The Weight of Time

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The storm raged above as Sylwen stood at the edge of the battlefield, her silver hair whipping in the wind like unraveling threads of fate. The sky mirrored her turmoil—dark, roiling, restless. She could still hear the echoes of clashing steel, the cries of fallen warriors. But the battle was over. She had won. And yet, she had lost everything.

Her reflection shimmered in a pool of rainwater at her feet. The once-radiant glow of her skin was cracked like fine porcelain, fragile under the weight of centuries. The magic within her, once boundless, flickered weakly in the air, dissolving like dying embers. She was tired—tired in a way that no sleep could mend, no victory could ease.

A voice whispered through the wind, a memory of those she had failed to save. Their names were carved into her soul, heavier than any wound she bore. She clenched her fists, anger curling in her chest like smoldering coals. Was this what it meant to be eternal? To fight and lose, again and again, until nothing remained but sorrow?

Lightning split the sky. She lifted her head. No, she would not break. Not yet. As long as she carried their names, as long as she still stood, she would remember them. And she would make the world remember, too.

With a slow breath, Sylwen turned from the battlefield. There was still a war to fight.