The Door to Eternity

Amriel had been a child the last time their kingdom faced war with one of the Fallen, but the memories clung to her mind like the persistent ache of an old wound. No one truly forgot war—not the ones who lived through it, and certainly not the ones who waited on its fringes, holding their breath and hoping for someone to return.

He had been one of the fortunate few to return, though "fortunate" proved a hollow word. Her mother had often said, "It would have been better if he had perished on that battlefield. To live half a life is no life at all."

Gods, her mother could be so cold.

However, the man who limped home was not the father Amriel remembered—the vibrant, compassionate figure who had lifted her onto his shoulders and made her laugh until her sides hurt. He had returned quieter, his shoulders bowed beneath an invisible weight that pressed down on his very soul. Whatever brightness had once animated him had been snuffed out, replaced by an emptiness as cold as winter's breath.

He never spoke of what he had seen or endured. He carried those horrors in silence, eyes distant and vacant, like a sailor adrift without a horizon. The crackle of the hearth became his only desired companion. He would sit for hours, unmoving, staring into the flames as though willing them to burn away the memories lodged in his mind.

Time wore him down like a relentless tide against stone. His laughter faded first, then his strength, until one frostbitten morning, he simply did not rise.

Amriel had been the one to find him. Her voice trembled when she whispered to her mother, "The willow by the lake... It's where he should be. He always said it was his sanctuary."

And so they had buried him there, beneath the great willow on the border of Vhengal—the place where he'd once found peace before the war had stolen it from him.

Now, standing before the thriving Khasta Vhar, Amriel's chest tightened with a weight she hadn't felt in years. The memories roared back, fierce and unyielding.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe through the unease coiling in her stomach.

Khasta Vhar. The black, serrated leaves veined with crimson were unmistakable. The plant was a symbol of ruin, flourishing only in places where angels had fallen. It could be decades old, its roots entwined with the land's sorrow and memory.

Her mother's voice echoed in her mind: "The Fallen don't hunt humans. We're beneath their notice—fleeting, fragile things hardly worth their time."

Maybe that was true, but Amriel knew better than to trust indifference. If a Fallen found it necessary to crush a human underfoot, they would do so without hesitation. Her father had learned that lesson firsthand.

Her lips thinned into a determined line as she tore her gaze away from the dark plant. Whatever lingered here—whether memory or something more tangible—she had no intention of lingering to find out.

The Horissa Vharia still waited, its blue-green heart-shaped leaves gleaming like a promise against the forest floor. She needed that plant. To leave without it after coming this far would be foolish, even reckless.

Drawing her knife from its sheath, Amriel made a clean, practiced slice near the base of the herb, leaving behind a few resilient leaves so the plant could recover. The blade gleamed briefly in the muted forest light before she palmed it carefully, unwilling to fully part with it just yet.

Swiftly, she opened her herb pouch, tucking the precious plant inside with practiced efficiency. Normally, she would have handled it with more care, more reverence—but today there was no time for ceremony. The looming presence of the Khasta Vhar and the scent of rain on the wind urged her forward.

She secured the blade back at her side and stepped onto the narrow path, her pace quickening as she moved toward home.

Petite and slight of frame, Amriel knew she was often underestimated—her slender hips and lean build deceiving those who expected weakness. But she possessed a quick, determined stride that could outlast even those with longer legs. Nythia had made sure of that.

Her mother had taught her more than the art of gathering herbs. She had taught Amriel to defend herself in the wild, where danger was as common as sunlight filtering through the trees.

And as the scent of rain thickened in the air, mingling with the earth's musk, Amriel reminded herself that survival had always been her birthright. No storm—literal or otherwise—would stop her from returning home.

Still, the image of the Khasta Vhar clung stubbornly to her thoughts, like a warning whispered through the rustling leaves.

Amriel's features, fine-boned and delicate, and her auburn hair, bore the clear imprint of her mother, but her cobalt eyes—now darkened with focus as they darted back and forth, carefully scanning the forest around her —were unmistakably her father's.

A sharp gust of wind sliced through the trees, biting against Amriel's skin and sending a chill up her spine. The cold was undeniable, yet she suspected the shiver wasn't entirely from the breeze.

Don't look back. The thought flickered through her mind, unbidden but insistent. She obeyed.

Her pace quickened along the narrowing path, boots striking the damp earth with a steady rhythm. The forest around her thickened with tension, its towering trees leaning like silent watchers as though aware of the looming storm. Heavy clouds swirled above, a shifting mass of slate-gray shadows, their ominous weight pressing against the sky.

Even the birds had fallen silent, their absence amplifying the symphony of rustling branches and the low whisper of the wind threading through the canopy.

Thunder growled in the distance—a deep, resonant warning that echoed through the valley.

"Great," Amriel muttered, voice tight with frustration. She cast a baleful glance upward where fractured patches of dark sky peeked through the swaying branches. "Just hold on a little longer!."

She broke into a run, breath hitching as adrenaline pumped through her veins. The narrow path twisted sharply, roots clawing at the ground like skeletal fingers. Each step carried her farther from the place where an angel had once fallen, where ruin had taken root and thrived long after the celestial being had departed.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, matching the rhythm of her boots striking the earth. The wind howled through the trees, urging her forward as fat raindrops splattered against the forest floor. One struck her squarely between the eyes, startling her into a sharp gasp.

"Really?" she muttered, wiping the water from her face with the back of her sleeve. Her breath came in ragged bursts now, her lungs burning with the effort.

The rain began in earnest—light at first, but quickly gathering force as the clouds unleashed their fury. Heavy droplets pelted the earth, turning the dirt path slick beneath her feet.

Amriel gritted her teeth, summoning a final burst of energy as the forest thinned around her. The trees gave way to open fields, their golden grasses already darkening under the assault of the rain.

There, in the distance, stood her cottage—sturdy and weather-worn, its stone walls offering a promise of shelter against the tempest. Smoke curled faintly from the chimney, a beacon of warmth amidst the chaos.

"Almost there," she panted, hope flickering in her chest despite the ache in her legs.

Thunder boomed overhead, shaking the very air around her. The sky cracked open in a blinding flash of silver light, followed by a roar that reverberated through the valley.

Amriel didn't stop. Her braid slapped against her back with each stride, her boots churning up mud as she sprinted across the open field. The cold sting of rain soaked through her clothes, chilling her to the bone.

She didn't care. The storm could rage all it wanted—she just had to reach the door.

A few more steps, breath hitching painfully in her chest. The cottage loomed closer, its sturdy frame defiant against the storm's fury.

And finally, with a gasp of relief, Amriel reached the threshold, slamming the wooden door shut behind her as the rain roared against the roof.

For a long moment, she stood there, breathless and soaked to the skin, the tension slowly ebbing from her body. The scent of herbs and woodsmoke filled the air, grounding her in the familiar comfort of home.

Safe. For now.

But as Amriel leaned heavily against the door, fingers trembling from more than just the cold, she couldn't shake the image that lingered in her mind—the black-veined leaves of the Khasta Vhar.

Outside a crack like the heavens splitting in two rang out across the valley. The sky erupted in jagged streaks of lightning, illuminating the shadowed mountains beyond. Thunder rolled in its wake, low and menacing, shaking the earth beneath Amriel's feet. The rain, thick and unrelenting, hammered against the wooden door at her back. She could feel the vibrations of the raindrops as they pelted down.

Her father's distant gaze flickered through her memory, a ghost she hadn't summoned in years. He'd never spoken of the war, of the battles fought against the Fallen. But his silence had spoken volumes—the way he would stare into the hearth for hours, as though hoping the flames might burn away whatever lingered in his mind.

Amriel clenched her jaw, pushing the memory back into the shadows where it belonged. There was no room for grief here. Not now. She already had enough on her plate!

Amriel's laugh came unbidden, shaky at first before it bloomed into something wild and incredulous. She pressed a hand to her chest, waiting for her breath to return as her back sank against the door. The absurdity of the last few days hit her all at once—like some cruel joke the universe had decided to play.

First, the ancient tome. Its brittle pages had thrummed beneath her fingertips, strange and ominous as though they were filled with secrets better left undisturbed. Then, the Khasta Vhar.

In all the years she had roamed beneath the sprawling canopy of the Vhengal Forest, mapping its every curve and hollow, she had never once come across that plant. The shadowy leaves veined with crimson were the stuff of fables, whispered warnings shared around hearths on long winter nights. And yet, there it had been, undeniable and very real.

Amriel shook her head, groaning softly as she tried to ground herself in the familiar rhythm of the rain drumming against the roof. Breathe, she reminded herself. One thing at a time.