The rain had dwindled to a drizzle, dripping lazily from the tips of leaves swayed by the wind. The night air was piercing, its chill biting the skin like a dull knife that could not cut, only scrape and leave behind a lingering sting.
On the muddy ground, broken branches cracked beneath the frail steps of a woman. The brittle sound echoed like a shadow of death trailing behind her, a reminder of how fragile the body was that forced itself to keep moving.
Ashtoria Iskandrite staggered forward, her evening gown torn, stained with blood and the dust of ruin. Every step felt like a final battle between a flickering thread of willpower and a body on the verge of collapse. Her breaths came heavy and broken, her lungs refusing to work, holding only half the air she needed. From a distance, she seemed like a doll made of fraying threads, nearly torn apart by the weight of the world.
She walked away from the city. The city that once was home had become a nest of killers. Every street there, every face she might once have known, had turned into a cheap mask of betrayal.
"No one can be trusted…" she muttered weakly, her hoarse voice nearly carried away by the wind.
Her eyes scanned the darkness of night with the tension of a cornered beast. Instinct for survival had taken over, she no longer cared who was friend or foe. They were all the same. All of them wanted her dead.
At the edges of her vision, the shadows of trees moved like lurking monsters waiting to tear her apart. Each whisper of the wind, each rustle of leaves, made her head snap around, like a hunted deer waiting for the snare to tighten around its neck.
Once, she nearly slipped on the slick ground, her knee slamming into the mud, but she forced herself to rise again. There was no other choice. To give up was to die. She had to keep going. She had to get as far away as possible. Every second spent in the open was an invitation for death to find her faster.
And within that fear, a voice repeated endlessly in her mind, like a mantra:
"No one can be trusted. Not a single soul. All of them want me dead."
Yet her faltering steps halted for a moment when her eyes caught something in the distance. Through the low-hanging mist above the wet ground, a faint shape emerged: a small building. Not a grand house, but a shabby shack on the verge of collapse. Still, it was not the shack itself that drew her attention.
Beside it stood a horse-drawn wagon. And near it, two figures: a young man in his early twenties and a girl of perhaps fourteen. They seemed to be speaking quietly, unaware of the hateful, suspicious eyes watching them from afar.
Ashtoria blinked slowly, her vision swimming, her body ready to collapse at any moment. But her survival instinct had already decided: she would hide in that shack. And before she could do so, those two would have to be dealt with, so that she could find peace.
Her heavy feet dragged her forward, step by step, accompanied by the crackle of wet branches underfoot.
Meanwhile, Riven was trying to reassure his sister. For some reason, the silence of the surroundings gnawed at him, filling him with unease. He had just explained to Melly that they had to leave this place soon when the hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end.
Without a second thought, he grabbed Melly and held her close. The chill of the night air was suddenly drowned by the crushing weight of danger pressing in from every direction. His body froze, unable to move, driven only by the instinct to shield his sister.
Melly felt it too. Her small body trembled violently, as if her heart was about to leap from her chest. Her wide, innocent eyes stared into the darkness, but she could not see what was approaching.
Riven forced himself to stay calm, though his breath came fast. His sharp gaze swept the area, searching for the source of the dread that weighed so heavily.
And then he saw her.
Out of the thin mist and the shadows of trees, a woman emerged slowly. Her evening gown, once elegant, was now torn and filthy, soaked with rain and blood. Her disheveled red hair fell across her face, making her look like a ghost crawling out of hell. Her body swayed, fragile, yet her eyes… those blood-red eyes carried a threat that could not be ignored.
Riven felt danger pouring from her in waves. He didn't know who she was, but his instincts screamed: this woman was no ordinary person. Worse still, she looked more than capable of killing him and Melly with ease.
Melly clutched her brother's arm, her body quivering. "Riven… who is that…?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Riven could not answer. Words stuck in his throat. He only knew one thing: the figure was getting closer, and with every step, the air grew colder, heavier.
Ashtoria dragged herself forward, her body nothing but skin and a shredded will. Her breaths were ragged, her chest heaving violently, every gasp like a knife carving her lungs. She wanted nothing more than to slaughter the two before her, to destroy them without a trace, to drown their tiny world in blood.
But her body refused. The mana she had clung to was gone, dried up like a cracked well in the desert. Her legs trembled just to keep her upright, as though the earth itself was eager to swallow her broken form.
Now she could only gaze dimly at the siblings huddled together beneath the pale moonlight. Her vision blurred, their faces swimming like shadows rising and sinking in the mist. But none of that dulled her fury.
'Perish…' her mind roared, deafening her from within.
'Die… DIE!'
She tried to lift her weakened hand. Her muscles shook violently, her fingers stiff as rotten wood. Her whole body rebelled against her, yet hatred ignited the last flicker of strength she had left. She raised her hand slightly, like an executioner about to bring down the final hammer.
In her heart, she already saw the siblings' bodies torn apart and charred.
But just as she was about to unleash it, something warm, soft, and unfamiliar touched her hand.
Ashtoria flinched.
The one who touched her was the little girl. Her tiny hand trembled, yet still pressed against Ashtoria's cold skin. Her eyes quivered, but inside them there was no hatred.
Only fear… and concern.
"What…" the girl's voice cracked, faint but clear, "what happened to you? Why are you hurt like this?"
The words pierced deeper than any blade.
Ashtoria froze.
The world suddenly collapsed around her. The patter of rain, the sigh of wind, even the grinding of her own hatred—all shattered.
Her body faltered. The sky spun. The moon, glaring behind the last of the clouds, twisted into a great whirlpool, dragging her down into darkness.
'No… I… must… kill… '
The sentence never finished.
Her legs gave way. Her body struck the ground with a dull thud. Ashtoria's head slammed hard, leaving dust and fragments of stone clinging to her pale face. Her tangled red hair spread out, mingling with earth and rain that dulled its shine.
She no longer moved.
All that remained was the figure of a woman in a tattered gown, lying like a lifeless corpse before the two siblings—frozen where they stood, unable yet to understand what had just happened.