The rain wasn't letting up. Thunder harassed the dark sky, tearing through the heavy downpour and striking the earth with sharp cracks every few minutes.
Thranduil stood by the window, staring at the blackened sky. This rain felt different — violent, endless, like the clouds were personally angry. His eyes wandered the warm cabin until a soft clicking noise caught his attention.
Antrea sat curled on a bean bag, her extremely long dark hair spilling over her like a thick living coat. She gripped a glowing pad, yelling at the screen filled with characters he still didn't understand. She had explained it was a "game" you could only control with that strange device. After weeks living with her, he had gotten used to her weird tech from other worlds. Still, the flashy lights and moving designs on the screen kept pulling his gaze.
The cabin door suddenly swung open. Cold, wet air rushed inside, filling every corner and chasing away the warmth.
Antrea sneezed hard and shivered. Her dark wings instantly appeared, wrapping tightly around her body like a protective blanket. She didn't even turn around — just kept yelling at her game.
A figure in a large dripping trench coat and knee-high boots stepped in. The heavy boots thudded against the soaked wooden floor. They carried a big bag of goodies and dropped it heavily on the old oak table. The table creaked loudly under the sudden weight.
The person pulled back their hood. Cyra shook out her wet brown hair, looking thoroughly annoyed.
"I hate the rain," she groaned, wiping water from her face. "It caught me right in the middle of shopping."
"We're you able to get anything good?" Thranduil asked, stepping closer to the bag.
Cyra slapped his hand away. "Don't you dare touch it," she huffed, squeezing water out of her brown hair onto the wooden floor. She shrugged off her wet trench coat, her wolf-like tail thrashing slowly behind her. She squeezed the water from the tail too, then shook her whole body violently, spraying droplets everywhere in the room.
"You lazy bums wouldn't even go out," she scoffed.
"Someone had to watch the cabin," Thranduil replied flatly.
"We have an interdimensional angel for that!" Cyra yelled, pointing at Antrea, who was still glued to her game, wings wrapped tight around herself.
Thranduil stared at Cyra, his calm blue eyes locked on her bright amber ones.
"Don't stare at me like that," she smiled, already rummaging through the bag. She pulled out cabbages, carrots, and other fresh ingredients, dumping them onto the table. "The people here are thieves. Nasty dwarves and gnomes," she hissed angrily. "And the stuff they sell isn't even high quality — worms all over the damn things." She let the empty sack drop to the floor with a wet slap. "In all, I spent 20 dwarven gold on this crap."
"Whoa, that's expensive," Thranduil exclaimed.
"I know, right?" Cyra said, looking scandalized at the pile of vegetables. "I could buy a nice house with that money. But alas… we need the food." She glanced around the quiet cabin, tail still twitching.
"She's not back yet," Thranduil said softly before she could ask. "I don't think she'll be back today." His voice was gentle, almost comforting.
Cyra's amber eyes dropped to the floor. "Sure, we agreed to let her be for now so she can work things out… but do you think she'll ever snap out of it?"
Thranduil picked up an apple and took a big bite. Cyra stared at him like he had suddenly grown another head.
"Sorry?" he smiled weakly, chewing.
That night, a small earthquake rattled the town.
The tavern was stuffy and thick with the smell of sweat, spilled beer, old blood, and that unmistakable musk of too many men crammed together.
Her long white hair spilled across the entire table like a silky blanket as she napped quietly, still loosely holding her half-drunk mug of beer. Empty mugs were scattered all around her like fallen soldiers. Her pale face looked calm and peaceful in the low light.
People around the room whispered while staring at her. In the damp, smoky tavern, only she seemed to glow under the flickering candles.
"She's one fine arse, ain't she?" one drunk dwarf laughed loudly. The others joined in with crude chuckles.
"She always comes here to drink, and she's loaded too," a gnome added. "I've seen her purse — must be a hundred gold coins in there."
A human whistled. "And the way she walks… I'd wager my life savings she'd be a beast in bed." The group burst out laughing again.
"In all my years I've never seen a girl this pretty," the first dwarf continued. "Kind of like a princess. And she doesn't have an escort. I'd reckon someone like her should have a guard or two, but she's always by herself."
"She's a fine maiden, that's for sure," another man added. The whole tavern murmured in rough agreement.
Areia slowly opened her eyes. She stared at the flickering candle flame ahead, her purple eyes cold and distant. She lifted her head from the table and stretched lazily. The tavern went dead silent, every eye locked on her.
She wiped the drool from her face with one quick motion. Her skin was neat, flawless, almost unreal. She didn't seem to notice the stares as she patted herself down, found her purse, and placed a few gold coins on the table. Then she staggered toward the door.
She stopped when she opened it — heavy rain was pouring outside, thunder rumbling in the distance. With a small sigh she turned back, took her seat again, and ordered another round of beer.
"She must be mightily young too," one of the men whispered.
"I hear ya," a dwarf agreed. "Just look at the way she moves."
Soon Areia's table was piled high with tankards, a large plate of roasted lamb, shrimps, and a neat bowl of onion soup. The waiter "accidentally" brushed himself against her as he passed. Areia didn't react at all — she just started on the lamb like nothing happened.
The dwarves, gnomes, and two humans gathered around one table and called the waiter over, pretending to order something.
"So how is she?" the dwarf asked.
"She's as soft as cotton and her hair as smooth as silk," the man replied, his almost toothless mouth stretching into a nasty grin. "She smells extremely nice too, even in this damp place. I'm sure she's one of those runaway nobles, if you ask me."
It took nearly another four hours before the rain finally eased off. Areia dropped three more gold coins on top of the two she'd left earlier and staggered toward the door. She kept stumbling over stools and uneven floorboards the whole way. The tavern laughed loudly as she left. One of the men even whistled.
Areia stepped outside and stared up at the dark night sky. A light drizzle still fell, and it looked like the rain would start pouring again soon. She stumbled down the deserted, muddy street, making her slow way home. Her cabin was at the end of the road — normally a ten-minute walk, but drunk and constantly tripping and falling, it took her twice as long.
"I think we should strike now," one of the dwarves whispered from the shadows.
"What if she's strong?" one of the humans asked nervously. "For all we know she could have magic or something."
"Bullshit," the gnome hissed. "I saw her get robbed last week. Some kids knocked her down with a tree branch and took her purse. She's as weak as she looks."
"Then she's a walking target," the first dwarf smiled, stepping out of the shadows.
The human quickly pulled him back. "What is it?" the dwarf growled.
"Are you blind? Can't you see?" the man hissed.
They all stared. A tall demi-human girl with a massive sword strapped to her back had just met Areia and was now supporting her. Under the partly clouded moonlight they couldn't make out the girl's face clearly, but from her voice she sounded like she was scolding the white-haired drunk.
"Let's leave her be," the man suggested quietly. "I'm sure there'll be more opportunities."
The others murmured in agreement and slipped back into the dark street.
Cyra stumbled through the damp wooden door with Areia, half-carrying the white-haired girl. The room was still in shambles — after Thranduil took that bite of the apple, Cyra had punched him so hard it caused a mini earthquake in town.
Thranduil sat hunched on a chair, nursing his sore stomach as Cyra dragged Areia inside and dropped her onto a chair.
"I can practically smell the beer from here," Thranduil groaned.
"She's wasted," Cyra replied sadly, brushing wet hair from Areia's face. "I hate how much she's changed since he's been absent."
"Yeah," Thranduil nodded, wincing as he shifted. "We can't get through to her anymore. Now that I think about it, she only really reacts when he's involved. We should've paid more attention when he was still here… would've been easier."
"She said she'd be back to normal by the end of this month," Cyra muttered, staring at the sleeping Areia. "But I doubt it. She's just a shell of her old self."
"Just take her to her room," Thranduil sighed. "There's no use brooding over it. If she gave a deadline, we should trust her. Either way, none of us can reach her except…" His eyes wandered to the angel still glued to her game, now munching crunchy stuff from a bag he'd never seen before.
Cyra carried Areia to her room and gently laid her on the bed. In her simple white gown, Areia looked strangely peaceful as she slept. Cyra pulled the sheets up, parted the long white hair from her face, and whispered, "I'm sure you must be suffering deep down." She smiled softly. "I'll leave you to rest now."
Cyra walked back out and closed the door quietly.
"Isn't it about time you stopped playing that game?" Thranduil yelled angrily at Antrea.
"It's becoming annoying."
"What are you talking about?" Antrea floated over beside him, an apple in her hand. She took a big bite, her face flushing with pleasure as she savored it.
"If you're here, then who's that?" Thranduil pointed at the exact copy of Antrea still sitting there, playing wildly and cursing at the screen.
"A clone. No biggie," she waved carelessly.
"If Cyra catches you eating her groceries, you'll get a punch like me," Thranduil warned.
"Why?" Antrea asked innocently, crunching another bite.
Cyra walked out of the hallway in her nightwear, wolf ears perked up as she approached the table.
"It wasn't me, it was Antrea," Thranduil said defensively, pointing.
"Yeah, Antrea gets a pass," Cyra said flatly.
The real Antrea floated high above them, watching the whole thing with a confused tilt of her head, unable to figure out what was going on.
"It's not fair!" Thranduil protested. "You punched me for taking one bite, but you're letting her go? She was in here with me the whole time!"
"What do you mean? Are you crazy or something?" Cyra's voice suddenly softened with concern. "I didn't know I hit you that hard. Antrea was with me when I went shopping, so of course she gets a pass."
"Clones," Antrea yawned loudly, stretching her arms. "Sure, I was with Cyra… though not physically. More like a spirit version of myself. I didn't want to get wet," she pointed out, still floating lazily. She flew down to grab another fruit, but Cyra stopped her mid-air.
"Stop using your powers for stupid stuff like this," Cyra said calmly, arms crossed.
Antrea stared at her blankly for a few seconds, then disappeared with a soft pop. A moment later she reappeared holding a bunch of strange colorful packs and bags. "Well, keep your rotten apple," she pouted. "I'll have some Chinese food then."
With that, she flew toward her clone and merged back into it with a little shimmer.
Come on, Thranduil, let's get something going," Cyra said, grabbing as much stuff as she could carry and heading straight for the kitchen.
He joined her after a while.
That night Thranduil ate the worst soup he had tasted in a long time.
The weeks that followed were pretty empty. Areia would disappear for hours, only to show up again battered and drunk. She could not hold her liquor, but for some reason she kept drinking anyway. She rarely spoke, and none of them bothered her. She didn't bother anyone either.
The crew took lots of odd jobs — monster hunting, fetching artifacts, the usual stuff. Areia didn't come with them most of the time. She just stayed around town.
Areia stood up from her stool and dropped a few coins on the table. On her way out, her boots creaked loudly on the soaked wooden floor. She wore pants pulled high up to her abdomen and a simple white tunic fastened with a belt. Her long white hair had been tied into one large single braid by Antrea before the others left for their latest job.
Nighttime was drawing close. Areia crossed the street with slow, graceful steps, her face flushed from all the drinking. She stopped when a group of men suddenly blocked her path. Ignoring them, she tried taking another route, but she was quickly surrounded.
She knew exactly what this was. It wasn't the first time she'd been robbed since they came to this town.
"Hand over your purse and we'll let you walk away in one piece," the short, muscular dwarf licked his lips as he stepped closer.
Areia bent down. Her vision was blurry and she couldn't clearly make out their faces. She held up one hand in a weak gesture for the dwarf to stop, the other clamped tightly over her mouth.
He slapped her hand away. "Just hand over your wallet and we won't touch you," he grinned.
Areia couldn't hold it back anymore. She let go. A thick stream of half-digested onion, meat, and something in-between came pouring out of her mouth, bathing the dwarf in greenish vomit.
The other men stepped back in disgust. The short dwarf — barely half of Areia's height — was completely covered in it.
"Sorry…" Areia muttered, then doubled over and vomited again. She tossed her purse at his feet. It landed with a heavy, shimmering clink, clearly full of gold.
She tried to move away, but the men still wouldn't budge. She stared at them, confused. What more could they possibly want?
"You sick fuck," the dwarf growled, wiping a handful of puke from his face.
Areia tried to run, but she was sloppy and way slower than she thought. A large club caught her hard on the side of the head. She didn't bleed, but the force knocked her clean off her feet. The men dragged her off the road and behind a tree. Her weak attempts at fighting back did nothing.
"The waiter was right," one of the men chuckled, licking his lips. "Her skin is so damn soft."
"Just hold her down for me," the dwarf growled, fumbling with his belt. Areia struggled as hard as her drunk body would let her, but five men pinned her down tight. "Once I'm done, you guys can have the rest," he laughed.
He pulled down his pants and reached for her. He never made it.
With incredible speed, he was blasted away across the street, his body ripping apart piece by piece as he flew.
Cyra stormed toward them, face twisted in pure fury. "You damned bastards," she growled at the rest of the men. They let go of Areia and sprinted away in panic, trying to escape the rampaging beastkin.
They didn't get far. One by one they burst like overfilled balloons, spraying the dark street with guts and entrails.
Cyra, still furious, grabbed Areia by the scruff of her neck. "What the hell are you doing? Were you really just gonna let yourself get taken advantage of like that? Not by a dragon, not by a monster, not by something that could actually threaten Dan or your life… but by mere village scumbags?" Her voice shook with anger. "I knew you were depressed, but I didn't know it was this bad."
"Sorry," Areia said weakly, staring blankly at her.
"Sorry? Sorry? Really? That's the best you can say?" Cyra yelled into the night. "We've been together for three months now and I've barely heard you speak except for the word 'sorry'." She looked straight into Areia's eyes. "Your eyes are dead, Areia. I don't think this is what Dan would've wanted when he vanished."
"As if you know," Areia responded, voice cracking as tears streamed down her face. "Don't start acting like you know how Dan felt or how I feel. You're all hypocrites."
Cyra let go. Areia dropped hard onto the muddy ground.
"Your month of grace ended two weeks ago," Cyra growled. "Pick yourself up… or we move on without you. We're just trying to survive, and you should too. That's the only reason Dan left in the first place."
Cyra turned and walked away without another word, leaving Areia lying there in the drizzle.
Cyra stomped into the cabin still furious, slamming the door so hard it broke clean off its hinges. Thranduil didn't even approach her. He was busy picking thorns out of Antrea's feathers — their latest job had been quick but nasty. Some farmer and his wife got lost in the woods and ended up deep in a thorn bush-filled well, badly wounded and barely alive. They could've teleported them out, but that sudden move might've finished them off, so they had to dig them out the hard way.
Cyra walked over and dropped heavily onto one of the empty chairs. It immediately snapped and sent her crashing to the floor. She didn't bother getting up — just curled up there like a sulking wolf.
Thranduil stared at her.
"Pluck another of my feathers and I might feel compelled to hit you," Antrea sniffed.
"Sorry," Thranduil muttered. He'd been so distracted he'd accidentally pulled out a few already — a mistake that happened way too often before Cyra got back.
"Hero, what's wrong?" Antrea asked. "Did something happen when you went to look for Areia?"
"She's stupid. She's utterly stupid," Cyra spoke from under her arms, voice muffled. "She's a disgrace of a knight. I hate her so much." Her body trembled as she said it.
"Cut her some slack, will you?" Thranduil interjected.
"I saw Areia almost getting defiled by a group of dwarves and gnomes," Cyra said softly.
"Like Areia would let that happen," Thranduil laughed.
"She did," Cyra replied without lifting her head.
The room went dead silent for a moment.
"What about the men? Were you able to rescue her?" Antrea asked suddenly.
"I was so blinded by anger I killed them all," Cyra shook as she spoke. "Are we doing something wrong? Are we really just deceiving ourselves?"
"What?" Thranduil asked. "I don't get it. Who said that?"
"I snapped at her, and she responded saying that" Cyra said softly.
"Honestly, I get why you yelled at her. I would too if I came upon that sight," Thranduil said thoughtfully.
"I was just too angry at how she let herself go," Cyra sighed. "I reckon she'd be the strongest among us right now if not for her current state. But seeing her overpowered by magicless bums rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe I was too hard on her."
"Whatever you said to her, I'm sure she'll reflect on it," Antrea said happily. "It's Areia after all."
"I'd like to believe that too, Cyra thought sadly still curled up on the broken chair.
The first week passed without Areia showing up at the cabin. Cyra stayed furious and didn't go looking for her like she normally would. Antrea was positive Areia would return after a while — for some reason, ever since she fully embraced herself, no one had seen her sad or angry. Thranduil searched the town. People said they'd seen her, but days ago. She had quietly visited six families — all the ones whose fathers Cyra had killed. She left a heavy pile of gold for each before vanishing again.
It was at the end of the second week that Cyra's tough exterior finally cracked. They all started searching for her, except Antrea, who seemed completely unbothered.
It was the middle of the third week when Areia suddenly appeared in front of the cabin. The air was damp and heavy with the smell of wet wood and distant rain. She reeked badly of cheap liquor, her steps unsteady. She stumbled inside in a daze, long white hair messy and sticking to her pale face. The others froze, staring at her in horror.
Her usual white tunic was wrinkled and stained, pants pulled high to her abdomen with a simple belt, and her massive black boots caked in mud.
"We were looking for you, but you disappeared out of town just to keep drinking?" Cyra yelled furiously, her wolf ears flat against her head. "We stayed in this town longer than we had to, just hoping you'd come back better, but— I don't get what Dan sees in a person like you." She finished softly, letting go of the knife she was using to cut a fish. Then she walked out of the cabin without another word, tail lashing behind her.
"Areia?. Nevermind," Thranduil sighed, his blue eyes tired. "I'd better go find Cyra before she does something stupid." He brushed past Areia on his way out, his simple traveler's clothes still dusty from the earlier job.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Antrea asked casually, staring at her freshly painted blue nails while lazily spinning in her wheeled chair. Her long dark hair flowed around her like a living shadow, wings folded neatly against her back.
Areia dropped the half-empty bottle she was holding. It clinked on the wooden floor. She searched her pocket and pulled out a white camellia, crystallized like a delicate hairpin. She dug it into her messy braid and breathed out. "No," she muttered. "Stacy (the dryad Dan and Areia met a while ago) didn't know either."
"Do you know manicures are so fun?" Antrea giggled, spinning herself around endlessly in the chair, her light dress fluttering.
"So what are you going to do now?" she smiled suddenly, looking at Areia upside down.
"When the others get back, tell them I'm on a mission. My mind link is open and they can reach me with telepathy,but they shouldn't do it often. When I'm done, I'll come find you guys." Areia said briefly as she walked past the floating angel.
Areia looked at herself in the large cracked mirror in her room. It had been a while since she saw her own reflection. Dark circles sat heavily under her eyes now. Her once-vibrant purple eyes had slowly lost their colour, looking dull and empty. "Cyra was right," she thought. "My eyes are dead."
She changed into her practical gear: pants laced with numerous pockets, a clean white tunic fastened with a sturdy belt, and her massive black boots. She checked her daggers and stuffed them into the boots. She looked at herself again as she placed a black cloak over her shoulders and smiled faintly at her reflection.
"I'll be fine," she muttered. She picked up a long sword that had lain dormant behind her room door for a while. It was dirty, covered in dust and cobwebs. She dusted it briefly, opened the door, and stepped out.
The sound of her boots echoed through the quiet house as she left. The white camellia still tucked in her white hair looked strangely beautiful against her all-black getup — cloak, tunic, pants, and boots giving her a sharp, shadowy silhouette.
Antrea smiled from her spinning chair. "Take care. And don't die," she called cheerfully.
"Be worried more about yourself," Areia smiled back as she stepped out of the cabin. She walked about six meters before vanishing out of sight into the misty evening.