The storm had calmed to a soft drizzle. In the middle of an open, muddy field, Molava knelt in the wet earth, bruised, beaten, her hair matted to her face. She could still feel Kletus's blows in every cut that hadn't closed yet. Around her, dozens of soldiers stood like statues — a silent circle of iron and rain.
Not far off, Milan adjusted his cloak, staring at the prisoner with something between pity and contempt. Beside him, Freniud watched the guards, restless and scowling.
Milan shook his head. "What happened to this woman, Freniud? Look at her — half-dead already."
Freniud snorted. "Kletus claimed he was interrogating her. But you know him — temper like a wild dog. And she's a savage — he probably wanted an excuse."
Milan's eyes narrowed. "Cowardice. That's what it smells like."
"Patience, Your Holiness," Freniud said mockingly. "You're calm — always so calm. She doesn't know what mercy you'd show her."
Milan stepped forward through the mud, Freniud close behind him. Molava raised her eyes as Milan came to stand over her — bruised lips curling into the ghost of a smile.
"You're condemned," Milan said, voice soft but cold. "But your soul can still be saved. Confess your sins. Repent before the heavens."
Molava let out a short laugh — dry, bitter. "Repent? You first, holy man. Do that, and I'll trust you gladly."
Milan's jaw tensed. "I am a sinner. My hour will come. But yours is now. Beg forgiveness — or you'll find no place in paradise."
She spat mud at his feet. "Then beg forgiveness for being the author of your miserable life."
Freniud's booming laugh echoed in the wet quiet, mocking Milan without shame.
"I told you Milan," Freniud said between chuckles. "She's no soul to save. She's just an animal."
Milan turned to him, his eyes sharp as knives. "Then you should understand her Freniud. One beast to another."
The laughter stopped. Freniud's smile dropped like a stone.
"Where's Kletus?" Milan demanded.
"Word is," Freniud muttered, "there's a woman and a man on the run — maybe the same pair from the attack. Kletus took men to hunt them down."
"At least he's useful for once." Milan's voice dripped with disdain. "Enough. We begin without him. Cut off her head."
Freniud raised an eyebrow. "The executioner is with Kletus. We'd have to wait."
Milan stepped close, voice low and venomous. "Tell me this is your idea of a joke, Freniud. You need a special man with a fancy axe to kill a woman? Pick someone. If it takes three strokes instead of one, so be it. What good are these legions if they can't even swing a sword when ordered?"
Freniud squared his shoulders. "You speak of respect, Milan, but you trample it. I'm your soldier — not your butcher. The headsman knows his craft. Unless you want Socrates himself to handle it?"
Milan's eyes flared. "Don't play clever. Pick someone. Safris thirsts for blood. He'll have it — one way or another."
Before Freniud could answer, a pair of guards jogged up, breathless. One saluted. "My lord — something's wrong."
Milan's frown deepened. "Show me." He threw one last look at Molava — still kneeling, still smiling faintly — then turned and followed the guards, Freniud at his side.
Inside Milan's tent, Serra stood tense by a flickering lamp. In the corner sat Miera, a thin young woman with fierce eyes, knees tucked to her chest, glaring like an animal trapped in the wrong cage.
Miera's voice cut the silence first. "I'm Miera. That's my name. Happy now?"
Serra forced a soft smile. "See? Not so hard. I'm Serra Sebatis. Daughter of Aldo Sebatis — servant of Fondeur."
Miera scoffed, shifting her weight. "Why am I here?"
Serra hesitated, voice careful. "For now, it's safer. It'll pass — you'll see. Soon things will be as they were."
Miera barked a sharp laugh. "Don't treat me like a child. They're going to kill Molava, aren't they? I should be with her."
Serra's smile faltered. She stared at the dirt floor, You're… very mature for your age."
"And you," Miera snapped, "are still lost in your pretty fairy tale. Fine clothes, gentle words — all rot underneath."
Serra lowered her gaze. "You're right. You shouldn't trust me. I'm from another world — one I hardly understand myself."
Miera leaned forward, her voice bitter. "You know what it takes to be Fondeur? Ties. No ties, you're nothing. Worse — a traitor."
Serra's whisper trembled. "Do you think I am?"
Miera flashed a wicked grin. "Are you asking — or admitting?"
Serra sighed, shoulders sagging. "You're right. I have ties. But what good are they if I can't decide my own life?"
Miera tilted her head, curiosity slipping through her anger. "So?.
Serra's eyes lit up — too quickly, too eager. She stepped closer, but Miera shrank back like a cornered cat. Serra caught herself, retreating half a step. "A true lady. A real one — serving the royal family."
Miera laughed dryly, eyes sharp. "What's the difference between those who own you now, and those who'd own you in a castle?"
Serra's smile was wistful. "That's called honor Miera. That's what a girl like me dreams of — being part of the crown."
Miera's voice was ice. "They protect their own. No one else."
"Exactly," Serra said, as if confessing a secret. "I'll be one of them."
"So they can use you — just like Katizi says."
Serra blinked. "Katizi?"
Miera's tone turned grim. "Katizi says nobody helps you — they just want what you have. Hold something close — they tear it away. Speak a good idea — they steal it. Carry hope in your heart — they eat it raw."
Serra almost gagged, clutching her chest. "Katizi… has so much darkness in her."
Miera stared, cold and certain. "No. You people are the darkness."
"Why say 'you people'?" Serra asked softly.
Miera leaned back, eyes hard. "You're Fondeur — your royal family wants us dead."
"Fondeur is just a family Miera. It punishes evil — that's all."
Miera snorted. "And yet it never stops hunting us. Always an excuse to steal, to hurt, to drag us down. I don't pity your soldiers. Molava and Katizi grew claws because you left them no choice."
Serra faltered — her voice grew desperate. "Everything happens for a reason. Nothing lasts forever. You'll see — you'll come with me to the convent."
"Who said I want your convent?"
Serra knelt on the dirt, sitting beside Miera. "Miera — it's your chance. Right now, it's your only one."
"I'd rather die."
"Don't say that."
Miera met her eyes coldly. "Want me to say it twice?"
"You have a future."
"Not like yours. You have every chance. I have none."
Serra's voice was almost pleading now. "You're strong. You're alive. You can be—"
Miera cut her off. "You have all the chances. You could be anything — a queen, a mother, a teacher. But you want to hide behind convent walls? I'd rather die. I want to talk to trees, sing with birds, eat from the earth, wake to clean air that says I'm free. That's enough for me. But you — you waste everything. They say the best gift is to serve God. But if there's a God, his greatest gift isn't locked away in stone — it's here. You've had it all along."
Serra fell silent — eyes wide, lost in a vision only she could see. Miera snapped her fingers in front of her face. "Did I break you?"
Serra blinked, breath returning. She whispered, almost laughing. "Of all those dreams you named, you forgot one… a real lady."
Outside Serra's tent, Milan and Freniud stood in front of the prison. The air smelled of wet wood and burned straw. Inside, Ekatulia lay curled on her side, face turned toward the bamboo wall. Her skin looked as pale as snow — so still she might have been dead. Milan scanned the cell, noticing the other prisoners scattered around her — all stiff, mouths gaping, eyes frozen open as if they'd glimpsed something unspeakable before they died. Even the guards outside hesitated to step closer, crossing themselves when they thought Milan wasn't looking.
Milan's voice was soft but cold as steel. "Get up Ekatulia. You've done me a favor already — executed these rats for me. Now it's your turn."
Inside the cell, Ekatulia stirred. She ran her hands through her long, tangled hair, then wiped her pale face as if waking from a deep sleep.
Freniud leaned toward Milan, voice low. "We should burn her with the rest. It's what they did in the old king's time. Witches — all turned to ash."
Milan nodded, eyes never leaving Ekatulia. "You're right."
He turned and barked orders to the soldiers. They grabbed torches, pressed them to the bamboo walls. The dry wood caught fast — flames snaked up and around, crackling wildly. In seconds the prison was an inferno.
Freniud squinted into the blaze. "She's still in there. So why don't we hear her scream?"
Milan frowned. He stepped a little closer, feeling the heat bite at his face. Something inside him twisted — a thought he wouldn't say out loud. "Keep men here. Make sure the flames stay in the pit. At least we've finished her."
He turned away, but just before leaving, Milan stepped close enough to the fire that the heat stung his skin. Under his breath, where only the flames might hear, he whispered: "Forgive me, old friend. This wasn't your fate. The king left me no choice."
As he stepped back, the bamboo wall collapsed with a roar. Out of the ruin stepped Ekatulia — or what was left of her. She walked calmly through the flames, fire clinging to her like a living cloak. Her hair crackled with embers. She didn't scream. She didn't even flinch.
Freniud stumbled backward. "By the gods — what is that?"
Milan's face turned pale. His mouth formed one word: "Ekatulia."
She drifted through the camp like a phantom, brushing tents, carts, piles of supplies — each touch sparked a trail of flame. Arrows hissed through the smoke but passed right through her burning shape. A bucket of water thrown at her exploded into a thunderclap of fire, hurling men like straw dolls. Soldiers scrambled. Screams rose. Milan spun around just in time to see Serra sprinting away from the flames — calling for Miera, who darted toward the forest like a wild thing.
Freniud grabbed Milan's arm. "We have to stop her — or she'll burn every man we have!"
Milan's voice was raw. "Open the gate! She wants out — let her go!"
A horn blared. The guards wrestled open the wooden barricade. Ekatulia passed through the open gate, trailing sparks into the darkness of the forest beyond.
Behind her, soldiers stamped out burning tents with buckets of mud and sand, but the fire leapt from tent to tent, like a wild animal that wouldn't die. Milan and Freniud stared at each other through the swirling smoke.
Freniud's eyes darted toward the hill, where a flicker of light glowed in the distance. "What was that Milan?"
Milan wiped soot from his brow, eyes locked on the dark treeline. A horrible understanding began to settle in his gut. "It's an ambush. Ekatulia isn't trying to run. She's wiping out the king's legions."
On the far ridge, Ekatulia appeared again . She raised her arms — and fire fell from her fingers like shards of the sun. Tiny comets slammed into the camp, erupting into white-hot explosions. Milan barely had time to shout for Freniud before the blast knocked him off his feet. He hit the ground hard, vision flickering in and out. The world became a smear of red and black.
Freniud rose, shouting orders. "To the hill! Bring her down! Now!"
In the shadows near the burning tents, Serra crouched behind a crate, watching the chaos. She saw Miera's running to the trees — quick and sure, climbing a trunk like a wildcat. Serra stumbled after her, gasping her name.
Near the edge of the forest, a lone soldier spotted Serra. He grabbed her arm. "My lady — stay with me. It's not safe—"
Before he could say more, Molava rose from the mud behind him — her face smeared with ash, eyes like coals. She drove her sword straight through the man's back. He crumpled to the ground at Serra's feet.
Serra froze, breath caught in her throat. "— I saw Miera — she climbed that tree — she's gone into the dark!" Molava didn't answer — she just vanished into the underbrush, boots silent on the wet earth. The camp filled with screams and metal. Molava cut down soldiers who crossed her path — blade flashing, mud flying. One man lunged at her — she smashed her sword against his helmet, spun him sideways, then buried the blade in his ribs. Beside her, Nivek appeared like a shadow from the treeline — knives flashing in both hands. He tackled a soldier to the ground and drove his blade in over and over until there was no sound left to make.
Five more soldiers closed in — swords drawn, eyes wide with fear. Molava swung her blade. Nivek slammed forward with his knive. Blades clashed. Blood splashed the roots. A kick slammed into Nivek's ribs — he stumbled. A gauntleted fist cracked his jaw. Molava spins, her sword carved an arc that left one man blind in one eye. Another raised his blade to strike her back — but Katizi stepped from the shadows behind him, cloaked in a swirl of black powder. She blew the dust into his eyes — they burst like rotten fruit.
More soldiers charged Katizi. She reached into her sleeve, flicked something small into the air — then vanished . A heartbeat later, she reappeared in front of the closest man, claws out, tearing his throat before he could scream. Another turned — swung wildly at empty air. Katizi reappeared behind him, nails slicing through armor like silk.
In moments, the clearing was empty of soldiers — only the blood and the night remained. Katizi, Molava, and Nivek found each other again, breath ragged, weapons dripping. Above them, an eerie chorus of birdsong drifted from the black canopy — strange and broken, like a warning. Molava's head snapped up. "It's Miera. Soldiers on both sides — we move up the hill!" They ran together — shadows weaving through the trees. Behind them, more shapes moved — more steel, more torchlight.
Katizi stopped suddenly. She turned her head — a lone soldier stumbled toward her through the brush, sword raised. Before he could swing, Katizi flicked forward — nose to nose — and spat in his face. Her spit sizzled on his skin, eating through flesh. He fell screaming into the dirt.
Molava called back over her shoulder, voice cutting through the night. "Katizi !"A soldier slammed into Nivek, knocking him to the ground. Another blade rose — but Molava was there, driving her sword up through the man's neck. They pushed on, up the ridge.
At the hill's crest, the three stopped. Below them, Ekatulia stood ablaze — comets of fire pouring from her hands, crashing down on the camp below. Molava and Nivek stared.
Katizi drifted forward alone, her cloak trailing mist and shadow. She reached out as Ekatulia turned to face her — flames flickering like a crown around her hair. Ekatulia lifted her hand, calm as dawn. Katizi reached for her — and where they touched, the fire hissed out. Ash fell through Katizi's fingers like snow.