Elysia-Chapter 43: The Tales of Ash and Starlight

The battle across dimensions had ended, but the adrenaline had faded into a heavy, quiet exhaustion. Night had fallen over the Aurora Palace, but it was not the terrifying, red-streaked night of the battle. It was a gentle, deep blue velvet draped over the mountains, pinned in place by the steady, silver light of the stars.
Elysia sat in the grand library, not at her usual desk filled with floating star-charts, but in a wide, plush armchair near the hearth. A fire crackled softly—not a magical fire, but a simple flame of wood and warmth that smelled of pine.
Elina sat on the rug at Elysia’s feet, wrapped in a thick blanket that felt like spun clouds. She was leaning against Elysia’s legs, her small fox ears drooping with fatigue, yet her eyes remained wide, fixed on her guardian's face. The fear of the afternoon had washed away, replaced by a deep, insatiable curiosity. She had seen her guardian step through reality; now, she wanted to know the path she had walked.
"Nine thousand years," Elina whispered, echoing the number she had heard Nyxoria scream. "Is that... is that a very long time, Lady Elysia?"
Elysia looked down. Her eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were softened by the firelight. She rested a hand absently on Elina’s head.
"Time is relative, Elina," Elysia began, her voice a low, melodic hum that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room. "To a butterfly, a day is a lifetime. To a mountain, a millennium is a blink. But yes... in the context of a soul, it is a significant duration."
"What did you do?" Elina asked, pulling the blanket tighter. "Before you came here? Before you found me?"
Elysia gazed into the fire. How could she explain the inferno of the Ninth Circle to a child? How could she describe the oceans of blood, the mountains of skulls, the endless, grinding war for survival? She realized she didn't need to speak of the horror. She needed to speak of the journey.
"I walked," Elysia said simply. "I walked through a land where the sun never rose, a place of ash and noise. Imagine a storm, Elina. A storm that screams and howls, day and night, without pause. That was my world."
She began to weave her story, not as a history of violence, but as a fable of endurance. She spoke of the Era of Silence, where she learned to quiet her own heart so the noise of the demons couldn't touch her. She spoke of the Era of the Climb, where she ascended a mountain of obsidian that pierced the sky, seeking a single glimpse of a star that didn't exist there.
Her voice was hypnotic. It wasn't the cold, robotic tone she used for magical theory. It was a storytelling voice—rhythmic, deep, and incredibly soothing. It was the voice of someone who had seen everything and survived, and was now offering that survival as a shield.
"I learned that strength is not just about how hard you can strike," Elysia continued, her finger tracing a small circle in the air, creating a tiny, harmless spark of light that danced for Elina. "True strength is the ability to keep walking when the road disappears. It is the ability to hold onto a single concept—like 'peace'—when the entire universe screams 'chaos'."
Elina watched the spark dance, her eyelids growing heavy. "Were you lonely?" she mumbled.
Elysia paused. The question cut through the metaphor.
"I was solitary," Elysia corrected gently. "There is a difference. Loneliness is the pain of being alone. Solitude is the glory of being alone. For a long time, I thought I needed nothing but my own silence. I thought that if I built walls high enough, the ash would not stain me."
She looked at the child resting against her knee.
"But I have learned recently," Elysia added, her voice dropping to a whisper, "that even a star, burning perfectly in the void, shines brighter when there is someone to witness it."
She continued to speak, sharing lessons distilled from eons of struggle. She talked about patience—how a river cuts through stone not by force, but by persistence. She talked about focus—how to ignore the monsters in the dark by focusing on the light in your own hand.
It was a masterclass in philosophy, delivered as a bedtime story. The fire crackled comfortably. The wind outside whispered against the glass, unable to enter. The safety in the room was absolute.
"So you see, Elina," Elysia concluded, her gaze returning to the fire, "the world will always be loud. There will always be things like the Red Queen, or the shadows in the north. You cannot silence the world. But you can silence the storm inside you. You can build a sanctuary in your own heart that nothing can breach. And once you have that..."
Elysia looked down, ready to deliver the final, most important lesson about the responsibility of power.
"...once you have that, you become the sanctuary for others."
There was no response.
Elysia blinked, shifting her gaze fully to the child.
Elina was fast asleep. Her breathing was slow and rhythmic, a soft, whistling sound escaping her lips. One of her hands was clutching Elysia’s skirt, and her fox tail was curled protectively around her nose. She looked completely defenseless, yet entirely at peace.
The lesson had been lost to the realm of dreams.
A rare, faint smile touched Elysia’s lips. It wasn't a smile of amusement, but of a strange, warm resignation. Logic dictated that she should wake the child to ensure the information was retained. Efficiency demanded the lesson be completed.
But Elysia did not wake her.
Instead, she carefully manipulated gravity, lifting Elina gently into her arms without waking her. She stood up, the firelight casting long shadows across the room.
"Rest well, little fox," Elysia whispered into the silence, carrying her towards the bedroom. "The lesson can wait. The peace is already yours."
For tonight, the history of the Ruler of Hell didn't matter. The war with the gods didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was not waking the child who finally felt safe enough to sleep without dreams of red skies.