A Knight Who Eternally Regresses Novel - Chapter 646

Chapter 646

“I am the blaze. And you are the celestial being who bears it.”
The fiend had whispered many such things over the years. Among them were seductions of that nature.
Temptations constructed entirely from falsehoods—yet even with her acute fairy perception, Shinar was unable to detect any deception in the fiend’s speech. They carried the weight of truth.
“Speech possesses strength.”
Phrases echoed frequently enough embed themselves in the psyche and eventually dictate conduct. That is the reason words hold power.
“Was it my hand that reduced it to cinders? Or was it yours?”
Was this the work of the fiend? Or had she been the one to call the fiend forth?
And if that were reality, then was the destruction wrought by the fiend ultimately her own transgression?
Charred, ink-black soot pulsed through Shinar’s circulatory system. That grit eroded her spirit and sowed the seeds of terror within her.
Despite this, Shinar held firm.
It had been an age since she possessed any shred of dignity—it was closer to a frantic battle for survival.
She stood before the inferno, felt the dread, but moved as though she were fearless. That was Shinar’s method of defiance.
There is no requirement to describe the magnitude of her shock upon witnessing Enkrid’s actions.
“He ignited the pavilion?”
It was absolute insanity, yet somehow, in that brief window, it felt acceptable.
The blaze, once a manifestation of horror, loathing, and the fiend itself—did not resemble those things at all.
Why? She lacked the desire to understand.
There was no opportunity to analyze motives during a time when merely masking her internal turmoil was an exhausting task.
A fairy shackled by a curse that forbade her from looking upon fire—what option did she have but to remain mute?
And the heat surged.
She shifted her gaze away, unable to tolerate the sight of the roaring pyre—yet the agony was not insurmountable.
“Perhaps I owe Bran my gratitude.”
Her mentor and lifelong companion Bran had instructed her on how to face fire without trembling.
He transmitted his convictions in the authentic fairy fashion—through his deeds, his presence, and his way of life.
A Woodguard sparking a cigarette.
It was as bizarre as a walking corpse consuming sweet custard, but Bran had performed the act.
Fairies did not strictly shun fire—but Woodguards, being descendants of the ancient trees, naturally maintained their distance.
It was a biological impulse etched into their very essence.
“Timber and flame.”
A pairing that truly does not harmonize.
Nonetheless, Bran gripped the cigarette between his teeth and struck a light.
Shinar perceived the flow of time quickening.
Simultaneously, she recognized that she was within a lucid dream.
A long-enduring shackle had finally shattered.
A hex crafted by hammering syllables into iron and braiding years into manacles.
The fiend had gripped her spirit over countless seasons, consuming it bit by bit. That fiend was now extinguished.
The waking world and the dreamscape merged as echoes of the past began to inundate her slumber.
“The heat. It is the heat.”
A serpent of embers wrapped around her ankle once more, charring her skin.
Sizzle, pop. Vegetation and blossoms withered, discharging a suffocating odor.
Chilled perspiration ran down her flesh. Even her physical body felt soaked in moisture.
The malediction cast by the fiend could not be discarded in a heartbeat.
It was not sorcery or enchantment—it was a bondage tied by spoken words.
“Do you still intend to simply perish with a weary breath?”
A tone struck her ear.
Visions often transform without warning, and it happened now.
She found herself seated in the heart of a woodland.
Shinar observed that her limbs had shrunken once more, returning to her youth.
Her ivory hands were in view, and had she pulled back her garment, she would likely have found a raw injury.
“If my end is required, then let it be so.”
Just prior to her coming of age, when Shinar had transitioned into the blighted child, she had uttered those words.
Her sire had replied, “The fault is not yours.”
And now, she witnessed him once more, resting against a trunk.
The previous voice had belonged to him.
“Or have you had a change of heart?”
He inquired once more.
Shinar gazed silently at her father.
Normally in her sleep, he only managed to speak a few syllables from the darkness, but today he stood before her bathed in the sun’s glow.
Muted beams filtered through the leafy ceiling, grazing him from his brow to his feet, bringing him into full clarity.
“I have.”
This time, her mother provided the answer.
When had she arrived? She was currently positioned at his side.
Her features—the arches of her brows, her eyes, her nose, and her mouth—mirrored Shinar’s own.
As a youth, her sibling had once remarked that she took after their mother, while she herself was the image of their father.
“And how would you be certain of that?”
Her father pivoted toward her mother with the query.
She, too, remained there, her flaxen hair shimmering in the light.
“Because we share a link.”
“I possess one as well.”
“Indeed, but I sense a tie even more profound than that.”
“As do I.”
Their delivery was tranquil, their sentiments governed—but when Shinar was a girl, her parents frequently engaged in such disputes.
A specific brand of fairy-style bickering.
Her father would maintain his point with stoicism, and her mother would counter with a graceful sort of indifference.
“You are being obstinate.”
Her mother retorted, though her eyes stayed fixed on Shinar.
Her mouth moved for her spouse, but her gaze contained a soft radiance intended solely for her child.
She remained as she had always been.
“No, I am a fairy. I speak only what is certain.”
Her father refused to yield.
“That is what one calls a distortion.”
“No, it is my genuine sentiment.”
“You are bending your own emotions.”
“My spirit tells me otherwise.”
Their minor quarrel persisted.
Even being aware it was a hallucination, Shinar took pleasure in observing it.
It was a moment that felt precious and nostalgic.
“Both of you, stop. Ancestry may guide us, but it is not the entirety of our being.”
Then her sibling surfaced—Nyra Kirheis.
She chipped in with a sharp, detached observation.
“Nyra, you are so clinical.”
Their father spoke to her.
“I am merely a typical fairy.”
“Bran mentioned you possessed remarkable authority over your feelings.”
“I can govern myself.”
“How melancholy.”
To be devoid of visible emotion did not mean one lacked it.
Fairies were created with high sensitivity.
When their feelings peaked, even trivialities could provoke laughter or weeping.
Frokk embraced his constraints easily because of his aptitude.
Fairies, owing to their sensitivity, could be easily swayed by the presence of others.
Their mental architecture was delicate—like a pristine white canvas that is easily stained.
While Frokk existed in self-indulgence to break his boundaries, fairies practiced emotional discipline to safeguard that fragile psyche.
Once that internal structure became solid, they could begin to display fragments of their heart once more—just as Shinar’s parents were doing at this moment.
The two of them could manifest that much sentiment without causing friction.
But other fairies, particularly the young, might be destabilized by such displays of feeling.
Therefore, emotional discipline was also a method of protection.
And at this point?
Their offspring was an adult.
That was why they were able to act this way.
And her sibling, Nyra.
She had always been precocious, even as a small child.
She grasped and internalized concepts in a heartbeat.
As those reflections became entwined and spiraled, they drifted toward a peculiar deduction.
If a single soul had to survive, it shouldn’t have been her…
“That is a futile line of thought, Shinar. If life were granted based on merit, then it should have been Mother who remained, not I. Had she stepped into the labyrinth knowing she was barred from using essence, she still would have dispatched the fiend.”
It was a statement that felt like a needle to the chest.
Nyra provided solace in her characteristic monotone.
But her logic was sound.
Fairies met reasoning with reasoning—it was their great asset.
Their mother had been among the most brilliant minds the fairy race had ever seen.
That was the legacy Nyra was invoking.
Her gaze, though lacking expression, radiated concern and tenderness.
They communicated to Shinar without sound: You do not have to be whole all at once. Simply cling to something, anything, and persist.
It was not very different from what she had whispered before her light went out.
“This is not your burden. Do you grasp that?”
She spoke it again, clearly this time.
Hearing those words, their father contributed a thought, and their mother spoke once more of their ties.
It was not clamorous.
Even when fairies congregated, they did not create much noise.
But stillness did not imply a lack of affection.
For a brief period, Shinar immersed herself in serenity.
Even though she recognized the conclusion.
This was a controlled dream.
They were all deceased.
She would never look upon them again.
They had likely been consumed by the fiend.
As her meditations grew heavy, the darkness began to seep in.
Faint rustling.
A noise, subtle.
And a hand cradled her face.
It was Aden.
“I didn’t think you’d go looking for someone else.”
Aden had a fondness for fairy-style humor.
Even now, he was uttering something preposterous.
He had always regarded Shinar as a sister, not a partner—so what was that statement supposed to imply?
“Fire represents both ruin and beginning. That is the significance of ‘Lefratio.’ Thus, heat is not a thing to dread. Simply something to approach with care.”
Aden remarked.
She was aware.
That was why she drummed it into her mind repeatedly.
Fire was an element to be managed with caution, not feared.
Bran had used tobacco, conquering his innate terror as a Woodguard, specifically to impart that single truth.
And Lefratio—that was the surname of Aden’s house.
Aden Lefratio.
The title of a line of fairy smiths.
In the tongue of the mainland, “Lefratio” signified “the flame that never expires.”
Or more figuratively, “resurrection.”
Resurrection.
To endure, even after being shattered.
“Igniculus. Ignite the spark. Inhale life into the spent embers.”
Aden spoke.
And that was his craft.
He hammered existence into metal, blew breath into the furnace.
Today’s vision was profoundly nostalgic.
Then—flicker—everything faded.
Within the woods where her kin and Aden had gathered, black grime accumulated.
It rotated, drifted, and expanded, cloaking the forest.
The daylight vanished as if devoured.
“You blighted girl.”
“Because of your existence, everyone perished.”
Fairy sentiments might appear muted to humans, but among their own kind, this was more than sufficient to transmit one’s heart.
Even a solitary phrase, saturated with meaning, carried the full weight.
The whispers emerged from the grime—faceless, stinging, and full of blame.
They held her accountable for every tragedy.
Shinar was still held captive by her hex.
She could only withstand it.
But then, her father stepped in her way.
“If you are dead, at least transform into floral dust.”
Her mother moved forward as well.
“Germinating tubers, the lot of them.”
Even insults were traded now.
“Shall I incinerate them all? Fiends are not the only beings capable of commanding heat.”
Aden intervened.
Her sibling knelt before her, locking gazes.
“So, what is your opinion of that man?”
Even Nyra—who masked her heart better than anyone—only spoke in this manner to her.
Before her passing, she would occasionally converse like this—now, too, it was just a typical exchange between sisters.
“He is an inflexible madman.”
“Excellent. That is exactly what he ought to be.”
Her sister grinned and stood, guarding the way.
Grime gathered above the bitterness that persisted like a plague.
What had Enkrid mentioned previously?
Something about a fiend in his own sleep speaking nonsense—he had dismissed it.
The grime, now possessed of a full consciousness, spoke:
“Curse you. Utter my name! You are aware of my True Name, so speak it!”
In her slumbers, she had always been pursued and mangled.
But no longer.
Shinar calmed her spirit.
She could not conquer it all in one move.
But she could commence the process.
“If you believe it is too late, if you think it is pointless and quit—then nothing will ever transform.”
Enki, you were correct.
Your speech was honest, and I hold it in high regard.
Shinar parted her lips with great effort.
It required bravery.
And that bravery transformed into her resolve and her power.
She addressed the fiend:
“…Who were you, exactly?”
If it was the hour to cast aside memory, then she would cast it aside.
Those syllables bore her determination.
“You little—!”
The fiend bellowed in rage.
Then it set the woodland ablaze.
A giant curtain of fire occupied her field of vision.
Her back and limbs carried horrific burn marks—and now, the sensation returned.
Her kin, who remained before her, started to burn.
Not even Aden or her sibling could halt the tongues of flame.
The fire swallowed the dream, and her along with it.
And yet, in the center of the furnace, a sapphire glow slowly surfaced.
It cleaved the fire and stood resolutely in front of her.
Perhaps because of that… though searing, she could withstand it.
So she would.
She would hold fast.
“One day, you will find your joy again, Shinar. So do not lose the memory of how to smile until that time.”
Her father spoke as he was consumed.
Yes, Father. That day has arrived.
With a smile that was not timid but brilliant, like a blooming petal—Shinar smiled broadly.
When she emerged from her slumber, her lashes were wet.
She had been weeping.
“…Not an unpleasant dream.”
She whispered to herself as she rose.
Reflections wandered through her mind, and just before resting, she vaguely remembered hearing that Enkrid was making his way toward the fountain.
Shinar walked out of the timber residence.
The atmosphere was crisp, but the light was radiant and new.
It was the sort of day that compelled one to submerge their body in the water.