“I am not a little girl,” she said, and for a heartbeat, her shadow stretched across the crater—not a child’s silhouette, but a massive, many-winged shape with a crown of thorns. “I am Frauja, the Fallen Seal. The goddess you don’t remember betraying.”
“I choose a world where my son or daughter can grow up without having to carry a sword,” Meliodas said. “If that’s selfish, then so be it.”
And then she was gone, leaving Meliodas alone in the ruins of Danafor, the weight of a forgotten friendship pressing against the locked door of his memory.
The ruins of Danafor still wept under a moonless sky. No grass grew there. No bird sang. The crater, a scar carved into the earth by the wrath of a single man, smelled of old lightning and older sorrow.
He sheathed his sword and began the long walk back to the tavern.
She reached into her doll’s cracked chest and pulled out a small, flickering flame—no bigger than a candle’s. Yet it burned in two colors: demonic black and goddess gold.
She stood up slowly, dusting the gray powder from her tattered dress. “A collector of broken things. Broken lands. Broken knights.” She tilted her head. “Broken oaths.”
“Where are you going?” Meliodas called after her.
“I am not a little girl,” she said, and for a heartbeat, her shadow stretched across the crater—not a child’s silhouette, but a massive, many-winged shape with a crown of thorns. “I am Frauja, the Fallen Seal. The goddess you don’t remember betraying.”
“I choose a world where my son or daughter can grow up without having to carry a sword,” Meliodas said. “If that’s selfish, then so be it.”
And then she was gone, leaving Meliodas alone in the ruins of Danafor, the weight of a forgotten friendship pressing against the locked door of his memory.
The ruins of Danafor still wept under a moonless sky. No grass grew there. No bird sang. The crater, a scar carved into the earth by the wrath of a single man, smelled of old lightning and older sorrow.
He sheathed his sword and began the long walk back to the tavern.
She reached into her doll’s cracked chest and pulled out a small, flickering flame—no bigger than a candle’s. Yet it burned in two colors: demonic black and goddess gold.
She stood up slowly, dusting the gray powder from her tattered dress. “A collector of broken things. Broken lands. Broken knights.” She tilted her head. “Broken oaths.”
“Where are you going?” Meliodas called after her.