A golden fire split the sky as a thunderous noise echoed through the dark, smoke-like clouds that loomed over the entire land. It was the end of an era.

The city below was a silhouette of despair, its concrete pillars jutting out like the remnants of some fallen giant. Blackened by fire and weathered by time, shattered towers clawed at the heavens. A thick coat of volcanic ash blanketed everything—cars, streets, crumbled homes—like snow from a hellish winter. Statues of forgotten gods and broken revolutionaries slumped in dust-choked fountains. Faint flickers of magic still clung to the edges of some ruins—half-lit glyphs and unstable relics that hummed with sorrow.

Standing tall at the edge of the last city, a concrete high-rise stood as though guarding it. From the terrace of the building, Smitha gazed into the abyss beyond the city’s barrier. The shimmering dome of protective magic held, but barely. It was now pulsing with an irregular, faltering rhythm, like the breath of someone who knew the end was near. Each pulse sent a gentle vibration through the earth, indicating a quiet warning.

She pulled her shawl tighter around her. It was the same one she’d worn a century ago when she first met him—the man who sold weapons to demons and promises to kings. Once a dreamer, he had turned nightmare. And she could never understand why.

The sky rumbled again, and she raised her face to it, searching for a slit in the clouds. Just one glimpse of the sun. Just once more. But there was only ash and darkness.

A memory slipped into her mind. That was the first time he spoke of reshaping the world, when his eyes were full of ideas and warmth. She had believed in that fire once—before it consumed everything.

Rumours whispered in burnt taverns and among dying creatures had led her to an impossible truth. He still lived. The last magic-less human. Unaged. Unrepentant. And heartless—literally. A man who had traded his heart to a witch, long ago. The only part of that connected him to humanity. A man whose greed killed his entire species, creating a world which could only be survived by super-human beings like herself.

She didn’t know how she knew—only that she did. A dream, a vision, a whisper in the ash-heavy wind. But it was enough to tell her where his heart was. She descended the tower, heading towards the penthouse where the witch lived. The witch older than magic itself.

As she reached the penthouse, Smitha opened the doors and let herself in— just as her magical invitation told her to.

Inside was a cottage that floated atop a still lake that reflected the dark skies. A small stone pathway atop the waters paved her way towards the entrance to the cottage door. Before she could knock the second door, a young lady with the palest skin and the most entrancing beauty stepped out.

“I want his heart.” Smitha said, jumping straight to the point. “This is all I have,” she continued as she handed over a ring—a dull silver band etched with the sigil of her ancestors. She had kept it close for centuries, through wars and love and silence. And now, it lay in the witch’s palm like an offering of blood.

The witch did not ask what or why, she already knew. She handed over the heart. It was wrapped in black silk and bound with a spell that smelled like regret.

Before leaving, Smitha performed a ritual older than language. She drew a circle in salt and tears, summoned fire from the bones of stars, and spoke the names no one remembered. The witch watched her patiently as though the heavens had asked her to wait for the ritual to finish.

Smitha expected cruelty, or madness, to be the reason he came here. But, all she saw was heartbreak. A vision of a sunlit day in a crowded city invaded her mind. Her laughter ringing like bells as his eyes watching her from afar, aching with every beat. Then betrayal—not from her, but from time, from fate, from the choices she had to make.

“There was no need to spend so much on this heart,” the witch said with a ghastly smile, her voice echoing from every direction at once. “It had been yours from the start.”

And with those words, she vanished.

A strong wind swept around Smitha taking her back to the terrace. Now, standing atop the ruined city, Smitha clutched the heart. It pulsed, faintly, like a dying star. She didn’t know whether to crush it or cradle it.

The sky rumbled once more. This time, a crack opened in the clouds—and from it, a single golden beam spilled down, brushing the city like a forgotten blessing. Smitha closed her eyes, letting it fall on her face.

It wasn’t the end yet. But it was close.

Part (1/3)

— To be continued…