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«…Have you finished reminiscing?…»
The voice slid through his mind, cold as steel and impossible to ignore. Sid—no, Sigrid—snapped out of the past he'd been drowning in and focused on the battlefield before him. The mysterious woman in the black hooded cloak was still there, weaving through the hybrid creature's lunges with swift, economical movements. Dust hung in the air like a veil; broken roots and gouged earth marked the path of its fury.
Goddmn it. Why am I thinking about my life back then?*
He forced his breathing steady and reached for his bow. Fingers found the familiar notches on the string, the comforting weight of an arrow against his knuckles. He drew a shallow breath, sighting along the shaft, angling for the exposed membrane beneath the creature's crystalline scales—
«…Are you still running away from your past?…»
The words hit harder than any blow. Sigrid's grip tightened until his knuckles whitened. Heat flared in his chest, a rush of emotion as sharp as the sting of old wounds.
"JUST WHAT DO YOU KNOW?! WHO ARE YOU TO SPEAK LIKE THAT?!"
His voice cracked across the clearing. He rarely shouted. He never lost control—not since House Anatole—because the Countess had taught him to chain his temper, to keep a blade's edge where others flailed with brute force.
The nerve of this—whoever she is. How can she be so damn calm? So… nonchalant?
«…Why don't you focus on the matter at hand before scolding me?…»
BOOOOM!
The ground bucked under his boots. Sigrid looked up in time to see the cloaked woman plant her heel into the monster's jaw with an impact that cracked the air. The hybrid's bulk lifted—lifted—and hurtled toward him like a cannon shot.
'Shit!'
He dove aside. Claws slammed into the dirt where he'd been standing a heartbeat before, splinters of stone and clods of soil peppering his back. He rolled behind a fallen trunk and came up coughing.
«…I was going to finish it, but it's your commission—and your prey. I'm not shameless enough to take someone else's hunt…»
"—Cough!cough!—" Dust scratched his throat as it swirled, thickening the air. He squinted, searching for her. Nothing but drifting grit and the ragged outline of the beast, its limbs twitching as it scrabbled to right itself.
"You're the one who declared you could handle it," he snapped, voice hoarse. "And now you're taking it back? Are you a coward or something?"
The words burned on his tongue the moment they left it. Guilt rose a beat later—hot and immediate.
She healed us. She stepped in when we were done for. She's kept this thing off us single-handedly—and I'm calling her a coward?
Sigrid exhaled hard and forced himself to assess the creature. It lay half‑curled, breath ragged, its blue crystal scales dimmed by dust and fractured light. Across its flank: deep, crude gashes—not the elegant, even cleave of a refined sword technique, but brutal, efficient cuts, nonetheless. Fresh blood oozed into the torn soil, hissing where it touched shards of its own crystalline scales.
He frowned.
She didn't carry a blade. I watched her—bare hands, nothing else. Then how are there cuts like that? From what?
His gaze swept the ground for any hint of a weapon. Nothing. Only the steady thrum of danger in the air, the bite of grit against his teeth, and the sensation—strange and persistent—that she was everywhere and nowhere at once.
What are you?
Or perhaps the better question—
What do you know about me?
She had called him by his true name once already. Sigrid Anatole. Not Sid. Not the lie he wore like a borrowed coat.
«…I don't like meddling with other adventurers. This should be your prey, not mine. I told you before: pick up your sword and walk the path that's meant for you. Don't run, and don't hide in fear…»
He stared at the dirt for a heartbeat, jaw clenched. Pride tasted like iron on his tongue.
She was right.
He was running—had been ever since he'd left the kingdom behind. He could dress it as survival or caution or necessity, but it was still running. Still fear. Guilt dug its fingers into his ribs and pressed, hard.
«…I told you it isn't your fault. Your family only wanted you safe. That's all…»
He laughed once, low and bitter. "What do you know?" he muttered, turning in a slow circle, trying to pin down her position. "You speak as if you saw it—"
«…Of course I know. Because I was there. I saw it with my own eyes. I know what truly happened. I know the whole truth…»
His thoughts ruptured like glass under a hammer.
She—what? She was there? Where? When? Anger flooded back, clean and scalding. He drew breath to lash out—
ROOOOAAARRR!
The hybrid's bellow swallowed the clearing. Dust leapt again, stinging his eyes. The creature heaved itself up on its forelimbs, shaking shards from its scales. Its pupils narrowed into burning slits as it fixed on them both.
«…Tsk. Our little friend has found a second wind. You have questions—I know. Finish this first, and we'll see…»
Wind battered the trees as the beast flared its wings. Sigrid threw an arm across his face to shield his eyes. He could hear its claws gouging the earth, feel the thrum of its rage in his boots.
«…Hmm. This won't do. Perhaps my fault for being a busybody. How troublesome…»
His vision tilted. The world lurched sideways.
It took him a second to realize his knees were buckling.
What—? Strength drained from his limbs as if someone had uncorked him and poured him out onto the ground. He caught himself against the trunk he'd used earlier and slid, breath hissing between his teeth. Mana—his mana—stuttered, then went slack, like a taut bowstring suddenly cut.
Sorcery? A seal? Some kind of dampening spell—
He fought it with everything he had. Pride strained, muscles tensed, jaw locked—but the weight pressed heavier. His thoughts blurred at the edges, trying to hold onto anything sharp enough to keep him awake.
The hybrid's roar muffled, as if he were sinking underwater. The dust's sting receded to a distant prickle. Even the pounding of his heart sounded far away.
Through the haze, he lifted his head and saw her.
For once, not a shadow or an outline. The silhouette of the mysterious woman sharpened against the light, cloak snapping in the wind, presence cutting through the chaos like a line drawn through noise.
Then—the hood slipped.
Hair flared loose, catching the murky light with a blaze that stole what remained of his breath: fiery crimson, bright as a wound against the forest's green.
Crimson… hair… Just who—
Her voice reached him—not in his mind this time, but out loud, calm and unyielding, threading the air between them with simple finality.
"A sword not only protects," she said, as if reciting a creed, "it also eliminates. The moment you choose to wield one, you accept the consequences that come with it."
The words fell into him like stones into a well. Ripples spread—past shame, past fear, past all the frantic questions he wanted to hurl at her—down into the bedrock where his oldest vow slept.
To protect.
To stand.
To bear what others could not.
Consequences.
His body surrendered. The tree bark at his back blurred into russet smears, the crimson flash at the edge of his vision dissolving into shadow. The roar of the hybrid faded to a dull, distant thunder, and even the sting of dust gave way to a cool, driftless quiet.
Everything went black.
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