Korie kept his head down. His heart stopped beating for a moment, caught between those words of hers and squeezed in sudden fear. Cold sweat, clenched fists. Shadows that moved wrong measured right up with his form. Flickering limbs, floating sand. She had yet to witness it, but he knew it was only a matter of time what with the fight they were headed towards.

  The horses moved at a steady trot, their hooves muffled by the soft earth of the winding path. Korie sat straight in the saddle, reins held loosely in one gloved hand, the other resting on his thigh. His confidence in riding was steadily improving. Aurelian was growing on him, too. Somewhere along the way, between long rides and shared silences, something had shifted. Aurelian had begun to respond; not just to the reins, but to Korie himself. There was an understanding now, quiet and wordless. Korie reached down briefly, fingers brushing the horse’s neck, and Aurelian flicked an ear back toward him in acknowledgment. Trust, maybe.

  Aurumvale was thinning behind them, the dense trees giving way to open sky and low hills. The forest had always felt quiet, but out here it was a different kind of silence, less... sheltered, more exposed. Korie didn’t know much about this part of the land. He was used to dark trees and dense woods, not open paths and shifting wind.

  The birch trees were everywhere now. Tall and pale, with bark that peeled in thin strips and black knots that looked like eyes. They were strange to him. Too still. Back in those cold, tainted woods, the ones whose memories still dragged him from sleep in the dead of night, the trees had been older. Dark. Tangled together like they were hiding something. These ones stood apart, spaced out like they had no secrets to whisper at all.

  Korie didn’t say much as they moved through. He'd glance at Lyra from time to time, discreet and silent. What could he even say after all that she'd told him? War was horrible, one way or another. He kept his mind elsewhere. His thoughts were already climbing those cliffs, already picking out the shape of wings in the sky and calculating how many arrows it would take.

  They reached a narrow stream, its fast-moving water cutting across the path with a steady hiss. Korie slowed Aurelian and let him drink, watching the way the land shifted ahead. The trees grew thinner, the ground rougher with patches of exposed stone, uneven slopes, and fewer places to take cover. The air felt colder here, the wind sharper. Harpy country, by the looks of it. He nudged Aurelian forward, eyes scanning the ridgeline as they pressed on.

  The sun was turning a warm, late afternoon gold as they reached the foot of the rise, where the soft grass ended and the land turned rough. Cracked stone jutted out between patches of dry grass, the slope ahead steep but not vertical; just enough to make riding impossible. His horse pawed at the uneven ground, uneasy. Korie patted its neck and looked up at the cliff above, its jagged edge cutting into the sky. They’d have to pick their way up carefully, no climbing gear, just steady feet and a good sense of balance.

  “Looks like we walk from here,” Korie said, sliding down from the saddle.

  Lyra dismounted in a single, fluid movement, landing in the sparse grass and loose stone with a solid thud. Orion huffed behind her, ears swivelling toward the cliffs ahead, already uneasy. She gave him a quiet pat on the shoulder, fingers brushing over the leather strap near his bridle. He wouldn’t like being left behind, not while danger still lingered up ahead but even he could sense that the slope wasn’t meant for hooves.

  Her gaze lifted to the cliffs above and she pressed her lips together in a thin line. The rise was steeper than she liked.

  The earth rose in sharp, grey ridges, fractured by time and weather. Jagged shelves jutted out unevenly, and what little trail there was had been half-swallowed by erosion. The birch forest had stopped behind them, and ahead lay only stone and wind. One bad step would be sure to send you tumbling back down. No cover. No climbing gear. Only boots, balance and careful steps would get them through this.

  She stared up at the ridge with a soldier’s eye, scanning for natural paths, for choke points, for shadowed hollows where something with wings and talons might be waiting. Nothing moved but she knew better than to trust stillness.

  There was no doubt they were in harpy territory now.

  She could feel it. Not in the wind, not in the trees, but in her spine, in the way tension began to coil there, old and familiar. Like her body remembered before her thoughts caught up. It had been too long since she’d last gone into a fight with something that had claws and wings and a taste for flesh. Too long since her blade had seen true use. Her fingers drifted to her sword hilt, resting there with a familiar weight. Steady. Ready.

  Beside her, Korie had already dismounted, boots crunching against loose gravel as he examined the base of the slope. He hadn’t said a word since pointing out that they’d need to walk. Fine by her. The quiet suited the stretch of tension still lingering between them. Whilst he considered the walk ahead, Lyra unclasped the heavy cloak at her shoulders and peeled it away with practiced efficiency, folding it in one smooth motion before securing it behind Orion’s saddle. The fabric was damp with mist and tinged with the grit of travel, but more than that, it was a liability. The wind would tug at anything loose on this climb, and the last thing she needed was for it to catch on a jagged outcropping or worse, telegraph their position to watching eyes above. Despite the chill in the air, she didn’t feel the absence of the cloak. Her armour kept heat in. Besides, discomfort meant nothing if it kept her alive.

  She adjusted her bracers and stepped forward, drawing up beside him with arms crossed over her chest.

  “They’ll have the high ground,” she muttered, eyes on the ridge. “We move slow. Test every step before you shift your weight. If you fall, there’s nothing to catch you.”

  Her tone was clipped. Professional. No softness, no warmth. Just instructions.

  She crouched, ran a gloved hand across the surface of the slope, flicking a pebble away. It bounced twice and vanished into the low brush.

  “No ledges wide enough to climb together. You’ll go second. I’ll lead.”

  There wasn’t a request in her voice. It was a command. Not out of pride, just instinct. She was used to leading. Used to giving orders and having them followed. Armour, sword, scars... she carried them all like proof that she knew how to keep people alive. And like it or not, if something swooped down, she’d be the one who met it first.

  She stood again, brushing her hand off on her thigh, and looked at him directly for the first time in several minutes.

  “If you lose footing, call it. Don’t try to play brave.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in warning, but in expectation. “I need you upright when we get to the top.”

  She turned then, planting a boot on the lowest part of the slope, testing the give of the stone with the weight of her body. It held.

  Lyra’s boots crunched against the loose shale as she started to climb, each step deliberate, each foothold tested with the precision of someone who had scaled too many ridges to count. The slope was steep, the path narrow, and the wind carried the scent of lichen and dust. Above, the sky stretched wide and pale, the sun casting long shadows that danced across the jagged rocks.?

  She didn’t look back. Not until the terrain levelled out slightly, offering a brief respite from the relentless incline. Only then did she glance over her shoulder, eyes scanning for Korie.?

  He was there, a few paces behind, his movements cautious but steady. There was a tension in his shoulders, a tightness in his jaw, but he was keeping up. For now.?

  She turned her gaze back to the path ahead. The ridge continued upward, the rocks growing more treacherous, the wind sharper. Somewhere beyond lay the harpy nest, if Fieldmaster Renn’s map was accurate. They weren’t there yet, but the signs were beginning to show - feathers caught in crevices, the occasional bone fragment bleached by the sun.

  Only when he drew level with her did she speak.

  “You good?” she asked, her voice low and clipped.

  Not concern. Not kindness. Just protocol. The same way she’d ask a scout in her unit, years ago. It meant Keep up. Don’t fall behind. Tell me now if you’re going to become a liability.

  There was an almost clinical tone in her voice. Korie wondered if they'd be okay, even with their previous quarrel hanging between them in the air like a slow acting poison.

  He was concentrating, his mind filled with thoughts of wielding his bow. His form, solid and confident as he used it, the way the string bent with great strength at the pull of an arrow. His muscles flexed reflexively with the movement; they remembered well the sensation of shooting an arrow, and they would not fail him that day. He refused to let them to due to inexperience, no, not when he'd been such a skilled marksman those ten years ago, not when he'd been able to hit his target from in between trees and allies alike, his body twisting along with his bow so naturally.

  Lyra seemed so... confident. So sure in her abilities. He was beginning to understand her title and why it had been bestowed upon her. The First Blade, Third Sentinel in action was akin to his then-superiors, the ones whose place in the cult was sacred and envied. They had that same commanding presence, that natural ability to lead the herd without a soldier unaccounted for. Repulsion came over him at the thought. Even if he knew well that Lyra was hardly the same, the memories were simply too heavy.

  "Yeah," He spoke quietly, his eyes sharp and focused on the path ahead. There was a stillness in the air, a waft of rot and blood along with it. The stench of harpies.

  The harpies’ nest rested on the cliffside near the top, built from branches, feathers, and bits of cloth carried from who knew where. It looked almost like a crown placed on the stone, wild and strange, yet fitting in its own way. Some of the branches were dark with old stains, and scraps of fabric fluttered in the wind like forgotten flags. The air was sharp and cold, filled with the sound of waves crashing far beneath. From afar, the nest seemed quiet, as if no creature lived there, but a flap of wings and an inhuman chirp here and there made it clear they'd found it.

  "Seven," Korie whispered. How many would be at their nest at that time of day? Surely some would be out hunting. They'd probably come right back if they heard the warning cries of dying harpies, however, so they'd have to be quick about it.

  All he had on his back was his bow and quiver. He'd left his personal belongings at Aurelian's side. Hopefully those harpies wouldn't catch the scent of their horses in the wind.

  He moved to hold it in one hand, his grip sure and confident. The contours along the obsidian black wood were a distant idea then, as he pulled out an arrow and slid it properly along the string.

  "I shoot once, you run in?" He offered, looking up at her.

  Though caught off guard by his assertiveness, she nodded in silent consent.

  He nodded in return, and they slowly, quietly began to stalk closer to the top. He stopped, stood still. He drew back the string, slow and deliberate, until the bow curved into a full, perfect arc. The weight of it settled into his shoulders, familiar and firm. His fingers held the nock steady, the arrow’s fletching brushing lightly against his cheek. His frost blue eye focused, observing with a confidence he'd not felt in... years. For a brief moment, all sound seemed to fall away; no wind, no wingbeats, only the sharp focus of breath and tension.

  He could not, would not miss that shot. Refused to. Not when they had the advantage. His fingers dragged along the string, and finally, released it.

  It struck true.

  The arrow had twisted through the air and into the nest, a shot so perfect that it made his ten years of listlessness seem like a bad dream. A sharp cry split the air, cutting through the wind like a blade. Wings flared wide in panic, claws scraping against stone.

  The others stirred; sharp calls answering the first, sudden motion breaking the quiet.

  He was already moving, another arrow in hand, the long missed rhythm of battle sliding into place like breath. Each step was measured, his focus narrowed to the pull of the string, the line of the next shot. He could count them now, standing around looking lost. One, two, three, four. Potentially a fifth one, the one he'd already shot. He'd hoped for an emptier nest.

  The cry pierced the air like a warning bell, shrill and ragged, and Lyra didn’t hesitate. The moment Korie’s arrow struck true, she moved, legs coiled, weight forward, blade already half-drawn as she sprinted up the remaining incline with brutal efficiency. The slope bit at her boots, loose stone slipping beneath her heels, but she didn’t falter. Her body knew what this was. It remembered the rhythm of the charge, the breathless seconds between striking and blood.

  She crested the ridge with a soldier’s grace, and the nest came into full view. It was chaos - violent, winged chaos.

  Feathers the colour of rot and ash filled the air, and the scent hit her harder than the wind ever had. Rancid. Animal. Mixed with the sharp tang of dried blood and decay. Harpies burst from the shadows like a storm of wings and shrill hunger, claws scraping against the cliff’s edge as they launched into the open.

  The first one dove low, fast and erratic. Lyra sidestepped the worst of the attack, but not cleanly. Its wing clipped her shoulder, sending her staggering into a jut of rock along the ridgeline’s curve. Her arm slammed into the stone—jagged, worn from wind—and a sharp jolt travelled through her collarbone. She gritted her teeth, steadied herself with a hand on the rock, and turned just in time to see the second one coming.

  It screeched, talons extended for her throat, and she ducked low, letting it pass above and then turned too late.

  A third came in from the side, nearly silent.

  Its claws tore across her side, a white-hot rake of pain that sliced through leather and caught skin beneath. Not deep, but enough to burn. Lyra staggered back with a grunt, balance lost. Her boot caught on uneven stone and her back slammed into the hard earth. She hit the ground with a brutal crack, armour grinding against stone. The air punched from her lungs.

  Then the harpy landed.

  Its weight crashed down over her, driving the wind further from her chest. Talons scraped across her pauldrons, scrabbling for a hold, and its jaw snapped, unhinged, teeth yellow and hooked. It bit down hard on her raised sword, and the shriek of metal-on-enamel scraped through her skull. Sparks flew. Hot spit flung across her cheek, slick and rank, reeking of rot and old blood. The stench was unbearable.

  One of its claws raked across her stomach, screeching off her breastplate and catching in the straps beneath. Another slashed at her thigh, catching the exposed seam just above the greave. Sharp. Pain flared.

  She twisted. One arm pinned beneath its reeking chest. The other trapped at an awkward angle. Her knee came up fast, hard into the crook of its leg. Then again, jamming into its lower belly. The harpy hissed, reared back in fury, wings lifting to strike again. Lyra didn't let it. She surged upward, shoulder bracing into its sternum as she yanked her sword arm free. The blade came up in a blur, and she carved it sideways, catching the flesh of its throat. Not deep. Not enough.

  Blood sprayed across her face in a steaming arc.

  It shrieked, bucked, and twisted, tearing away from her grip, its claws raking at her chest and jaw. The edge of one caught the side of her neck and she felt the sting of it, warm blood beginning to run. Still, Lyra held on. She caught it by the back of the head, fingers tangled in matted feathers and bone, and drove her sword upward - brutal, unflinching, through the base of its skull with a sickening crack.

  It spasmed once and collapsed, slack and dead, sprawled across her.

  For a long second, she just lay there beneath it. Breathing ragged. The taste of iron and filth on her tongue. Her arms coated in thick, dark blood. Her own and the creature’s. Her chest heaved, every breath tight with bruised ribs. The weight of the body pressed into her armour, heavy and wet. Then, with a growl, she shoved the harpy off. It slid aside with a wet thump, and she sat up, coughing, streaked in gore and ash.

  No, she was not coming out of this clean.

  Arrows flew through the air.

  Some circled them, attempting to lunge down, but Korie kept his eyes sharp and his hands steady. He shot with purpose, each arrow landing with a satisfying swoosh as it plunged within the harpies flying above.

  He hadn't been watching his surroundings well enough.

  The moment Korie spotted Lyra pinned beneath the harpy, his heart lurched and his body froze. His eyes locked onto the creature clawing at her. He raised his weapon, breath caught in his throat, desperate to strike, but before he could act, a sword pierced clean through the harpy's head, bursting out the other side with a sickening crack.

  Korie stumbled right up to her without a second thought. Nearly tripping over his own feet, eyes wide with panic and hands trembling violently as he reached out to offer her a hand, the sight of his only ally in the fight down shaking him. He could not do this alone. Without her.

  His breath hitched at the sight of her; bloodied, battered, laying down with true exhaustion and covered in crimson. He should’ve been faster. He should’ve stayed closer. He should’ve watched her back better.

  Her armour was torn through and deep gashes painted her stomach and arm with blood, seeping into the fabric beneath what little protection she had left. Damn harpies. And now she sat there, swaying, teeth clenched against the pain. The sight carved a hollow pit in his gut, sharp and aching and burning with a guilt that was too soon to understand.

  She met his eyes, then looked off behind him. Her eyes widened.

  His heart stopped beating.

  He knew what was coming before it happened. The realization hit like ice in his veins; he was a fool. He’d turned his back on the enemy in a moment of panic, and now he was about to pay for it. He could already feel the rush of air, the beating of wings behind him. The next harpy was close, too close and it would only be seconds, maybe less before claws would tear through his back and blood would spill.

  Time seemed to grind to a halt, the chaos around him fading into a dull roar.

  "They've done good work on you, lad."

  And then instinct took over.

  Something in him split, like a thread snapping in the depths of his chest. The world blurred and his body collapsed into shadow.

  It wasn’t darkness, not exactly. It was a roiling, gritty black; like smoke made of sand, swirling and grinding and unnatural. It began right through his heart, a hole opening, rapidly spreading to the tips of his fingers and toes. It was so quick that it was impossible to see, yet he felt his every cell reforming, perfectly attuned to the ancient power within. He hit the ground, not with a thud but with a soundless ripple, a wave of sand whipping beneath the harpy’s swipe, too fast, too impossible to catch.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The harpy’s claws sliced empty air where his chest had been a heartbeat before.

  Korie surged behind it, reforming in an instant; the shadow twisting, coalescing, becoming him again, breathless and shaking but alive. His eyes were wide, freckles glowing bright with leftover magic, and the harpy turned just in time to see his dagger drive clean through its chest. Again, again, again.

  Silence fell for half a second. Blood drenched Korie's hands and blade. Then, the creature dropped, right off the side of the cliff as he kicked it away.

  The shadows still clung to him. Even as it peeled back from his skin, curling away like reluctant smoke, it left a cold hum beneath his ribs, ancient and low, like something old and half-awake had stirred inside him and wasn’t quite ready to sleep again. It wasn’t magic. Not the kind he knew, not the kind anyone taught. It hadn’t been cast, or summoned.

  It was his curse.

  A flash of movement caught his eye. Another harpy dove, wings beating the air with murderous intent. Korie’s hands tightened on his bow as he sheathed his blade. There was still a fight to be had.

  She met his eyes for only a heartbeat, and then the world split. Korie evaporated as if erased by an unseen hand. One moment he had been standing before her and in the next instant, he was nothing more than a memory. There was no swirling haze of smoke, no incantation, no whispered spell. Instead, he collapsed inward like a room draining of its very light, his body crumpling upon itself in a silent, disconcerting ripple. In the void left behind, there was not merely an absence of darkness like the creeping shadows of twilight. It was something profoundly wrong, something that writhed and bucked like sand caught in a maelstrom of ash, thick and unnatural, as if a curse had taken solidity and flesh.

  Lyra’s lungs seized. Her hand flew to her belt, seeking the comforting weight of a blade. Her heart beat once—twice—then thundered into overdrive. Her vision narrowed to a point, and somewhere deep inside her, her instincts screamed.

  This is what they warned you about.

  This is the darkness. The crawling dark. The cursed.

  Every lesson came flooding back with violent force:

  "Darkness doesn’t speak, it spreads."

  "Kill it fast. Don’t let it explain."

  "If it disappears, you’re already dead."

  Yet, she stood frozen in a moment that stretched endlessly.

  Because she recognised that face. That lean, familiar frame. Before her eyes, Korie reassembled himself behind the harpy, emerging from that viscous, crawling blackness. With swift, relentless strikes, he drove his dagger down into the creature time and again. The harpy’s agony was a bloodcurdling symphony as it shrieked, its limbs flailing in a frantic dance before in a final, contorted moment, it tumbled over the precipice, its form twisting and jerking like a dying marionette at the cliff’s edge.

  And there, where the harpy had once been, Korie now stood—breathing, alive—but he was draped in a cloak of something unholy.

  The shadows clung to him still, like tendrils of smoke unwilling to be relinquished; they curled around his limbs with a possessive grip. His freckles flared like frozen stars, piercing, unnatural, and alive with power. His hands dripped with fresh, visceral red. Lyra’s eyes were fixed on him, every detail etching itself into her memory.

  For a long, harrowing moment, she remained motionless. Her sword hung uselessly in her trembling grasp, her body cried out for action, yet her instincts locked in a silent battle with her cautious mind.

  “I don’t know what you are, Korie. Not really…”

  “…But you’re not what I was raised to hate.”

  She took a breath, bracing herself to speak—

  —and the harpy struck.

  It didn’t shriek. It didn’t warn. It came from above, silent and fast, wings pressed tight, diving like a knife from the dusk sky. She didn’t see it.

  But she felt it.

  A flicker of wind behind her, wrong and sudden, her instincts flaring too late.

  Her body slammed into the ground, jarring every wound she’d already taken, her sword skittering from her grip and clattering out of reach. Her ribs howled in protest. Her shoulder flared where bruises layered over bruises. The weight of the harpy pinned her flat, its claws digging into the seams of her armour, scraping, tearing.

  She twisted, teeth clenched against the pain, gasping through grit and blood.

  Her hand clawed across the stone, reaching for the sword that had flown from her grip, but it was too far. The harpy shrieked again, its breath hot and foul against her cheek.

  Her free hand closed around nothing.

  “Korie!” she choked out, voice raw. “My sword—!”

  Another shriek. The harpy leaned down, beak snapping inches from her face. She turned her head, twisting to avoid the blow, and screamed through her teeth:

  “KORIE!”

  The word left her throat like a blade. Not a command. Not a call to arms.

  A plea.

  Because no matter what she’d just seen, no matter the darkness or the curse or the shadows curling from his soul, he was all she had left on this cliffside and she needed him.

  Now.

  He couldn't let fear take hold.

  He surged forward, knocking her blade into her hand with a sharp kick. A shriek cut through the air behind him, and he glanced back to see the creature’s talons reaching for him.

  “Gah!” he shouted, twisting to the side. His arm and shoulder dissolved into shadow, and Korie watched the harpy lunge straight through him. It fell for the same trick as the last.

  He reached for his bow, movements swift and sure despite the chaos around him. His arm adjusted instinctively, the muscle memory of countless battles guiding him as he locked eyes on Lyra’s harpy.

  The arrow flew with deadly precision. At such close range, there was no chance he would've ever missed. The harpy let out a strangled cry as the force of the shot sent her reeling back, wings faltering.

  Without pause, he shifted his focus. The next target was already moving, but he was faster. Another arrow notched, another heartbeat held. The second harpy was next.

  His fingers moved with calm precision, nocking another arrow as if the world around him had slowed to a crawl. His eyes tracked every beat of the creature’s wings, every twitch of its limbs. He exhaled slowly, steadying his aim, not just at the body but the space just ahead of it. He anticipated where it would be, not where it was.

  The arrow shot forward, cutting through the air with a hiss. It met the harpy mid-flight, slamming into its chest just beneath the collarbone. The creature shrieked in pain and fury, spiraling off course as one wing crumpled under the force of the impact. Feathers scattered in the wind from the struggle. The harpy twisted on the ground, wings flailing and claws scraping at the dirt. Blood soaked its chest where the arrow had struck, but it wasn’t finished. With a snarl, it dragged itself toward him, eyes wild, mouth open in a shriek that barely escaped its throat.

  He stepped back, his hands shaking from the heat of the battle, drawing another arrow. He knew this kind of desperation; wounded beasts always fought the hardest just before the end. As the harpy lunged again, he didn’t wait. He released the string, and the arrow flew straight into its throat.

  The harpy let out a choking sound and froze. Its eyes widened, then slowly dimmed as its body slumped forward. Lifeless.

  There was no reason to cheer. No need to feel triumphant over the victory. Especially due to all the cuts along Lyra's body. She was drenched in blood and the sight of her like that, weak and vulnerable, caused his breath to hitch in his throat, his throat to bob with a nervous swallow.

  Here and now. Nobody would know.

  It was almost theatrical; the way she laid there, bleeding out and raw with emotion. The way he stood above her. Almost like a play that's been rehearsed before.

  He took a deep breath and kneeled beside her. He'd be putting her out of her misery, really. He would. He felt for his blade and cupped the sheath silently. It was covered in blood still, but that did not matter.

  He stayed there, unmoving.

  The blade trembled in his hand.

  He tried to picture it; her throat cut clean, the silence that would follow, the finality of it. Returning to Aurumvale, collecting their bounty. But the image wouldn’t come. Not fully. Not the way it should. His arm wouldn’t move. His heart thundered, not with certainty, but with doubt.

  Korie grit his teeth. She will get you killed or worse. But the thought fell flat. Hollow.

  He looked away. The rage he clung to was gone, scattered like dust in the wind. All that was left was the sound of her breathing; ragged, shallow, and somehow still clinging to life.

  And he couldn’t do it.

  With a sigh, he let go of his dagger and inspected her injuries. "You okay?" He asked quietly, timid. A whole other guy than the one who'd just slaughtered two harpies, maybe a third.

  The harpy’s corpse lay beside her, wings twitching in their final spasms, blood pooling beneath its ruined chest and Korie’s arrow still lodged deep in the creature’s heart, the fletching slick with gore. Lyra didn’t move.

  Not at first.

  She lay there, gasping, one hand still clutched around the hilt of her sword, the other braced on the stone beneath her which was slick with blood, some of it hers, some of it not. Her vision pulsed at the edges. Pain throbbed low and mean beneath her ribs.

  Stupid.

  That single word ignited in her mind, sharp as a shard of broken glass and unyielding in its judgment.

  You hesitated. You let it get too close. You let yourself look away.

  She hadn’t seen the dive. Hadn’t heard the wingbeats until it was too late because she’d been watching him—Korie—and the thing he’d become. That unnatural flicker of shadow. The way the world bent around him like it couldn’t decide if he was real. It had thrown her. Just for a second. A second too long.

  You’re a soldier. You don’t stop to stare at magic. You kill. You survive. You keep moving.

  Her teeth ground together in bitter determination as pain shot through her body. Her shoulder screamed with effort as she forced herself to sit up, using her blade for leverage. The weight of her armour pulled at her like a chain. Her breath came in shallow, rapid bursts as echoes of the harpy’s wingbeats thrummed in her head and the memory of its savage claws raking across her flank burned like live embers.

  Damn it.

  And then—

  His voice cut in soft, too soft for the wreckage around them. It startled her, not in fear but in contrast. There had been nothing in it. No pride, no urgency. Just a quiet question that didn’t quite seem to belong to the man she’d just seen vanish into shadow and slaughter two creatures in moments. Her gaze slid to him. He was crouched at her side, his silhouette cut from blood and death. The wind caught his coat. The blood on his hands was fresh and the freckles across his face—those strange, pale constellations—glowed.

  Not faintly. Not subtly. They pulsed, icy-white and radiant, like slivers of frost glass catching the last light of a dying sun. And they hadn’t dimmed. Even with the battle over, even with the shadows gone.

  They’re alive, she thought. The power’s still inside him.

  She couldn’t look away.

  They weren’t just markings. Not just strange pigment. They shimmered, caught in the hollow between something human and something not. Like the fragments of a spell half-buried in skin. Like frost that didn’t melt, even in blood.

  What happened to you, she thought, pulse ticking faster. What made you like this? What are you?

  Worse still, what would it feel like, if she touched them?

  She imagined it, just for a heartbeat. Reaching up with a bloodied glove, brushing the edge of his cheekbone, feeling if that light gave off heat or cold. If it would pulse beneath her fingers like a heartbeat. If the freckles would whisper something ancient into her skin.

  She didn’t move. She didn't dare.

  That wasn’t a question she was ready to answer. Not here. Not yet. Not while her sword was still on the ground and her lungs were still remembering how to breathe.

  She stared at him for a moment longer than she should’ve.

  He didn't look afraid. He didn't look safe, either.

  Then she forced her gaze away. Grounded herself in discipline. In habit.

  “…Help me up,” she said, voice hoarse but steady.

  Because she didn’t trust what had just happened.

  But she’d trust him—for now—to get her on her feet.

  Their eyes met in a look that was electric.

  Her mouth was slightly ajar, panting. The blood splattered across her face glistened as more pooled from the wounds she'd been inflicted with; a cut in the neck, a slash over her shoulder that looked nasty, one across her stomach. More wounds from the rough way she'd dropped, from how she'd been clawed at. Her armour was in a bad state, bent and damaged from being torn from that powerful claw.

  Most of all, her eyes, green and dull from shock, were wide, flickering over his face. Seeing him for who he was for the first time.

  The very shadows she was raised not to trust. The ones she'd been trained to kill. And she watched him with reluctance, hesitation. Maybe even fear.

  A cold sweat broke over Korie at the thought that he could make someone like her feel fear. That the curse in his blood, the poison coiled in his veins, could become a source of terror. That he was proving those old stories of hers right. That he was a monster, through and through.

  It was not Ire who had cursed him. His tormentor was far more tangible than a god who did not speak. His tormentor had been a man he'd known little about before the event that changed his life forever, and a man he'd come to know far too well for his liking after it.

  Tarek Nocturne.

  His powers were nothing like the ones Lyra had described when she spoke of the dark elves; their affinity for shadow, their elegant control over illusion and silence. No, what stirred in him was something altogether different. Maleficent but not in the sense of evil. It was beyond that. Beyond morality, beyond intent. It was neither dark nor light. It was absence. Emptiness. A void so complete it seemed to unmake whatever it touched. There was no will behind it, no hunger, no malice. Just the unbearable silence of nothingness, humming beneath his skin.

  It was not Tarek directly who had cursed him so. But it had acted on his will. It only knew how to take, as was its nature. He could not blame a creature that was created for the purpose of taking all that defined somebody. But he could blame him, and he did every time he looked at himself in a mirror.

  Gods. How could he even begin to explain himself to her?

  All he could do was stay silent, eyes fixed on her blade in case she chose to use it on him. With slow, cautious movements, he slipped a hand beneath her side, the other reaching to gently take hers. He eased her into a sitting position, his every motion deliberate, watching as she immediately slumped forward, her strength failing her. Swiftly, he steadied her with a hand on her opposite shoulder, his gaze never leaving her face, alert to every flicker of pain or intent.

  "I-- I've got a healing potion in my bag. I could go get it," He spoke, his voice worried for the both of them. "Bandages too. I know a, uh, a healing spell," Korie muttered, losing confidence in his own words. Maybe casting magic was not a good idea after the other kind he'd just exposed to her.

  He felt vulnerable in the worst possible way. Not the kind born of weakness, but the kind that came from exposure, from being seen too deeply. It was akin to peeling away a layer of skin only to reveal something raw and terrifyingly cold beneath. Not scars, not wounds, but the ugliest truth of who he was, the part he kept buried even from himself.

  Lyra's eyes were emotionless, revealing nothing.

  "Let's just get out of here," He said, nerves getting to him as he helped her to her feet. He kept her steady by a hand at her waist, the other holding her arm.

  Lyra didn't resist. Her legs felt weak and unsteady, barely able to support her as her muscles trembled from the strain, and each breath sent a sharp ache radiating through her ribs. Yet that wasn't why she allowed him to steady her. It wasn't mere weakness that froze her spine when his hand slipped to her waist. It was something far deeper, something older and more ingrained.

  Her own arm fell across his back - out of necessity, nothing more - and her body tensed, every fiber tightening like a bowstring pulled to its breaking point. Not because of physical pain, but because of memories and ancient doctrines that pressed heavily upon her mind.

  You were raised to kill what he is.

  That sentence had once been a quiet whisper in her ear, but now it hissed violently inside her like a sharpened blade unsheathed - smooth, familiar and utterly unwelcome. From her childhood, those warnings had been her constant companion and her first training. Even before she could properly wield a sword or hoist the heavy shield bestowed upon her, the warning had been carved into her very being: if it moves like a living shadow, if it draws strength from darkness, if it slips through cracks in the world - strike it down before it strikes you.

  Korie hadn't struck her; he hadn't even looked at her in that way. Here she was, leaning heavily on him, her injured body bleeding onto him, accepting the burden of his support. He should have been the one to scare her, to force her to recoil and instinctively draw her weapon. She had battled creatures in the dark, fought monstrous beings, and clashed with men who were consumed by a thirst for power... but Korie was different.

  He didn't seem driven by hunger, wasn't swollen with pride, and he even seemed uncertain - even fragile - in ways that scared her more than any fierce enemy ever could. Had he projected triumph, had he stood tall and exuded that intoxicating inner strength, she might have been able to make a clear, calculated choice. Drawn her blade. Taken the next step toward survival, toward certainty. Instead, his demeanour was so unassuming, so unmistakably real in its doubt and hesitation, that all the certainty she’d clung to her entire life began to feel perilously brittle.

  Korie’s hands were steady as he braced her, careful not to jar her too roughly. His voice, when it came, was low and earnest. The word spell lingered longer than the rest.

  Lyra flinched imperceptibly, not in a way that would catch his eye unless he were watching intently, but something deep within her spine clenched. Her jaw tightened and her fingers involuntarily twitched against his shoulder as she leaned on him, while a relentless drumbeat of pain pulsed in her side. She could sense her blood seeping out slowly, sticky and dark beneath the worn leather of her attire. All her well-trained logic screamed that she should accept his offer and nod, allow him to mend her broken skin before infection or worse took hold.

  Yet, Lyra shook her head.

  “No magic,” she murmured, her voice coming out dry and rough like gravel. It wasn’t a sharp rebuke, nor was it laced with anger, it was simply final. She didn't explain. She couldn't.

  Lyra wasn’t afraid of magic, not in the way the common folk were. She had grown up steeped in it. Her adoptive father would use magic to ignite the warm hearth every chilly winter evening. Her mother had whispered to Sol and Luar for guidance with every full moon. Her brother, Cyrien, had learned to summon moonlight from the tips of his fingers before he could even hold a sword properly. Magic was a steady, familiar presence, a sacred force woven into the tapestry of her upbringing.

  But this-

  His magic-

  That thing she’d seen curl out of him like smoke and hunger and silence, it wasn’t what she'd been raised on. It wasn’t light drawn down from gods or elemental threads shaped into order. It wasn’t divine, or arcane, or even wild.

  It was other.

  And her body remembered it. Remembered what it felt like when it passed through the air near her. Like her very blood had turned cautious. Like something old and wordless had recoiled in her gut.

  Lyra didn't think that he intended to hurt her, yet allowing that kind of magic from someone like him, after everything she'd been taught, after what she'd seen with her own eyes, it felt like crossing a line she wasn't ready to cross. Not yet. Not when her sword was still in her hand. Not when the sight of his power still echoed behind her eyes.

  “No magic,” she said again, quieter this time. Like an apology she didn’t quite know how to offer. Then, she kept walking and letting him carry part of her weight, even if everything in her upbringing told her she should've run him through.

  They moved slowly down the cliffside again, each step careful on the uneven ground. Korie kept a firm grip on Lyra, doing his best to support her without causing more pain. She winced now and then, her breathing shallow, and sweat clung to her skin even though the breeze was cool.

  Finally, they reached the bottom. Their horses were still there, standing under a crooked tree. Aurelian and Orion lifted their heads at the sound of footsteps, letting out soft snorts and walking closer with interest. Orion nudged Korie lightly as he helped Lyra sit down on a flat rock nearby.

  She let out a quiet hiss of pain and held her shoulder. Korie gave her a quick look to make sure she was okay, then turned to his saddlebags. He opened them quickly, the leather straps creaking as he pulled them apart. He grabbed rolls of bandages, a jar of salve and a healing potion, a flask of water, and a clean cloth. He laid everything out in a tidy line next to her, moving with steady hands, as if some part of him still remembered how to do this even after all this time.

  He took his time with the first aid, working carefully until the sunset bathed them both in warm orange light. Lyra’s shoulder was neatly bandaged, and the healing potion she drank had quickly stopped the worst of the bleeding. His work was surprisingly well done as far as basic treatment went, especially for how long it had been since the last time he'd helped an ally on the battlefield. He hesitated, but wiped the blood off her face with the clean cloth anyway, his touch tender and almost afraid.