“…!”

  This time, Tristessa did awaken in reality, in one of the damp guest rooms of the Lord’s Castle.

  The light emanating from the power crystals mounted on the stone walls blinded her as she sat up. Her hands almost instantly clutched her own throat to stifle the urge to vomit. She wanted to keep screaming, just like in that dream, so full of hatred and contempt that it felt like poison under her tongue, intensifying the urge to empty her stomach.

  She felt cold perspiration trickling down her back, dampening the linen pajamas she was wearing. Her entire body trembled, convulsed by the storm of emotions that the lucid dream had unleashed, the one that had come between the real world and her mental palace.

  “Hey, hey, calm down!” She heard a voice nearby, then strong but gentle hands taking her arm and supporting her back. “It’s all right, Tristessa! Breathe!”

  The girl obeyed and inhaled. And exhaled. And inhaled again that warm air that filled her immediate surroundings. Her gaze was fixed on the sheets covering her legs, but that was far from being her focus: her mind was rapidly replaying that memory of the prison, of Selene Irandell inside that cell and everything she had said.

  Understanding that something terrible had happened in Blackwater Park, having driven her mother to commit murder to seek refuge within the safety of a prison.

  And realizing that she had an older sister.

  And that there was someone named Natalie she was looking for.

  And that there was something called the Order of Nether’Varus. A group of people? An organization? Whatever it was, thinking about it intensified the nausea and made her sick.

  “Tristessa? Can you hear me?” She heard the voice of the person sitting on the edge of the bed. A soft whisper that echoed in the distance and reverberating inside the boundaries of her mind. “Come on, say something, kitten.”

  Hearing that adorable nickname did the trick to pull her out of her traumatic reverie. It forced her to slowly turn her head to the side, meeting Astoria Silverthorn's crimson eyes, illuminated by the room’s firelight. Eyes that perfectly framed the soft, delicate curves of her pretty face, though decorated with cuts and bruises that healing thaumaturgy and alchemy had not yet completely erased. Bandages encircled her head at the temple, and her platinum hair was tied in a ponytail that fell over her right shoulder, where the collar of her white shirt concealed the bandages and glyphs used to heal the wound inflicted by the aracross Mystia.

  “Beautiful.”

  That was the first thing that came out of Tristessa's mouth, causing the worried knightess to roll her eyes and unleashing a wave of laughter around them both, breaking the tension created by the girl's sudden awakening.

  And then Tristessa felt the bed shake as an extra weight fell upon it, followed by bestial licks on her face that fueled the laughter of those present: Auron Casimir and Severus Malak Drakan, both sitting in chairs placed beside the bed, laughed at Astoria's and Tristessa’s furious blush and at Vergil covering his owner face with saliva.

  “About time you woke up, lady! Sleeping all day when you barely lent us a hand in defeating Lady Eramisaptor, what nerve!” the gunslinger joked, wearing his khaki vest over his shirt, no sight of his duster around. And—of course—a lead-gray handkerchief covering his nose and mouth. “You should have told us from the start that you could summon the Dullahan to give us a hand!”

  “I-I didn’t know! I only found out I could when Aurelia was about to murder me!” she stammered, struggling through the affectionate displays of her aracross.

  “Come on, don’t be so hard on her. What matters is that we got the victory she wanted,” the blood elf remarked, arms crossed, wearing a new shirt and tie that matched his hair. He smiled, radiating harmony; Tristessa only needed a glance to understand that a large part of the fears that had plagued him had been eradicated, along with the haunting shadow of Moebius. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine. Sev… You helped me, didn’t you?” she asked, stroking Vergil behind one of his ears. “You cast a spell I’ve never heard of before.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Yes, that spell activates the [soul exponentiation] effect. I’d never tried it before, and I felt like my spirit was falling apart, but it all worked out in the end, thanks to Kantrus. Oh, and speaking of spirit…” Severus took a long swig from the flask containing a golden concoction and made a funny face of disgust. “Ugh, like rotten Farross milk!”

  “I see… And what about you, Tori?” she asked the woman who was still massaging her back and using Auron’s hat to fan her. “How’s your shoulder?”

  “Better than my head, for sure. One more day and I’ll be as good as new, don’t worry.” Astoria nodded to herself, pleased to see that Tristessa was calmer, her nausea receding. “We did it. We really did accomplish your goal.”

  “R-really…?”

  Tristessa sought confirmation from the blood elf, who nodded, his eyes glistening from having cried, laughed, and cried some more with his friends.

  “The Mercer-Archeos have been pardoned, by order of Lord Youngblood.”

  Hearing him say that brought a feeling of relief that was difficult to explain. It was as if Nekrom itself was allowing her to lower her arms after so many days that felt like weeks to her. Allowing her heart to beat with a bittersweet pain, a product of all the agony and horror she had experienced during so many loops to reach that moment.

  Had it been worth it? Of course it had; she already wanted to see Jin, Lucahn, even Tiara again. But the wounds in her soul would never disappear, nor the trauma and desolation that each Death had left within her.

  “It’s wonderful!” was all she could manage to say between sobs and tears she could barely hold back. “Thank you, guys! Thank you so much for helping me and that family!”

  “Just remember you have a score to settle with many soul-jewels, lady,” the gunslinger warned her. “I don’t know how things are in Stranger Land, but nothing is free in this world.”

  “Ahem!” Severus made that loud noise in his throat so Auron wouldn’t say that forbidden word aloud again, as if the walls had ears. “While this is more than welcome news, we can’t rest on our laurels: the Coven will still want to hunt you down and kidnap Lucahn. I don’t see Moebius surrendering.”

  “Malak Drakan, please don’t think about that and enjoy this victory,” Astoria pleaded, before turning her attention back to the girl who was wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “It was a very difficult battle, wasn’t it? Not killing Lady Eramisaptor made everything more complicated.”

  “I’m so sorry that my whim and Lord Jonas’s almost got us all killed… But I believe it was the right thing to do,” she told them, smiling with a hint of sadness in her eyes, remembering how hurt Aurelia had looked at the moment of her defeat. “How is she?”

  “Ask Auron: he decided to become her male nurse,” Astoria replied, a certain bitterness in her voice that went completely unnoticed amidst the shocking news she dropped, as if it were nothing.

  “What?!” Tristessa stared at the gunslinger, her eyes wide, while Severus stifled a chuckle. “A nurse?!”

  “It was just for today! Thanks for omitting the context, Blackguard…” Sighing, Auron leaned back in his seat and scratched his head uncomfortably. “What do you want me to say? Now that Lord Youngblood has taken over the management of the Dominion while Lady Eramisaptor recovers, her only visitors are the healers who change her bandages and revitalize the glyphs. No one else. It broke my fragile heart to see her like that…”

  “And that’s why you decided to keep her company all night?” the elf asked mischievously, making Auron lower his gaze and shake his head.

  “You’re sending the wrong message, elf. Please, lady, don’t believe a word he or Silverthorn says.”

  “Of course, Auron. I believe in you...”

  Tristessa burst into laughter as she watched him cover his eyes with his palms, tired of being the butt of the jokes. Her laughter intensified when Astoria threw his hat at him like a flying disk, nearly knocking him off his chair when it hit him in the chest.

  “GROWL.”

  “Vergil?”

  Everyone heard Tristessa's stomach rumble like the black aracross leaning against the edge of the bed with its head resting on the sheets. Severus, blaming the beast just to mock her, stifled her laughter and made her cheeks flush with fury.

  “I'll bring you breakfast. Nothing to start your soul's spiritual recovery like a plate piled high with alphbard bacon, fruits and a tankard of dark ale...” Astoria proposed with a certain enthusiasm doomed to vanish when she noticed the suffering in Tristessa's eyes. “All right, all right, water! I'll get you water!”

  “And I'll go to the healers' office to get some potions.”

  Both knightess and thaumaturge left the room and Tristessa remained in the company of her adorable but grotesque lesser demon, and that gunslinger who gazed at her with resignation, ready to accept all the mocking bullets that were still in the cylinder, waiting to be fired.

  “So, tell me, Mr. Gunslinger and Nurse: in which room of this gigantic castle is your patient?”