The world tilted. Velsia’s vision fractured into a thousand shards of blue light, then reformed into something impossibly clear, impossibly old. She wasn't falling through smoke and sparks; she was standing on a precipice of polished black rock, a biting wind whipping her hair. Below, a sprawling, pristine metropolis glittered under an artificial aurora, its vast electrical grid humming with unseen power. “The heart of all of it, Velsia,” a voice echoed, thick with a familiar, weary authority. It was her own voice, deeper, sharper, resonating with an echo of command she hadn’t heard in years. She looked down at her hands. They were not soft and calloused from napping, but scarred, strong, and grasping a dull, heavy shard of cerulean stone. This was not Slagfall Hill. This was the Aerium Spire, the highest point overlooking the metropolis of Ovestra. The Ignis-mineral, she knew, was the very bedrock of their civilization, the raw, volatile power source that fed every light, every broadcast, every crushing machine of the regime. The state had monopolized it, turning a natural wonder into a tool of oppression. “The people starve while the seat of power burns with light,” her voice snarled, and Velsia felt a cold, righteous fury that was utterly alien to her present self. She was draped in dark, practical clothing, not the patched-up rags of a field worker. Her face, reflected in a nearby metallic panel, was gaunt, determined, etched with a ruthless intelligence that current Velsia couldn't recognize. Her eyes, however, were still hers – a startling, vibrant green – but devoid of humor, replaced by an unsettling, almost fanatical resolve. “Operation ‘Hibernation’ is a go,” she commanded, not to herself, but to a shadowy figure beside her, whose face remained frustratingly out of reach. “The charges are set. The detonation will disrupt the entire central grid, plunge them into darkness, expose their weakness.” The blue Ignis-mineral in her hand throbbed. “Not merely the high towers,” the voice of her past self continued, a chilling smile touching her lips. “The reverberations, the shockwave… it will create a localized singularity. A pocket of raw force that will erupt outwards, creating a dead zone. Our hideout, our little forgotten hill, will be the epicenter.” Velsia watched in horror as her past self gestured to a crude map laid out on a rock, pinpointing a tiny, unremarkable elevation. Slagfall Hill. “We plant the most volatile deposit deep within that hill. When the central grid destabilizes, it will act as a lightning rod. The resulting explosion will cover our tracks. It will look like a natural disaster, a localized transformer blowout. We’ll be gone before the fallout.” “But what about the collateral?” current Velsia wanted to scream. Her past self simply shrugged, a flicker of something that could have been regret, or just exhaustion, in her eyes. “Sacrifices must be made for the cause. The Ovestran regime feeds on order. We give them chaos. We disappear into the chaos, and then we strike again when they least expect it.” The image shifted, blurred, and then solidified into a dimly lit chamber. A syringe gleamed in the light, filled with a viscous, shimmering liquid. Bramen stood over her, his face a mask of grief. The other figure, the shadowy one from the precipice, was now clear: it was Miksa, her face a storm of fear and despair. “Velsia, please,” Miksa pleaded, her voice cracking. “You can’t do this. You can’t erase yourself.” “It’s the only way, Miksa,” past Velsia responded, her voice tight with pain. “The state will hunt me to the ends of the earth. But they won’t hunt a ghost. They won’t hunt a woman who doesn’t even know her own name. Bramen will keep me safe. He knows the plan. He will protect the trigger, buried deep beneath the hill, until the time is right. We called it ‘The Slumber’. The scythe’s shadow will be our cover.” Bramen’s eyes, full of a silent, agonizing devotion, met hers. He held up the syringe. “Are you certain, Velsia?” “Do it,” she whispered, tears finally tracing paths through the grime on her face. “Let me sleep until the world needs me again. Let me forget the cost.” The blue light intensified, burning away the memory. The pain of forgetting, of being severed from herself, was worse than any physical wound. It was a tearing of the soul. The capital, the spire, the battle plans, Miksa’s tear-streaked face, Bramen’s sorrow… all faded into a formless, comforting void. Then, the present snapped back with a jarring jolt. Velsia landed hard in the muddy field, the blue fire from the exploding Ignis-quartz illuminating the chaotic scene. The cabin was a skeletal ruin, flames licking at its exposed timbers. The very ground beneath her was scorched, steaming. The air tasted of ash and ozone. Volen Trakis stood a dozen paces away, a heavy, long-barreled sidearm aimed directly at her chest. Behind him, Miksa was slumped against a burnt-out cart, her eyes wide with terror, a gag tied tightly around her mouth. Savelia was nowhere to be seen. Bramen, scythe still in hand, stood protectively in front of Velsia, his silhouette stark against the hellish glow of the burning hill. “The great rebel leader,” Volen sneered, his face illuminated by the blue and orange fire, a grotesque smile twisting his features. “Or what’s left of her. I knew the rumors were true. A ghost from the past, hiding as a lazy peasant. And you, gravedigger. Always protecting her, weren’t you? Your little secret, buried under the hill, just like your victims.” Velsia slowly rose, brushing mud from her trousers. A strange calm had settled over her, a quiet, almost unsettling clarity. The old Velsia, the ruthless rebel, was awake now, humming just beneath the surface, feeding her current self an icy confidence. She took in the scene: Volen, his weapon, Miksa’s terrified face, Bramen’s unwavering stance. She looked at Volen’s gun, then back at his face, and let out a long, theatrical yawn. Her eyes, still heavy with mock sleep, slowly opened. “You woke me up for this?” she drawled, her voice thick with exaggerated annoyance. “A cheap parlor trick and a stolen service piece? Honestly, I thought you’d have better taste than to interrupt a perfectly good pyrotechnic show with your dramatics.” Volen’s face flushed an angry crimson, contrasting sharply with the blue light. His grip on the grip tightened, knuckles white. “You insufferable wretch! After everything, you still mock me? You think this is a joke? I have the power here! One shot, and your pathetic little slumber ends permanently!” He gestured to Miksa with the barrel of the gun. “Or perhaps your dear sister would prefer to take the bullet? Make your choice, Velsia.” Velsia merely tilted her head, a hint of that old, dangerous spark in her eyes. “A choice? How tedious. You’re entirely too predictable, Volen. The dramatic villain monologue, the hostage… it’s all so terribly cliché.” She took a step forward, her voice dropping to a low, mocking whisper. “Why don’t you just get on with it? Or are you afraid your aim is as sloppy as your rhetoric?” Volen roared, enraged beyond reason. Her calm insolence, the complete lack of fear, chipped away at his carefully constructed authority. He aimed squarely at Velsia’s heart and squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed, sharp and deafening, through the burning field. But Velsia didn’t flinch. Instead, Bramen, with a speed that defied his hulking frame, moved. He dove, a silent, grim guardian, throwing himself in front of her. The bullet struck him squarely in the chest, tearing through his tunic with a sickening wet thud. He collapsed into the mud, a dark stain blossoming across his chest, his eyes, so full of wordless devotion, now staring blankly at the chaotic, blue-lit sky.

Blue Inferno