He slowed as he neared.
From a distance, her expression had looked—
Wrong.
Cold — too cold. Maybe flat.
But now that he was closer… maybe not.
Maybe it had just been the light.
Or the blood loss.
Or both.
As he neared, he got a better look.
Dirty blonde hair, braided tight. Same age as him.
Lived in the same house — but might as well have been on a different planet.
Her name was Mira.
His maid.
Kinda.
She looked at him.
Well — more specifically — at his robe.
The torn part.
Then the blood.
Then back to his face.
"You're hurt," she said — calm, almost neutral. Like she was stating the weather.
"Yeah."
They weren't close. Never had much to say. Still didn't.
"I'll bathe first," he muttered.
A pause.
"Should I get towels?" she asked.
He blinked. Surprised.
"...Yeah. Thanks."
She nodded once and slipped inside.
He watched her go, frowning slightly.
Since when was she that nice?
Still, he followed her toward the entrance, stepping past the low stone gate onto the property.
This was his assigned residence.
Jasmine Garden.
It stuck out like a sore thumb.
Sure, it followed the same clean-cut design as most sect buildings — pale stone, crisp lines, proper symmetry.
But it had one major difference.
Flowers.
Other places in the sect at least pretended to be serene. Quiet pavilions, artful shadows, the occasional wind chime for taste.
But no one else had flowerbeds. Or vines creeping up the walls. Or trees that bloomed like they didn't know what season it was.
One of the previous tenants must've been a fervent fan of flora — and left behind this unnecessarily beautiful corner in an otherwise not-so-beautiful sect.
He didn't head inside.
Instead, he followed the stone path that curved along the side of the house, past a row of overgrown shrubs and toward the back.
Toward his "bathhouse".
Which, in reality, was just a pool of cold water surrounded by some vaguely decorative rocks.
But he couldn't complain. This alone was already a luxury.
He exhaled, low.
"Let's get started."
He set the padded case with the Frostdew Flower down on a flat stone, then began peeling off his uniform. The outer layers came off easy — the inner ones less so, fabric sticking to the dried blood at his side.
As he stripped down to his bare upper body, something cool shifted against his chest — a thin, worn necklace, handmade, clumsy knots at the ends. He held it up for a second, thumb brushing the frayed cord.
For a moment, he just stared — not at the necklace, but through it.
Then something clicked back into place.
His gaze dropped to his hand.
A spider. Etched deep into the skin, inked in black. The legs curled slightly along his knuckles, too precise to be decorative — too fresh to be old.
What is this stupid thing?
He didn't remember getting it.
It had already been there. Burned into him, by the time he woke up in this place.
By the time everything else was gone.
He exhaled slowly, then stepped into the pool—
>>>
Not long after, he stepped out again.
The sting had dulled. The bleeding had stopped — for now — thanks to the ointment.
But the wound still throbbed under the skin, like it had a pulse of its own.
He dried off quickly with one of the towels Mira had brought and wrapped it around his waist.
The rest — the torn uniform, his knife, the ointment, and the padded box with the Frostdew Flower — he gathered into his arm.
Not as easy as it sounded, especially with only one hand.
A bit shakily, he made his way to the back entrance.
It opened into a narrow corridor that led straight to the dining hall — a small, square room with a low table and two unused cushions.
From there, the house split:
Left led to the servant's side — a small bedroom, a storage alcove, and a modest kitchen tucked behind a screen.
Right led to his room — and the house's single bath chamber.
He passed the bath chamber and reached his own door.
Just as he did, a soft flicker of light caught his eye —
He shifted the bundle in his arm, nudged the door open with his foot, and stepped inside.
The door swung open.
Same room as always — thin bedroll, wonky lamp stand, and that leaning lantern that pissed him off just a little more each night.
It was already lit for some reason.
The flame flickered low, steady — almost too steady.
Then — just barely, caught in the flicker of its light — he saw something.
A shadow.
It shifted across the far wall. Fast, too low to be his own.
His body moved before his thoughts did.
He dropped everything — clothes, knife, the flower's case — they scattered across the floor as he stumbled back, narrowly avoiding the fangs that struck where his shoulder had just been.
A sharp screech echoed.
Claws skittered across the stone.
"Shit."
He turned, heart pounding, trying to make out his attacker—
There. In the corner.
Low to the ground.
Its body sleek and sinuous, somewhere between a panther cub and a lizard —
lean frame, wiry muscle, slick black fur that shimmered faintly in the lantern light.
Its mouth opened, revealing needle-thin fangs — and a tongue that pulsed with dull purple light.
A Night Fang.
Of course.
It just had to be today.
It lunged again.
Riven barely dodged, his bare feet slipping against the smooth floor. His side flared—
Pain. Bright and blinding.
He stumbled, teeth clenched, and shoved himself backward toward the door.
His knife had hit the ground with the rest — somewhere near there, half-buried under his discarded robes and the fallen flower case.
Shit. Too far.
The Night Fang crouched, tail twitching, eyes glowing a faint violet.
It struck again.
He ducked low — faster than before — and kicked.
Not elegant, but effective.
His heel caught it in the ribs, sent it tumbling across the room with a shriek.
He straightened, breath sharp in his throat.
"I don't need a knife for you," he muttered. "Little—"
A sudden rustle behind him. Too soon.
No growl. No charge.
Just the soft sound of claws—
Scraping off stone.
It hadn't fallen.
It had rebounded.
Off the wall.
Straight toward his back.
He twisted—
But the motion pulled across his ribs—
White pain stabbed through his side, sharp and sudden—
And that one beat of hesitation was all it needed.
Too slow.
Fangs sank into his shoulder.
A white-hot pulse exploded under the skin as the venom spread.
He roared.
His hand scrabbled blindly — found fur.
He grabbed the creature by the scruff and slammed it into the floor — once, twice, thrice — until he lost the feeling in his hand.
The beast was gone. Only slowly dissolving black smoke remained.
His knees hit the ground.
Breathing hard.
His shoulder ached. Burned.
His ribs still throbbed.
And near the bite… the skin was already turning purple.
His heart hammered.
Not from pain —
From knowing what this meant.
"Shit."