The group walked through the Rufty Mountains under the night sky. Rocks jagged protrude from the ground, and large mountains that towered them were standing side by side from each other, some scattered.
Crickets were heard in the night, while birds flew through the sky above the clouds. The walk was slow and silent, Dark Don led the group. Nobody was talking after the last discussion, until someone decided to speak up.
"So, who's the purple Zenith? Olsen warned us about him, and we barely got any information." Daysni asked. Dark Don turned to her, "You mean Krane? See, Krane is a former Zenith. He got obsessed with power just like Incarceration, so he went into his own path… That watch he wears allows him to maximize or combine his spiritual and thermal energy."
He coughed lightly, then let his gaze fall to the ground.
The crew walked along the flatlands of the Rufty Mountains, and then they finally entered the end of the Grolian Forest. Large green trees that were wet and were completely surrounded by large fern bushes and leaves were sitting right in front of them. It looked like a whole jungle because of the amount of trees foresting the area.
But there was a large mossy cave in the middle of the exit, and it was hidden by the leaves and gigantic ferns. Dark Don walked in, his cybernetic shoes squelching the mud. Dark Don sliced through the leaves and ferns with his other arm that was made out of lunar energy.
As he cut through them, a massive cave appeared right in front of them. There were lights in the cave that emerged from it, and then Dark Don turned to the group, cocking his head towards the entrance of the cave. "Forgotten Wizard's Domain…"
***
It was Starla.
The Celestianite Dragon princess stood at the mouth of the cave, her silhouette framed by dim violet light. Scorch lingered just behind her, wings half-spread, eyes locked forward—alert, ready.
Scourge Don didn't move.
He stood in the shadows like part of the stone itself, filth streaked across his armor, purple energy leaking faintly from beneath the mask. His gaze stayed fixed on them, unblinking.
A low hiss scraped out of his throat.
Starla didn't stop walking.
She crossed the cave floor with steady steps, unbothered, while Scorch matched her pace, his own hiss answering Don's like a warning bell.
"You're the one from the Rufty Mountains," Starla said, slowing as she studied him openly. Not fear. Curiosity. "Didn't expect to see you again. And wow—" her eyes flicked over the grime, the damage, the exhaustion he wasn't hiding very well, "—you somehow look worse."
"Back away," Don snarled.
Starla scoffed. "Yeah, there it is. Attitude confirmed."
"I don't need help," Don snapped. "Not yours. Not anyone's." He turned sharply, starting for the far end of the cave. "Leave me alone and I'll disappear."
He made it three steps.
Starla's talons snapped around his tail, lifting him clean off the ground.
"Absolutely not," she said flatly. "Look at you."
Don thrashed. "Put me down!"
"You're filthy," she continued, unimpressed. "You smell like rot and bad decisions."
"PUT ME DOWN, CELESTIANITE!"
She did—gently, deliberately—setting him on his feet like a parent returning a feral animal to the floor.
Don stumbled back, breathing hard. "I have better things to do than—than whatever this is."
Starla grabbed him again, this time under the arms, firm and unyielding.
"Nope," she said. "You're getting cleaned. And then we're talking. Because this?" She gestured at him. "This is not what the Chosen One of prophecy is supposed to look like."
Don groaned as Scorch fell in behind them, close enough to make escape a fantasy.
They exited the cave in a blur of motion.
Starla tossed Don forward, and he hit the ground hard, pain jolting through him as dust exploded around his body. He pushed himself up, brushing dirt from his ruined hero suit like it mattered.
"Alright!" Starla said brightly, clapping her talons together. "Let's break into someone's house and fix you."
Don ignored her.
His attention was stolen by the city.
Towering pink and crimson spires crowded the skyline, wrapped around a slender central castle like petals around a stem. Blushinites filled the air, wings flashing red, white, and rose as they laughed, flirted, danced mid-flight.
Heart-shaped lights drifted lazily through the sky. Music echoed from somewhere unseen—warm, alive. The heavens above glowed orange and pink, the sunset settling over the city like a protective veil.
Don stared.
Something inside him stirred.
Why me… a quieter voice whispered.
Scourge Don shoved it down instantly, turning back to Starla. "Where."
She didn't answer.
Instead, she grabbed him and placed him firmly onto her back.
Don froze.
Scorch flew close, eyes never leaving him.
Starla spread her wings. "Hold on."
They launched.
Warm wind rushed over her scales as she soared, banking gracefully, spinning once just because she could. Scorch flew straight and steady beside her, watching Don like a loaded weapon.
They broke through a layer of clouds, and the sound hit him—voices.
Blushinites singing. Soundanites harmonizing with them. Ethereal, layered, impossibly gentle. The kind of music that didn't ask permission to exist—it simply did.
Starla smiled without thinking.
They descended toward a massive pink tower, landing before golden gates that parted at their approach. The plaza beyond teemed with life—shops buzzing, couples drifting together, laughter everywhere.
Inside, the hall glowed deep rose and gold. Ornate frames lined the walls. Light shimmered from chandeliers overhead. A long crimson carpet stretched toward three massive doors—one center, two flanking.
Don stayed silent, forcing the old emotions down, sealing them off.
Starla opened the middle door.
Steam curled into the air.
A grand white tub sat at the center of the room, filled with clear blue water drawn from the Gadian Sea, banners of gold and pink hanging high along the walls.
As Don shifted to climb down—
Starla threw him.
He hit the water with a violent splash, waves slamming against the marble as his suit darkened, soaked through in seconds.
For a moment, the surface stilled.
Then the bubbles rose.
Don burst from the water like he was escaping it.
He landed hard, palms scraping tile, water skidding across the floor in wild arcs. Steam hung low in the air, thick and sour. For half a second, it looked like he might run.
He didn't get the chance.
Starla's tail snapped out and coiled around his ankle, yanking him back before his weight even shifted.
"And where do you think you're going?" she said.
Don twisted, teeth bared beneath the mask. "I am not doing this."
Scorch didn't answer. He just tipped a bucket.
Cold water slammed into Don's back. Starla used the opening—one sharp pull, one controlled shove—and Don hit the tub again, water swallowing the sound of his impact.
He came up slowly this time.
The bubbles parted around his shoulders. His posture was rigid. Not defensive—locked. The mask hid his face, but his eyes burned through it, purple and unstable, like a dying star trying to decide whether to collapse or explode.
Starla didn't smile. She didn't joke. She leaned against the edge of the tub, close enough that he couldn't pretend she wasn't there.
"Enough," she said. "I'm not here to scrub you. I'm here because you're breaking things."
Don snorted. "Bold accusation."
"You didn't deny it."
Silence stretched. The water sloshed once, then settled.
Starla exhaled through her nose. "You don't talk like this. You don't look at people like they're already dead. Whatever you're wearing—" she tapped the mask lightly, "—that isn't you."
Don's jaw tightened. "You don't know what I am."
"I know what you were," she shot back. "And I know this isn't strength. It's containment."
That landed.
Not hard. Just enough.
She straightened and glanced over her shoulder. "Oscar."
A short figure stepped in like he'd been waiting outside the whole time. Black shirt, pink stripes, gray pants, flamingo wings folded neatly behind him. He held two mirrors under his arm—not theatrical, not dramatic. Just… tools.
He handed them over without a word.
Starla took one and held it up in front of Don.
"Look," she said.
Don didn't move.
"Don."
Slowly, he did.
The mirror caught the mask, the cracks in the glow of his eyes, the way his shoulders were pulled too tight, like he was bracing for impact that never came.
Starla lowered the mirror just a little. "This isn't corruption. It's occupation."
Don's fingers curled against the tub's edge.
She set the mirror down. No metaphors. No puzzles.
"I heard Ella," Starla said quietly. "Everything. About the forest. About Incarceration. About how he doesn't break people—he convinces them they were already broken."
Don laughed once. It was hollow. Automatic.
"And what," he said, "you're here to convince me otherwise?"
"No," she said. "I'm here to tell you the truth."
She leaned in, voice low now—not gentle, not harsh. Honest.
"He doesn't need you loyal. He needs you empty. A crown that moves. A weapon that thinks it chose this."
That did it.
Don's breath hitched before he could stop it.
The water rippled as his body sank an inch, then another. The glow in his eyes flickered—dark, then bright, then dark again—like something inside him was clawing for the surface and slipping every time.
Starla moved fast.
She grabbed him under the arms and launched straight up.
Tile shattered. Steam tore apart. The ceiling exploded outward as they crashed through it and landed hard on the steel-pink roof above.
The world opened.
Evening stretched across the sky in orange and rose, clouds drifting slow and careless like nothing was wrong anywhere. The sun sat low and heavy, watching without judgment.
Starla released him and stepped back, shifting into her base form as Scorch stayed behind, wisely pretending not to exist.
They sat at the edge.
Below them, the Blushinites moved through the streets—laughing, dancing, brushing hands, living like tomorrow was a given.
Don stared down at them.
His eyes wouldn't settle. Light fought shadow over and over again, no clear winner.
Starla didn't look at him when she spoke.
"You get to choose," she said. "Not who you serve. Who you protect. And yeah—those aren't always the same."
Don swallowed.
He stood, walked to the edge, and looked down like he was measuring the distance—not to the ground, but to himself.
Finally, he turned back to her.
"I can't stay," he said. His voice was quieter now. Raw. "Not like this."
Starla nodded once. No argument. No pressure.
Don took a step back.
"I need—" He stopped, jaw tightening. "I need to think."
Then he was gone.
Not running. Not fleeing.
Choosing space.
And for the first time, the sky didn't feel like it was closing in.