The door clicked shut behind you. Everything else was quiet.

  No wind or crickets. Just the sound of water dripping from the trees.

  You took three steps before you saw them.

  A dozen of them, standing spread across the yard. They weren’t trying to hide. They wanted you to see them, with hands on their hilts, crossbows already drawn. Faces hard.

  They had you surrounded.

  At the center stood a man with a wide-brimmed hat and a red scarf wrapped around his face. His sword was already out, resting against his shoulder.

  He didn’t speak right away.

  Just looked at you. Then Vael. Then back again.

  The silence stretched.

  Finally, he pulled the scarf down and let out a slow breath. “Funny thing,” he said. “Since the day you showed up, this place hasn’t had a moment’s rest. First the tavern — blood on the ceiling, and no one talking. Then the rain, right in the middle of the rites. Never seen it fall that time of year.”

  He paced a little, one boot dragging behind the other. “So I ask around. Some farmer says you’re from the council. Someone else swears you're Guild. But me?” He stopped. “I think you’re trouble.”

  Vael said nothing. Neither did you.

  Behind him, one of the men spat in the dirt. “Bet they’re the ones who did Delmer and Threshka. You can tell by their eyes. It’s written all over those ugly faces.”

  Another voice followed, rough and bitter. “Didn’t even leave enough of her for a proper burning! What kind of sick fucks do that?”

  You looked around. Crossbows held steady. The other men were tense, but not charging. Not yet.

  Their nameless leader said nothing. He just watched you, jaw tight.

  “Thing is,” he said quietly, “they might be right.”

  He marched forward, boots grinding slow into the dirt.

  “There’s gotta be justice,” he went on. “And out here, I’m the only law that matters. Everything that moves, trades, drinks, or bleeds goes through me. Far as I see it—”

  He stopped just short of Vael.

  “—you two are as guilty as the graves you left behind.”

  For a moment, no one moved.

  You felt Vael glance your way. Just a flick of the eyes — enough to ask, Ready?

  You met his look. No words passed between you, but something settled in the silence. Agreement.

  Then a noise cut through the tension. Soft steps. You turned your head just a bit — enough to see someone edging into view.

  It was the vegetable seller. The same man from the market, the one with the hunched shoulders and shifty eyes. He stayed close to the leader’s side, like he had been standing there all along, just trying not to be noticed.

  His voice was shaky. “Master Corran… please. You said you’d just scare ’em. That’s what you promised.”

  The seller looked at you, then back at the ground. “They didn’t do nothin’ wrong. Not that anyone saw. I just thought—if they leave quiet, then maybe that’s the end of it.”

  He swallowed hard.

  “You start killing folk like them, more’ll come. And the next ones… they won’t ask questions first.”

  Corran turned toward him slowly. His eyes didn’t blink.

  “You shut your mouth.”

  Then, without a second thought, he shoved the seller to the ground.

  “You don’t get to weep about it now, you little worm.”

  The man hit the dirt, hands scrambling at the loose stones. One of Corran’s men chuckled, gave him a light kick.

  That was all it took.

  The others started laughing — loud and cruel.

  “Look at him,” one muttered. “Pissing himself over ghost stories.”

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  “Stupid sods think every shadow’s a curse,” another said, shaking his head. “No wonder they need people like us.”

  A third snorted. “Town like this? They’d pray to a puddle if it shimmered.”

  They laughed again.

  The seller didn’t answer. Just stayed where he was, hands pressed to the ground like he wanted to disappear into it.

  Vael let out a sigh.

  Then he stepped forward.

  One of the crossbowmen flinched.

  “You’ve made your point,” Vael said. “We’ve heard the warning. But if you’re smart, you’ll walk away now. This ends better for everyone.”

  Corran smiled. “Look at you,” he said. “Still thinking you’re in control.”

  He lifted a hand and waved off the crossbows. “You think I’m scared of two freaks in wet coats?”

  He moved closer — slow and heavy. Each step sank deep in the mud.

  “You don’t talk like Guild,” he said. “Sure as shit don’t dress like council, either.”

  He stopped a few paces out, raising his sword to Vael.

  “So which one is it, then? Huh?” He barked. “Who sent you? Or are you just demons out of hell, like they say — come to burn what’s left?”

  He held your gaze, waiting. Fingers tightened on the hilt. Shoulders squared.

  Then a voice broke through, low and sure.

  “All right.”

  Corran’s head turned at the sound.

  It was Vael.

  He came forward, his coat dragging behind him like a tail. There was fire in him now — not fury, though that would come. Just something cold. Committed.

  “You want a name?” he said. “Here’s one.”

  He turned his head, slow, until his eyes landed on you.

  And held there.

  That look said everything.

  Vael slid his sword to his left hand. Then raised his right.

  Fingers spread. Palm to the sky.

  He spoke — not in any tongue men would know. Not even one you fully understood. But you felt it. Felt it in your chest, in the soil, in the sudden stillness that gripped the trees.

  “I summon thee,” he said.

  “érythrítē.”

  His arm lifted, slow and smooth. The sleeve of his coat fell back. And that’s when you saw it.

  The mark.

  A shape burned into his skin. Something not meant for mortal eyes. It glowed.

  No — it shined.

  Like metal under fire.

  Like a brand pulled from the forge.

  The light bled across his coat. His blade caught it too — faint at first, then shimmering violet. Like the sword itself bore the name just spoken.

  You could smell it. Metal and blood, something divine and wrong.

  “What the hell…” one of the thugs muttered.

  Corran’s eyes widened — but he didn’t flinch. He took another step.

  “You really are devils,” he muttered. “I knew it. Gods damn me, I knew it.”

  His hand rose.

  The crossbows fired.

  You dropped flat. One bolt hissed past your ear — the other cracked against Vael’s shoulder plate and skipped off with a sharp metallic ring.

  He barely flinched. His sword came up as he surged forward like a striking wolf, the edge catching a glint of purple from the mark on his arm.

  Chaos.

  You rolled up from the dirt, caught your footing, and drove your blade into the nearest thug’s leg. He buckled with a cry. You ripped the knife from his belt and didn’t think — just acted.

  Blood sprayed warm across your face.

  One man turned to scream. Another turned to run. But Vael was already on the move, cutting down the second crossbowman in a clean stroke.

  Corran lunged in, faster than he looked, and their blades clashed — iron screaming, sparks flying, mud spraying from their boots.

  They pushed apart.

  Vael staggered back a step, like absorbing something from the blow.

  Then he twisted — a full-bodied turn, dragging his sword with him. The blade hummed, purple light threading down the length of it like veins of fire. When the swing completed, he let go.

  A pulse tore from the edge.

  It wasn’t a sound — it was pressure. A wave of raw force, arcing straight toward the third crossbowman just as he raised his weapon.

  It hit him.

  He didn’t fall. He came apart. A clean, awful slice. His top half peeled away like wet bark. Behind him, the trees bent with the blast. Branches cracked. A line of distant limbs fell in silence.

  The rest froze.

  Corran stumbled back, panting. His eyes jumped from Vael to you, to the bodies on the ground.

  “This… this is just tricks!” he barked, voice wild. “They’re just magic-show bastards, that’s all! They bleed like anyone else! Don’t—don’t you see?”

  No one moved.

  Corran pointed his sword. “They’re nothing! We outnumber them! You think they’re gods?” His face twisted. “I’ll tell you what they really are. They’re filth. Frauds. Smoke and—”

  His head burst.

  It happened mid-sentence — like a cork popped off under pressure. One moment he was yelling, the next his skull had opened like fruit. Blood hit the dirt with a flat smack. His body twitched once and collapsed into the ground.

  The yard went still.

  No one breathed.

  Then the screaming started.

  One of the men fired his crossbow blindly into the air. Another turned to run, slipped, scrambled to his feet. But they didn’t get far. A second man dropped, his head rupturing like a stomped melon. Then a third. A fourth.

  You ducked behind the old trough, pulling your blade. Blood sprayed across the fence as two more dropped in a spray of red and gray.

  The rest turned and ran — toward the woods behind the yard.

  That’s when she arrived.

  A small figure passed them on the way, barefoot and calm.

  She walked slowly, her white dress brushing the wet grass, untouched by mud or blood. Her expression didn’t change. No joy. No anger. Just stillness.

  The first man to reach her clutched his head and fell to his knees. He screamed once before his skull collapsed inward. The second didn’t even scream — he just dropped mid-run. The third tried to dodge, but she passed beside him and his body fell in two different directions.

  She kept walking.

  Each step left silence behind it.

  Until, at last, only one man remained.

  The vegetable seller.

  He was on his hands and knees in the mud, shaking, clutching his ears like he could hold the noise inside. Blood dripped between his fingers. His eyes looked up — and met hers.

  She stopped.

  Ten feet away. Nothing between them but breath and terror.

  He whimpered and began to crawl backwards, shoes slipping. “Please,” he choked. “Please— I didn’t— I’m not—”

  She didn’t speak.

  She tilted her head just a bit, like a curious doll.

  He screamed and scrambled to his feet, stumbling past the bodies, past you, toward the road. He ran sobbing, wheezing, arms flailing as he disappeared into the street.

  Then there was only her.

  She stood in front of you now, maybe six paces away. Close enough to see the blood sliding off her skin, but never touching her eyes.

  You didn’t move.

  Vael stepped up behind you, dragging his arm, his shoulder soaked red where the arrow had torn him earlier. He didn’t speak right away. He watched her. Quiet. Then leaned close and said, low and firm:

  “Step aside.”

  You looked at him.

  His eyes were locked on hers.

  “No matter what happens,” he said again, quieter. “You don’t stop her.”