The branches scratch against Sorin's face and arms as he and Serine break through the treeline. A heavy stillness grips the camp, the kind that comes after a scare that hasn't fully passed—like everyone is holding their breath, unsure if the danger is truly gone. The wind picks up as the clouds continue to darken. Dry leaves sweep across the path. The rustling sounds of waving trees and grasses fill the air. Despite this, the unease is slowly lifting, warmth creeping back to the camp. Serine’s senses stay sharp. The scatter of the leaves and snap of twigs still keep her alert. But they’re back. They’ve made it.
Ahead, she spots Bo and Emily at the entrance of the encampment, waiting for their return. Bo’s eyes narrow, studying them as they approach, relief at their sight warming her. Emily stands just behind her, nervously twisting her hands. The fear and grief etched across Emily’s face are unmistakable, barely held in check by fragile composure. As Serine draws closer, she notices other members of the camp beginning to gather, some hanging back while others edge closer, their eyes carrying hints of apprehension—they’re eager to hear the outcome. Serine knows the next moments won’t be easy.
Sorin steps forward first, his face set in a quiet resolve. He reaches into his pouch and pulls out the small pendant—still tarnished and darkened with the creature’s blood. He approaches Emily, holding the pendant out, his movements gentle, deliberate. Emily gasps, her eyes widening as they lock onto the pendant. Her hands shake violently as she takes it, and the moment her fingers close around the metal, something fundamental breaks inside her. Her legs give out, and they fold in on herself, her grief too vast for sound. Sorin catches her before she can fall, gathering her against him as silent sobs tear through her body. "I'm so sorry," he whispers into her hair, the words feeling hollow and insufficient against the magnitude of her loss. It's all anyone can offer in the face of such loss.
Serine hangs back, her gaze steady on Emily. She doesn’t do comforting words or big displays of sympathy, but she respects the loss. She bows her head in Emily’s direction—an acknowledgement, even if Emily is too lost in her grief to notice. The camp members who have gathered slowly begin to understand that Emily’s daughter is gone, and the danger has passed, at least for now. Soft murmurs ripple through the group, and a few step forward, gently embracing Emily and guiding her away from the scene. They wrap their arms around her, offering what comfort they can, her sobs muffled against their shoulders.
As Emily is led away, Bo watches momentarily, her eyes filled with concern and exhaustion. Her attention quickly shifts to Sorin. She steps forward, her sharp eyes noting the blood seeping through his shirt. "Sorin," she calls, her tone calm but firm, tinged with her old warmth. "Father bless, you’re bleeding child. Come here, let me see." Sorin turns to Bo and nods. He peels the torn fabric of his shirt from his back, exposing the deep claw marks that run across his skin. Serine takes a step forward as Bo inspects the wounds. “These are nasty cuts, my dear,” Bo mutters, her fingers lightly brushing the edges of the wounds. “We must clean these before they get infected. Come now, don't be stubborn.” She gestures toward the remedy tent, her expression leaving no room for argument, her eyes soft but persistent. “Serine, you’re coming too,” she adds.
Serine lets out a soft smile as she follows Bo toward the small tent, the scent of herbs and oils drifting out from its waving flap. Inside, the space is cramped, filled with the warmth of burning incense, the familiar clutter of supplies, and the thick smell of milk thistle. Sorin sits on a low stool. His body and breathing are controlled, fighting the pain. Bo works on him, her hands moving with precision as she cleans and treats the gashes.
The silence in the tent feels heavy, an aftermath that no one wants to break. Sorin sits quietly, meditating between waves of pain as Bo tends to his wounds. Serine stands near the entrance, arms crossed, her gaze cast beyond the tent as if taking in the slow returning peace. For a moment, the comfort of the mundane starts to creep back in—a sliver of normalcy in a shattered day.
Bo finally glances up, her eyes searching Serine. “What happened out there?” she asks, though the fatigue in her voice betrays her—she already knows. Serine’s eyes don’t leave the horizon. “It’s over. I ended it.” The words are clipped, final, hanging in the air for a long beat, the weight of what they mean sinking in. Bo closes her eyes briefly, her mind flickering to Emily’s daughter—the bright girl who had once filled the camp with her laughter. But she doesn’t linger. There will be time to grieve the child later.
Bo shifts her attention to Sorin, her gaze sharp. “The vile I gave you,” she says, her voice gentle but probing. “Did you take it? It worked well?” she asks while washing her hands. Sorin smiles faintly through the pain, nodding with a faint chuckle. “Yeah… worked almost too well. You’re the best chemist I know, Bo,” he says, sincerity etched in his words. Bo’s eyes flicker with warmth at the compliment, but she doesn’t break her focus. “Father bless,” Bo mutters as she busies herself, reaching for a small vial of herbs and powders. She begins mixing them with swift, practised motions, her hands steady as she works. Serine turns to watch her, her gaze narrowing slightly.
“The Herdsmen,” Serine begins, calm but deliberate, “they’re not far from here. If they catch wind of this camp…” Serine shakes her head, looking down for a moment. “They’ll come. They’ll come for everything, Bo. You know their ways.” She speaks plainly, painting a picture of danger, “You’re vulnerable.” Sorin’s eyes flicker with a mix of frustration and vulnerability. He knows Serine is right—he can feel the weakness in his body, the ache in his muscles that tells him he wouldn’t be able to fight off an ambush right now. The thought of it gnaws at him, his jaw tightening as he digests their situation.
Bo’s hands falter for just a moment, the mixture pausing in her grip. She looks down at the herbal oils, her lips pressing into a thin line. “We’ve known about these Herdsmen to the North for years,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “They’ve always kept to their lands, and we’ve kept to ours. They very rarely come this way anyway.” Serine’s eyes narrow, her tone sharpening. “That’s not how things work, Bo. If they know you’re here, they’ll come for you.” Bo’s expression hardens, her gaze meeting Serine’s with a mix of frustration and something close to helplessness. “And what would you have us do?” she asks, her voice catching slightly. “What are we supposed to do—leave?” She says softly, letting out an exhausted chuckle, “We’re too old to just pick up and go. This land here has become our home. The herbs, the roots, the compounds we’ve found. What about everyone else, all their work—it’s our livelihood. Without it, we’re nothing, just more poor folk,” she says almost pleadingly.
Serine’s eyes harden, but she knows better than to argue further. The stubbornness of Men—their clinging to land and the illusion of safety—was something she had encountered too often. She could see the resolve in Bo’s eyes, the unwillingness to abandon what they had built out here. There was no point in pushing. Bo’s mind wouldn’t change, not now, not until it was too late. “None of that matters if you’re dead,” she thinks, but the words remain unspoken. Instead, she swallows the frustration of seeing the inevitable outcome—a tragedy she knows she won’t be able to prevent. The reality of their vulnerability weighs heavily between them, an unspoken truth that neither one can escape.
Slowly, Bo looks back up at Serine, something softening in her eyes. There’s a hesitation before she speaks again, her voice almost breaking. “You’re thinking of moving on soon, aren’t you?” Bo asks, the question hanging in the air. She pauses, a flicker of vulnerability showing. “But maybe... maybe you don’t have to. Not just yet.” She doesn’t say the rest, but Serine knows what she’s asking—if Serine would stay, if she’d help protect them, help fight for them. Serine meets Bo’s gaze, her face betraying a flicker of something—exhaustion, regret. “Bo… I didn’t come here for this,” she says quietly, addressing Bo’s unspoken words. Serine’s words are edged with a tiredness she can’t hide. “I came to get away from it. Not to pick up where I left off.” Bo nods, her eyes filled with an understanding that’s almost painful. She knows the truth. The one Serine is trying to avoid: there’s no rest for people like her. Not truly.
Serine's ears twitch as she picks up muffled voices beyond the tent. Her senses sharpen as she catches the distinct rumble of Thomas’s stern tone, followed by Idris’s steady rhythm. They’re back from the chapel. Beside her, Sorin raises his head, a quiet wince escaping him as Bo’s newly tied bandages pull against his skin. His gaze flickers toward Serine and the tent entrance, anticipation rising.
Bo’s hands pause over her mixture, her eyes narrowing as she turns her head sharply in the direction of the voices. The recognition flashes across her face, and her eyes show a wary resolve. Without hesitation, she straightens and moves to the entrance. “Stay here,” she says, her voice firm with urgency, a motherly command that leaves no room for argument. She steps out quickly, her movements precise, slipping through the tent's fabric. Serine listens as Bo’s voice fills the space beyond, tinged with an effort to mask her anticipation as she speaks to Thomas and Idris, her tone an invitation, urging them in.
The tent flap rustles open moments later, and Bo leads Thomas and Idris inside. Thomas steps in first, his gaze immediately landing on Serine, her stoic demeanour unflinching. His eyes narrow as they shift to Sorin, noting the bandages with a sharp frown. “What the fuck happened to you, mate?” His voice is rough, carrying a touch of accusation as his eyes dart back to Serine, clearly suggesting it was her doing. Idris follows in quietly, his gaze meeting Serine’s, a more tempered acknowledgement without the hostility that laced Thomas’s words. Sorin sighs, lifting a hand, a calm gesture to diffuse the tension.
“It wasn’t her,” he says, his voice steady but firm, cutting off Thomas's insinuations before they grow. “Actually… I’d be dead if it weren’t for her.” The words hang in the air, drawing a moment of silence as they all process what he’s just said. Even Bo’s hands falter slightly at Sorin’s admission. Thomas’s brows shoot up, his expression a mix of disbelief and confusion. “Yeah, right,” he jokingly replies, though there’s a hint of doubt now, his gaze shifting to Sorin’s injuries again. He pauses, weighing his words before asking, “What the hell happened out there? People are talking—saying it was Emily’s daughter. That true? You let a sick child do this to you?” Sorin forces a chuckle, but there’s no humour in it, just exhaustion. “It’s not that simple,” he replies, his tone dipping, the weight of the truth pressing down on him. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. What she became…” Thomas frowns, his scepticism fading slightly, replaced by something else—unease, perhaps, a creeping realisation that whatever they faced wasn’t something he could easily dismiss. He glances at Idris, whose gaze remains fixed on Serine, then back to Sorin. Bo clears her throat, her voice softer but filled with quiet authority. “Enough,” she says, her eyes moving between the men. “I’ll fill you in on the details later, Thomas.”
Bo continues before Thomas can press any further. “What did you find at the chapel?” she asks, her voice steady but with an edge of unease. Thomas hesitates, glancing at Idris, then back at Bo. His eyes flicker to Serine, unsure if he should share everything in front of her. The silence stretches, awkward, until Bo breaks it with a calm but firm nod. “You can speak freely, Thomas,” she assures him. “What did you see?” Thomas eyes Serine one more time before finally answering. “Yeah, Bo, we’ve got a bit of a fucking problem,” he says, his voice dropping, losing its usual bravado. “The chapel… it’s littered with bodies. They’re not ours, nor anyone I could recognise from Backwater. They looked like members of The Order, I think. Torn to pieces. Shit was… nasty.”
The weight of his words drops heavily in the tent, and a grim silence follows. Sorin shifts uneasily, his eyes narrowing. Even Bo, who is typically composed, visibly falters for a moment. “Herdsmen?” Sorin asks though the uncertainty is evident in his tone. Idris shakes his head, standing still but with confidence that cuts through the tension. “No,” he says, his voice cool, deliberate. “This wasn’t the Herdsmen. I know their methods. Whatever did this, it wasn’t those cattle fuckers.” Bo’s eyes flick to Idris, her expression strained, searching for reassurance. “Are you sure?” she presses, her voice tight. Idris meets her gaze, the certainty unwavering in his voice. “Absolutely. They weren’t skinned. Nor eaten. None of the usual signs. All animals have a method, Bo. It just wasn’t them.” The room goes quiet as they try to solve the puzzle. “So… something just killed them and left,” Serine states. “Tracks?” She probes, all business. He turns to meet Serine’s gaze. He is still deciding whether he’s interested in hearing her opinion. “Non. Everything goes in. Only one comes out.” His gaze shifts toward Bo. “Old man said he made a stop there. And It was his tracks that left.” Bo takes a sharp breath, her eyes moving between Idris and Thomas as the weight of their discovery sinks in. “Father bless,” she mutters, almost to herself. “So it’s something else then. Something worse.”
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“Maybe,” Thomas says, stepping forward, his voice dropping. “But here’s the thing. We didn’t find any escort with them. Not one Imperial soldier.” His words hang in the air, drawing sceptical looks from the group. Sorin, frowning, pieces it together. “The Order this far out without protection? Doesn’t make sense.” Confusion is evident on his face. Idris nods slightly, supporting Thomas’s observation. “That’s what we thought too. It doesn’t add up.” Bo scratches her head, her expression troubled. “They must be up to something, something off the record, maybe even outside the Emperor's knowledge?” Thomas shakes his head, clearly unsettled. “I don’t like it. Whatever it is, it smells bad.” Idris steps in again, his tone confident. “We don’t have much time. We’ve got maybe a couple of weeks, tops, before they send someone to check in—and you can bet there’ll be security this time.”
The mercenaries exchange glances, their silence heavy with unspoken understanding. Serine watches them—sees Idris's fingers curling into fists, catches Thomas's jaw flexing, and notices the subtle shift in Bo's stance as she wraps her arms around herself. They've been together long enough to read these signs, to know when someone's mind is running through the same calculations. Serine continues observing and starts understanding the larger picture. Bo's managed something rare out here—a network built on trust and fair trades, the kind that puts food on tables and medicine in the hands that need it. Not just business but lifelines stretching back to families they haven't seen in months. One signature, one command from the Order, one imperial decree, and it all crumbles. Idris drags a hand down his face, feeling every mile they've walked, every deal they've struck, every promise they've made weighing on him.
"People are counting on what we send back. More than just my family," he says with humility.
Thomas steps forward, mouth opening, but Sorin's voice cuts him off. "Wait." Just that single word, but something in his tone makes Serine's skin prickle. She catches herself mid-breath, her body responding before her mind can catch up – an old soldier's instinct honed by too many close calls. The silence hits her then. Not the comfortable quiet of a peaceful night but the hollow, dead kind that clenches her stomach. No insects. No birds. Not even the usual mumble of the camp members or the crackle of campfires. Just... nothing.
Idris tilts his head, giving off the same look he gets when tracking wounded prey. "I'm not picking up anything," he mutters, more to himself than the others. His hand drifts to the knife at his belt, fingers curling around the worn leather grip. "That's what worries me." Sorin's voice has dropped to barely more than a breath. His eyes keep moving, scanning the shadows in the tent's corners as if expecting them to move. They don't, but somehow that's worse. The air feels charged and heavy. Serine's fingers find the familiar worn spots on her sword hilt, the places her grip has polished smooth over years of use.
Bo makes the first move. She's always been like that – charging forward while the rest still weigh options. She reaches for the tent flap, and Serine notices the slight tremor in her usually steady hands. The canvas pulls back with a soft rasp. Bo's sound isn't quite a gasp, more like a breath laced with an eerie confusion. She stumbles back a step, and Serine feels her muscles coil tighter. They move as one, following Bo outside, weapons half-drawn. The sight stops them cold. The entire camp stands frozen. Every face turned toward the same point. Serine has seen fear before – has worn it herself more times than she cares to count – but something about this is different. These aren't the faces of people afraid of dying. These are the faces of people seeing something their minds can't entirely accept.
“Fuck this,” Serine thinks, shoving her way through the crowd. Her body stays loose, ready to move in any direction. Years of ambushes and battles have taught her that standing still just makes you an easier target. She gracefully pushes past the last row of people…
…and then she sees it.
There, balanced in the centre of the encampment, is the silver-haired woman—the same one who has lain unconscious since Serine first stumbled into this forbidden camp. But she's not sleeping anymore. Not exactly. The woman's palms press against the dirt, her silver hair pooling beneath her like liquid moonlight. Her nude body, still as stone, is locked in a perfect handstand, motionless, her eyes closed. An act that defies human limitations. Not a tremor runs through her arms, not a shake disturbs her perfect form. The morning air hangs dead around her as if nature itself is holding its breath.
Serine's throat tightens. Every nerve in her body screams at her to run, but something else radiates from this woman that roots her in place. Not power—she's felt power before. This is different. It's like standing before a judge who already knows your verdict, a sensation of finality that weakens her knees—an aura of absolution. The faces around her tell their own stories. The refugee whose laugh she remembers last night now stands slack-jawed, his weathered face pale. The old woman who sells bread at the corner stall clutches her shawl like a shield. A child clings to his mother's skirts, eyes wide with that pure recognition of the extraordinary that adults try so hard to forget.
“Get out. Now.” The thought hammers in Serine's head with each heartbeat. She didn't trek hundreds of miles and trade her last silver pieces to get caught up in whatever this is. She has her own demons to face, her own blood to wash from her hands. “Just turn around. Walk away.” But her feet might as well be buried in concrete. Her eyes are locked on the impossible figure balancing before her, tracing the curve of a spine that shouldn't be able to hold that position for more than seconds, let alone minutes. The air crackles with invisible electricity, like the moment before lightning strikes.
The crowd's silence is absolute.
The woman remains perfectly inverted. Eyes closed, silver hair swaying slightly in a breeze that touches nothing else. As if the laws of nature are merely suggestions, and she politely declined to follow them. The world seems frozen, as if time had paused to bear witness. The woman with silver hair, still in that impossible handstand, appears locked in place, yet something shifts—something almost imperceptible. Serine watches, unable to move, as the woman begins to fall backwards in slow motion. For a heartbeat, it feels as though the collective pulse of the entire camp is in sync with this eerie descent.
Then, with the grace of a predator, the woman cartwheels smoothly into an upright position. Her movements are flawless, calculated, each limb moving with a precision that feels unnatural, even perfect. Her eyes remain closed, yet she seems to know exactly where she’s going, exactly where she is. The crowd gasps around her, like a ripple through the silence. Serine feels it too—that magnetic pull, the awe radiating from the woman. It’s as if life itself is standing in reverence of her. Serine feels her tactical mind stumbling. She's studied combat forms throughout the Southlands, but this woman's movements follow no school she recognises. Each gesture flows into the next like water finding its path downhill, beautiful in its inevitability.
And then the woman’s eyes open.
It’s like a crack of lightning, splitting the stillness—a kaleidoscope of white starlight and shadow. The power behind her gaze hits the camp like a physical force, knocking the air from Serine’s lungs. She hears the sharp, collective inhale from those around her, and then, almost as one, they fall. Some drop to their knees, not in worship but in submission—the way prey animals go still when they spot a wolf. Others back away, their shoulders hunching inward, protective. One man near Serine starts to pray, his words tumbling out in a breathless whisper, more reflex than devotion. Serine’s chest tightens, her mind racing but failing to grasp what she’s witnessing. The woman moves—supreme, apex, her body cutting through the air with an elegance that seems otherworldly. She isn’t just alive; she’s a force. Every step she takes, every glance she casts feels deliberate, like the universe itself bends to her will. The woman stops, glancing over the camp, her eyes meeting each soul as if cataloguing their worth. Then, with a voice like thunder wrapped in silk, she speaks.
"Venik Arnar."
The words are ancient, a language so old and alien it scrapes against the edges of comprehension. The words don't sound like any language Serine knows—and she knows seven, including three dead tongues. Around her, the camp bursts into chaos. Whatever fragile stillness had existed is shattered, and panic erupts. Some flee instantly, the terror overwhelming them. Near the cooking fires, a young porter stumbles backwards, knocking over a stew pot. He doesn't even glance at the mess as he turns and runs. They dash toward the gates, bolting for Backwater without a second thought, without grabbing supplies, driven purely by survival instincts. Their footsteps thunder against the earth as they disappear into the distance. Others fall even lower, pressing their bodies in worship against the ground as if trying to merge with it, their faces pressed to the dirt in reverence. A woman in trader's silk presses her forehead to the dirt, her expensive clothes forgotten. They bow, not in fear, but as if they’ve been in the presence of divinity itself, worshipping her, believing her to be their salvation, their end, their everything.
Serine’s mind blanks. All her calculated plans and carefully laid strategies she holds onto to survive are gone. Her mind races to process what she’s seeing, but no answers come. There’s just... nothing. She’s caught without a path forward for the first time in years. She’s lost for words, for direction. Beside her, she hears a faint gasp. Bo. Tears stream down the older woman’s face, silent rivers running down her cheeks. She doesn’t speak or move—just stares at the silver-haired woman with the same awe that has consumed the entire camp.
Serine turns to look at the others. Thomas, Idris, and Sorin are all on their knees now, eyes wide, faces wet with tears they don’t even realise they are falling. Sorin, the ever-composed warrior, stares up at the woman, his body bent low, but his gaze fixed on her as if she were the only thing that made sense in this world. Even Thomas, the cocky, foul-mouthed mercenary, is silent, his lips parted in shock, his usual swagger replaced by something raw and vulnerable.
Something pulls at Serine's joints, an urge to kneel that feels as natural as breathing. Her body recognises an authority her mind refuses to accept. The survival instincts that kept her alive through years of street fights, ambushes and war stumble with this new imperative. “What have I become a part of? I can’t get involved with this.” she thinks to herself, but the thought rings hollow, like reciting a childhood lesson that no longer fits the world she sees. The silver-haired woman stands unmoved by the chaos she's created. Her presence fills the space like water filling a bowl, reaching into every corner, every shadow. The woman stands tall, her presence washing over the camp like a tidal wave, and Serine—calculated, hardened, relentless Serine—finds herself pulled into the current.
The camp is swallowed by silence again, as if the air has been drawn from the world. Every breath is held, every movement stilled. Serine stands amidst the crowd, her senses stretched, her instincts in overdrive, but even she feels the weight of this moment pressing down on her, forcing stillness. It's an unnatural calm, the kind that comes before a storm—or something far worse. The woman, still standing after her flawless cartwheel, inclines her head as though staring at something beyond the horizon. Her silver hair cascades over her shoulders, catching the faintest light, and her eyes—those unsettling, terrifying eyes—remain fixed on the horizon as if seeing a different world.
Then, from the back of the crowd, a voice cracks through the stillness—hoarse and trembling with age. "Venis Duliss." Serine’s ears twitch, catching the words. A murmur ripples through the gathered people, but no one dares move. Mr. Yang, stands there, leaning heavily on his walking stick. His frail figure contrasts sharply with the woman's perfect, commanding presence. His voice, though weak, carries with it the weight of lifetimes. The woman’s head turns toward him slowly, and for the first time, she shows recognition. It’s as if Yang is the only one in this strange, overwhelming world that she understands.
Yang moves slowly, each step deliberate and purposeful, his old bones creaking with the effort. He walks toward the woman, but there’s a reverence in his posture, a sense of recognition. As if he’s known all along that this moment would come, as though he has been waiting for it his whole life, his wrinkled face is wet with tears, though he smiles—a fragile, trembling smile filled with something akin to hope.
"So many years I have waited," Yang whispers to himself as he nears her. His voice, though weak, carries a depth of emotion Serine doesn’t fully understand. "I did not believe you would come." The woman's eyes remain locked on him, her expression unreadable, but it’s clear—somehow—she understands him. The connection between them hums in the stillness, a tether that no one else can see or feel.
Serine's throat tightens, a fierce urge clawing at her to just walk away, to get as far as possible from whatever strange, ancient ritual is unfolding. All she ever wanted was solitude, some semblance of peace after years of conflict. But as she watches the frail old man approach the impossible woman, it’s like a weight starts to press down on her—a feeling that whatever this is, it’s not something you can just walk away from.
Some things are bigger than you, Serine realizes. It doesn’t matter how much she wants to distance herself from this, how much she wants to disappear into the quiet. Something about this—about the way everything has led to this moment—tells her that stepping away isn’t an option, not anymore.