The banquet surged into livelier rhythms as the bards struck their lutes and viols in a bright, driving cadence. The great hall, once heavy with solemn oaths and speeches of war, now shimmered with the warmth of revelry. Nobles, soldiers, and emissaries spun in dance across the polished black marble, laughter weaving through the air like golden thread.
Meanwhile, tucked near the high tables and half-shadowed alcoves, Kalazeth's council gathered with the visiting leaders. Platters of steaming meat and spiced wine were ignored; their conversation was too sharp, too critical for indulgences.
"Ah. This place is magnificent. Exploring this empire will be a treat. We would definitely love to know more—."
Lady Selvaria Vance leaned forward slightly, her crimson cloak pooling behind her chair like a banner of blood. Her tone was sharp, words clean as drawn blades.
"We all know why you're here," she said, tapping a gloved finger against the rim of her goblet. "You're not here for pleasantries. You smell blood on the wind, and you know we're the only ones gutting the witches fast enough to stem the tide. I can read you all like a book. But aren't we all here to benefit from one another? I just don't like when people pretend to like something that they don't really care about."
Lord Garron Volkrath let out a low rumble of approval, his mechanical gauntlet flexing with a soft hiss.
"She's right. You've fought your own battles. Some of you still do. But we kill witches like it's morning prayer."
The noble from Drottenvall scowled but nodded begrudgingly. "No insult meant. You've made your reputation known far beyond the ridgelands."
Archsage Vharyn Soldeis's silver mask tilted slightly, voice a cool breeze across the table.
"Reputation alone is brittle. We speak of true strength. True unity."
Lord Dravok Maernis, fingers drumming against the rusted iron chains wrapped around his robes, spoke up. His voice was dry as dead leaves.
"Your kingdoms have been infested longer than some of you will admit. You want our expertise. Our Bloodhunters. Our rites of cleansing."
The representative from Syfrholt bristled, the scales on his cloak flashing in the torchlight.
"We handle our own affairs to an extent—"
Selvaria's hand cracked down on the table once, making several goblets jump.
"Let's stop pretending this is diplomacy," she said with a grin. "You're all here because your borders are leaking witches and your so-called holy orders are failing. You want our Bloodhunters. You want what we built while you watched from behind your broken walls."
The Drottenvall emissary—Viscount Aerlein—arched a silver brow, careful with his next words.
"We didn't come to beg. We came to propose alignment. Mutual benefit. You cannot bear the burden alone forever."
Selvaria smirked. "Alignment," she echoed. "Is that the new word for leeching? We're cautious with new alliances. Why? Because we're a single city state with enough strength to conquer an entire kingdom. Who wouldn't wanna take advantage of that?"
Aerlein's lips pressed thin. "Careful, my lady. We brought tribute, not threats."
She saw it. That flinch in his eyes.
Archsage Vharyn Soldeis, ever unreadable behind their silver mask, spoke like fog slipping beneath a door. "You misunderstand. Selvaria is not posturing. She's dissecting you. This is not negotiation. This is dissection. You arrive with offerings and lies, hoping our need outweighs our pride. We explain all of this to remind leaders that trying to manipulate us because of the current state of our empire is not a good idea. It's nothing hostile. Just a reminder."
The Syfrholt delegate, a pale man draped in scaled furs, sniffed disdainfully. "You Bloodhunters pretend at civility, but the scent of war never leaves your clothes."
Lady Selvaria turned slightly toward him, eyes cold. "Haha! Who said we were civil? The scent you smell," she said, "is victory. Yours, however… smells like fear. Or is that rotting clergy I smell on your hands?"
The delegate tensed. Fingers curled under the table.
Lord Garron chuckled low. "We warned you. This isn't a court. This is a forge."
For a moment, no one spoke. The bards' music beyond the hall rose, a false serenity.
Then the emissary from Vaerngard, Lord Rathven, made his move. Subtle. Reasonable.
"Selvaria. Kalazeth has bred warriors sharper than any in this room. I respect that. I don't propose you give us your secrets. I propose… we share burdens. Let your hunters train our vanguard. Let us send iron and arms in return."
Selvaria blinked once.
But Dravok cut in before she could respond, voice like parchment snapping.
"Train you? Or bleed for you? There's a difference."
Rathven's smile didn't falter. "We bleed too. Just not as well."
Across from him, the noblewoman from Yngvar's Reach—Lady Nyssara—placed her goblet down with a delicate clink.
"If Kalazeth agrees, our scholars could offer arcane reinforcement. Runes from the all over the world. Ritual cross-sealing."
Archsage Vharyn hissed softly.
"No foreign runes enter Kalazeth's vaults. Your reach drips with forbidden ink."
Nyssara's eyes narrowed, coldly amused. "Then test them. If they pass, you gain an advantage. If they don't… burn them. Like everything else."
Selvaria watched her. 'Clever. She offered power, but slipped in a foothold. One glyph, one scholar—one spy.'
The delegate from Askrheim, a stocky brute in wolf leathers, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
"You all talk too damn much. We've got warriors. Frostbitten, hardened, gods-damned loyal. You send us chains, we send you heads. Simple. You kill our witches and their cursed beasts, and pay hefty amounts of gold."
Lord Garron's voice cracked a grin.
"Simple men die first in witch wars."
The table shifted again. Lady Selvaria tilted her head, listening—not to the words, but to the tempo of desperation.
She could see it: none of them had solutions. They only had needs. And desperation was a knife turned inward. She had initiated this debate, but for a reason. She was good at manipulating people's emotions through pressure, Idrathar knew that. She did this to truly see one's intentions, forcing them to even accidentally spill their true motives.
She tapped her goblet one last time.
"My only concern," she said, "is that when your soldiers falter, your scholars go mad, and your runes crack under pressure—you'll expect our Bloodhunters to die for your lands. But I'll remind you: Kalazeth did not rise by martyrdom."
A beat passed. Another.
Then Viscount Aerlein finally said, "And what do you want, Lady Vance?"
Selvaria leaned forward slowly, cloak rustling.
"Loyalty. Terms written in blood. And no illusions about who holds the blade."
Before more words could spark into war, a new presence loomed.
The table tensed. Several guards subtly shifted toward their weapons. But then Idrathar himself approached with the calm of a seasoned warlord, seating himself at the head of the council's long table, voice low and commanding.
"Enough. No blood drawn between potential brothers."
He leaned forward, fixing each of the foreign nobles with the same unblinking gaze.
"You seek alliances. Very well. But know that Kalazeth does not offer charity. You want protection against witches? You earn it. As I have earned my keep, and as Kalazeth earned its reputation throughout the land. You may not care about what this empire stands for as Selvaria mentioned, but it means something to us. Which is why setting an alliance must mean something to the both of us instead of taking advantage of each other. We must use each others strengths and weaknesses to gain the upper hand against the Witch Queen and her disciples of tyranny."
He simply placed both gauntleted hands on the table, the etched steel humming faintly with latent energy.
'Selvaria tested their motives by starting an argument. This is the best way to make a potential ally respect you and what your empire stands for. Especially since we are a small unit, but strong in our reputation. A lot of leaders would love to take advantage of an empire like ours. With it being stood on its own two feet, it would show vulnerability on the outside, it would make us look desperate to grow by any means necessary. That's what THEY see. I was desperate for this when I was starting out and it took 30 years to build, but I'm not desperate for power anymore as we are strong enough already, guided by the flame of the spirit. Good job testing them, Lady Selvaria.'
Even Selvaria, despite her brashness, inclined her head slightly. Not in obedience—but acknowledgment. She knew Idrathar was praising her internally, this wasn't the first time this had happened.
"You come to Kalazeth not as friends, not as equals," Idrathar said calmly, scanning each emissary as if reading their epitaphs. "But as people whose homes are beginning to rot from within. You dress it in politics. You speak of cooperation and mutual gain. Yet I smell desperation beneath your silks."
He slowly turned a goblet on the table, watching the wine ripple inside. His voice remained level, but the weight behind it was inescapable.
"We have bled for our strength. Bled for our unity. Not through treaties, but through fire, and the severing of every weakness. Our Bloodhunters are not pawns. They are not tools to be rented out like swords at a festival skirmish. Whatever they do for you, we must gain back at the same price."
His gaze landed on the Drottenvall delegate. "Your forges produce rust faster than blades. Your borderlands are flooded with false witches you burn for morale."
Then on to Syfrholt. "Your people still trade with hexmarked smugglers behind your council's back."
Each noble stiffened, visibly shaken that Idrathar knew such things. But he wasn't finished.
"Selvaria was right to cut through your formalities. You came here to use us. That's fine. Power is always borrowed before it is taken. But know this—if you want Kalazeth's aid, you will do so by our laws. You will not command our Bloodhunters. I already saw it. It's not your fault if you came to just use our witch hunters. But I could see you weren't prepared to return what we gave 100 fold. How can a small empire like us thrive without contingency? You will earn their movement. And when the witches come for your gates—and they will—you will remember that mercy was not what brought Kalazeth to power."
He leaned back, slowly lowering himself into the ironwood seat at the head of the table. Then, a smirk—not warm, but razor-edged.
"So. Now that truths have been spilled like wine… let us begin again."
A long pause followed Idrathar's words. The foreign nobles sat in rigid silence, some reddening with restrained offense, others weighing his threats like chess pieces on a blood-slick board.
Then, finally, the noble from Syfrholt rose—tall, lean, with chain-silver braids and the haughty stillness of old blood. Lord Halven Dreist, known for his biting tongue and cold diplomacy, placed both hands on the table.
"With all due respect, Lord Idrathar… this is not the language of allies," he said, voice calm but clipped. "We are rulers in our own right. Not lapdogs waiting for scraps. Kalazeth may hold the sword now, but swords dull, and alliances—true alliances—are built on balance. Not domination." He glanced around the table, seizing momentum. "Tell me—what kind of 'unity' are we offered, when we're told to kneel before earning a seat?"
A few of the visiting delegates nodded subtly. The Drottenvall emissary's eyes flicked with interest. Even the woman from Yngvar's Reach folded her hands, listening more intently.
Idrathar didn't rise.
He didn't raise his voice.
He only smiled. A sharp, glacial thing.
"You mistake my stance for domination," he said. "It is preparation. I made it this far because I didn't let the strong use me." He gestured slightly to one of the guards posted by the stone pillars. "This is about survival. And some of you still believe you're playing a game of pieces, when the board is already burning."
Dreist tried to recover. "You—"
"The other nobles quickly distanced themselves from Dreist with silence. Yngvar's delegate sipped her wine again, coolly unmoved. Volkrath grinned. Selvaria gave a quiet chuckle.
And Idrathar leaned back at last, every move deliberate, commanding.
"We're not allies yet," he said. "But now you know why we lead the war effort. We just want the same effort into helping us as we put our effort into helping your kingdoms."
He set the twitching hand down. It sizzled against the ironwood.
"So. Shall we speak of terms?"
"…We could use more hunters," said the pale woman from Yngvar's Reach, fingers elegantly tracing the rim of her goblet. "If knowledge is shared, our own scholars can assist your Tethered. We could get started right away. And even get whatever supplies you need with our own Adventurers."
Archsage Vharyn tilted their head slowly.
"Knowledge, perhaps. If properly cleansed and verified. We do not allow foreign rites to taint our archives."
Dravok Maernis let out a dry chuckle.
"I can smell corruption on untested magic from leagues away. We will vet everything you offer."
Master Forgewright Brax Trenhald grunted, swigging down a gulp of dark ale.
"Haha! And don't come crying when we hammer your weapons into something actually useful."
The Drottenvall leader grimaced but offered a wary smile. "No pride here. If your forges can sharpen our steel, let it be done. And as for us, we can send our Adventurers out to gain supplies for you."
Selvaria smirked, lounging back slightly in her chair. "See? We can be civil." She and Idrathar nodded at each other.
Talk shifted swiftly to Bloodhunters, as expected.
The Yngvar's Reach ambassador tapped her fingers thoughtfully.
"It is said one of your Bloodhunters is already renowned — a boy forged in battle, ascending ranks few live long enough to even attempt."
Idrathar's smile was faint but fiercely proud.
"Cainan. Cainan Varehound."
Whispers stirred around the table at the name.
"He's been hunting since he was fourteen. Barely a boy, already a terror." Idrathar's voice deepened with something almost paternal. "Now, at nineteen, he carries the rank of Bloodhunter. Not just a title, but a burden. There are grown men twice his age who would piss themselves facing the witches he's slain."
The Vaerngard emissary leaned forward, intrigued.
"How did you find him?"
Idrathar's smile turned grim.
"I didn't really 'find' him. I found a witch, gurgling on her own blood, with her entrails wrapped around her neck like a noose. And there, clawing through her corpse for his next kill, was Cainan. A feral thing."
Selvaria chuckled low in her throat.
"Perfect Bloodhunter material. And my most annoying pupil. But man is he an asset."
The atmosphere lightened, the leaders sharing dark smiles. Their kind of people. Their kind of empire.
Quickly, the discussion shifted back to practicalities — witch numbers, the needs of each kingdom, the treaties that could be made. While tension flared once or twice, especially between Drottenvall and Askrheim, Selvaria's iron tongue and Idrathar's cold clarity snuffed out any brewing conflict before it could spark.
By the end of it, the foundation of an alliance had been laid.
Terms would be written in the days to come — but the will had been forged tonight.
Outside, the night was crisp and cool.
Cainan stood alone on the balcony, staring at his clenched fist. The memory of the shadow-born child gnawed at the edge of his mind, refusing to be forgotten. He flexed his fingers slowly, watching the way the moonlight caught the small scars across his knuckles.
'Was that fate? Showing himself as a child?' he thought dryly.
He smirked to himself, a sharp, humorless sound.
Behind him, a soft shuffle of feet.
Zaara appeared at his side, popping another candied fruit into her mouth with a lazy grin.
"Hey, grimface. Lynzelle's inside. She wants to dance with you."
Cainan groaned, "I don't dance."
Zaara leaned her elbows onto the balcony rail, flashing him a look.
"She's asking for you. Come on, don't make her beg."
Cainan huffed. "You dance with her, then."
Without warning, Zaara bonked him sharply on the head.
"OW, what the hell?!" he barked, clutching his scalp.
Zaara grinned wider.
"Rule number one of impressing a beautiful girl — do what she says."
"That's stupid," Cainan muttered, scowling. "Makes you look like an idiot."
Thunk! Another bonk.
This time Cainan snapped his head toward her, teeth bared in mock outrage, stepping forward like he was about to tackle her off the balcony.
Zaara just smirked and leaned in nose-to-nose with him, utterly fearless.
"Nuh uh. You really wanna embarrass Idrathar in front of all those noble softskins?"
Cainan growled low in his throat, pivoted away, and stomped back toward the ballroom like a petulant child.
As he crossed back inside, he caught sight of a ridiculous scene:
Lynzelle, standing in the center of the hall, "teaching" Foxxen, Tojin, Raijin, and Aris how to dance — except her moves were exaggerated combat strikes, swift jabs, spinning kicks, and wide, sweeping gestures like she was fighting invisible foes.
Foxxen, arms stiff and uncertain, tilted his head.
"You from a tribe or something? This some sacred rite?"
Lynzelle's eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Oh, absolutely. I'm from the… uh… 'Shimmering Ghost Tiger Tribe.' Very exclusive."
Tojin blinked, awed.
"Wow… never heard of it before."
Lynzelle nodded sagely.
"We fight by dancing. Dance by fighting. Also we can talk to wolves."
Foxxen looked genuinely impressed, his wolf ears twitching.
"No shit?"
"Absolutely no shit," Lynzelle said solemnly, barely holding in her laughter.
Raijin, ever polite, tried his best to mimic her "techniques," sweeping a giant armored arm in slow, graceful arcs. Aris simply mirrored a few gestures elegantly, her face unreadable under the white blindfold. "This is different from..the elegant movements I'm used to. But I am willing to learn new techniques…"
Zaara sauntered to stand beside Cainan once again, both of them gazing at the absurdity and the stars beyond the marble archways.
Silence fell between them, deep and comfortable, as the cool night wrapped around their shoulders like a cloak.
They prepared to talk.
Zaara broke the silence first, arms folded casually across the balcony rail, the stars reflecting off the black marble like a second sky.
"I'm proud of you, you know."
Cainan shot her a wary look.
"For what?"
She grinned lazily.
"For stepping out of your little comfort zone. Getting married, of all things. And to someone who's basically your complete opposite."
Cainan rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets.
'It's not real.'
He thought it simply. No resentment. No sadness. Just fact. Both he and Lynzelle knew the truth. Husband and wife in name only, masks worn for survival. It didn't need to be spoken aloud.
Zaara just smiled faintly, watching the stars blink and pulse. Then her voice dropped lower, softer, the edges of her usual playful tone peeling away.
"You remember, don't you? I was engaged once."
Cainan glanced sideways at her, jaw tensing slightly. Of course he remembered.
Zaara's fingers absently traced one of the glowing gold runes on her arm, her voice carrying a heavy undercurrent now.
"He was… everything. Kind, strong. Dumb as a pile of bricks sometimes, but… he made me laugh." She paused, swallowing thickly. "Then one day, a witch needed a body for her summon. And he… wasn't my fiancé anymore. He was something else."
She stopped, the words catching in her throat for a beat.
"I killed it. I killed him. I had to."
Cainan stayed quiet. Letting her speak.
Zaara snorted bitterly, blinking hard.
"So yeah. I swore after that. Swore I'd keep my feelings away. That love, trust, all that… it's just a waste in a world like this. That's why I like being a witch hunter. No dreams. No delusions. Just a target."
She leaned heavier on the balcony, staring out at the moon.
"Maybe when all the witches are gone… maybe if I find that bitch of a Witch Queen and rip her spine out… maybe then I'll think about marriage again. But not when I'm old and grey and half my teeth are missing."
She tried to laugh it off, but it came out raw.
"I want a family. Always have. Guess it's stupid after the way my own family treated me. Like I was something they had to hide."
Zaara ran her hand through her hair, gold streaks catching the light.
"They told me I was cursed. That's why my blood glows. Why the runes showed up. My own mother wouldn't even look me in the eye."
She drew in a sharp breath, steadying herself.
"But I figured… if I couldn't have their love, I'd make my own. Find people who gave a shit. Build something real."
Her voice dropped to a whisper, earnest and vulnerable in a way Cainan rarely saw from her.
"You're closer to family than anything I've ever had, Cainan. You… Aris… Foxxen… Tojin… Raijin. You're the reason I'm still here. And now Lynzelle is here now, and I already consider her family. Every time I wanna give up… I think of you idiots. Which happens a lot."
She smiled tightly, blinking back the sting in her eyes.
"I use it. I turn it into strength. To kill witches faster, to carve a road to something better."
She turned to him fully now, gold eyes fierce.
"Idrathar helped, too. His story… how he clawed out a kingdom from nothing but ash and death. Made me believe you can survive anything if you're stubborn enough."
Cainan stared at her for a long moment, the corners of his mouth tugging downward.
"You'll have a family one day, Zaara," he said finally, voice low and certain. "The witches will burn. The Witch Queen will die. I'll make damn sure of it." He shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, I know… my luck's shit. But… maybe if I help you guys get what you want… maybe things'll turn around for me too. I dunno. Sounds dumb as hell, but—"
Thunk!
Zaara bonked him right on the head with a grin.
"OW, what was that for?!" Cainan barked, rubbing his head.
Zaara chuckled, her usual smirk back in full force.
"That doesn't sound dumb, bonehead. Sounds like you're finally on the right track."
Cainan scoffed grudgingly, muttering,
"…Thanks."
Zaara cupped a hand to her ear teasingly.
"Sorry, didn't quite hear that. Little louder?"
Cainan, face twisting, lunged at her like he was going to toss her off the balcony.
Zaara burst out laughing, dodging with an easy twist of her body.
Eventually, Cainan let out a rough sigh and stuck out his fist. Zaara bumped hers against it, and together, they pressed their fists to their chests.
A silent oath. A bond stronger than blood.
Suddenly —
"CAINANNNN!"
Lynzelle exploded from the ballroom, full of manic energy, grabbing his arm with both hands.
"You're dancing with me now!"
Cainan yelped, trying to pull away like a cat dropped in water.
"Zaara! HELP! DON'T JUST STARE, BASTARD."
Zaara just snickered and backed away, hands raised.
"Nope, you're on your own, buddy."
One by one, the others chimed in:
Foxxen, smirking wide: "Good luck!"
Tojin, nervously: "Uh… you'll do great, sir!"
Raijin's deep echoing voice: "The stars guide you, brother."
Aris, serene and calm: "…Endure."
"Monsters! All of you!" Cainan barked over his shoulder as Lynzelle dragged him mercilessly toward the dance floor.
In the center of the banquet, Cainan stood stiff as a board, his face practically glowing red.
"This is dumb and embarrassing," he muttered between gritted teeth.
The Bloodhunters and witch hunters crowded around the edges of the hall, hollering and laughing.
"Look at the mighty Bloodhunter now!"
"Careful, he might destroy the floor!"
"Make him twirl, Lady Lynzelle!"
Cainan shot scowls in every direction, his ears burning.
Meanwhile, Camelot stood silently by the pillars, arms folded, coolly observing the scene. His sharp eyes scanned Lynzelle carefully, lingering on the faint gleam of her horns under the ballroom lights.
Off to the side, one of the visiting kingdom leaders leaned toward Idrathar.
"Who is that beautiful woman dancing with your strongest hunter?"
Idrathar, seated like a king carved from iron, answered calmly:
"That's his wife."
The noble's brow rose.
"What race is she?"
Idrathar's voice grew graver.
"She was cursed by a witch — the same one that befelled my daughter. The curse… affects everyone differently. Lynzelle's was severe. It's… killing her, slowly."
"She resembles a demon with those horns from the scholars drawings does she not?"
"The scholars documented Hell as they continued to have found carvings of it in ancient ruins. And the demons they saw did have horns, but none of them resemble humans like Lynzelle does. The scholars would then have visions, trying to find out what Hell actually is. They said it was nothing but fire, demons, and a final resting place. Besides, there are many races in this world with horns."
The nobles murmured amongst themselves, eyes narrowing in intrigue and sympathy.
Back on the floor, Foxxen shouted to the bards:
"Play something fast!"
The bards, ever ready for mischief, struck up a lively, wild tune that set the hall roaring with laughter and stomping feet.
Cainan groaned audibly, shooting Foxxen a murderous glare.
"You're a bastard!"
Foxxen just shrugged with an arrogant grin, baring sharp canines. "Aww look who's scared to dance with his own wife."
As the upbeat music thundered, the squad gave their final jabs:
Raijin boomed, "May the dance not destroy you, brother! You'll do great!"
Aris, smiling faintly: "…The dance is survival."
Tojin whispered: "Just… don't die."
Lynzelle, still holding Cainan's hand in a vice grip, leaned in close, her voice low and wicked.
"Ready?"
Cainan, cheeks still burning, muttered:
"No."
And the dance began.
Cheers and taunts exploded around Cainan, the entire banquet hall roaring with noise. Witch hunters slammed their mugs against tables, roaring and howling with laughter. His own squad—Zaara, Foxxen, Tojin, Aris, and Raijin—were easily the loudest, tossing their jabs and insults across the marble floors like weapons. Cainan shifted awkwardly in place, standing stiff and frozen in the middle of the dance floor as the attention weighed on him like a thousand swords.
'This is embarrassing. This is embarrassing. This is embarrassing.'
He wasn't used to being under a spotlight unless he was killing something—and right now, the sheer pressure of so many eyes had him wishing for a battlefield instead of a ballroom.
Lynzelle, standing close beside him, leaned in until her breath brushed his ear, her voice low and full of mischief.
"I'm going to teach you how to dance… from Hell."
Cainan stiffened even more, feeling the blood drain from his face.
"I don't like the sound of that," he muttered under his breath.
But there was no way out. Not when Zaara and the others were shouting for him to move, not when nobles were watching, not when Lynzelle was smiling at him with that reckless, daring spark in her red eyes. With a groan, Cainan resigned himself to his fate.
"Fine… what do I need to do?"
"Just stand there and look all handsome-y."
"No way I'm really doing this.."
Lynzelle's face lit up with genuine happiness, her excitement cutting through the chaos of the hall. She moved even closer, whispering conspiratorially against the shell of his ear.
"This is my first dance," she confessed.
Cainan blinked, caught off guard by her honesty.
"Mine too," he admitted quietly, feeling his throat tighten slightly.
Before he could even brace himself, the bards took that as a signal and grinned among themselves. With dramatic flourishes, they unleashed a wave of sound, a vibrant and pulsing upbeat tune that filled the hall. Violins screamed to life at the center of it, leading a wild charge that matched the crackling energy now rolling through the crowd.
More bards arrived, weaving through the hall with brightly colored instruments and polished boots. One of them stepped to the center, a tall man with long, golden braids and a bright feathered cloak that caught the candlelight in rippling color. His skin was a rich, deep brown, and his clothing clashed and shimmered in wild teals, scarlets, and oranges, every thread stitched with flare and pride.
With a dramatic bow, he introduced himself with a booming voice.
"I am Seyren of Solsarin!" he declared, every syllable laced with the accent of distant deserts and endless sun. "From the Land of the Eternal Strings, where every soul is born with music in their veins! Tonight, your hearts are mine!"
As Seyren lifted his violin once more, the Painters entered behind him. Clad in flowing robes and smooth porcelain mask faces painted with symbols of colors and forgotten dreams, they swept their hands through the air, summoning illusions made of living color. Bursting flowers, soaring birds, rivers of starlight—all spun and danced in rhythm with the music, filling the hall with wonder. Children screamed with laughter, running through the projections, their fingers slipping through glowing shapes as if trying to catch pieces of magic itself.
Cainan's heart pounded against his ribs hard enough to hurt. Panic twisted his guts, and for one ugly, creeping moment, a thought almost broke free: 'None of this matters. Fate's just going to rip it all away.'
He could already imagine the moment—something terrible, something inevitable—that would tear all of this from his grasp.
But he gritted his teeth and shook his head. Not now. He wasn't going to let that voice win. Not tonight. He drew a deep breath and forced the words out through a stiff jaw.
"Pick up the pace, Lynzelle. I'm ready."
Lynzelle's smile widened into a devilish grin.
Without a second of hesitation, she seized Cainan by the waist—and wielded him like a sword. She spun with wild, fluid strength, lifting him clean off his feet and swinging him through the air. Then she pivoted again, hoisting him like a spear and spinning him overhead, her movements blurring with the music.
Cainan screamed. Loud. Sharp. Absolutely unmanly.
"AGHHHHH! SOMEONE HEL—!"
The entire banquet hall erupted into wild, breathless laughter.
Zaara threw her head back, nearly collapsing against Tojin from laughing too hard.
"100 GOLD HE PUKES!" she shouted, slapping her knee.
Foxxen barked out a laugh, throwing a coin onto a table.
"FIFTEEN says he screams like that again!"
Raijin, ever the calm one, placed a solemn gold coin down.
"He will endure it!"
Tojin, wide-eyed and fiercely supportive, cupped his hands around his mouth.
"Y-YOU'RE DOING GREAT, SIR! HANG IN THERE!"
Even nobles from distant lands couldn't help themselves. They leaned over the rails, laughing, tossing coins, making bets, shouting encouragement or mockery.
Camelot, standing apart near the wall, didn't so much as blink. His arms were crossed, and his cold gaze stayed locked on Lynzelle's every movement, noting the slight curve of her horns with calculating attention.
Finally, the music came to a crashing end, and Lynzelle let Cainan down with a graceful flourish.
Cainan dropped to his knees, gasping, his face red as a dying sun.
Seyren twirled dramatically, his violin tucked under his chin.
"Thank you! Thank you! Now for my next piece—a dance of fire and fury!"
The music soared again, and Cainan wanted to collapse then and there.
Lynzelle knelt in front of him, offering her hand with an elegant tilt of her wrist. Her eyes were burning with excitement and affection.
"Had enough, dear husband?" she asked sweetly.
Cainan squeezed his fists tight, grounding himself. For just a heartbeat, he decided to let it go. No fear, no luck, no fate. Just this moment.
'Can't let my mood be ruined by my thoughts. I gotta take the initiative if I want to start changing shitty fate.'
He grabbed Lynzelle's hand and pulled her to him—this time lifting her with practiced, brutal force, and wielding her the same way she had done to him. He spun, pivoted, flung her into the air and caught her again, moving with a wild, raw rhythm that made the entire hall erupt into fresh howls. And Lynzelle was laughing the entire time.
Lady Selvaria, already drunk and sloppy, stood from her chair and howled.
"GOOO, PRETTY BOY!" she screamed, spilling wine over a nobleman's lap.
The council members at her side groaned in unison. One of them, Lord Dravok Maernis, muttered,
"Someone sit her down before she challenges someone to a duel again."
Another, Brax, laughed,
"Haha! She's already three cups past doomed! She can hold her mead like I hold my weapons! She'll start a goddamn riot if you don't sit on her!"
Dravok said to Brax, "Take her outside and challenge her to a drinking contest. You two always do that.."
"Trust me, that won't be enough to distract the lass."
Two council guards wrestled Selvaria back into her seat as she kicked her legs and sang some ancient battle hymn off-key.
Meanwhile, Cainan and Lynzelle spun in a perfect blur of reckless grace. The music pounded through their blood, through their hearts, through their very bones.
At last, Cainan slowed, gently lowering Lynzelle to the marble floor. They ended up only inches apart, their breathing ragged and faces flushed. Their hands still linked, their foreheads almost touching.
For a long, charged second, neither of them moved.
The hall broke into thunderous applause, a wild explosion of clapping, whistling, and cheering that shook the chandeliers.
Everyone clapped—everyone except Camelot.
Zaara nudged Tojin with a wicked grin.
"He didn't puke. Damn it. I owe Foxxen gold."
Foxxen leaned back smugly, lacing his claws behind his head.
"Told you. Cainan's tougher than he looks."
Raijin nodded in solemn approval.
"A righteous victory."
Aris smiled faintly, serene and composed.
"Growth is a beautiful thing to witness."
The nobles murmured excitedly among themselves, their admiration thick in the air.
Idrathar, standing at the edge of the gathering, stared at the scene with a complicated expression, remembering how closed-off Cainan had been when he first joined. How isolated. And now—this.
Cainan finally broke the moment by scoffing arrogantly at the crowd, crossing his arms as if he wasn't blushing to the tips of his ears.
"Tch. No big deal. Easy. I don't see any of you cowards even trying."
The Bloodhunters and lower rank witch hunters lost their minds, hollering and banging on tables in riotous laughter.
Lady Selvaria somehow broke free again and staggered toward him, slinging a heavy arm around his shoulders.
"CONGRATULATIONS, HANDSOME!" she slurred, patting his chest before being yanked back by two panicked council members.
Lynzelle watched all of it in silence, standing just slightly apart from the chaos. Her eyes stayed locked on Cainan—burning, curious, a faint smile playing at the corner of her lips as if she were trying to solve a puzzle written across his soul.
The dance had finally ended, though the aftermath still rippled through the great hall like a lingering storm. Cainan stood there, breathing hard, face flushed red not just from exertion but from pure mortification. Lynzelle stood beside him, smiling with that mischievous little glint in her red eyes, her fingers playfully twirling a lock of her hair as the roaring crowd slowly began to settle into laughter, applause, and drunken banter. Around the hall, the council members took it upon themselves to comment—loudly.
Lord Garron Volkrath leaned against a stone pillar, arms crossed, his mechanical gauntlet tapping a slow rhythm against the steel of his breastplate. His fierce gaze was locked on the spectacle before him, and though his face was hard as ever, there was the faintest upward twitch of his mouth—a rare show of approval.
"By the Sovereign's flame," Garron muttered, "To actually see him dance…is something I never thought of him doing. But I don't even think that was dancing."
Nearby, Lady Selvaria Vance was already slumped against the banquet table, a goblet of blood-red wine sloshing dangerously in her hand. Her eyes were glazed over with drunken amusement as she clapped Cainan on the back far harder than necessary.
"You danced, darling! You actually danced!" Selvaria cackled, her voice carrying over the din. "Next time, shirt off!"
Lord Dravok Maernis, slouched so low in his chair it was a wonder he hadn't slipped under the table, merely waved a hand lazily in Cainan's direction.
"Too much energy," he mumbled. "I'm exhausted just looking at him."
Archsage Vharyn Soldeis floated a few inches above their seat as usual, blue and violet silks billowing softly, the silver mask glinting under the candelabras. They clasped their hands together and said with genuine, spoiled pride,
"Adorable! Positively adorable! We must organize more events like this! Everyone should dance!"
Master Forgewright Brax Trenhald just grunted from where he sat, arms like tree trunks folded across his chest, dragonbone armor groaning under the pressure.
"Bah. At least no one lost a limb," he rumbled. "Could've been worse. That dance looked painful."
Meanwhile, Zaara, Aris, Tojin, Foxxen, and Raijin were practically vibrating with excitement, eyes wide and gleaming. They huddled together, whispering conspiratorially, each stealing glances at the drunken Selvaria.
"She's drunk," Zaara hissed, eyes wide.
"She's actually drunk," Aris echoed, like he couldn't believe it.
"We can finally talk back and not die…" Raijin whispered, trembling with giddy fear.
"I bet I could take her in a fight right now," Foxxen said, only half-joking. "She's less scary drunk."
"I'm gonna ask her for a hug," Tojin said seriously. "Or..Nevermind. She might break me in half."
The squad collectively stared at Tojin in horror and admiration.
Before the night spiraled further, Cainan and Lynzelle wisely slipped away from the chaos, making their escape toward the back gardens. They stumbled through the trees, the cool air kissing their flushed faces, until the nausea from spinning and being hurled around finally hit them full force.
They barely made it to the treeline before both were bent over, vomiting spectacularly into the bushes.
"Oh gods—" Cainan wheezed, coughing into the dirt. "I think—I think my soul left my body."
Beside him, Lynzelle wiped her mouth, laughing breathlessly.
"This happens all the time in Hell!" she chirped between spits. "But nobody ever wanted to dance with me. I always danced alone while everyone else was brooding and doing dark, dramatic poses and shit."
"That sounds… depressing," Cainan rasped.
"It was!" Lynzelle said brightly.
Still half-dizzy, they stumbled toward the river just beyond the trees, where a small, blessed stream flowed through the grounds. The water glittered under the starlight, untouched, clean, and pure. They dropped to their knees at the bank, scooping up handfuls of the cool liquid. They washed out their mouths, drinking deeply. Instantly, the blessed waters wiped away the sick taste, making their mouths feel fresh, like they hadn't just been heaving their guts up moments ago.
Cainan flopped onto the grass with a grunt, staring up at the night sky. Lynzelle plopped down beside him, stretching out with a sigh. Above them, the heavens stretched wide and endless. Three moons—one deep red, one silver-blue, and one golden-white—glowed against the velvet dark, their light spilling over the trees, the water, the two exhausted warriors.
"They look more beautiful from down here," Lynzelle said softly, her red eyes reflecting the starlight.
"There's old myths about them," Cainan said, folding his arms behind his head.
"Tell me," Lynzelle whispered, shifting closer.
Cainan smiled faintly, the weariness of the night finally giving way to something gentler.
"They say the three moons are the last remnants of ancient gods. When the world was first made, they fought over who would rule it. None of them won. So the Sovereign turned them into moons, forced to watch the world forever, powerless."
"That's sad," Lynzelle murmured.
He shrugged. "There's another story too. That they're guardians. Watching over us. Lighting the way when the darkness tries to swallow everything."
Lynzelle propped herself up on her elbows, staring at the moons with a soft, unreadable expression.
"Can we stay here all night?" she asked.
Cainan turned his head toward her. "Why?"
"Because…" Lynzelle hesitated, then smiled in that small, rare way that stripped away all her wildness. "It's too beautiful out here. It reminds me of my mother."
Cainan frowned slightly. "Your mother?"
"She was the only beauty in Hell," Lynzelle said quietly. "When everything was dark, when everyone was cruel and hateful… she was still beautiful. Not just outside. She was kind. Every time I feel scared or… anxious, I think about her. I paint pictures of her in my head. It's how I survived down there." She sat up fully now, pulling her knees to her chest. "Out here… beauty is everywhere. The trees, the stars, the music, the laughter. When I enjoy myself, when I make people laugh or when I'm just alive—it feels like I'm surrounded by it. It's hope, Cainan. It reminds me there's still something worth fighting for."
Cainan stayed silent, listening.
"But I have flaws too," Lynzelle said. "The witches… they make me afraid. They make me picture the world falling into darkness again. A new Hell, worse than the one I escaped. Sometimes I can't stop painting those pictures in my head. That's why I act like an idiot sometimes. To forget how scared I am. And most of the time it's just my personality to act how I do, haha."
Cainan turned his gaze back to the stars.
"Where's your mother now?" he asked quietly.
"I don't know," Lynzelle said, voice barely a whisper. "She gave me the amulet… told me to find the way out… and then she vanished. I don't even know if she's alive."
A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the gentle rush of the stream.
"That's another thing I want to do," Lynzelle said at last. "First, I want to wipe the witches from this world. Burn away every darkness they bring. Make sure no one has to live in a replica of Hell. I'd feel trapped, like Hell would always follow me. I'm a hybrid, so that will never leave me anyway. I just don't wanna be reminded of it forever. I don't wanna be a monster..I like how I am now. I see beauty in myself when my own fate sees me as a monster ready to just explode. She smiled sadly. "Then… I'll find her. Somehow, some way. I'll find my mother."
The water shimmered beside them, the moons bathing the world in a soft, sacred light. For a moment, there was no war, no witches, no curses. Just two souls lying under the endless sky, clinging quietly to hope.
The river beside them sang quietly under the moons, its surface a soft ribbon of silver weaving through the grass and trees. The night had folded itself around the world like a blanket, thick with the scent of nature, the crisp chill of coming rain, and the faint hum of magic that always lingered near streams blessed by the clerics of Kalazeth. Cainan lay with his hands behind his head, his body still as stone, staring up at the endless stretch of sky. Three moons hung above them—one crimson, one pale blue, and one a deep molten gold—casting strange overlapping lights across the land. For a long while, he said nothing, simply listening to the breathing of the world around them, the occasional chirp of distant insects, the rustle of trees bending against a lazy breeze.
Finally, his voice, rough and low, broke through the thick silence.
"Hey… was there ever a goddess of darkness in Hell?"
Lynzelle shifted beside him, her breathing slow, nearing sleep. Her red eyes barely fluttered open, just enough to glimpse his face before they fell closed again, her head resting near his shoulder.
"Huh… no, not really…" she mumbled, her voice a soft drift on the wind, the weight of exhaustion pulling her down fast.
Cainan turned his head slightly, watching her. Her black hair caught the colors of the moons, shimmering like spun starlight. He knew he should get up. Every muscle in his body told him to—memories gnawed at the back of his skull, memories of sleeping in gutters, alleys, under bridges in the freezing rain with nothing but a thin coat and a thin stomach. Sleeping outside made him feel exposed. Weak. Like some forgotten thing the world didn't want.
But Lynzelle would wake alone if he left.
And knowing her, she'd tear the entire fucking world apart trying to find him.
He huffed quietly to himself, scowling up at the sky.
'Guess I'm stuck.'
Without another word, he closed his eyes, and the world slipped away.
…
A dream…
….The dream came like a hammer to the skull.
The sky above was a heavy, suffocating grey, darker than storm clouds, the color of ash and burnt-out fires. It was endless, stretching forever without light or sun. Before him loomed a massive monolith, a towering slab of black stone reaching into the heavens like a finger accusing the gods themselves. Its surface crawled with shifting red runes, each pulse of their light a heartbeat that shook the very marrow of the world. The air was thick, metallic, sharp against the lungs, smelling of blood and burnt earth.
And there she was.
A woman, 50 foot tall, massive beyond comprehension, standing knee-deep in an endless ocean of blood. She was clad in flowing black robes that billowed and dragged behind her, the hem vanishing into the mist that crawled across the crimson waters. A black veil covered her face entirely, obscuring her features, but her body heaved with deep, broken sobs that seemed to split the world with their sorrow. Her cries weren't merely heard—they were felt, vibrating through the bones, sinking into the soul like ice water.
Around her, countless children stood. But they weren't truly children. They were forms, sketches of life made from living shadow. Each little body flickered and wavered like smoke, black mist peeling from their limbs, their hollow eyes staring blankly forward. They made no sound, no movement. They simply stood there, ankle-deep in the thick blood ocean, as if waiting for something. As if mourning alongside her.
The woman's cries grew louder, more ragged, and with each sob, pieces of her black veil dissolved—not into dust, but into hundreds upon hundreds of black roses. The petals shimmered unnaturally, each one trailing tendrils of smoke as they fluttered into the darkened sky.
One of her eyes became exposed.
It glowed with a terrible dark orange light, almost molten, like staring into a volcano's heart. But it was wrong—impossibly wrong. Her eye held not one pupil, but three, each spinning slowly in different directions, weaving patterns that made the heart pound and the skin crawl. And beneath what was left of her veil, a grin slowly unfurled, small and serene… yet utterly monstrous in its gentleness.
The world throbbed as an enormous heartbeat pounded through the air.
The blood ocean rippled outward from the monolith, tremors racing through it like the world itself had a pulse. Another heartbeat followed, stronger, almost deafening.
And then, the children—hundreds of them—began to dissolve.
Their shadowed bodies unraveled into black rose petals, their forms breaking apart silently, beautifully, spiraling upward into the grey void above. It wasn't violent. It was slow. Peaceful. Like a release. One by one, they scattered and rose, filling the air with a storm of petals, a blizzard of mourning that spun around the towering woman.
The thousands of black petals whirled higher, fusing into a singular massive black rose that floated in the air, a second false sun in the dead sky.
The woman reached out with one long, pale hand, her fingers curling lovingly around the petals. She brushed the monstrous flower with infinite care, as if touching something sacred. And then, slowly, she plucked a single petal free.
Cainan's scream tore from his throat like a blade, jerking him awake violently.
His heart hammered against his ribs, every inch of him clammy with cold sweat. He sat upright so fast the world tilted, the river and trees swimming before his eyes. Morning had come, but the sky was not blue. It was a heavy, churning grey, thick with the promise of rain, the light dulled and sickly.
He dragged in a gasp, trying to steady the tremor in his hands, but the image of the dark orange eye, the thousands of dissolving shadow-children, the monolith… it clawed at the inside of his skull, refusing to leave. His breath sawed in and out of his lungs, rough and uneven, his whole body wired with a raw, animal fear he hadn't felt in years.
'The hell was that..?! It wasn't just a dream,' he thought, his internal voice sharp, frantic. 'Something's wrong. Something's coming. That wasn't normal. That wasn't right!'
He lowered his gaze—and there she was.
Lynzelle clung to his arm tightly even in her sleep, her delicate hands clutching his cloak with an unconscious, desperate strength. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her hair sticking slightly to her temples. Her face, usually so bright and mischievous, was pale, her breathing ragged as if she was trapped in some nightmare of her own.
Cainan stared at her for a long, heavy moment, his heart pounding against his ribs like it wanted to tear free.
The grey clouds rolled overhead, low and menacing.
The river whispered quietly.
And somewhere, far away, something old and terrible turned its gaze toward the waking world.
"Something's happening…"