Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 96: Each Step Like a Prayer

Chapter 96: Each Step Like a Prayer

The fire had extinguished itself, without my needing to touch it, as if it understood that in that precise moment, silence offered a warmth rarer than its flames, and that there was no longer a need to resist the night.

The wine had acted like a discreet balm, gently drawing me into a deep, quiet sleep—one of those sleeps that seek neither to erase nor to escape, but simply to welcome rest without remorse.

And for the first time in far too long, no nightmare rose with me.

The stars, all through the night, had shone without trembling, suspended above our heads in a silent peace, as if they too had decided to watch over us—not like sentinels, but like mute guardians of a moment too precious to disturb.

Even the desert winds, always present somewhere, had withdrawn with unusual delicacy, leaving behind only a warm, almost motionless breath, as if they had sworn not to disturb the balance of this sleeping world.

Everything around us seemed suspended.

Not dead.

But held in a form of balance so fragile that one too many words, one abrupt movement, might shatter it.

When my eyes opened, dawn was stretching across the horizon, slowly unfurling its golden veil over the vast sea of grass below, as if the day too had chosen to enter this world with a form of respect.

The first rays of the sun filtered through the curls of morning mist, gliding between the branches, brushing the treetops, and caressing every leaf with delicate precision, making them glisten briefly before vanishing into the great breath of the living.

It looked as though every drop of dew clinging to the foliage had turned to gemstone.

The earth, in its silent immensity, gave the impression of breathing slowly beneath us—not as a mere setting, but as a living, soothed being, allowing us to exist within it without asking us to justify our presence.

I turned to Lysara.

She was still asleep, half-stretched across the travel mat, her hair tangled in the shadow of morning, her breathing steady, calm, almost musical.

And in looking at her like that, I understood something simple and profound: her face was no longer that of a survivor.

There was no longer that tension settled in the center of her brow, no longer that muted tightness around the lips, nor that hardness in the jaw that constantly betrayed the expectation of a blow, of a betrayal, of pain.

That morning, her face had become young again.

Not in age.

But in impulse.

It had become alive again.

I approached slowly, my steps muffled by the still-warm sand, and placed a hand on her shoulder, with that silent restraint one reserves for moments one doesn’t wish to break.

— Lysara... It’s time.

She opened her eyes slowly, blinking a little, her gaze flickering between the golden glint of dawn and the haze of sleep.

Then she nodded gently, without saying a word, as if her body responded to a memory older than will, and as if her heart already knew that the moment of peace had passed, and it was time to move on again.

We gathered our things without exchanging a word—not from distance, but because there was nothing to add, nothing to say that wouldn’t diminish the echo of what we had shared.

Lysara’s magic bag, docile and silent, absorbed the remnants of the meal as if they had never existed, as if that sacred parenthesis had chosen to close without leaving a trace.

And when everything was ready, when the embers were out, the gestures complete, the looks exchanged, we set off.

Not out of duty.

But because the world was calling us again.

And it was time to answer.

Slowly, without haste, without noise, as if our bodies themselves had learned the prudence of silence, we descended the dune, leaving behind us, with each step, that fragile line where rest ends and the world resumes.

Each footprint in the sand seemed to weigh more than it should, as if every displaced grain protested, reminding us that this ground had not been shaped to receive the steps of those who come from outside.

Each trace left on the gentle slope became a confession, a fault line, an interruption in the unmoving perfection of that landscape.

This paradise—so vast, so peaceful, so untouched—now welcomed our shadows.

And I couldn’t help but think, with that dull ache that grips the chest without hurting, but remains lodged there, unmoving: we were staining this place with our arrival.

Not out of malice.

Not out of greed or a desire to conquer.

But simply because we were here.

Because our very presence carried with it the echo of a damaged world, the weight of a past one never truly sets down, even when closing one’s eyes.

And yet, despite that thought, despite that quiet tug in the chest, another idea brushed past me—more fragile, more humble, but stubborn: maybe by walking slowly, speaking little, observing attentively, listening to every breath of wind like a voice, respecting each rustle of grass as a sacred border...

Maybe, by placing our steps like prayers and not like conquests...

We could, one day, deserve to belong here.

Not as masters.

But as guests.

I had become sentimental.

Much more than I had ever been.

And even more than I wanted to admit, even to myself, even in the silence of my most secret thoughts.

It wasn’t a weakness—I knew that deep down—but it unsettled me.

I, who had always known how to lock my emotions behind certainties, strategies, clean gestures, and cold decisions, now felt something softer, something gentler, quietly settling into my movements, into my gaze, into my silences.

Maybe it was this unreal landscape, this world that asked nothing but gave everything, this place out of time where violence seemed to have burned out on its own like a tired flame.

Maybe it was the soft warmth of Lysara beside me, her calm, familiar presence that sought neither to impose nor to flee, but that existed there, simply, like a forgotten truth one rediscovers little by little.

Or maybe, simply, it was that wine, that Blood of the Azuram Hills, which the night before had cracked something in me—a barrier, a wall, a fold drawn too tight—and allowed that breach to remain open for the space of a night, the span of a glance.

And now, even sober, I felt that crack hadn’t closed.

And somehow... that no longer bothered me.

We walked through the first tall grasses of Terra Neutralis, those supple, full grasses, of a deep green, that seemed to hesitate before parting for us, as if even they sensed that our passing was an intrusion, however respectful, into a place that did not yet belong to us.

With each step, they bent slowly, opened without a sound, then rose behind us with a kind of silent dignity, as if the earth itself refused to forget.

And I, in the midst of that living landscape, said nothing.

But my heart, it screamed.

It beat too hard, too fast, and each pulse brought up a flood of images, of memories, of open wounds and silenced promises.

I thought of Cassandre.

Of her ember eyes—the kind one never forgets, even when closing the eyelids and begging for forgetfulness.

Of her voice, both strong and soft, sharp as a blade of truth and enveloping like a caress—a voice that had pierced my defenses where no one else had even approached.

I thought of the one who had saved me—not through magic, not through power, but through her gaze.

Of the one who had seen the man beneath the monster, who had extended her hand without trembling, even when everything in me screamed that she should run.

Of the one who had brought me back to myself, when I was nothing but a fragment, an empty shell, a being who no longer believed he deserved the name of man.

She must be there, somewhere, near the crystal.

And just that thought was enough to quicken my steps.

My breath grew shorter, my muscles tensed against my will, and I wanted—more than wanted—I needed to run.

To scream.

To find her.

To tell her I was alive, still here, stronger than before—not despite what I had been through... but because of it.

To shout to her, without shame, without restraint, that I still loved her.

That I had always loved her.

And that I would never let her fall again.

That I would protect her, even if it cost what remained of my soul, even if nothing was left but my flesh and my will, even if the world were to fall once more around us.

And in thinking of her, in letting that emotion take up all the space, I realized something simple, unsettling in its truth:

I had spoken of her to Lysara only rarely.

Almost never, really.

I turned to her.

She was walking at my pace, with that quiet steadiness that was hers, her eyes scanning the horizon as if always searching for a point of anchoring, a weakness, a detail the rest of the world would miss.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

Her mere presence filled the space.

Attentive.

Grounded.

Silent.

It was a habit of hers.

A way of existing that asked for no justification.

— Lysara.

She looked up immediately, without impatience, without surprise, her gaze direct, present, fully there, and I felt at once the weight of her availability—that way she had of offering her attention unconditionally, without judgment, simply because I had spoken.

I took a breath. A long one. One of those that seek to clear the throat’s depths, preparing the mind more than the lungs.

— There’s someone you’re likely to meet, out there. By the crystal.

I let the words hang for a moment, then smiled, a little, almost despite myself.

— Her name is Cassandre. And...

I searched for my words, eyes slightly lowered, uneasy to speak so openly, as if even after all this time, naming what she meant remained an impossible task.

— ...she is... everything.

I expected no reaction, but I saw a very slight tilt of her head, almost imperceptible, a discreet, respectful movement—an invitation to go on, to unravel the thread.

So I continued, a little lower, a little slower, as if the memories themselves were slowing to pass through me more gently:

— She’s fierce. Determined. She can move mountains when she loves. And she loves deeply. Not like a wave. Like a storm. Like a sun. Without pause. Without distance.

I lowered my voice even more, as if saying it too loudly might disturb something.

— She saved me. Truly saved me. I owe her everything. And I think... no. I know you’ll see in her a strength few people carry.

It wasn’t a justification. It was a truth.

Lysara remained silent for a moment, her eyes fixed straight ahead, as if the answer to her question was already hidden in the motion of the grasses, in the muted morning light, or in something deeper she was trying to understand before hearing it aloud.

Then she asked, in a soft voice, almost restrained, but steady:

— You still love her?

I smiled.

Not an automatic smile, nor an embarrassed one, but a slow, inward smile, one that came from far off, like a confession no longer needing to be hidden.

— I don’t think I ever stopped, even when I was broken. Even when I no longer really remembered who I was, even when all that remained in me was ash and instinct.

I paused a moment in our walk, letting my steps sink into the soft ground, while the wind passed around us, brushing the tall grasses, making them tremble like a sea of green breathing in time with us.

— And I think she’ll love you too.

Lysara frowned slightly, visibly unsettled—not with rejection, but with surprise, as if the idea had brushed against her without immediately finding where to land.

— Me?

— Yes, I said, nodding gently, the words carried by a calm certainty, without insistence.

— Because she’s the kind of woman who gives the love she carries without condition. Not as a debt, not as a pact, but as a fire she keeps alive for those who never learned how to approach a light without being burned. She could become, for you, what some call... a mother.

She lowered her eyes, and I saw something pass through her gaze—a fleeting shift, a tension between fear and need, between memory and longing.

A silence followed, one denser than the ones before—not uncomfortable, but filled with everything not yet ready to be said.

Then, in a breath barely audible, no more than a stir of wind in the grass, she murmured:

— I don’t know what it feels like... to have a mother.

I placed a hand on her shoulder—without pressure, without insistence—just the presence I wanted to offer her, like a point of anchoring, a certainty in the midst of all she had never had.

— You’re going to find out. And believe me, you deserve that love. Just as much as she deserves to know you.

She nodded slowly, with a discreet, almost fragile gesture, as if even saying yes required a form of courage—a strength she didn’t yet know she had.

And in her gaze, something shifted.

Something opened.

Not a brutal revelation, not a rupture, but a subtler change, quieter—a waiting, trembling but real, a timid hope looking for a place to root itself, and a fear too, low and familiar, the kind one always feels when nearing a promise too beautiful not to fear losing.

But in the midst of all that, stronger than the doubt, clearer than the shadow...

There was a new light.

And it came from her.