It was the same snake that ate its own tail, the one she saw every day on the walls of the facility, on the banners and buildings of Einhartturm. The eternal serpent, its implied iris set at the center, ever watching the movements of its enemies. The same symbol she had seen etched into an object emitting a purple haze, taken from the larger cultist’s body.

  Her body felt suspended in time.

  The serpent from the brand forced its way into her mouth, choking her as it spewed venom at the same time, melting her organs from within. Her hands shook violently. Her vision blurred, losing focus, and a migraine stabbed through her skull like an obsidian spear, tearing through her thoughts and rending everything asunder.

  Her breath grew short and shallow, as if the air itself had vanished. She dropped the cylindrical object to the ground. Her knees buckled, and she fell, the shrapnel that had pierced her earlier now burning again, reignited by sheer panic.

  Why does these guys have it? are they Herr Leopold’s spy? But why are they here?!

  Putting the words into her mind was enough to make her retch. She wanted to be useful instead she become a trouble. No wonder the girl back then shouted at them as if they were Imperium.

  Now she thought about it, that’s exactly it, the familiar sensation when looking at the she-beast from back then. She was a Spliterrmarsch, Leopold’s division of test subject which were almost complete. They were present during the battle of Einhartturm.

  She vomited.

  Does this mean I am a traitor?

  ‘Vierna… what should we do?’ Moony’s voice come from her head trembling and scared. Even she knew how severe killing an agent of Reich was.

  I…I… And yet she didn’t know how to calm Moony down because honestly she already used all her strength not to fainted from the thought of betrayal.

  “Here she is!”

  A sharp voice came from the grass. Vierna quickly snatched up the cylindrical object and stuffed it into her pocket. For a moment, she thought it was the Einhartturm’s agents—sent directly by Leopold to kill her for her betrayal. She braced herself for the end.

  But the figure that emerged from the grass was someone else entirely.

  Blonde hair caught the fading light like a sun breaking through darkness. Her face was mature, her figure poised and confident—familiar, yet not the one Vierna was used to seeing. It was Lina.

  “Oh Gods, Vierna, what happened to you?” she cried, rushing forward.

  Lina dropped to her knees beside her, hands trembling as they hovered over the cuts and burns that marred Vierna’s skin. Her breath hitched when she saw the blood seeping through the torn fabric, the raw burn marks along her arm.

  “You’re burning up,” she whispered, voice breaking. She tried to steady her hands but failed; they shook as she brushed a smear of blood from Vierna’s cheek.

  Her eyes flicked over every wound, desperate to understand how much of her was still whole. The sight of Vierna barely holding herself upright made her throat tighten. She pressed her forehead against Vierna’s for a heartbeat, eyes glistening.

  Vierna could feel her warmth, the tremor in her voice—fear and affection tangled into one. Her presence alone was enough to drown her worry for a bit, as if anything going to be all right. As if she didn’t kill Leopold’s scout.

  “Hehe… Hi Aline…” Vierna said weakly. Her adrenaline stopped leaving her as the scared little girl he was.

  “SOMEBODY HELP US!” Lina screamed with all the air in her lungs, as if she were the one in pain.

  Moments later, several villagers emerged from the brush and rushed to help.

  “Fenric is over there… He can’t move. Please, help him,” Vierna said, pointing toward his location.

  “Not to worry, Fr?ulein. You’re safe now.” A tall, broad-shouldered elf said as he ran toward Fenric’s position.

  “What in God’s name happened here?” a familiar voice called from behind the bushes. It was Loran’del. His pale skin shimmered faintly under the moonlight. “We heard gunshots from the village. We thought something had happened and followed the noise.”

  He scanned the area, his sharp eyes landing on the piles of crates and supplies scattered around the camp. “Whose camp is this?”

  “Over here, Chief,” a voice answered from near the larger figure, a beastkin crouched beside a corpse. “What the hell is this thing?”

  “They’re cultists,” Vierna lied instinctively. “Fenric and I ambushed them.”

  “What?!” Loran’del snapped. His hand trembled with fury. “Do you have any idea what you—”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Now is not the time for that!” Lina shouted. “Look at her! She’s badly wounded. She needs medical attention immediately!”

  Loran’del turned to Vierna. She caught the look on his face, worried and conflicted. Despite his suspicions about her, there was genuine concern in his eyes. It made her wonder why he cared so much for someone he still did not trust. Was he simply kind, or was there something else behind that concern?

  She could not guess what his true motive was. Her mind was still trapped in the mistake she had made, so she let it go.

  “Chief… what should we do with these supplies?” another man asked.

  Loran’del raised two fingers and traced a smooth, deliberate curve in the air. Thin threads of violet mana followed his gesture, shimmering like liquid glass. A rune flared to life at the tip of his hand, angular and sharp-edged, humming with restrained energy.

  “Velas’nir,” he murmured while closed his eyes.

  The word carried weight, low and resonant, as if the air itself obeyed. A magic circle unfolded at their feet, its lines drawn not by light but by vibration, faint pulses that rippled through the ground like the echo of a deep drumbeat. The glow was faint—a cold bluish hue that seemed to absorb more light than it gave.

  Vierna felt it in her chest before she saw anything. The air thickened, pressing against her lungs, and the faint scent of iron and ozone filled her nose. Shadows quivered, stretching toward the crates as if drawn by invisible threads. Then came a whispering sound—soft, almost insect-like—the noise of mana resonating against the runes.

  “The crates are clear. Bring everything back to Rolbart. We won’t leave anything behind if they truly belonged to the Cult. However, do not eat from it. Aila, check the contents for poison or anything suspicious. We don’t need food poisoning in Rolbart right now. Proceed carefully, everyone.”

  “Right! Now stand back and let me inventory every crate,” said a beastkin woman—the same one who had stitched Lina’s back.

  Vierna caught the sound of laughter and relief from the villagers nearby. She knew these supplies were exactly what they needed. Under different circumstances, she might have been hailed as a hero for bringing them back. Yet something gnawed at her.

  Loran’del had clearly cast a spell to detect mana residue, and yet he hadn’t said a word about the cylindrical object she still carried. Her hand brushed against her pocket. The faint violet trail was still there, pulsing softly. It was still emitting mana.

  Did he notice and pretend otherwise? What’s his angle?

  “Fr?ulein Vierna, I know you must be tired. However, I think we can agree that both you and Fenric owe us an explanation. After we return to Rolbart, please tell us what happened.”

  “Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” Lina interjected. “Look at her wounds—she was barely conscious after everything.”

  “It’s okay, Aline,” Vierna replied. “Of course, Herr Loran’del, Fenric and I will explain everything that happened here.”

  “Thank you for your understanding.” Loran’del smiled sharply.

  After a while, they brought Fenric back to the camp. He was being carried by the broad-shouldered elf from before.

  “Hi, Fenric. Are you okay?” Vierna asked.

  “Yeah… I’ve lived through worse.” Fenric smiled faintly.

  “Really?”

  “Nope. This is the worst I’ve ever been, haha…” He laughed.

  “Who is this?” Lina whispered to Vierna.

  “He’s Rolbart’s hunter. I’ll explain everything later.”

  Loran’del scanned the area again. “Is everything done?”

  “Yes, Chief,” Aila replied after finishing the inventory of the crates.

  “Good. Let’s return to Rolbart. Keep your eyes open, everyone—there could still be cultists around.”

  They returned with the villagers. Both Fenric and Vierna were carried on a cart, conjured through the villagers’ combined effort. Along the way, Vierna couldn’t still her thoughts. The word traitor kept ringing in her head like a bell that refused to stop. She tried her best to keep her composure while thinking of a way to escape the mess she had fallen into.

  Every creak of the cart’s wheels seemed to echo that word. The rhythmic jolts against the uneven road rattled through her bones, keeping her from resting even for a moment. The air smelled of sweat, damp earth, and blood—thick, metallic, and warm on her tongue. Each breath only fed the unease coiling in her chest.

  The memory of what she had done clung to her like oil she couldn’t scrub off. The. What if Loran’del already knew? What if he had seen the truth in her eyes? The thought made her pulse quicken until she could hear it in her ears, drowning out the murmurs of the villagers around her.

  She kept her head low, forcing her breathing into even rhythm, trying not to let her fear show. Her hands trembled once, then steadied against the edge of the cart. Somehow, she managed not to break—no wild outburst, no confession, no scream clawing out of her lungs. Even she was surprised by that. Because deep down, she wanted to scream until the forest answered.

  The smoke from the cylindrical object didn’t help either. She could see it coming out of her pocket, just like the first time she saw it—but no one asked her, no one even noticed. Whether they were saving their questions until they got back to the village or simply hadn’t seen it, Vierna didn’t know.

  Vierna felt the aftermath settling in late, like bruises blooming after the pain had already passed. Her brows stayed drawn together no matter how she tried to relax them, sweat clinging to her skin despite the cold air.

  Normally, success brought a familiar warmth—something bright and uncomplicated. Even after death tiresome training, or invasive procedure, there was usually a moment where her chest loosened, where relief and pride slipped through and her thoughts cleared. She knew that about herself. Lina knew it too.

  But this time, the feeling didn’t come.

  She was aware of eyes on her. Villagers moving around them, voices overlapping, too many people too close. The wrong place to falter. The wrong place to ask questions she wasn’t ready to answer herself.

  A gentle touch brushed through her hair.

  Vierna stiffened for half a heartbeat before she realized it was Lina. The motion was small, careful—nothing that would draw attention. Just enough to ground her, to remind her where she was and who stood beside her.

  The touch seemed to snap Vierna back to reality. She looked at Lina and smiled, faintly, almost as if it might be the last time she ever saw her. Lina’s face showed worry at that, yet no words came.

  When they finally reached the village, Aila directed both Fenric and Vierna to her hut, where she began tending their wounds. According to her, Vierna’s shrapnel injury wasn’t too deep, and the bullet fragments would eventually dissolve on their own like most things created by runes. Fenric was bandaged and stitched, and Vierna received the same treatment. Luckily, with the new supplies they had recovered, there were herbs strong enough to numb the pain.

  At last, they were brought to the meeting hall. It was crowded with villagers—almost everyone in Rolbart seemed to be there. Vierna and Fenric were seated in front of Loran’del, as if in the middle of a court session.

  “So,” Loran’del began calmly, “would you tell us what exactly happened?”