Nylessa's POV
People think a town like Darswich can't hide secrets.
They think the lanterns, the laughter, the wine-soaked breath of its alleys mean there's no rot underneath. But I know better. Because I've stood in its bones. I've danced through its dark heart. And I remember what we buried here, no matter how pretty the surface has become.
The shard they seek slumbers under Darswich—beneath the cobbled charm, behind a gate carved by old hands. It doesn't sleep easily. Not after what happened.
Not after what he did.
Grimpel.
The skull may crack wise and wear sarcasm like a crown, but once—long before he wore a spine like a scarf—he had something close to a heart. And he lost it here.
Who? I'll never say.
But I saw what was left of him afterward. What the grief made of him. The twisted magic. The curse. The laughter.
And now he's back.
Hovering beside a man too broken to know better, and a woman too stubborn to die properly.
Clive. Selvara. The cursed and the crafted.
I watched them approach from my perch atop the Moonspire. The Wyrmstone around Clive's neck pulsed like a second heartbeat, and Selvara's gait was too perfect—Maedra's stitching, no doubt. Her figure was sculpted war-flesh. Deadly, yes. Desired, absolutely. But flawed.
A prototype.
I smirked. The witch's designs were always dramatic. But even Maedra couldn't replicate perfection.
That's me.
Nylessa. Child of the Shadewalkers. Born of moonlight and blood, tempered in the rituals beneath Darswich's hollow bones. I don't guard because I was told to. I guard because I remember.
And now, they've come knocking.
"Are we sure this is the place?" Clive asked, stopping in front of the crooked shop.
The door was carved with old sigils, familiar only to those with memory older than stone.
Selvara shifted, eyeing the glyphs. "It reeks of Maedra's magic."
Grimpel spun lazily. "Congratulations. We've arrived at the murder boutique. Who's ready for trauma?"
The door creaked open—without a touch.
I stood there, waiting. Arms crossed. Smile fixed.
"Hello, Clive," I purred. "You're taller than I imagined. Shame about the scowl. Could do with a little more…mischief."
Clive tensed. "Who are you?"
Grimpel groaned. "Oh great. It's her."
I turned to him. "Still floating, I see. Still running from what you did."
"You know damn well I didn't run," he snapped. "I buried it."
"Didn't stop it from growing back," I said sweetly.
Selvara stepped between us, stiff and ready. "What is this place?"
"Sacred," I answered. "Stained. And mine to guard."
"You're a Guardian?" Clive asked.
"Yes," I confirmed. "The shard you're after is below. Behind stories, smoke, and skin."
He narrowed his ember eyes. "Will you let us pass?"
I tilted my head, took a slow step toward him. "That depends. What will you give me in return?"
Selvara's lip curled. "What kind of Guardian asks for bribes?"
I looked her up and down. "Ah. The failed one speaks."
She stiffened. Clive's brow furrowed.
"Failed?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Maedra tried to build what she couldn't birth. You're looking at the success story. She—" I nodded toward Selvara, "—was the draft. Sturdy. Pleasing. But missing refinement."
Selvara looked like she was one sentence away from starting a war.
"Enough," Clive growled.
I smiled wider. "You're protective. I like that. It's cute." I leaned in slightly, voice softer. "But I really like your eyes. That ember glow? Dangerous. Makes a girl wonder what else burns beneath the surface."
Clive's jaw twitched.
"You're enjoying this too much," Grimpel muttered.
I leaned toward him, smile fading. "I should have crushed your skull when you still had flesh. You brought the fire here, Grimpel. You cost this town something we can never get back."
"I lost someone too," he said quietly.
"I know." I turned back to Clive. "That's why I let him float. That grief? It's the only reason I don't snap his spine with moonlight."
Selvara stepped forward. "Enough of this. Are you letting us through or not?"
I exhaled. "Clive, you're pretty. And stupid. And cursed. I want to see how far you fall. So yes. You can go."
"Just like that?" Clive asked.
I nodded. "One condition."
"What?"
"Let me watch."
Selvara scoffed. "Pervert."
I winked. "Jealous?"
The sigils on the shop door flared with faint blue. The ground beneath them shimmered with latent magic—the ley-line trembling as if recognizing the bearer of the Wyrmstone.
Thirteen shards in total.
They had found four.
Nine remained.
I turned away as the magic opened the gate behind me. "You'll find the next piece where masks whisper, and truth bites like wine. Don't bleed too much."
"Why?" Clive asked.
I smiled again.
"Because the gate remembers. And it hungers."
The moon remembers, it laughed louder than before and watching in amusement