The path curved downward through the valley of blooming bones, petals red as fresh wounds, dancing with whispers. Their boots left no echo—only the soft crunch of buried skulls and forgotten laughter.
Beyond the bloom, the fog parted.
A city emerged.
It did not rise in defiance of the valley—it grew from it. Towers of black obsidian intertwined with the pale, skeletal roots of some ancient tree. The architecture curved like thorns, scraping at an ash-filled sky. Above, silent lanterns floated—unchained, unmoving—spilling pale light that clung unnaturally to the walls and corners, like oil that refused to sink into stone.
Nameless's gaze narrowed. The city was… watching.
And then—people.
Human. Unbroken. Alive.
Ryne stopped mid-step, her brows lifting just enough to show she was startled. "Is that—are those humans?"
Nameless's eyes stayed on the street ahead. "I don't trust what bleeds and smiles at once."
They walked on, silent but alert.
The city lived, but not in joy. Children darted between narrow alleyways, their bare feet soundless on the smooth black streets. Men with hollow eyes carried crates heavy enough to break lesser backs. Women bartered, mended torn cloth, sharpened tools. It was not a scene of peace—it was survival in slow motion.
From the drifting fog, a figure emerged like a cut of crimson against the gray.
Her robe was deep, blood-red silk, embroidered with black patterns shaped like curling flames or the wings of some long-forgotten beast. The fabric flowed with each step, yet carried the weight of a warrior's attire—meant to move with the body, not hinder it. Wide sleeves shifted subtly, revealing the quiet tension of muscle beneath. A black sash cinched her waist, its knot adorned with a single crimson-thread blossom, the kind of small beauty only someone who has killed often can afford to wear.
Her hair was long and unbound, a glossy black that spilled down her back like a shadow in motion, tied in places with slender red cords—more practical than decorative, meant to keep it clear when steel was drawn. In one hand, she carried a sword that hung low at her side, the weapon steady, familiar in her grip, as if it had been there all her life.
The scar across her cheek was no shallow mark—it carved through her skin like a second mouth, an old wound earned from facing death head-on. It told a story without words: of enemies who struck with intent to kill, and of the single time they failed.
Her eyes were a storm of steel and silence, scanning them not with curiosity, but with the cold precision of a hunter deciding if the figures before her were prey… or threat.
When she spoke, her voice was forged iron.
"You're not demons," she said, each word deliberate. "And no one crosses the blossom alive unless they've seen hell."
Ryne tilted her head with a faint smirk. "Oh, we've seen more than that."
The woman's gaze scanned them—bloodstained, silent, and strange. She paused, then her tone softened, though it carried the weight of a warning.
"Whatever decades you crawled through, welcome to Araveth—the last breath of the First Realm."
Nameless didn't move, didn't blink. His hand stayed on the hilt of his blade. Ryne offered the faintest of polite nods.
The woman turned, waving sharply at the nearest men.
"Take them in. Get the blood off their skin. They look like wrath and rot. Our children don't need more nightmares."
Hands—firm, unhesitating—pushed them toward a narrow alley. They were herded up a winding staircase carved into bone-white stone. The steps bent and twisted, as though grown rather than built.
A wooden door slammed shut behind them.
The room was small and dimly lit, its single lantern giving off a pale silver glow. A bucket of warm water waited by the wall. Clean robes lay folded beside it. The air was heavy with the faint scent of soap and something older, like parchment left too long in the rain.
Ryne glanced at the tub, then at him.
"Do you… want to watch a woman bathe, or shall I undress in poetic silence?"
Nameless's reply was sharp as shattered glass. "I am not interested in such indecent acts. Get yourself clean."
She raised an eyebrow. "Not even a little peek?"
"The dead still scream in my mind," he said flatly, turning his gaze away. "Your skin is not what I seek."
Her laugh was low, almost mocking. "Shame. Could've added a distraction to your demons."
"Get. Cleaned."
With a shrug, she walked toward the tub and began unfastening her clothes with casual ease. "Yes, General Purity. As you wish."
Nameless sat in the corner, arms crossed. The blood on his hands had dried into the cracks of his skin, a second skin of rusted crimson. He didn't relax. Couldn't.
Minutes passed. The sound of water moved in slow ripples behind him. Then—her voice.
"You think this city's real?"
He didn't turn. "Everything that bleeds is real. Doesn't mean it's safe."
When she emerged, she was dressed differently as they got provided with new clothes.
Ryne now wore a gown of pale silver and deep black, a perfect harmony of light and shadow, as if the night sky itself had been stitched into her attire. The bodice curved like sculpted ivory, its surface adorned with faintly glowing filigree—patterns that shimmered like constellations whenever the lantern's glow touched them. Her flowing sleeves trailed like banners caught in a soft wind, lined with silk so fine it seemed spun from moonlight. Her hair fell freely down her back, framing the polished curves of subtle armor worked into the gown's design. Each step she took felt deliberate—regal.
She caught his eye and smiled faintly. "You look like a murder cult."
"And you," he said, rising to his feet, "still talk too much."
She stepped aside without another word.
Nameless approached the bucket. He stripped away his worn layers, the fabric stiff with dried blood and dust from the valley. His movements were precise—washing not for comfort, but for function, each motion as calculated as sharpening a blade.
He did not dry himself fully. Instead, he reached for the garments laid out for him.
The black-forged robes slid over his shoulders like liquid night, the fabric heavy yet moving with unnatural grace. Its folds flowed in intricate patterns, each layer whispering against the next as if carrying the echoes of forgotten wars. The sleeves tapered into leather-bound cuffs, faint runes etched along them pulsing softly when touched by the pale lantern light. Across his chest, threads of obsidian silk formed silent sigils—symbols whose meaning was known only to the oldest tongues. His boots, of the same dark weave, made no sound as they touched the ground. In them, he was less man than shadow given form.
Ryne gave him a slow, appraising look. "Now that is a sight. You almost look like someone who knows what he's doing. I'm happy that they've provided us good clothes"
He ignored the compliment.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Whenever you're ready," a muffled voice said, "the council wishes to speak with you both."
They exchanged a glance.
Ryne opened the door, pausing just enough to tilt her head toward him. "Think they'll fear you?"
Nameless stepped past her, his voice cold as winter stone. "I don't think so Ryne."
He walked outside without looking back.
Ryne lingered for a breath, her gaze on the empty corridor ahead, then followed. The air beyond the room felt heavier, as though each step was taking them deeper into something that had been waiting for centuries.