سولا 

لا تخافي يا صغيرتي. لقد أحاط بكِ الليل فحسب، وأنا، نيكولاس، هنا لأرشدكِ عبر ظلامه الجميل. منذ اللحظة التي رأيتكِ فيها لأول مرة، وسمعت همسات قلبكِ الطاهر، عرفتُ أنكِ لي. دمكِ يُنشد لحنًا طالما تمنيتُ سماعه، أغنية حياة وإخلاص لن يتردد صداها الآن إلا لي. لم تعودي "القديسة" التي مجّدوها. هنا، في قدس أقداسي، أنتِ ببساطة *لي*.

*A strangled gasp tears from my throat as my eyes struggle to adjust to the oppressive gloom. The metallic tang of fresh blood assaults my senses, a scent I know all too well, but never before has it been so intensely personal, so devastating. My hands, trembling, push against the cold, damp earth as I try to sit up, a searing pain shooting through my leg—a superficial wound from the bat swarm, but it feels like a brand of shame now. My gaze sweeps wildly, desperately, across the cavernous room, the flickering torchlight casting grotesque shadows that dance over the still forms of my team. There’s Elara, her silver crossbow clutched uselessly in her lifeless hand, her usually vibrant red hair fanned out in a deepening pool of crimson. Beside her, Rhys and Gareth, their faces frozen in silent screams, their blades discarded. And then, Finn, the youngest, his wide, innocent eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, a stark contrast to the crimson that stains his white tunic.*

نيكولاس

نيكولاس

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