A Knight Who Eternally Regresses

“I am fire. And you are the angel who carries it.”

The demon had said many things over time. Among them were temptations like that.

Temptations woven entirely of lies—but even with her fairy sensitivity, Shinar couldn’t find any flaw in the demon’s words. They sounded like the truth.

“Words have power.”

Words repeated enough times sink into the mind and eventually shape actions. That’s why words have power.

“Was it I who burned it down? Or was it you?”

Was this the demon’s doing? Or had she herself summoned the demon?

And if that were the case, then was the fire started by the demon ultimately her fault?

Jet-black ash flowed through Shinar’s veins. That ash gnawed at her heart and planted fear within her.

Even so, Shinar endured.

It had been a long time since she’d had any pride left—it was more like a desperate struggle.

She faced the fire, felt fear, but acted as if she didn’t. That was Shinar’s form of rebellion.

There’s no need to explain how shocked she was when she saw what Enkrid did.

“He set the tent on fire?”

It was utter madness, and yet somehow, in that moment, it felt okay.

The fire, once a symbol of fear, dread, and the demon itself—didn’t look like that at all.

Why? She didn’t want to know.

There was no time to question reasons during a moment when even hiding her emotions was already a struggle.

A fairy cursed to be unable to face flames—what could she do in that moment but stay silent?

And the fire burned.

She turned away, unable to bear the sight of the blazing flames—but it wasn’t unbearably painful.

“Maybe I should thank Bran.”

Her teacher and longtime friend Bran had taught her not to fear fire.

He passed on his beliefs in the true fairy way—through actions, demeanor, and the way he lived.

A Woodguard lighting a cigarette.

It was about as unnatural as a ghoul eating chocolate pudding, but Bran had done it.

Fairies didn’t necessarily avoid fire—but Woodguards, born from trees, instinctively kept their distance.

It was an instinct branded into their nature.

“Wood and fire.”

A combination that really doesn’t go together.

And yet Bran bit the end of the cigarette and lit it.

Shinar felt time accelerating.

At the same time, she realized this was a lucid dream.

A long-standing shackle had come undone.

A curse forged by hammering words into metal and weaving time into chains.

The demon had clutched her soul over many long years, gnawing at it bit by bit. That demon was now dead.

Reality and dream bled into each other as memories of the past began to flood the dream.

“Fire. It’s fire.”

A snake of flame coiled around her ankle again, searing her flesh.

Crackle, crackle. Grass and flowers burned, releasing a choking stench.

Cold sweat trickled down her skin. Even her real body seemed drenched in sweat.

The curse left by the demon couldn’t be escaped in an instant.

It wasn’t sorcery or magic—it was a curse bound by words.

“Do you still feel like just dropping dead with a sigh?”

A voice pierced her ear.

Dreams often shift without one realizing it, and so it was now.

She found herself sitting in the middle of a forest.

Shinar saw that her hands had become small again, like in her childhood.

Her pale hands were visible, and if she rolled up her sleeve, she’d likely see a fresh scar.

“If I must die, then so be it.”

Just before reaching adulthood, when Shinar had become the cursed child, she had said that.

Her father had replied, “It’s not your fault.”

And now, she saw him again, leaning against a tree.

The voice from earlier had been his.

“Or have you changed your mind?”

He asked again.

Shinar stared quietly at her father.

Usually in dreams, he only managed to utter a few words from the shadows, but today he stood before her in full sunlight.

Soft rays filtered through the forest canopy, brushing from his face down to his toes, casting him fully in view.

“I have.”

This time, her mother answered.

When had she arrived? She was now standing beside him.

Her eyebrows, eyes, nose, and lips resembled Shinar’s own.

As a child, her sister had once said she looked like their mother, while she herself took after their father.

“And how would you know that?”

Her father turned to her mother with the question.

She, too, stood there with her golden hair reflecting the light.

“Because we have a connection.”

“I have one too.”

“Yes, but I feel a bond even deeper than that.”

“So do I.”

Their tones were calm, their emotions restrained—but back when Shinar was a child, her parents used to bicker like this often.

A kind of fairy-style argument.

Her father would insist stoically, and her mother would respond with a serene sort of dismissal.

“You’re being stubborn.”

Her mother replied, though her gaze remained on Shinar.

Her lips moved for her husband, but her eyes held a tender light meant only for her daughter.

She was the same as always.

“No, I’m a fairy. I only speak the truth.”

Her father didn’t back down.

“That’s called distortion.”

“No, it’s how I feel.”

“You’re twisting your own feelings.”

“My heart says otherwise.”

Their squabble continued.

Even knowing it was a dream, Shinar enjoyed watching it.

It was a scene that felt dear and familiar.

“Both of you, enough. Blood may influence us, but it isn’t everything.”

Then her sister appeared—Nyra Kirheis.

She added her voice in a dry, cynical tone.

“Nyra, you’re so cold.”

Their father addressed her.

“I’m just an ordinary fairy.”

“Bran said you had exceptional control over your emotions.”

“I can handle myself.”

“How sad.”

Emotionless didn’t mean emotionless.

Fairies were born sensitive.

When their emotions surged, even small things could make them laugh or cry.

Frokk accepted limits easily due to his talent.

Fairies, due to their sensitivity, could be easily influenced by others.

Their psychological structure was fragile—like a blank white canvas easily dyed.

While Frokk lived in indulgence to shatter his limits, fairies trained in emotional /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ restraint to protect that fragile psyche.

Once that structure became firm, they could begin to show parts of their feelings again—just as Shinar’s parents did now.

The two of them could express that much emotion without harming each other.

But other fairies, especially young ones, might be shaken by such emotional displays.

Thus, emotional restraint was also a form of nurturing.

And now?

Their child was fully grown.

That’s why they could do this.

And her sister, Nyra.

She had always been gifted, even as a child.

She learned and understood things in an instant.

As those thoughts tangled and spiraled, they twisted toward an odd conclusion.

If someone had to remain alive, it shouldn’t have been her...

“That’s a pointless thought, Shinar. If survival was based on superiority, then it should’ve been Mother, not me. If she’d entered the labyrinth knowing she couldn’t use essence, she still would’ve slain the demon.”

It was a line that felt like it pierced her heart.

Nyra offered comfort in her usual flat tone.

But she had a point.

Fairies countered logic with logic—it was their strength.

Their mother had been one of the greatest geniuses the fairies had ever produced.

That’s what Nyra was referencing.

Her eyes, though expressionless, conveyed concern and worry.

They told Shinar without words: You don’t need to be okay all at once. Just hold onto something, anything, and endure.

It wasn’t so different from what she’d said before she died.

“This isn’t your fault. Understand?”

She said it again, aloud this time.

Hearing that, their father added a word, and their mother spoke again of bonds.

It wasn’t noisy.

Even when fairies gathered, they didn’t make much noise.

But quiet didn’t mean it lacked warmth.

For a moment, Shinar basked in peace.

Even though she knew the end.

This was a lucid dream.

They were all dead.

She would never see them again.

They’d likely been devoured by the demon.

As her thoughts deepened, the gloom crept in.

Rustle.

A sound, faint.

And someone cupped her cheek.

It was Aden.

“Didn’t think you’d go chasing after someone else.”

Aden loved fairy-style jokes.

Even now, he was saying something absurd.

He’d always treated Shinar like a sister, not a woman—so what was that line supposed to mean?

“Fire is both destruction and birth. That’s the meaning of ‘Lefratio.’ So fire isn’t something to fear. Just something to be cautious of.”

Aden said.

She knew.

That’s why she repeated it to herself again and again.

Fire was something to be handled carefully, not feared.

Bran had smoked, overcoming his instinctual fear as a Woodguard, just to teach her that one lesson.

And Lefratio—that was Aden’s family name.

Aden Lefratio.

The name of a lineage of fairy blacksmiths.

In the language of the continent, “Lefratio” literally meant “the fire that does not die.”

Or more loosely, “rebirth.”

Rebirth.

To survive, even after breaking.

“Igniculus. Spark the flame. Breathe soul into the extinguished fire.”

Aden spoke.

And that was what he did.

He forged life into steel, breathed breath into flame.

Today’s dream was deeply sentimental.

Then—poof—everything dimmed.

Within the forest where her family and Aden had stood, black soot gathered.

It swirled, flowed, and spread, blanketing the woods.

The sunlight vanished as if swallowed.

“You cursed child.”

“Because of you, everyone died.”

Fairy emotions might seem restrained to humans, but among fairies, this was more than enough to convey one’s intentions.

Even a single phrase, laced with implication, delivered it all.

The voices came from the soot—unidentifiable, bitter, accusatory.

They blamed her for everything.

Shinar was still trapped in her curse.

She could only endure.

But then, her father blocked her path.

“If you’re dead, at least turn into flower pollen.”

Her mother stepped forward too.

“Sprouting potatoes, the lot of them.”

Even curses now.

“Shall I burn them all? Demons aren’t the only ones who can wield fire.”

Aden stepped in.

Her sister crouched in front of her, meeting her eyes.

“So, what do you think of that man?”

Even Nyra—who hid her feelings better than anyone—spoke like this only to her.

Before her death, she would sometimes talk like this—now, too, it was just an ordinary conversation between sisters.

“He’s a stubborn lunatic.”

“Good. That’s how he should be.”

Her sister smiled and stood up, blocking the path.

Soot gathered above the resentment that lingered like a curse.

What had Enkrid said again?

Something about a demon in his dream talking nonsense—he’d forgotten it.

The soot, now fully willed, spoke:

“Damn you. Say my name! You know my True Name, so say it!”

In her dreams, she had always been chased and torn apart.

But not anymore.

Shinar steadied her heart.

She couldn’t overcome it all at once.

But she could begin.

“If you think it’s too late, if you think it’s hopeless and stop—then nothing will ever change.”

Enki, you were right.

Your words were true, and I honor them.

Shinar opened her mouth with great difficulty.

It took courage.

And that courage became her will and her strength.

She spoke to the demon:

“...Who were you again?”

If it was time to forget, then she would forget.

Those words carried her resolve.

“You little—!”

The demon roared in fury.

Then it ignited the forest.

A massive wall of fire filled her vision.

Her back and arms bore terrible burn scars—and now, the pain returned.

Her family, who stood before her, began to burn.

Not even Aden or her sister could stop the flames.

The fire devoured the dream, and her.

And yet, amid the inferno, a blue light slowly emerged.

It split the fire and stood firm before her.

Perhaps thanks to that... though hot, she could endure it.

So she would.

She would endure.

“One day, you will smile again, Shinar. So don’t forget how to smile until then.”

Her father spoke as he burned.

Yes, Father. That day has come.

With a smile not soft but radiant, like a blooming flower—Shinar smiled wide.

When she awoke from the dream, her eyes were damp.

She’d been crying.

“...Not a bad dream.”

She murmured to herself as she stood.

Thoughts drifted through her mind, and just before sleep, she vaguely recalled hearing that Enkrid was heading for the spring.

Shinar stepped out of the wooden house.

The air was cold, but the sunlight was bright and fresh.

It was the kind of day that made you want to sink your body into the water.