The girl stood still, small against the stone and quiet wood of the hall, her eyes raised to the figure before her.

  The Arkmarschall.

  The man stands tall and imposing, his presence sharpened by age and discipline. His hair is silver-white, styled neatly back, a stark contrast to the black eyepatch covering his left eye. His face is weathered yet stern, the lines of experience and authority clear in his expression.

  He wears a long, black, high-collared coat adorned with ornate metallic embroidery and insignias that suggest both rank and prestige. A heavy chain drapes across his chest, anchoring medallions and symbols of office. Beneath the coat, his attire is formal and militaristic, buttoned tightly with rows of brass fastenings. His gloved hand grips the head of a finely crafted cane, further emphasizing both command and dignity.

  He seems to be shaped by two lives: one of marching through ash, and one of writing symbols in ink older than language. His posture was precise. Like a line drawn with a ruler and meant never to be erased.

  He looked at the girl not with cruelty, nor pity.

  But with calculated interest, as one might regard a rare specimen, or a mechanism yet untested.

  The girl stood before him, the hem of her coat brushing her feet, her small hands folded tight in front of her.

  She straightened her back and lowered her head in the precise, shallow tilt taught to children when addressing nobility.

  “Arkmarschall Einhart.”

  Her voice was soft and formal. He gave a single nod, saying nothing.

  She knew she was supposed to stay quiet, to accept her fate or let Elra speak for her. But before she realized it, the words had already slipped from her mouth—like the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat, and this cat couldn’t hold it in.

  “What happens to the other children? The ones you take.”

  “That’s not a question to ask,” Elra murmured, firm. “It’s –“

  Leopold did not look at her. He simply lifted one gloved hand in a small, crisp motion.

  Elra stopped speaking.

  “…”

  “I was just… curious. About your work. That’s all.”

  Leopold’s expression did not change.

  “Some are studied,” he said, “some are used.”

  The girl lowered her eyes, just for a moment.

  Her breath caught in her throat—barely, but enough.

  It was as if the ouroboros etched in Leopold’s sigil came alive. It crept over her skin, coiling upward from her legs to her neck. The grip tightened, slow and merciless, like a python intent on strangling its prey, choking the life from her. Only now did she understand what it meant to be caught in the gaze of the One-Eyed Snake.

  “This is not an order. This is an invitation, and you are free to decline. But be reminded: when the orphanage closes and no one takes you in, you will be sent to the Aschezug Division.”

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  “How did— “ Elra did not continue. It seems that the answer was obvious enough. She could already guess what had happened.

  “If magic is what you want, then you know what to do,” he said, watching the girl. Her eyes, the moment the word magic was spoken, locked onto him.

  The silence returned, colder than before. The girl’s gaze dropped to the floor. Leopold watched her a moment longer, expression unreadable. But he knew. He had said everything that needed to be said.

  “I will return tomorrow.”

  Then he turned and walked away.

  The heavy doors closed behind him, leaving only quiet, and the fading echo of his footsteps down the hall.

  Elra saw it in the girl’s eyes, something flickering there. A fire, an ember beginning to catch. She couldn’t allow it. That man, if he could even be called a man, was not someone who would lead her to happiness.

  “You don’t have to follow him,” she said gently, quieter than before, “you’re still a child. There are other ways to live. Ways that don’t demand you bleed for every step forward.”

  The girl said nothing.

  Elra stepped closer, voice steady—but a tightness had crept in, quiet and raw. She folded her hands together to hide the way her fingers twitched.

  “You could become a healer. Or study litany. Or teach. You’re sharp—sharper than most twice your age.”

  A soft breath left her nose. Not quite a sigh.

  “Magic never wanted me either,” she said. “I know what that feels like.”

  Still no response. So Elra pressed on.

  “Do you know who he really is?”

  Her tone remained even, but her hands had started to tremble.

  “Not rumor. History. The Siege of H?llstein. You’ve read about it.”

  The girl gave no sign, but Elra went on.

  “He sent a thousand forward. Barely trained conscripts, the young ones. A draft division like Aschezug.”.

  “He knew they wouldn’t survive.” She continued, tears starting to well up her eyes. This was someone trying to save her from a certain painful future. “That was the point. He wanted the enemy to believe they had won, to let down their guard.”

  “Then, alone, he crossed the river at night, slipped into their camp, and slit the throat of the high commander.”

  Elra’s voice wavered.

  She looked at the girl.

  “He’s a monster. And he doesn’t care if you think he is.”

  “…”

  “Please don’t go.”

  The girl shifted, just slightly. Her lips parted—then closed again. No sound came. She swallowed hard, as if words had formed and died in her throat. Her fingers curled tight around the hem of her dress.

  Then, slowly, she looked up. She nodded, then after a while she turned and walked to her chamber.

  It felt colder now. Not from wind or draft—just from the quiet weight of a decision made. That night, the girl lay in her cot, still dressed, eyes open. She hadn’t moved for a long time. She pulled the blanket up trying to ward off the cold but it didn’t help since it came from inside

  For a moment—just a moment—she thought about what Elra said. The chapel. A quiet life. Warm beds. Soft bread

  As she tried to close her eyes, deciding it was probably best not to follow the Snake, she heard it.

  A voice, as clear as Elra’s, yet impossible—because it came from the moon, beckoning her to gaze at it.

  It hung in the sky, watching her choose her fate, weighing her every decision like a goddess judging her moonlit-haired child, offering a life of peace or a life of relevance. The vast, infinite dark stretched above, scattered with thousands of stars that now seemed like eyes, waiting.

  Despite how terrifying it should have been, she did not feel fear. Those stars that had turned into eyes were not only looking at her—they were looking into her. And here, only Elra had ever truly done that.

  The advice, however, seemed to come from someone who she felt truly loved her, even if that love was sometimes veiled by pity. Becoming a nun shouldn’t have been so bad, but it would take her away from…

  Magic.

  Something she dreamed of every day, something she obsessed over.

  Then she remembered a fairy tale—the kind no one really told anymore.

  There was once a man whose lover was the goddess of the moon. Divided by the endless sky, he spent every day searching for a way to reach her. At last, he crafted wings and flew toward the moon, but a storm struck him down. When they found him, he was dead—yet he wore a smile, because for one fleeting moment he had felt closer to his beloved.

  No one told it to be hopeful. It wasn’t. But the girl had always liked it. Because the man tried. Because the moon mattered. Because a trying could still be worth everything.

  She pressed her hand to the windowsill, feeling its chill against her skin. Her fingers curled.

  If she had wings, would she not try the same? Even knowing they’d tear? Even knowing the fall?

  in meantime i hope you enjoy the new subchapter cheers