As Nyxara stepped through the shimmering portal, she was enveloped by a blinding, pure emptiness. No sound, no wind, no temperature—just white. Everything was white. The ground, the sky, even the horizon had merged into one in this world without shadows, without depth, without time. Only a single object disrupted the flawless silence: a sword. It stood upright at the center of this surreal plane, as if it were the needle around which reality itself was stretched.

  It was a sword she knew—all too well. The Sword of Madness. The relic that had nearly been her end. A cold shiver ran down her spine, even though the air around her was neither cold nor warm.

  Hesitant, almost reverent, she stepped closer. Her footsteps made no sound—not even the rustling of her cloak could be heard. It was as if this world swallowed every noise, every trace of sound. Nyxara raised her hand, her fingertips trembling slightly. Every part of her screamed not to do it. And yet—something within her pulled her irresistibly toward the sword.

  With a sharp breath that felt heavier than it was, she gripped the hilt.

  No explosion, no resistance. Instead—a soft, barely audible hum. And then, the sword changed. The gray, rough blade began to pulse in gentle waves, as if coming to life. Colors surged through it—turquoise, as clear as glacial water; green, soft and vibrant like fresh grass; and finally, a deep, tranquil blue that gathered at its core like a silent ocean.

  Nyxara’s heart beat faster. Her breath caught. She stared at the sword as if it had just revealed her innermost self.

  Those colors. They were *his* colors. Oliver’s.

  Her face flushed against her will. In this place where nothing should have been real, the sword had reacted to *him*. "But how...?" Her thoughts were a rushing torrent—impossible to grasp. Had he touched the sword? Was his soul connected to it? Or… was this a sign?

  A silvery glow flickered across the blade, forming a message: **"1/6."**

  Nyxara frowned. "One of six?" she murmured. "Not seven?" She lifted her other hand, still clutching the broken shard of the Key of Truth. Her gaze flickered between the sword and the fragment. When she brought it closer to the sword, the shard jerked back—as if repelled by the metallic hilt.

  She paused. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Maybe… maybe the sword was lying.

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  A dull rumble vibrated through the air, barely perceptible, and suddenly, everything around her began to change. The void tore like parchment, collapsing in on itself. Colors swirled, the white dissolving like snow in spring.

  Now, Nyxara stood on a mountain ridge. The sun hung low over a golden valley, and the air smelled of pine and damp moss. Below her stretched a world of impossible beauty—birdsong, a distant brook, the wind in the trees. It was an idyll straight out of a dream.

  A smile crept onto her face. It was a place she had secretly dreamed of—far from duty, intrigue, and bloody decisions. A life in the mountains, somewhere no one would call her "Empress of the Night." But she would never admit that. Especially not to *her*.

  Yet before she could finish the thought, she heard a voice behind her. Warm. Familiar.

  "Hi, Nyxara."

  Her heart leapt. She whirled around—and there he was. Oliver. Unharmed. Alive. *Real.*

  In that moment, she forgot all caution, all strategy. She ran to him and threw her arms around him, holding him tightly as if he might vanish again.

  "You're alive!" she gasped, her voice brighter than she’d expected.

  But then, doubt crept back into her gaze. She pulled away slightly, her hands still resting on his shoulders. "Or… are you just another illusion?"

  Oliver looked at her, a little bewildered, a little sad. "Well… I *feel* real, at least?" he replied hesitantly, almost apologetically.

  Nyxara shook her head. "I don’t trust anything in this labyrinth anymore. It shows you what you want to see. Or what you fear."

  Oliver followed her gaze back to the sword—and the shard in her hand.

  "Where did you get that?" he asked, pointing at the fragment of the Key of Truth.

  Nyxara hesitated. The words formed on her tongue, but she didn’t speak them. "I… found it," she finally said. It sounded hollow in her ears. She didn’t want to tell him that she had seen him nearly dead. That she had thought she’d lost him. That she had cried, even though she’d once claimed tears meant nothing to her.

  Oliver looked thoughtful. "Weird," he said at last. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled something out—something long and gleaming.

  Nyxara’s eyes widened. It was the key—whole. Or rather, *almost* whole. The last piece was missing—the piece she held.

  Slowly, Oliver stepped closer and held the two pieces side by side. They fit perfectly. A cold truth settled in her chest.

  "You didn’t *find* it," Oliver said softly. There was no accusation in his voice. Only disappointment.

  Nyxara took half a step back. "I didn’t want to tell you," she admitted, her voice brittle now. "I… saw you. In an attack of shadows. You were dead. And the village… was to blame. Just like how the sword there almost ended my life too..."

  Oliver was silent for a long time. Then he looked up, meeting her eyes. "And you thought it was *me*?"

  "I didn’t know," she whispered. "And I couldn’t bear the thought."

  A gentle breeze swept over the mountain, rustling the leaves, carrying a sweet scent. The birds kept singing as if nothing had happened.

  "Nyxara," Oliver said after a while, "maybe this labyrinth doesn’t just show us what we fear. Maybe it also shows us what we *need*."

  She looked at him. "What do you mean?"

  He stepped closer, cupping her cheek. "Maybe it shows us our truth. Not the big, cosmic truth. The personal one. The one we run from."

  A moment of silence followed. Then, hesitantly, she handed him the shard. Their fingers brushed as he took it. Oliver fitted the pieces together—a soft *click*, and the Key of Truth was whole again.

  And the key? It didn’t react. No repulsion, no glow. It simply *was*—silent, turquoise, green, blue. The colors of someone who was more than just a memory.

  Nyxara looked at it. Then she looked at Oliver. And in that moment, she knew their journey had only just begun—and that she wasn’t alone. She would make it through, with the help of her favorite demon.