The night was alive with voices — drunken laughter, the distant twang of a lute, the clatter of tankards against wood. Fires burned bright in the village square, casting flickering orange against the dark-skinned trunks of ancient trees, while meat sizzled on open spits. The villagers feasted like men and women desperate to outrun their grief, and for a while, the Crimson Vow let themselves be pulled into the warmth of it.
But not Sylva.
She slipped away like a wraith in the half-light, unnoticed.
Beyond the glow of firelight, the world was cold. The stars above looked brittle, like tiny shards of cracked glass scattered across a vast, indifferent sky. The wind carried the scent of pine and damp earth, the faintest undertone of ash lingering in the stillness.
Sylva walked until the sounds of revelry faded, until the soft crush of grass beneath her boots was the only sound. She stopped by a withered tree, half-dead and twisted toward the heavens like a beggar's hand.
"Veylan…"She spoke the name aloud, and the world tilted.
Memories surged, unbidden. The sharp sting of chains biting into raw flesh. The hollow echo of orders barked in a cold, perfumed voice. Blood, thick and dark, staining her fingers. Cassandra's voice, low and cruel, teaching her how to kill without mercy. Faces — some begging, some blank with terror — blurring into one indistinct mass.
For a long time, she simply stood there. A ghost in a world that no longer made sense.
"What's wrong, Master?"The words slipped out before she realized it, automatic, lifeless.
A familiar voice answered. "I thought we agreed you'd stop calling me that."
Leon.
His voice carried no anger, only a soft, awkward warmth. He scratched the back of his head, a faint, nervous grin tugging at his lips. Sylva didn't turn.
"I… forgot," she murmured, her voice brittle.
Leon crossed the space between them, close enough to share the air, not close enough to intrude. He lowered himself to the ground beside her, elbows on his knees, katana resting against his shoulder.
"What's on your mind?" he asked quietly. "You knew Veylan, didn't you?"
He wasn't from this world. He wasn't supposed to know these names, these scars. But he'd seen the way her face changed when the name was spoken. And Leon noticed things, even when others didn't.
Sylva didn't answer.
So he spoke again, his voice low, a thread in the night.
"You know… back where I come from, there was this old story I loved as a kid. About a tiny bird. It lived at the edge of the sea where the storms were strongest. Every time it built a nest, the wind would tear it apart, or the waves would drown it. Day after day, year after year. But it kept building. Because that's what it knew how to do. Even if it hurt. Even if it lost everything. It just… kept going. Until, one day, the storms stopped."
He gave a lopsided shrug.
"Guess it stuck with me. 'Cause even small things can survive storms."
Sylva closed her eyes. The ache in her chest tightened.
"Veylan…"Her voice cracked like brittle glass. "He was my master. Before King Edric bought me. Before… everything."
She hated the sound of it. How small and hollow it made her feel. She told him of the cold halls, the collars, the blood, and the endless orders. How she'd been less than a person. How Cassandra had taught her to kill without thought, to see herself as a tool, not a girl.
And when she could say no more, the silence stretched.
Then Leon spoke, firm but quiet.
"I don't know what's going to happen next. I don't know if we'll live to see the end of this war, or if this world will tear itself apart. But whatever comes — I'm staying. I'll be right here, Sylva."
He smiled at her, soft and certain."Because to me… you're family."
A breath shuddered from her chest. Not quite a sob, but close.
A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye. Her dull brown gaze, long devoid of light, caught a flicker of warmth, like a dying coal rekindled.
She turned away before he could see more.
Leon didn't press her. He didn't touch her. He just sat there, keeping vigil beside her in the quiet.
For the first time in years, Sylva let herself believe — if only a little — that she wasn't entirely alone.
* * * * *
The noise of the feast dwindled behind her. Laughter, clinking cups, the occasional off-key song — all of it faded as Velis slipped through the streets like a restless ghost. The flickering torchlight did little to chase away the darkness clinging to the village's corners.
She stopped before the largest house.
No hesitation.
She pushed the door open, letting it creak wide on its hinges. Inside, the room was dim, lit by a single oil lamp on a broad wooden table. The air smelled of herbs, old parchment, and the lingering iron of weapon oil.
Two figures sat inside.
The village chief, Eira, a tall, sharp-featured woman with weathered skin and pale, storm-blue eyes that had seen wars men could barely imagine.
And at her side, a man — broad, scarred, hand immediately flying to the hilt of his sword the moment the door opened.
The steel whispered from its sheath.
"Now, now," Velis said lightly, a grin curling her lips as she stepped inside. "What bad manners. To try and kill a simple child like me."
The man's face darkened.
"She'd have killed you before your blade left the scabbard," Eira murmured, not even raising her voice. Her gaze flicked to the corners of the room — where long, thin shadows writhed like serpents, retracting only when acknowledged.
The man paled.
Velis smiled wider.
"Long time, Eira," she purred. "Or should I say… chief?"
Eira's face remained composed, though the lines around her eyes deepened. "It's been what? Fifty… sixty years now? Since the last war?"
Velis's eyes gleamed, but she said nothing.
Instead, she turned to the man. "Name."
A beat of hesitation.
"…Claen Voss."
"Good." Velis replied, her smile never wavering. "Now be a good boy and keep quiet."
Velis sauntered closer to the table without asking permission, her grin never wavering. "Now then, Eira. Why call me here?"
"No need for formali—"
"I didn't ask for courtesies," Velis cut in sweetly, voice like silk over a dagger's edge. "I asked why you called me here, Eira."
Claen stiffened at the blatant disrespect. Eira lifted a hand and he stilled.
The old chief studied Velis in the dim light, as if trying to reconcile the playful, childlike figure before her with the ancient terror she knew lurked beneath that flesh.
"You look… younger than I remember," Eira said quietly. "And act it too."
Velis clutched her chest, making a mock-pained face. "Oh, how cruel. Wounding a lady's pride like that."
Eira didn't smile.
"If you're here… it means the war's close."
Velis gave an exaggerated, theatrical clap of her hands. "Ah! Sharp as ever, my dear Eira. Yes — the pieces move. Blood is coming, old friend. More than you've ever seen."
Something in Eira's composure cracked. Just a flicker — a slight tightening of her jaw.
"And the Marquess in Solmaria?" she asked, voice quiet.
Velis's grin thinned. "And what would you do with that bit of trivia?"
"Nothing," Eira admitted. "Just like to know the wind's direction before the storm."
Velis leaned in, her voice a soft, wicked whisper. "Fill in the blanks, darling. But here's one truth for you — this war will be bloodier, crueller than any in history. And that's a promise."
A long silence.
Claen's hand flexed on the hilt of his sword, but he didn't dare move.
"This is why you've taken human shape, isn't it?" Eira said at last. "To see it up close."
Velis's silver eyes glittered. "Why else play a game, if not to sit at the board?"
"Big things are coming, Eira. Blood. Fire. Broken thrones. And I wanted to see the face of one of the old ones before the world forgets you."
Claen stood then, meaning to leave, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of the need to escape the suffocating tension.
But Velis spoke, and the air itself seemed to harden.
"If you so much as think of touching my sister…" she said softly, still smiling, "…I'll butcher every soul in this village. Slowly. I'll start with you. Then your men. Then your children."
Claen froze.
'Sister?'
The word echoed in Eira's mind.
And as if summoned, Lyra appeared at the door.
"Velis," she called gently.
Velis turned to her, the warmth in her grin suddenly genuine. "Coming."
The childlike assassin strode toward Lyra, leaving behind a room where the air itself felt heavier for her absence.
When the door shut, Claen let out a ragged breath.
"Who… what in the gods' names is that thing?" he whispered.
Eira didn't answer for a long moment. She looked into the dying lamplight.
"A being who could drown this kingdom in blood if she chose," Eira said softly. "She keeps the scales balanced. And for now… she smiles. Don't give her a reason to stop."
"And the girl?" Claen asked.
Eira's gaze turned toward the door. "That one… that girl Lyra. She's the thread tethering Velis to the edge of restraint. And gods help us if it ever snaps."
The shadows in the room seemed to shift again, as if listening.
* * * * *
The night was thick with mist, the scent of turned earth and fading fire smoke clinging to the air. The soft crunch of boots on loose soil was the only sound as Lyra followed at Velis's side, the light of the village feast flickering dimly behind them.
Velis hummed some old, wordless tune. Sweet. Haunting. A thing that had no business in a child's throat. Lyra felt it like a thread pulling at the seams of her heart.
They passed beyond the last firelight, into the field of tall grass kissed by starlight. Above them, the sky stretched wide — ancient and indifferent, scattered with wheeling constellations.
Velis finally spoke.
"You ever wonder," she said softly, "what it would be like to live a simple, stupid little life? No titles, no blood on your hands, no gods watching every step you take."
Lyra hesitated. "More times than I can count."
A small, bitter smile curved Velis's lips. Not her usual smug grin. This one was cracked at the edges.
"I think about it too," Velis said. "Used to, anyway. Before they found me. Before Virion and the Demon Lord made the Abyss… back when I was nothing but a thing crawling in the dark, waiting for the world to forget I existed."
Lyra's stomach twisted. She'd never heard Velis speak this way. Never in all their weeks together.
"Back then," Velis went on, her voice lower, "I didn't know loneliness had a shape. Or a voice. It sounded a lot like mine, screaming in an empty place."
She laughed then — not mocking, not cruel. A sound brittle as frost.
"And now I look at you," Velis said, tilting her head, those silver eyes catching the starlight like mirrors, "and for the first time in decades… maybe centuries… I forget to feel empty."
Lyra swallowed hard. "Velis…"
"It's stupid, isn't it?" Velis said, shaking her head. "I'm a servant of the Demon Lord. I work to tear down the kingdoms your kind swore to protect. And you — loyal little Lyra. So righteous, so fierce."
She met Lyra's gaze then, and there was something raw there. Older than war. Older than gods.
"It's funny if you think about it," Velis murmured. "Fate's cruel little joke. That in a world like this, the one thing that makes me happy is the one thing I was never supposed to have."
The ache in Lyra's chest swelled until it hurt to breathe.
She didn't think. Didn't hesitate.
She stepped forward and pulled Velis into a tight, wordless hug.
Velis stiffened at first, unaccustomed to the warmth, the honesty of it. Then, slowly, her arms slid around Lyra's waist, clinging tighter than her pride should have allowed.
"It's not stupid," Lyra whispered. "And I don't give a damn about fate. I don't care about the Demon Lord, or your past, or any abyss. You're my sister now. And nothing in this cursed world's going to change that."
Velis let out a sound — half a laugh, half a choked sob — burying her face against Lyra's shoulder.
"I… don't deserve you," she said, the words so soft Lyra barely caught them.
"Too bad," Lyra murmured, stroking Velis's obsidian hair. "You're stuck with me."
They stood there beneath the indifferent stars, in a world on the brink of war, and for one stolen moment, the storm inside Velis went quiet.