.
The Godsword slipped from his fingers.
"Mother…" His voice broke as he stumbled forward, arms reaching.
She caught him, holding him close, her hands stroking his hair like she had when he was small, when the nights were cold and lonely.
"It's okay," she whispered, voice laced with something sweet, something soothing. "You don't have to fight anymore. Let me take care of you."
Warmth spread through him, soft and heavy. The exhaustion of battle, the weight of all his pain, it all melted away in her arms.
Then—
A voice.
Urgent. Piercing through the haze.
"Jareth, be careful!" Bahamut's voice rang in his mind, sharp and commanding. "This is not your mother! Collect your thoughts! Remember, you can't use your Godform inside the tower!"
His eyes widened.
A sharp sting flared at his neck—cold breath against his skin.
Her embrace tightened. Her teeth—elongated and glistening—hovered just above his throat.
Jareth's body trembled.
Then, through the tears, he smiled.
"…Thank you." His voice was soft, raw. "For showing me my mother one last time."
Then he struck.
A violent knee to her stomach forced her back, her grip loosening. With a swift motion, he flipped his Godsword and drove the hilt against her neck. She crumpled to the ground, unmoving.
Breathless, Jareth wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
"Bahamut," he murmured, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. "Do you know any spells to bind someone?"
A pause. Then Bahamut's voice, cautious. "Yes. But are you sure you want to keep her alive? She's dangerous."
The Godsword pulsed faintly, its light flickering strangely.
Jareth exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I've already killed thousands. I can make an exception." His lips pressed into a thin line. "Even if it's a mistake… after the Godsword pulsed like that, I can't shake the feeling that she'll be important later."
Jareth's gaze lingered on the vampire—his mother's face.
Then he turned.
"Let's move on," he murmured, gripping his Godsword once more as he ascended the stairs.