Blaze stood before the mirror with the poise of an ancient queen greeting her own reflection. The dim chamber glowed faintly from drifting embers that hovered like loyal servants, circling her in slow, reverent arcs. Her eyes — icy blue, cold enough to silence a room — swept over her figure from head to toe. She studied herself as a predator studies a weapon: calmly, assuredly, with centuries of familiarity.
Then she twirled.
A deliberate, liquid-smooth turn, her coat unfurling around her like the wings of a dusk creature. As she spun, the red seeped from her clothing and re-formed into a deep, sovereign purple, rich as bruised twilight. Her long hair spilled freely down her back, catching the faint shimmer of emberlight. The red flower behind her ear remained — bright, unsettling, almost too alive.
Her aura did not soften with the change.
If anything, it grew heavier, coiling through the room like ancient smoke that remembered every soul it had consumed.
Blaze traced a finger along the mirror's edge. The glass trembled, rippling like water disturbed by a whisper. For a fraction of a second, her icy-blue eyes flickered with a faint golden ring — not fully changed, just a warning glint, the kind that appears when her power stirs beneath her skin.
"A disguise... as always. The less they know of my true appearance, the longer they remain ignorant."
Her voice was smooth, terrifyingly calm, carrying the weight of someone who had watched empires rot.
She draped a black veil over her face, letting the fabric cling to her features like shadow-weave. The veil didn't hide her beauty — it made it unreachable, forbidden.
"My face is not meant for the eyes of pathetic fools," she murmured, and the mirror dimmed, as if agreeing.
She lifted her magical mirror — the artifact that could show any place in existence. Its surface pulsed faintly like a breathing creature. When her fingers glided over it, the glass dissolved into black smoke. A faint flare of gold flickered in her eyes as she summoned power, then faded the moment the mirror vanished into the hidden realm of her mind.
She walked toward the main doors, each step silent yet commanding, her presence shifting the air like the passage of a divine storm. Her aura trailed behind her in long, elegant tendrils. When she pushed open the doors, the night wind rushed forward — then hesitated, curling away from her as if afraid to touch her.
Outside the gates, she paused.
Her veil stirred lightly.
Her dress and hair moved with the wind as if following an unseen rhythm.
She turned to face the Red Villa — the infamous home whispered about across towns, a place people warned their children never to look at after dusk.
Blaze raised her hand.
Her fingers lifted slowly, ritualistically, like an executioner preparing judgment.
Then she snapped.
A soft sound.
A devastating result.
Flames exploded across the villa in a sweeping crown of crimson and gold. Fire climbed the walls, danced across the roof, raced through the garden with the hunger of an unleashed beast. Trees ignited without smoke. Flowers glowed like burning stars. Grass became a field of shimmering, molten light.
Yet nothing burned.
Nothing cracked.
Nothing turned to ash.
The fire obeyed her.
Honored her.
Worshipped her.
Blaze looked down at her fingernails, admiring the curve of each one with quiet satisfaction.
"The villa will remain unharmed until my return. And if some intruder dares to step inside..."
Her icy-blue eyes flared gold for a heartbeat — a silent, deadly revelation of the power she held.
"...their soul will burn long before their flesh follows."
The flames roared louder, bowing to her decree.
Blaze turned away, her veil gliding behind her like a ribbon of darkness. With the inferno lighting her path, she walked into the night — a regal, ancient terror, leaving her immortal home blazing but untouched.
Night arrived quietly, as if afraid to disturb her.
The moon hid behind thick clouds, cloaking the sky in bruised shadows. The world felt held together by a single, tense breath.
Blaze walked along the dark alley, her steps soundless, her veil drifting behind her like a whisper. The air bent around her — not from wind, but from the pressure of her presence. Lamp posts flickered as she passed, their light shrinking away as if they knew better than to shine too boldly at her.
A low whistle cut through the silence.
It wasn't human.
It wasn't earthly.
It was the cry of something ancient remembering its master.
From the darkness, flames erupted — tall, elegant, spiraling. The inferno wrapped itself into a shape, wings unfurling with a gust that shook loose dust from rooftops. A giant phoenix, made entirely of living fire, stepped into the alley. Its feathers crackled like burning silk, its eyes glowing with molten wisdom.
It lowered itself, bowing in submission.
Then, in a burst of embers, the phoenix collapsed into a column of flame and condensed — shrinking, shrinking — until the fire wove itself into the body of a girl. She looked barely sixteen.
But her eyes held centuries.
She knelt before Blaze, head bowed so low her forehead touched the ground.
"Master," the girl whispered, voice echoing with the phoenix's roar. "Rise."
Blaze's icy-blue eyes remained cool, unreadable.
"Rise," she said.
The girl stood at once, still trembling with leftover heat, flames licking faintly at her fingertips.
"Follow me," Blaze continued. "Another journey begins."
She turned away, not bothering to check if the phoenix obeyed — loyalty that old never breaks.
The girl dissolved again, transforming into a ribbon of pure flame that shot forward and wrapped around Blaze's wrist. Blaze lifted her left hand with slow grace and let the fire press into her skin. It melted into a beautiful golden feather mark, glowing faintly with bound heat and devotion.
"I obey," the phoenix's voice murmured from the mark — ancient, unwavering.
Blaze started walking.
Her pace wasn't normal — not even close.
To her, distance obeyed no rules. Roads shortened themselves, shadows parted, and time seemed to tilt out of her way. She walked a hundred times faster than any mortal, and yet her steps remained serene, almost regal, as if the world simply rearranged itself so she could pass.
In minutes, she was out of the dark alley and already leaving the edge of Ginger Town behind. Lanterns blurred past her. Houses became streaks of muted color. People inside felt a sudden chill without knowing why.
Blaze didn't look back.
Ahead lay her destination:
Lightning-Flower City.
A place not big enough to be mapped,
not grand enough to be remembered by kings,
but alive — painfully alive — with emotions, laughter, warm bonds, grudges, quiet vengeance…
and a few evil fools who believed they were safe.
The wind grew colder as she approached.
Thunder grumbled in the distance.
Her veil fluttered like a warning.
She walked forward with the calm of a goddess and the promise of a storm.
And Lightning-Flower City, blissfully unaware, slept under a peaceful sky — not knowing that by sunrise, the world would whisper a new name:
Blaze has arrived.
At the hour when the sky is neither night nor morning—just a bruised strip of pale violet—Blaze crossed the city gates. Dawn was still dragging itself up from the horizon, and only a handful of souls were awake enough to notice the lone figure gliding across the cobblestones. Those who did see her hesitated, blinking as though unsure whether she was a trick of the low fog or something it had birthed.
The tavern at the corner of Old Market Street was the only place with a light still burning. A warped wooden sign swung gently, creaking like an old throat clearing itself. Blaze pushed the door open with a single fluid motion.
The sound inside died. Not loudly—more like a sudden silence settling over the room, thick and instinctive. Even those who weren't looking at her directly felt it first: a cold thread running along their spines, as if someone had lifted their hair with invisible fingers.
Blaze entered with a slow grace that felt… wrong. Too smooth. Too practiced. As though she had repeated this exact entrance in uncountable centuries of cities, taverns, temples, and ruins. She took a seat in the shadowed corner, the long veil draped over her face catching the candlelight like thin, ghostly silk.
The waiter stepped forward, but something in his eyes said he regretted it already. He hovered near her table like prey that knows the predator has already chosen it.
"What… what would you like, my lady?"
She didn't lift her head. Didn't twitch. Didn't breathe in any way he could see.
"Tea."
Her voice slid out smooth and low, like cold water moving over marble.
The waiter swallowed hard, nodding too many times. His hands shook as he poured the tea, and the spoon clattered against the cup. He froze, terrified that noise alone might cost him something—his job, his peace, maybe even his life.
Blaze simply lifted the cup, fingers moving with ancient delicacy, and sipped… slow, unhurried. The veil never shifted enough to reveal her face, yet everyone felt as though she saw them clearly. Too clearly. Like icy blue eyes could pierce through skin, split open secrets, and study the soul underneath.
A few patrons leaned toward one another, whispering behind their hands, even though nothing in the room felt safe enough for whispers. Her presence filled the air like the scent of iron.
The door banged open suddenly. A group of young scholars stumbled in, rubbing sleep from their eyes, their satchels heavy with scrolls. They laughed too loudly, too brightly—until they noticed the silence in the room.
And then they noticed her.
One of them—a boy with ink-stained fingertips—shuddered and whispered, "Feels like someone walked over my grave."
Another elbowed him. "Don't be an idiot. Probably just the morning chill."
But their voices sank low, drifting toward her table whether they intended it or not.
The scholars didn't even order anything at first. They just stood near the door, staring at the cloaked woman in the corner as though unsure if they'd wandered into the wrong building… or onto the edge of a grave.
Finally, trying to act normal, they slid into a table not far from Blaze. Their whispers began immediately, traveling across the quiet tavern like thin blades of sound.
"Did you hear what they found on the Ginger-Town road?" one of them murmured, leaning in so close his nose almost touched the table. "The bodies were laid out like they were meant to be seen. Like… arranged."
Another swallowed hard. "My uncle was there. He said someone carved messages right into their skin. Clean, elegant cuts. Like writing on parchment."
"Messages?" a third asked, eyes wide.
"Warnings, I think. And a signature."
He lowered his voice. "About a woman in red."
A small group of early-rising townsfolk had drifted closer by then. Kids clung to their parents' sleeves, pretending not to listen while listening with their whole souls.
"They say she left a challenge," one scholar continued. "A threat. Something about what happens to anyone who goes into that villa again."
A farmer snorted. "That villa's cursed. Everybody knows it. Been cursed even before someone started murdering people in it."
"That's not the frightening part," said the youngest scholar, rubbing goosebumps from his arms. "The frightening part is how she kills. The wounds… the scorches… none of it is natural."
An elderly woman near the wall crossed herself, muttering a prayer.
"They say her eyes change," the scholar went on. "Cold as winter most days. But when she's angry? Or when she… does things? They flare."
"Flare how?" a child whispered.
"Like metal fresh from the forge," he said softly. "Like someone lit a fire behind them."
A blacksmith at the counter slammed back a swig of ale. "My father swore she walked straight out of the burning villa without a single scorch on her clothes. Flames curled around her like they were trying to stay out of her way."
"That's impossible," a woman said, but her voice wavered.
"So is living longer than anyone has a right to," the blacksmith muttered. "My old man said she looked the same when he was a kid. Same face. Same damn eyes."
"Maybe she doesn't age," an older farmer said. "Maybe she… un-ages. Every time someone tries to kill her, she comes back looking younger." He wiped his brow. "I'd swear on my fields I saw her ten years ago. She looked grown then. Now? If that's the same woman—she's younger today."
One of the scholars shuddered. "Legends say she walks the forest like it's a shallow stream. Doesn't matter how thick the trees are, she moves through them like nothing touches her."
The young boy tugged his mother's skirt. "Mama… is she a ghost?"
The room held its breath.
A hunter leaned back in his chair and said, quietly, "If she's a ghost, she's the only one I've met who leaves footprints and hot blood behind."
Someone else whispered, "Maybe she's not dead. Maybe she's not alive either."
A hush rolled across the tavern, a heavy, waiting silence.
And in her shadowed corner, Blaze lifted her tea again—slow, unbothered, listening to the stories they told about her with the faintest, ancient amusement.
Still hidden beneath her veil, she smirked—just the faintest curl of her lips, felt more than seen. Her icy eyes flickered for a split second with something ancient and unreadable.
A whisper of amusement.
A promise of danger.
A quiet acknowledgment that their rumors weren't as exaggerated as they believed.
Then she lifted the cup again, calm as moonlight.
Outside, the first true streak of dawn cut across the sky, but inside the tavern, the temperature continued to drop.
One of the scholars cleared his throat, glancing toward the tavern door before speaking.
"There's another matter," he said quietly. "Something the city doesn't like to talk about."
A few heads turned.
"It happens at midnight," he continued. "Near the broken house in Jin Valley."
A murmur rippled through the room.
"People hear a lullaby," another scholar added. "Soft. Slow. Always the same tune. It drifts up from the valley like it's being sung just for one listener."
A child near the hearth shrank closer to their mother.
"And children started going missing after that," the first scholar said. "One at a time. No screams. No signs of struggle. They just… vanish."
Someone whispered, "They follow the song."
A farmer shook his head. "That's nonsense."
"Is it?" a hunter replied. "Because no child has ever been taken on a night when the song wasn't heard."
The room grew colder.
"Do you think it's the red-wearing ghost?" a young scholar asked hesitantly.
"No," another snapped. "She kills grown men. Officials. Soldiers. Not children."
"But she's here now," someone said softly. "And the lullaby hasn't stopped."
A dangerous silence followed.
A woman's voice trembled. "What if she's not killing them?"
"What do you mean?"
"What if she's taking them?"
No one laughed.
Someone muttered, "Maybe she eats them."
The words sat in the air like rot.
"That's enough," the blacksmith growled, but his hand tightened around his mug. "Whatever's singing in that valley… it's not human."
"And whatever it is," the scholar said quietly, "it knows how to call children."
From the shadowed corner, Blaze listened.
She did not move.
Did not lift her veil.
Did not so much as breathe differently.
But every word reached her with surgical clarity.
Children missing.
A lullaby.
Her name spoken in fear.
Ridiculous.
So that's what they've decided now, she thought coldly. A child-eating monster.
Her fingers tightened imperceptibly around the teacup.
I despise children. Noisy. Sticky. Fragile things that stare too long. I feel irritation when one cries near me—let alone hunger.
Her gaze drifted lazily toward the murmuring scholars, unseen beneath the veil.
Someone is ruining my reputation.
And I do not tolerate sloppiness.
This cannot continue.
Across the tavern, the waiter had retreated to a dim corner. His lips moved silently, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
Oh god… please heal my child. She's so small.
What kind of father am I… I can't even afford treatment.
Blaze heard him.
Not because he spoke loudly—but because her hearing did not obey mortal limits. Sometimes she heard whispers. Sometimes prayers. Sometimes thoughts pressed so hard with desperation they leaked into the air.
She scoffed inwardly.
Praying to gods and shaming yourself won't save anyone in this world. If you desire something, you fight for it.
Her eyes narrowed.
…None of my concern.
She finished her tea and placed the cup down with a soft, precise click.
"Payment."
Two gold coins landed on the table.
She rose and moved toward the door, her presence peeling away from the tavern like a shadow detaching itself.
Only then did the waiter approach, eyes dropping to the table.
He froze.
"Ma'am—" his voice cracked, "this… this is far too much. Tea costs four copper coins. I can't—"
Blaze stopped.
She didn't turn.
Her veil stirred slightly.
"Keep the change," she said coolly. "Consider it a tip."
And she walked out.
The door shut behind her.
The waiter stared at the coins as if they might vanish. His hands trembled as he gathered them, tears blurring his vision.
"I can finally treat my daughter," he whispered, voice breaking. "I'll never forget this. May that lady receive everything she desires."
Outside, Blaze was already far down the street.
Distance meant nothing to her. Roads folded beneath her feet. In moments, the tavern was a forgotten speck behind her.
From the golden feather mark on her wrist, a warm voice emerged.
"Master… you're really kind. Soft, even."
Blaze scoffed.
Soft? Don't be absurd.
"Soft? Don't be absurd," she said aloud. "I simply possess excessive wealth and occasionally enjoy disposing of it. Don't mistake that for mercy."
She glanced at her fingernails as she walked.
I could have killed him if he irritated me.
"…Understood," the voice replied carefully.
She paused.
"But," the phoenix added hesitantly.
Blaze sighed. "What."
"My name is Maze. Why do you keep calling me little flames?"
Blaze smirked faintly.
"Because it suits you. Blaze and flames go together. And you are mine. I'll call you whatever I please."
"Yes, Master," Maze said obediently. "You may call me anything."
Blaze stopped walking.
She lifted her hand, admiring her nails as dawn light caught their edges.
Now let's see…
"Now," she murmured softly, "let's see who's been playing with lullabies…"
Her eyes chilled.
…and staining my name.
Blaze entered the bustling market just as the city fully woke.
Stalls bloomed open like noisy wounds—vendors shouting prices, metal clanging, fabric snapping in the wind. The air smelled of bread, spice, sweat, and too many people packed too closely together.
Her steps slowed.
I despise crowds, she thought coldly. And children even more. Loud, clinging creatures. Always staring. Always in the way.
Yet as she moved forward, the crowd shifted.
People instinctively stepped aside. Conversations faltered. Laughter thinned and died. Mothers pulled children closer without knowing why. Merchants lowered their voices. No one dared brush past her. No one dared meet her veiled gaze.
Her aura moved ahead of her like an invisible tide—cold, heavy, suffocating.
At the edge of the market, raised voices broke through the murmur.
A group of children had cornered a smaller boy near a stone wall. His clothes were torn, too thin for the season. Dirt streaked his face, and his hands shook as he clutched a ragged pouch.
"Beggar," one sneered, shoving him.
"Orphan," another laughed. "Got no one, got nothing."
The boy stumbled, barely keeping his footing.
Blaze glanced in their direction.
Absurd, she thought. Pathetic creatures bullying something even weaker.
She turned away.
None of my concern.
A sharp cry rang out.
The children struck him—too many hands, too much cruelty for bodies that small. The boy twisted free with a sob and ran blindly through the crowd.
Straight into her.
He slammed into Blaze's side and immediately froze, terror flooding his face as if he'd collided with death itself. Without thinking, he scrambled behind her, gripping the edge of her cloak with shaking fingers.
"Please," he whispered. "Please don't—"
Blaze stiffened.
She looked down slowly.
What—no. Absolutely not.
"Excuse me," she muttered sharply. "Stay away."
The other children followed, emboldened by numbers—until they reached her.
They stopped.
Something about her—something they couldn't see—pressed down on them. Their bravado shattered. Their laughter curdled in their throats.
Blaze turned her head.
She didn't shout.
She didn't threaten.
She simply looked at them.
The air dropped several degrees.
Her presence sharpened, ancient and lethal, like a blade sliding free of its sheath. The shadows at her feet stretched unnaturally long.
The children went pale.
One took a step back.
Another dropped to his knees.
A third whimpered.
They didn't see her eyes.
They felt them.
And that was enough.
They turned and ran—tripping over each other, screaming, scattering into the market like frightened birds.
Silence rippled outward in their wake.
The boy behind Blaze clung to her cloak, breathing hard.
She exhaled slowly.
Unbelievable.
She glanced down at him again.
"I am not a shield," she said coolly. "And you are testing my patience."
The boy nodded frantically, loosening his grip at once, eyes wide with awe and terror.
"Th-thank you," he whispered.
Blaze rolled her eyes beneath the veil.
I didn't save you, she thought. I merely existed.
She stepped forward, her aura settling back into its controlled, suffocating calm, leaving the boy standing frozen in her wake.
Behind her, the market slowly breathed again—voices returning, movement resuming—but no one forgot the cold that had passed through.
And the children who ran?
They would remember her for the rest of their lives.
Not as a woman.
But as something far worse.
Blaze felt it before she saw it.
A presence that didn't belong to the crowd's rhythm. Too light. Too cautious. A weight that moved when she moved and froze when she paused.
Persistent little thing.
She continued through the market without changing her pace, letting the illusion of ignorance hang. Stalls slid past—spices, metal, cloth—but the awareness stayed locked behind her spine.
The boy thought he was clever.
He darted behind crates, ducked behind hanging fabrics, pressed himself flat against stone walls. Each time she shifted direction, he waited a heartbeat before following, eyes wide and careful.
Then—
He blinked.
Just once.
And she was gone.
The market lane ahead stretched empty. No veil. No purple fabric. No cold pressure in the air.
His chest tightened.
"Did I… miss her?" he whispered.
Impossible.
No one moved that fast.
He turned—
—and nearly fell backward.
Blaze stood directly behind him.
Arms folded.
Posture relaxed.
Presence lethal.
It felt like standing too close to the edge of a cliff.
The boy stumbled, barely catching his balance as his knees threatened to give out.
Blaze tilted her head slightly.
"You are far too young to be this kind of creep," she said coolly. "Spying on a beautiful lady rarely ends well. Especially when it's me."
Her voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
Terror crushed the air from his lungs.
He dropped to his knees without deciding to, fingers clutching at the hem of her cloak, then sliding to her hand as if it were the only solid thing in the world.
"Please—" his voice cracked. "Please, don't leave me."
Blaze stiffened.
She yanked her hand back. "Let go."
He didn't. Tears streamed down his face, splashing onto the stone.
"Please take me with you," he sobbed.
Blaze's eyes hardened.
"No."
The word was absolute.
But the boy didn't stop.
"I have no one," he said desperately. "No parents. Not since… not since I can remember. I don't belong anywhere."
Blaze wrenched her hand free and turned away, flicking invisible dust from her sleeve as if his touch had dirtied her.
"I don't do charity," she said flatly. "And a freak like you would only be extra baggage."
She stepped forward.
Ridiculous, she thought. Attachments are weaknesses.
Behind her, silence.
Then—
"I'm not useless."
She stopped.
The boy had stood up. His hands were shaking, but his spine was straighter now, eyes burning with something stubborn and desperate.
"I can work," he said quickly. "I can clean. I can carry things. I can do heavy labor. I can cook."
Blaze scoffed softly.
Of course he can.
"Please," he added, voice breaking again. "Just… reconsider."
She took another step.
Then another.
The market noise crept back in around them.
She stopped.
A few paces away, Blaze turned slowly.
The boy held his breath.
She studied him—not with pity, not with warmth—but with the cold appraisal of someone deciding whether a tool was worth keeping.
"Your cooking," she said calmly, "had better be good."
His face lit up like dawn breaking through storm clouds.
"So you agree?" he asked, hope trembling in every syllable.
Blaze turned away again, already walking.
"Don't make me regret it," she said over her shoulder.
The boy hurried after her, smiling through tears.
Behind them, the market watched—confused, unsettled, unaware that something ancient had just altered its path.
And Blaze?
She walked on, veil fluttering, irritation simmering beneath her calm.
This changes nothing, she told herself. Absolutely nothing.
But somewhere deep beneath that certainty, something old and unwelcome stirred.
The boy walked beside Blaze, struggling to match her pace.
She had slowed herself deliberately—down to something resembling human speed—but even then, her stride was effortless while his feet scraped the stones, sandals half-broken, clothes hanging off him in dirty folds.
Blaze glanced sideways.
Her nose wrinkled.
"You're filthy," she said flatly. "Walking beside you like this risks contamination."
The boy flushed, instinctively tugging at his sleeves. "I—I'm sorry."
"Save it."
She stopped in front of a cloth shop, its windows filled with folded fabrics and hanging garments that fluttered gently in the breeze. Without hesitation, she stepped inside, the air growing colder the moment she crossed the threshold.
The shopkeeper looked up—and froze.
Blaze approached the counter, reached into her sleeve, and dropped several gold coins onto the wood. They rang softly, bright and heavy.
"Clean him," she said, nodding toward the boy. "Make him look like a human being. And remove every trace of that dirt."
The shopkeeper's eyes widened.
Gold did that to people.
"Of—of course, my lady," he said quickly, scooping up the coins as if they might vanish. "Right away."
He reached for the boy's shoulder.
The moment his fingers brushed the child's arm, he shivered.
Cold.
Not the chill of winter—something deeper, like standing too close to a grave. He glanced nervously toward Blaze.
She was watching.
Still.
Silent.
Unblinking.
The shopkeeper swallowed and hurried the boy toward the back without another word.
Blaze moved to a shadowed corner, folding her arms as she waited.
Inside her wrist, the golden feather mark shimmered faintly.
A voice rose from it, warm and amused.
"Master, you've acquired another slave."
Blaze scoffed, inspecting her fingernails. "Don't be ridiculous."
"You're being soft again," Maze said lightly.
Blaze's gaze sharpened. "I am not."
She flicked an invisible speck of dust from her sleeve.
"I simply require a personal chef. One I happened to obtain earlier than planned. That's all."
Another pause.
"And another reason to spend my wealth," she added coolly. "No one is being soft here."
A faint warmth pulsed from the mark.
"Yes, master," Maze replied, clearly unconvinced.
Blaze shot a glare at her wrist. "And shut up."
She leaned back against the wall, cloak settling around her like shadow, expression composed—regal, distant, untouchable.
Absolutely not soft, she told herself.
From the back of the shop came the sound of water, fabric rustling, and the boy's quiet, amazed laughter—soft, disbelieving, alive.
Blaze ignored it completely.
Or pretended to.
The curtain at the back of the shop rustled.
Blaze didn't turn at first.
She knew the boy would come out eventually. Clean or not, human or not—it made no difference to her.
Then her eyes flicked sideways.
And paused.
The boy stepped forward, hesitantly.
The dirt was gone. Every trace of it. His skin, once dulled by grime and hunger, now held a natural warmth beneath the shop's lantern light. His hair, freshly washed, fell in soft, dark waves instead of stiff clumps. Clean clothes hung on him—not fine silk, but well-fitted linen, simple and proper, the kind worn by city boys with homes to return to.
His shoulders were straighter now. Not because he was suddenly brave—but because he could finally feel his own weight without shame.
For a heartbeat, Blaze felt something shift.
A faint, unwelcome pull.
…Why do I feel like I've seen him before?
Her gaze sharpened, dissecting him the way she would a battlefield.
No. Ridiculous.
Maybe I killed someone who looked like him.
That thought settled easily.
She dismissed the feeling at once, turning away as if it had never existed.
"Acceptable," she said coolly.
The boy beamed.
"Thank you, sister."
Blaze stopped.
Slowly, she turned.
"Who," she said flatly, "is your sister?"
The boy froze. "Oh—um—then auntie?"
Her eye twitched.
"Absolutely not."
She leaned closer, looming just enough to make the air heavy. "I am not that old."
The boy nodded frantically. "S-sorry!"
"…Whatever," Blaze sighed. "Call me sister if you want. It's still better than that."
If I refuse, he'll probably call me grandmother next, she thought irritably. Arguing with small humans is pointless. Pathetic creatures.
The boy smiled again, relief bright in his eyes. "Okay, sister! I'll call you that from now on."
Blaze rolled her eyes and turned toward the door. "Hurry up."
She exited the shop without waiting.
The boy scrambled after her.
They crossed the street and entered a nearby tavern, warmer and louder than the last. Conversations faltered the moment Blaze stepped inside. The same instinctive silence followed her, like a shadow that arrived before she did.
She chose a table near the wall and sat.
The boy immediately slid into the seat beside her.
Blaze shifted away—just slightly. Enough to make a point.
The waiter approached, stiff-backed and nervous. "M-my lady… what would you like?"
Blaze didn't even look at the menu.
"Whatever is most expensive," she said lazily. "I'll take all of it."
The waiter blinked. "All… of it?"
"Yes."
The boy's eyes widened. "Sister—!"
Blaze cut him a sideways glance. "Quiet."
She leaned back in her chair, veil unmoving, aura settling heavy and cold over the table.
If I'm going to tolerate a human presence, she thought, he might as well eat properly.
She told herself that was the only reason.
Nothing else.
Blaze sipped her tea, slow and measured.
I'm just trying to spend my enormous wealth, she thought coolly. Nothing more.
Across from her, the boy ate like someone afraid the food might vanish if he paused. He didn't speak—only focused, desperate bites, eyes lighting up at every new dish placed in front of him.
She watched him for a moment.
Then, without warmth, "What's your name?"
The boy froze mid-bite. He looked up at her, uncertain. "I… I don't have one."
Blaze didn't blink.
Pathetic.
"Aleric," she said flatly. "That's your name now."
She took another sip of tea.
Better than being a nameless fool.
The boy's face brightened like a candle catching flame. "Got it! Aleric—that's me!"
"Finish your food," Blaze ordered. "I don't tolerate people wasting expensive meals."
Aleric nodded eagerly and returned to eating with renewed determination.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Fourteen," he replied between bites.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
You look far too thin… and far too young.
"You're lying," she said calmly.
Aleric shook his head quickly. "No. I'm just… malnourished."
He kept eating.
Blaze looked away.
Even the living conditions here are revolting.
Her attention shifted when voices rose from a nearby table.
"…three more children," a man whispered. "Gone last night. Jin Valley again."
Another leaned closer. "Right after the lullaby was heard."
"The Hunted Lullaby," someone murmured.
Blaze's fingers stilled around her cup.
Then she noticed it.
A man in the upper room—half-hidden behind the railing—was smiling.
Not nervous. Not afraid.
Amused.
Her gaze sharpened.
"Stay here," she said quietly.
Aleric looked up at once. "Where are you going?"
"To handle something," she replied. "Don't move."
He nodded immediately.
Blaze rose from her seat and faded into motion, her steps soundless. Shadows welcomed her like old companions as she slipped toward the upper floor, her presence thinning, folding into darkness.
Behind the curtain of the top room, two merchants sat comfortably, wine between them, laughter low and confident.
"Business is blooming," one said, raising his cup. "All because of you."
They clinked their glasses.
Blaze stood inches away, unseen.
Her eyes turned gold.
Not bright.
Not blazing.
Molten.
She examined them—not their faces, but what lay beneath. The residue of fear. The scent of guilt. Threads of something rotten winding around their souls.
Her lips curved slightly.
So this is who's ruining my reputation.
The curtains barely stirred as she stepped closer, golden eyes burning softly in the dark.
And somewhere below, the lullaby's echo seemed to breathe.