The night had settled in, draping the world in a heavy cloak of darkness. The air was cool, carrying the crisp scent of damp earth and pine from the dense forest that stretched beyond the inn.

Stefan stood outside, just beyond the wooden steps of the inn's entrance. His posture was rigid, arms crossed, weight shifted slightly onto one leg. He stared out at the treetops, his fingers tapped absentmindedly against his arm

He didn't turn when the door creaked open behind him.

He already knew who it was.

Angeline stepped outside, letting the door softly close behind her. She had changed into a fresh outfit—an old but comfortable cream-colored blouse, its sleeves rolled up just below her elbows, tucked into a brown corset belt that cinched at her waist. Loose black trousers replaced her ruined skirt, and she had thrown on a light cloak to shield herself from the evening chill.

She wasn't surprised to see Stefan out here.

"Thought I'd find you brooding," she said casually, making her way toward him.

Finally, Stefan turned his head, his blue eyes flicking toward her. He studied her for a moment before asking, "How is he?"

Angeline exhaled through her nose, running a hand through her hair.

"Healing potions aren't miracle workers," she muttered. "But they let him survive his injury." She let out a slow breath before continuing, "He's still unconscious, but his condition is stable. We just have to wait."

At that, Stefan closed his eyes for a moment and tilted his head up, gazing at the night sky. A relieved sigh escaped his lips.

The stars shimmered above them, scattered like silver dust across the inky heavens. For a fleeting moment, Stefan allowed himself to breathe—to feel the relief in knowing Elijah had made it through.

But the moment didn't last.

"Stefan."

Angeline's voice was different this time—steady, but lacking her usual warmth.

When he looked at her, she wasn't wearing that soft, familiar smile.

Instead—

Her face was serious.

Not angry. Not upset.

Just... determined.

Stefan had seen that expression before.

And he already knew where this was going.

With a quiet sigh, he moved away from the entrance and sat down on a nearby log, resting his elbows on his knees. Angeline followed, settling beside him.

There was a pause.

Then—

"Tell me the truth," she said, "Please."

Stefan didn't respond right away.

He simply stared ahead, eyes shadowed, his jaw tense.

Inside the inn, the others slept—Vul included.

Or at least, she tried.

She lay on her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, her fingers gripping the fabric of the sheets. Her mind was restless, her thoughts tangled.

The expressions she had seen earlier—

How did she apply them to herself?

When would she ever use them?

Why did people scream?

Why did they writhe in pain?

Why did those around her seem so broken?

She didn't understand.

She wanted to understand.

Then—

A voice.

Angeline's.

It was muffled at first, just a sound in the background. Vul barely acknowledged it—until—

Another voice joined hers.

Stefan's.

Vul's eyes widened.

She sprang upright, her sheets falling from her lap. Without a second thought, she rushed to her window, unlatching it with quick fingers before pushing it open.

The cool night air greeted her.

Her room was on the second floor of the inn, but from here—

She could see them.

And more importantly—

She could hear them.

Angeline and Stefan, sitting on the log below, their backs turned to her.

Vul leaned slightly forward, watching.

Listening.

Waiting.

For something.

For anything that would help her understand.

Stefan exhaled through his nose, his hands clasped together, fingers digging into his own skin. His shoulders were stiff, as if he carried a weight too heavy for any one man to bear.

Then, barely above a whisper—

"...I'm sorry."

Angeline's gaze softened.

She didn't say anything right away. Instead, she reached over, her hand finding his.

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Her touch was warm. Grounding.

"I don't blame you for what happened," she said gently. "But you do owe me the truth."

Stefan's fingers twitched under hers.

His jaw tightened, his lips parting slightly before closing again.

He hesitated.

The words sat on his tongue like a bitter poison, refusing to leave. His chest felt tight, as if something unseen was gripping his ribs, holding him hostage.

Then—

A sudden warmth on his shoulder.

Stefan flinched.

His body tensed—ready to react, to push away—until he realized—

It was just Angeline.

She had leaned her head against him, her soft hair brushing against his jaw.

His breath steadied.

"You don't have to suffer alone," she murmured. "Not when I'm here, older brother."

Stefan let out a breath—a slow, tired exhale.

And then—finally—he spoke.

"...Before Isaac took me in," his voice was quiet, his words careful, "I used to be a noble. Well... a bastard."

Angeline stayed still, listening.

"My family—The Blancs—believed in purity. They kept their bloodline strong by... marrying within." His expression darkened, his voice taking on a bitter edge. "My father, Edmund, was supposed to marry his twin sister. That was tradition."

Angeline furrowed her brows.

Stefan let out a humorless chuckle.

"Don't misunderstand. It wasn't that he found it disgusting. He simply didn't care for it. He was already in love with someone else. Rosalind—a gardener from our estate."

Angeline listened intently, her fingers unconsciously tightening around his.

"My father was the heir. His duty was to marry someone suitable, to continue the line. Instead... he ran away." Stefan swallowed. "With her."

His voice softened.

"They had a son..." He hesitated, his throat tightening. "Me."

The wind howled through the trees.

"But giving birth to me..." Stefan clenched his jaw. "...It took my mother's life."

A long silence stretched between them.

Angeline's fingers twitched.

"My father loved her so much," Stefan continued, voice distant. "It killed him. And Elijah—he was her best friend. He's the one who brought me back to the Blancs."

Angeline's lips parted slightly.

"Unlike them, I didn't belong," Stefan admitted. "The Blancs all had white hair. Silver eyes. And then there was me—blonde hair, green eyes, sticking out like a weed in a bed of roses."

He let out a small breath.

"But I adored my family," he continued, his tone soft. "I looked up to them. They were the greatest monster slayers this world had ever seen. Every generation, they felled demons, creatures beyond comprehension—even beings on par with the Adaniles."

He let the words sink in before adding, "I was the weakest Blanc."

Angeline's brows furrowed, but she remained quiet, letting him speak.

"There was a prophecy," Stefan muttered. "It foretold that a Blanc would become the Harbinger of Peace and Purity." He scoffed. "The Order of Midnight didn't like that."

Angeline inhaled sharply.

"They saw it as a threat. Their claim to the throne of Yro-Ei was at risk. So, they set a trap."

His fingers curled into fists.

"They invited us to a grand castle. A celebration in our honor." His voice dripped with venom. "We went, proud. We thought it was just another step toward our legacy."

A bitter laugh.

"And then the sky split open."

Angeline's stomach turned.

"A meteor fell. Straight onto the castle."

Stefan's breathing became uneven.

His hands trembled.

"The Order didn't just want us dead. They wanted us erased." His voice grew hoarse. "No one fought back. No one even realized what was happening."

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

"It wasn't just the meteor. The survivors—" He gritted his teeth. "They sent monsters after us."

He shut his eyes for a moment.

"I saw it all."

His voice wavered.

"I watched them slaughter my family."

Angeline's grip on his hand tightened.

"No one was safe," Stefan whispered. "Not even the babes."

Angeline's breath hitched.

"It was a massacre."

The words hung in the air like the stench of blood.

Stefan swallowed.

"I ran."

Angeline's chest ached.

"I ran and ran," Stefan murmured. "The screams—they chased me." His green eyes darkened. "Sometimes, I still hear them."

A deep breath.

"...And then Isaac found me."

Angeline felt like her body was made of stone.

She couldn't move.

Couldn't speak.

Her hands trembled.

She finally understood.

Why Stefan never spoke about it.

Why he buried himself in tavern work.

Why he never let anyone in.

Why he carried himself like a man with nothing left.

Because he was a man with nothing left.

Stefan let out a slow, bitter chuckle, his gaze locked on the ground.

And then—

He smiled.

But it was empty.

Hollow.

Like a man who had already drowned.

And never quite resurfaced.

Stefan let out a bitter chuckle, though it barely held any humor.

His fingers rubbed against his temples before he ran a hand through his blond hair, exhaling sharply.

"If I'm the only survivor," he muttered, "then that means I am the Blanc prophecy."

His voice was laced with exhaustion, as if even saying the words drained something deep inside of him.

A dry smirk tugged at his lips, but it never reached his eyes.

"Which is probably why I survived the massacre in the first place."

Then—he turned to Angeline.

His green eyes, always so lively in the tavern's warm glow, now carried nothing but pain.

"Ironic, isn't it?" he murmured.

Angeline's throat tightened.

"I was saved by the very prophecy that killed my family."

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Angeline wanted to say something.

Anything.

But no words came.

Because what could she say?

Stefan tilted his head back, staring at the vast, starry sky above them.

As if speaking to the very stars that had written his fate, he whispered—

"...How many lives does it take for me to have my own?"

His voice cracked.

For a moment, just a fleeting second—he let himself feel.

And then—

Warmth.

A tight embrace, firm and desperate.

Angeline had wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as if trying to keep him from shattering entirely.

Her voice was soft but unwavering.

"You don't need to force yourself into a destiny that tortures you."

Stefan didn't answer.

He just closed his eyes, exhaling shakily as his arms found their way around her.

Holding on.

Holding back.

How many lives would be taken, indeed?

He didn't know.

But one thing was certain—

He couldn't bear losing the last of his family.

Not again.

Meanwhile, Vul watched everything unfold from her window, her red eyes flickering with curiosity.

Stefan and Angeline... they looked like they were in pain.

But they weren't hurt like Elijah.

No blood. No wounds.

Yet, their faces twisted in agony, their bodies trembled—just like the injured did.

Why?

Vul didn't understand.

She slowly closed the window and turned back to her bed, her movements unusually slow, almost hesitant.

There was still so much she didn't know—so much to process with so little time.

She lay down, staring at the ceiling, her mind filled with unanswered questions.

Why do they hurt?

The thought echoed within her, lingering like a riddle she couldn't solve.

And with that question still hanging in her mind—Vul slowly drifted into sleep.

The night melted away into morning, the sky shifting from deep indigo to soft hues of orange and pink. The village slowly awakened with it—birds chirping, the distant chatter of merchants setting up their stalls, and the faint clatter of hooves against the dirt road.

Then came the loud voice that shattered the morning's peace.

"What you're doing is suicide, Stefan!"

Vul stirred, her red eyes fluttering open as she was pulled from sleep by Angeline's sharp tone. It wasn't the kind of shout that signaled an emergency, so Vul didn't hurry. Instead, she groggily pushed herself up, her long black hair a tangled mess as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

As she descended the stairs, still scratching her head, she saw them—Angeline and Stefan, standing in the middle of the small inn's main room, locked in a heated argument.

"I don't care," Stefan shot back, his voice firm, his green eyes blazing with determination. "I need to go back to my mansion."

"And what?" Angeline scoffed, crossing her arms. "Get yourself killed? Because that's exactly what's going to happen!"

Vul blinked, confused.

Last night, they were being sweet to each other, talking quietly under the stars. Now, they were arguing?

Strange.

As she stood there, trying to piece it all together, a yawn escaped her lips—loud enough to draw attention.

Angeline's expression softened as she turned to Vul with a smile. "Oh, good morning, Vul."

Vul blinked again, still too drowsy to respond.

Then Angeline's smile twisted into something more mischievous. She turned back to Stefan with a devilish glint in her eye.

"I'll let you go on one condition—" she said slowly, savoring the moment.

Stefan narrowed his eyes. "What condition?"

Angeline's grin widened as she pointed straight at Vul.

"Vul comes with you."

At that, Vul was suddenly very awake.

Stefan looked offended. "What?!"

Before he could object, Angeline held up a hand. "I saw what Vul can do, Stefan," she said, her voice calmer but no less firm. "If you don't trust her, then at least trust me."

Stefan's jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists.

Vul, meanwhile, stood frozen at the bottom of the stairs, fully awake now and staring at them both.

What... exactly did she just wake up to?