Kai
The morning mist clung to the edge of the woods, soft as a ghost's breath. Kai moved between the trees with practiced ease, balancing a small clay pot filled with herbal paste. The mixture steamed gently, its earthy aroma a promise of comfort for Hailey's rattling cough.
The world was still. Even the crows perched above seemed to quiet themselves. But Kai sensed something more—a tension in the earth, a stillness waiting to snap.
He swallowed the unease and slipped closer to the clearing where their cottage lay half-hidden in shadows. Hailey waited, half-lit by the embers in her hearth. Her shawl was drawn tight around frail shoulders.
"You shouldn't have gone," she breathed, voice thin as smoke.
"I needed to," he replied quietly, setting the pot beside her. "You needed this."
Her trembling hands accepted the warmth. He sat with her in silence, letting the steam rise between them. Words felt unnecessary.
Until the forest shifted.
The air snapped. A sharp rustle, a howl too close to ignore.
Hailey's eyes widened at the sound. "Kai, run."
He rose immediately, grabbing the pouch she had packed weeks ago—food, clothes, a simple knife. The rogue howl came again, closer this time.
Behind him, a branch cracked. Kai turned, heart pounding, but darkness swallowed him whole.
Ramon
Ramon's jaw tensed as he rode through the northern trees. The rogue camps were too loud this close to his border—hungry, careless. He'd come to end it swiftly and silently.
But then the wind changed. His wolf stirred, uneasy. He smelled more than rogue: blood, fear…and something else faint, unfamiliar.
They followed the scent trail until it led them to a small clearing. A boy crouched there, clay pot at his feet, face streaked with tears and dirt. A rogue? No—the scent didn't match.
Ramon acted without thought. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, yanked the boy up by the shoulder, and slammed him to the forest floor. The boy didn't scream. He didn't even cry. He only stared upward, wide-eyed and terrified.
Ramon's grip tightened on the boy's cloak. He intended to ask questions, but the scent was laced with something deep and old. His pulse quickened. His wolf roared softly behind his eyes.
"Take them." He gestured to his pack, pointing at the hidden rogues nearby.
The rogues scattered like startled birds. Ramon released the boy before his mind could protest.
"He's not one of them," he told his Beta. "Leave him."
Ramon turned away from the boy's panicked gaze, every instinct screaming that this was not over. His throat felt raw as he spoke the order.
He walked out of the clearing. The scent followed him, embedding itself in his thoughts through the night.
Nyx
The first light over Noctyra streaked the sky in gold and crimson, casting long shadows across the stone walls of the city. The air was cool for now, a brief mercy before the desert heat returned with full force.
Nyx was already awake.
She sat at the edge of her cot, rubbing the stiffness from her shoulders. Sleep had never come easily—not in the general's house, not in the barracks, not anywhere. Her body had long since accepted that rest was earned, not given.
She reached for the bow propped against the wall—her brother's. The worn grip still carried the memory of his hand, a quiet ghost she never spoke of. She ran her fingers along the polished wood, steadying herself.
Another day. Another fight. Another chance to prove she still deserved to exist.
Her armor was light—reinforced leather over fitted cloth, built for speed and precision, not brute strength. She'd always preferred it that way. Let the others drag around their heavy pride; she had no interest in impressing anyone.
The training grounds were nearly silent when she stepped into the open. Sand crunched beneath her boots. The city beyond the walls was just beginning to stir—merchants unlocking stalls, temple bells ringing somewhere in the wind.
She ignored it all.
A training dummy waited in the far corner. She set it upright, took her stance, and drew an arrow.
Breathe in. Aim. Exhale. Release.
The arrow struck the center. Again. And again.
Each shot was muscle memory, but the focus beneath it was personal. Controlled. Focused. Dangerous.
She had been taught to kill with precision. But never to forget what had driven her to learn.
By the time the others arrived, she was slick with sweat, her quiver already half-empty. She could feel their eyes on her, could hear the whispers starting behind her back.
"Already out here? Trying too hard again."
"She still thinks she belongs."
Thunk. Another arrow, right between the eyes of the dummy.
"Guess she got lucky. Pity the gods didn't finish what they started."
That one stopped her cold.
Her grip on the bow tightened, breath slowing.
Kallan. Of course, it was him.
He stood with two others, arms crossed, face painted with mock sympathy. Broad, loud, and always eager to remind everyone of her past.
Nyx turned toward him slowly. Then, without a word, she dropped her bow.
The air shifted.
Kallan raised a brow. "Oh? Finally gonna speak up?"
She didn't answer.
He took a step forward. "Or maybe you just want to—"
He never finished.
She moved before he could blink—dropped low, ducked beneath his swing, twisted behind him, caught his wrist and wrenched it until he gasped.
He elbowed her hard. She took the hit, gritted her teeth, and answered with a sharp kick to his knee. Another to the ribs.
He stumbled. Furious. He lunged.
Another mistake.
She pivoted behind him again and locked her arm around his throat.
Everything went silent.
His breathing grew ragged. He froze.
"Say it again," she said, voice low.
Kallan tensed.
"I—" he choked. "I yield."
She held him for one more breath. Then let go.
He stumbled back, coughing.
She bent down, picked up her bow, and walked away. The whispers would start again soon—but not the same ones.
They wouldn't call her weak after this.
The knight's hall smelled of spiced bread, roasted meat, and sweat. Tables were loud with stories, arguments, and laughter. Nyx didn't care for any of it.
She grabbed a plate and sat in the far corner. Alone.
Her bow rested against the bench. A reminder. A weight. Her food was untouched.
She chewed through bread with mechanical rhythm, tuning out the buzz of rebel reports and war rumors.
Until a shadow blocked her view.
"Nyx."
She looked up. Sir Edric.
Commander of the knight order. Gray-streaked, solid as a stone wall. He didn't waste words, and he wasn't here for pleasantries.
"Walk with me."
She followed him out into the sun-washed courtyard.
"The tournament's coming," he said.
Her jaw set. She already knew.
"You should enter."
"I'm fine where I am."
"You're wasting your potential."
She stayed silent.
"This is a chance to do something with your name. To remind people what it means."
She stared at him.
"That name died years ago."
"Then make them remember it for the right reasons."
She crossed her arms. "Is this about rebels?"
"They're smarter now. Bolder. Our men are dying, and we're no closer to stopping their leader. Win the tournament, earn the Royal Knight rank, and you'll gain access to what you need."
"Information," she said flatly.
He nodded. "A trail. A mission. Maybe even a greeting from the king himself."
Her spine stiffened, barely.
Edric saw it. Of course he did.
"This is bigger than your pride," he said. "Think about it."
Nyx didn't answer.
She just turned and walked away.
That night, the sky over Noctyra was deep violet and orange, the streets alive with firelight and music. Nyx was stowing her gear when she heard her name.
"Nyx!"
Levan. Sora. Dain. The trio of mischief.
"We're heading out," Levan said. "Come with us."
"Not interested."
Sora nudged Dain, who pulled out a glass vial. Golden liquid shimmered inside.
"Desert Fire," Levan said proudly. "Alchemist-brewed. Fast reflexes. Better focus. You'll love it."
She stared at the vial. Dangerous. Illegal. Tempting.
She should've walked.
Instead, she took the vial and said, "Where?"
They smiled.
The door to the underground tavern opened with a coded knock. Inside, chaos reigned.
The heat was thick. Voices tangled with magic. Men sculpted flames between their fingers. Women floated knives above their palms. Fighters sparred with lightning dancing across their skin.
Knights, mercenaries, exiles. No ranks. No rules.
Nyx stayed near the bar, far from the crowd.
"Your poison?" the bartender asked.
"Water."
The woman laughed and poured it anyway.
Nyx leaned on the counter, fingers spinning the vial of Desert Fire slowly between them.
What the hell was she doing here?
The vial of Desert Fire glinted softly between Nyx's fingers, the golden liquid inside catching the flickering light as she rolled it back and forth. She hadn't taken a single drop. Wasn't planning to. Just watching it move was enough to keep her hands busy and her thoughts from drifting somewhere worse.
The tavern pulsed around her. Loud laughter. Boots scraping against stone. Sparks of elemental energy popping off drunken fingers as someone tried to show off. It smelled like spiced liquor, smoke, and too many unwashed bodies packed into one space.
She didn't know why she'd come.
Maybe it was exhaustion. Not of the body—she was used to pushing herself past limits—but of the constant weight. The stares. The rumors. The burden of surviving something others thought she shouldn't have.
The girl who lived.The girl who watched her family burn.They didn't say it with awe. Just doubt. Distrust.
Her grip on the vial tightened.
Then, through the noise, a voice slipped in. Smooth. Calm. Annoyingly amused.
"What's a pretty thing like you doing down here?"
Nyx didn't look up.
She had no time for idiots who mistook her silence for mystery.
The voice came again, a touch lazier this time. "Nothing? Mute, then? Or just above it all?"
Still, she didn't react. Just pocketed the vial and turned—
—and stopped short.
The man leaning at the bar wasn't drunk. Wasn't desperate either. He wore confidence like a second skin. Tousled blond hair, a bit too wild to be neat. One eye green, the other brown—striking, unnatural. His smile was lazy, but his gaze was sharp.
Something about him didn't fit here. Or maybe, it fit too well.
Nyx kept her expression blank. "Do lines like that usually work for you?"
He grinned. "Only when I mean them."
"Unlucky, then."
"I've been told worse."
She glanced past him toward the women watching from across the room—mercenaries, thieves, trouble in leather and steel. All of them looked at him like they knew what he was capable of.
"You've got options," she said coolly. "Pick one of them."
"And miss the fun of annoying you?" He lifted his glass and drank. "That'd be a tragedy."
Nyx stepped away from the bar, done with the conversation. Or she thought she was.
"Careful out there," the man called, still facing the bar, like he wasn't even speaking to her. "Pretty girls don't always get to walk home."
She stopped at the edge of the stairs.
Didn't turn around. Just tilted her head back enough for her voice to carry.
"Let them try."
There was no warmth in her tone. Just ice. And a promise.
Then she vanished into the dark, the chaos of the tavern fading behind her.
The streets outside were quieter. Cold night air rolled in over the dunes, brushing against her skin and cooling the heat left behind in her chest. She tugged her hood low and kept walking, boots making soft thuds against sand-packed stone.
But the feeling followed her.
A tingle down her spine. That subtle tension in her shoulders that didn't go away, no matter how much distance she put between herself and that place.
She was being watched.
She didn't break pace. Didn't look back. Just let her hand drift casually toward the dagger at her hip. Another street passed, then another. Still there. Not footsteps. Just the pressure of a gaze she couldn't find.
When she turned, it was sharp and sudden.
Empty street.
She moved into an alley—fast, quiet, slipping between buildings like a shadow. Let them follow. She'd find out who it was.
But when she turned the final corner, expecting someone—anything—she found… nothing.
Just crates. Dust. And—
A sound.
Not footsteps. Not steel on leather.
A whimper.
Her gaze dropped.
There, nestled between two crates and barely breathing, was a small cat. Its black fur was matted with dirt and blood, one leg twisted at a painful angle. Its ribs showed through its sides like cracked bones beneath torn skin.
It blinked up at her. Slow. Weak.
Nyx let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Not an enemy. Just something small and broken.
She crouched down. Her instincts told her to leave it—wounded things didn't survive long out here. But…
It reminded her of something.
Not the cat itself. The way it lay there. The way it didn't cry out or struggle. The way it looked at her was like it had already given up.
She swore under her breath.
Carefully, she reached out. The cat twitched, but didn't fight.
"You better not die on me," she muttered.
The cat gave a pitiful huff, like it was annoyed she'd even said that.
Nyx almost smiled.
Almost.
She tucked it into the fold of her cloak and rose to her feet, one arm shielding the creature's body from the cool night wind.
Her steps were slower now, more deliberate. Still, the feeling of being watched hadn't faded entirely.
She didn't see anyone when she passed the edge of the alley.
Didn't hear anything either.
But something told her that whoever—or—whatsoever—had followed her hadn't stopped.
And as she walked back toward the barracks, the stray breathing weakly against her chest, she couldn't shake the thought that the night hadn't let her go just yet.