That day in Rotler, a myth could have been born. Unfortunately, there was nobody there to tell the tale. Nobody but one man. A person clad in darkness, who entered the royal palace and by the time he left, the city turned empty. The elements have finally calmed down. The lava returned beneath the earth, where it belonged. Water turned into a single river and headed further south, to the nearest sea. Wind was already home, so he merely laid back and spread into every corner of the sky once again. And finally, earth, the wildest of the elements, returned to its slumber, calming down the tremors, yet leaving the ground beneath the city split open.

Glavas walked down the stairs of the palace. Not much was left of them. He had to step over the larger gaps or even jump down where a few steps were missing altogether. His eyes were darting from one victim to another. People were lying on the streets. Some could not even be recognized anymore. Others were lying simultaneously in front of the palace and all the way up in the north, where the rest of their body was carried afterward. The streets turned red with blood. And yet, not a single corpse invoked any emotion in Glavas. In fact, he felt nothing at all. No joy, no relief, no anger, no sadness. He simply existed. Like a void that was about to engulf everything around itself.

The feeling, or rather, the absence of all feelings, was something Glavas recognized. No matter what monster he had to face, be it human, dragon, elven, dwarven, or otherwise, they never cause him so much fear as the growing void that he had suddenly found inside his heart. It was not painful. No discomfort was distracting his mind. But at the same time, he felt something spread through his body. He tried clenching his fist as much as he could, but there was something in his mind fighting against him. "What is the point?" it whispered. "To moving. To living. Where does it all lead?"

Elves were truly a fascinating race. Among all the species in Ezma, they have the longest life spans and they are also the most powerful. While a human experiences the prime of their life for a decade, or maybe even two, if they are lucky, the pinnacle of an elf's physical and mental capability lasts for centuries. It cannot be compared to anything else. But perhaps the most hated blessing this species had received from Eigam, was their hair. In it, they had such an enormous supply of magic that even the wisest of scholars had trouble imagining it. However, every power has a downside. In the case of elves, their hair influenced the element with which they were born. Red hair could only be used for fire. If they wished to use any other element or aspect of existence, they had to learn it the hard way, just as every other being. However, their magic was also closely tied to their emotions. Using such magic would alter their behavior. Blue hair and its associated spells caused feelings of calmness, but even maybe cold and calculating nature. Using fire magic would, only the other hand, cause wrath and irritability. The more the elves used their natural powers, the more the powers would eventually enslave them. Fortunately, the effects never seemed to be permanent.

There were, however, hair colors that were considered curses. So terrible in their nature that those with them rarely lived for too long. White was considered the color of joy. It was the purest magic one could be born with. It would constantly radiate out of the elf's body, causing happiness and euphoria. But how long would that last? Eternal joy would eventually drown their brains. The chemicals released by the body would no longer work. Joy would turn into apathy. Apathy then into the absence of everything. White-haired elves rarely lived past the age of sixty and the older they were, the more they seemed like machines, rather than living beings. However, perhaps even worse, was the black hair. Dark magic was powerful, but the cost it carried was simply too great. Each use of it would cause sadness. That was something Glavas was used to. Every single time he would conjure up his spectral arms to play the instrument on his back, by the time they were gone, he could feel himself closer to despair. Using the magic for anything more than that would then increase his anxiety, cause panic attacks, and when overused further, even toss him deep into depression. The aftereffects were often devastating for the soul. After the usage of dark magic, there was no meaning to life. No joy left in the world. No hope for a better future. There was just the endless call of death. The urge to end it all.

Glavas had experienced this feeling a few times. Each time, it took him several days to recover. His willpower was pushed to its limit during those times. He had to constantly remind himself of life outside of his magic. Like a mantra, he had kept on repeating "Life is worth it" over and over again until the effects subsided.

Right then, in Rotler, however, he had done something unthinkable. The magic he used, the dark armor he clad himself in, the spectral hands that carried him out of harm's way... They would all come at a price. And it was a price he did not know. Never before did he use so much of his dark magic. The last time he used more than just two short arms, he wished to die. Back then, after all the darkness he called upon to wipe out Rotler, he knew for sure that his willpower would not be enough. The aftereffects of the magic were growing constantly. With each passing minute, he was feeling emptier and emptier. No matter how much he felt as if the pit could not be deeper, he kept on falling.

There was something that had to be done. He knew that much. With a quick glance over the city, he found a single building that seemed to be at least partially intact. It was a small warehouse with a large hole in the ceiling. Far from perfect, but it would do.

Alma was staring into a freshly lit fire as if the small dancing flame had hypnotized her. In her mind, she kept on returning to Rotler. Everything they've been through, everything that happened. It seemed as if the world had been turning darker and dark with each passing day. No matter where they went and what peace they tried to find, something always appeared to take it from them.

"Okay, that's it, I'm going to look for him," she exclaimed and stood up from the ground.

[He told us to wait.]

"And he's not coming! It's getting dark too. I... Surdi... I need to know."

[You think I don't have the same ideas. He is strong but...] he paused and took a deep breath. [What if he wasn't strong enough this time?]

"That's precisely why we need to go back there!"

[And get captured again?]

"You will not stop me!"

The dragon stood up and blocked her path. [You think I won't try?]

"Out of my way!"

[What are you even hoping to find there? We both know what happened. He went to fight a whole city and told us that he would come to find us later. The elements have all calmed down. It is quiet. And Glavas is nowhere to be found. He is...]

"Don't!"

[Face it, Alma. You can't deny the truth.]

"Surdi..." He saw tears gather in her eyes. "I need to know. I need to know if we got someone killed again."

[I... I don't think I can do it. I can't see it again. Not again.]

"I don't want to do it alone. Please, Surdi."

He scrunched up his face. The thoughts inside his mind were tearing him apart. Imagination be cursed. All it was giving him were vivid images of Glavas' demise.

[Fine. But we see one Rotlian soldier and we run, understood?]

The trip back down the hill seemed to go by a lot slower than the way up. Both of them stayed silent the entire time. No amount of words would ease their minds. No amount of talking would distract them. The only release from these feelings was the truth.

They both entered the city through its main gate. Or, at the very least, what was left of it. The walls were pretty much in the best shape out of the whole town. When the two finally got inside and looked down at the buildings beneath them, their eyes as if they wanted to pop right out of their skulls. There was no sound but the music of a bunch of crickets. No light remained, and no people were walking the streets. All life as if it had disappeared.

"Alma..." Surdi whispered, his hands shaking. "This looks like..."

"Home."

"When the demon..."

"I know."

"I..."

"It's not that, Surdi. It's not the demon. It is okay. These were bad people, remember?"

"Y-Yeah. Bad people." Her words were only barely keeping the dragon's heart from racing.

"Deep breaths, Surdi. It's gonna be fine. There is no danger here we wouldn't be able to face. Just stay on your guard. And remember, no demons here. It is not our home. It is not the same situation."

He nodded and let her gently grab his hand and pull him along. They walked down the set of stairs and into the streets below. Their path, however, seemed to be much more complicated than they initially thought. The massive cracks in the ground, the solidified magma, and the large chunks of rubble were all blocking their way to the palace. Not only that, but the city looked like nothing they remembered. The beautifully ornate facades were gone. What survived were only piles of rocks or hollow shells of the buildings that once stood there.

"Stay close to me. We have to take a little detour. Do you remember which way was the palace?" Alma asked her sibling. Surdi did not say a word and only pointed in the roughly estimated direction. That was all she needed, without further ado, she pulled the young dragon along as she started making her way through the rubble and jumping over the massive gaps. But even for her, the path was not easy. Oftentimes, without knowing it, she turned to the side, and instead of going in a perfectly straight line, Alma was turning away from the palace and towards the center of the city. The center, where stood a single tiny building, which seemed to have mostly avoided all the damage caused by the elements. A single warehouse with only a hole in the ceiling.

Fate worked in mysterious ways. Under normal circumstances, the children would probably arrive at the palace and find it empty. They would search through the whole building but would find nothing, so their eyes would turn toward the city. Then, it would probably already be too late.

Alma's hand had finally reached an empty space on the other side of the rubble. It was about time. They were digging through nothing but rocks for the past two minutes, so she was relieved to finally feel the exit at her fingertips. With a single sweep, she tore through the rubble and made them a new way into the mostly-intact warehouse.

There were many things she wanted to say. Something to reassure Surdi that they found their way through. Something about where they currently were. And perhaps something about not losing hope. So many things right at the tip of her tongue, and yet, none of them could leave. She stood there, paralyzed. Completely unable to move. In the middle of the room stood a bunch of boxes piled up onto one another. A long, thick rope was hanging from the ceiling, tied at the end into the shape of an O. A shape that would strike fear into criminals all around the world. There was something carved into the wall to the right. A whole novel worth of letters, all gathered under a massive label "Worth living for:" Alma's eyes darted over the text. It spoke of many different concepts. "Travelling. Meeting new people. Seeing new places. Eating fantastic food." Further down the line, things were becoming more specific. "The taste of a sweet dessert. The smell of freshly grilled fish." and so on. Down at the bottom, closer to the floor, the text started to sound more and more desperate: "The ability to dream. Seeing the sunrise. Seeing people smile. The green of nature. The cold feeling of water."

Finally, the girl's eyes shifted slightly to the left. Next to the wall covered with letters, there stood a single flat wooden plank. In front of it, on a wooden box, sat an elf. His hair was messier than ever before. His hat was nowhere to be found. The infamous black jacket was tied around his left arm. Tiny droplets of blood were dripping from underneath it. The elf did not seem to care about the ruckus nor the fact that somebody seemingly entered his private space. He was kept busy. The wall lacked space, so he had to use the wooden plank to keep writing. For many hours now, his hand had been clutching a tiny yellow crayon, tracing the same letters onto the wood over and over again. Another set of words under the category "Worth living for:" Ones that kept him busy throughout the whole evening. Their presence forced him to ignore the sweet melody whispered by the hanging rope. His hand had just finished tracing the words once again:

"Alma and Surdi."