The following trigger warning must be stated, as this is a mature story. Be careful if you are sensitive to any matters relating to brief depictions of physical abuse. Please and thank you. Viewer discretion is advised.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Death is her blessing.

There's no sensation, no sound, no sight when all is over. Pain can only linger in the living. And as it slips away, there is nothing. In that nothing, there is peace.

But it won't last.

Peace never stays, not with Elora.

A fragrant scent carries through, the all-familiar smell of lilacs and lilies drifting overhead. Powdery freshness jolts her senses. In contrast, her head throbs and her ears ring. As her eyelids struggle to open, clumsily adjusting to the dim lighting of the Edelweiss Greenhouse, the weight of reality steeps through tense tendons. Flesh and bone ache, stirring against the floral confines of her glass coffin.

A gloved hand suddenly lunges at her in a blur of black leather, slamming into the shiny exterior of her coffin's lid. Despite the barrier in between, she can't help flinching, her arms instinctively shielding her face.

A lanky man looms over her as his gloved hand remains. Long dark hair spills across high cheekbones, concealing half of his face. Light ivory horns spiral out from his scalp. Chromatic blue dragon scales freckle the rest of his angular features, predominantly scattered across the bridge of his nose.

Master Azalea.

"Two hundred and eighty-six," he snarls, disgruntled. "Two hundred and eighty-six." He rips open her coffin's lid and grabs her by the hair. Pink and blonde strands are squeezed in his gloved hand as he yanks her from death's sweet embrace. "You'd think that after killing yourself two hundred and eighty-six times, you'd get used to it by now."

"M-Master Azalea–"

"Stop stalling."

Abruptly, he drops his hold on her. Without his grip, she stumbles forward, practically crumbling near his feet. Her iridescent wings lag behind her, still drowsy from her latest revival.

"Master Azalea, I-I can't do this anymore." Elora cranes her head forward, her fingers shaky from the effort of sitting up. Already, tears prick at her eyes, streaking down her tanned cheeks. There's a burn simmering low in her throat while her vision blurs. "Please, I can't–"

He slaps her.

The impact of his hand clashing with her face echoes.

"Shut up." Master Azalea snatches up her chin, wrenching her close enough to cower underneath his gaze. His silver eyes sear into her with a venomous glare. "Don't even think about killing yourself again, let alone defying my word. No matter how many times you try, you'll always come back. For as long as I'm alive, your fate is mine."

Elora breaks once he lets go. A full-blown sob erupts from within, heaving her chest and dripping into the lace of her dress.

Peace never stays, not with her.

Never with her.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆

Edelweiss Kingdom—also known as the Land of the Diamonds. Where gemstones flourish like never before, so apparent in quantity that they match the plethora of flowers spawning the royal palace. White lilies and purple lilacs swarm every corner of King Azalea's imperial domain, only to abruptly cut off after the tinted glass panes and silver cell bars of the verboten greenhouse. Past a handful of guards that flock said greenhouse, a trail of gray cobblestone stretches out into a grand plaza, where Violet Village resides.

Violet Village, contrary to its name, is not violet, let alone vibrant. Not a trace of purple can be found in its regular establishments. Not a splash of brightness to be spotted throughout Tansy's Tavern or Aster's Apothecary, especially not amid the trend of limp hay rooftops and sagging clay walls of the central square.

Or whatever's left of one, anyways.

Beyond the tight, shoddy alleyways of Mallow Marketplace, past the sprawl of worn down residences and dilapidated infrastructure, the most important place in King Azalea's eye thrived.

The Sylvus Mines.

Appropriately named after the man who first launched the mining expedition of a lifetime—King Azalea himself.

They are the beating heart of the kingdom, where Edelweiss shines most. Guards of the royal palace flank every corner of Sylvus Mines, regularly on watch. Regardless of the humbling homes and shabby shops, regardless of even their most basic human needs, the people are driven to mine by one thing and one thing alone.

Elora.

The Darling Diamond of Edelweiss.

Revered by all, she is their true calling. Their one reason for existing, living, breathing. They've even forged a temple nearby in her honor, for her weekly shows are what they live for.

Statues. Paintings. Banners.

They flood the pristine pillars of Elora's Temple with a wave of visual arts, varying from painstaking embroidery that's captured every inch of her ethereal visage to stone edges so true to detail that one would think she was really here, blessing them with her very presence.

Outside of Syvlus Mines, Elora's Temple is a welcome respite, where worship is harvested and shrines are built. Every morning, the servants of the royal palace tend to the white lilies and purple lilacs blooming throughout the halls and gardens, endowing the people of Edelweiss with reminders of her.

Elora.

They're enthralled by her faerie existence, for she is one of a kind. The only one to ever be made by King Azalea himself.

Elora.

They're enchanted by her sacrifice, touched by every death she endures for their sake.

Elora.

They're enraptured by her magic, its glittery essence an addicting wonder that illuminates their lives. With every rebirth, she shines all the brighter.

Enthrall. Enchant. Enrapture.

What rhetoric bullshit.

Atop the eave of the temple's rooftop, a hooded figure sits, dangling their legs from the edge. Blue-gray stormy eyes close, followed by a steady exhale. As their hood finally sheds off, long dark hair spills past their shoulders, revealing a young woman.

Moonlight beams upon her sturdy expression, highlighting olive skin and distinctive claws marks across the bridge of her nose.

A thick silence permeates. The air is so still that she can overhear a petal fall.

From her view overhead, a few servants from the royal palace shuffle back indoors with straw brooms, donned in chromatic blue robes and light ivory cuffs.

Meanwhile, the woman ponders while frozen in thought, as rigid as the useless Elora statues that plague the premises. In her mind's eye, she lingers on the visual of the almighty ruler that reigns supreme, the one responsible for everything.

Azalea Sylvus.

Just the thought of his face alone churns her stomach. Her blood boils, a roiling tension coiling from within. As her thoughts flicker and fizzle out, she stirs to action once more and rummages through the contents of her pouch belt.

In the palm of her gloved hand, a steel sphere is revealed, a metallic sprawl of rune markings carved into the sides. A bronze safety pin gleams from the top, ready to pull.

Today will be the day of Azalea's ruin.

She winds her arm back.

Then hurls the grenade at the biggest statue of Elora to ever be made.

BOOM!