The witch drew closer herself, raising her hand as green flames ignited in her palm. She hurled them toward Yan, but the latter bent gracefully, and the fire swept past her, setting the throne behind her ablaze.
Yan lifted another arrow—this one tipped with a glowing blue head—and said coldly:
"And this… is for you."
She released it straight at the witch. The old woman tried to deflect it with her staff, but the arrow struck—then burst apart, its blue flames exploding and surging across the hall. Yan stepped back, yet failed to notice a shard of burning shadow that pierced her left shoulder. A muffled cry escaped her as the bow slipped from her grasp for a moment before she seized it again.
Blood streamed down her arm, the heat searing her flesh, but her eyes remained steady. The crone turned with a sly smile as her form dissolved into smoke, saying before she vanished:
"A small wound… to remind you that you are nothing but prey in a far greater game."
The witch disappeared, leaving the hall in flames and the echoes of the jinn fading away.
Yan pressed her hand against her bleeding shoulder, breathing heavily, yet she stood upright.
She raised her bow with her other hand and whispered in a hoarse voice, filled with unyielding resolve:
"Even if I bleed to death… I will never be anyone's prey."
Yan left the hall, her hand still clutching her wounded shoulder, but her steps did not falter. Night had fallen over the Palace of the House of Ina, and the stars shimmered above the Phoenix Fire Mountains. Those mountains were not mere stone, but pillars of frozen flame, their crimson fissures glowing whenever the hot winds passed through them, as though the earth itself breathed from its depths.
Yan knew she had to meet her first child… Dandiren.
The most intelligent among them, his mind as sharp as a blade, capable of reading thoughts as easily as one reads a book. Yet his curse bound him to the body of a child no older than ten. An innocent face, wide eyes, and a small frame—yet within him dwelled the mind of a wise elder and a great leader not yet born.
At the summit of a mountain overlooking an abyss where rivers of lava flowed, there stood a black palace built of volcanic stone. Its walls reflected the glow of fire like mirrors of congealed blood.
Yan sat before the palace gates, taking a deep breath. Then she pushed the heavy doors open—
—and found her son seated upon a stone throne, his feet not even reaching the ground, an ancient book resting in his hands as he read in silence.