— Hey. — Whispered Darcy, and Ryxer leaned towards her — Did you see agent Matchstone?

He shook his head. Raux just took a deep breath as she watched people placing flowers on Trytan's lavish coffin.

The boss didn't want to let Gwenda do this, spending a fortune on Trytan's funeral. But when it was herself, it was done. Matchstone didn't waste time, at least not when it came to people she knew and liked with something more.

It was Ryxer and Darcy's turn, and the two approached.

Vannyer said some prayer that Raux didn't understand, but she remained quiet as she looked at the tombstone and did the math. Only 24, one year younger than Gwenda Matchstone.

An unrecognizable tightness settled in her chest, and she tossed the white rose onto the coffin, stopping next to Ryxer's daisy bouquet.

When she realized it, she was already turning around and leaving the area full of sad and tearful people she didn't even know their faces. Darcy took off the black gloves and held them until she reached her horse. When she turned back, Ryxer was coming, slow and with his hands in his pants pockets, his head down. Darcy could see the sadness and confusion in Ryxer.

She sighed and mounted the horse in one swift motion. She had gone to the funeral in attire, not that she was dishonoring anything by doing so, but she couldn't abandon her uniform. At least not when deaths occurred and more danger lurked around day and night, something no one ever commented on.

One of the agents reported what happened when Gwenda caught up with them and got into the back of the wagon. But Raux knew that not even those around were aware of everything, only Gwenda. So much so that she arrived with her shoulder injured and caring little about such an event.

The boss only knew that now they had another case to solve. The arrows were in the sector, and Gwenda didn't even have the courage to look at them when she left them on Darcy's desk. She could see that it would be left for her, but Raux was too busy with other things that could destroy Gwenda's sanity, specifically hers. And Darcy wasn't prepared for that. She needed to give it to someone else and move on with her plans.

After losing everything, being forced into so many things, and still being a victim of Arth Cheack, Gwenda had changed into something petrified. And Darcy blamed herself because Matchstone was already with her when Arth tore her apart, she belonged to Raux at that time. Besides, she took Gwenda's gun and didn't return it at a necessary moment. Guilt was an accumulative feeling.

— Agent Vannyer. — Darcy called, and he raised his head to look at her as he arrived on his horse behind the boss. — You'll take this case. — And she saw him look away again at his mount — Don't inform Gwenda. — Raux wished she hadn't seen the agent's expression when he closed his eyes — Let's go.

Darcy tapped the horse's flank, and they started to move away from the disturbing silence, always with a vigilant eye.

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The sunset came quickly, as did the heavy clouds.

Gwenda had been staring at the tombstone for hours. When distant relatives and friends left, she emerged from the hidden tree and went there reluctantly. Perhaps because she didn't deserve to be at the funeral and didn't want anyone to start doubting her presence, then expel her as if she were a plague.

But alone there now, things circulated with a little more peace. Her mind still said she was to blame for his death.

Arrived late.

Too proud.

But what Gwenda knew was that she could hunt down and tear apart the one who murdered Trytan and the rest of the people in the wagon, and that feeling wouldn't dissipate. She had felt this way before, and nothing she did made a difference.

In fact, the previous king died of something foolish or perhaps simply old age; it wasn't Gwenda who killed him. She still doesn't know what vengeance is, its taste. Because she never had the chance to destroy those who destroyed her life and diminished her. Arth Cheack is free, the king died for a cause she thought was natural. Átila Killian remained alive out of Gwenda's mercy not to exterminate him just because he lied about who he was. And because of that, her father was dead.

And now she was face to face with the one who took Trytan's life. Facing the truth and the carnage. The hunt was not yet over, and Gwenda would feel what vengeance is with her own hands.

When the Shooter left the site to return to her despicable corner of Carvlinea, the rain and lightning had already started.

She found a spot on some rooftop in the city, next to a chimney, and stayed there quietly. Sitting with her knees tucked to her chest and her face sore from the tears that were already mingling with the raindrops, Gwenda stared into nothingness, empty and with nothing to declare.

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Her colleagues were working in their respective places when she arrived drenched from head to toe, drops trickling down her body.

If it weren't for the lanterns on the wall and the distant lightning, everything would be dark and gloomy, just like Gwenda.

She didn't care about the trail she left behind as she passed in front of everyone and descended the stairs with a slow, dragging pace, tired.

She passed by the place where the Northern elf was confined and remembered she hadn't given him any food. Laziness crawled over her body, and she ignored the fact that there was a damn mystic locked behind bars that she should keep alive. Or she could finish the job once and for all. After all, he wasn't the culprit.

But the agent didn't turn back and finally entered the room where Ryxer was. She barely looked at him but noticed he stopped eating quickly when Matchstone entered and seemed to be searching for something in her.

Gwenda didn't care as she entered the bathroom and locked herself inside. Let Ryxer think whatever he wanted; she wasn't in the mood for conversation or anything else related to physical or visual contact. This was fine.

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The gate in her mind was locked, not attempting to open. Maybe because she was tired, because she knew Gwenda would resist. But this time, she didn't want to resist; she didn't want to keep the madness just for herself and locked away with twelve weird keys. She wanted to feel the chaos she would unleash.

But nothing happened. And that was annoying.

Open up now. She doubted. Do it.

Gwenda looked at herself in the mirror, her face swollen and displaying her exhaustion. Cheeks and eyes irritated.

She wouldn't leave there anytime soon; she didn't want to see Vannyer's pitying look, which seemed to spread over her body as soon as she passed through the door.

She sighed and swallowed hard, observing herself. The wet hair dripped over her bare shoulders, over the bandage on her shoulder.

Gwenda had arrived at the sector disoriented, her vision blurred. And when she finally stepped out of the wagon following the body that was taken from there, Darcy grabbed her before she could crash to the ground. The boss took her inside and started shouting orders to other agents.

The Shooter was so absorbed in her thoughts and conclusions about what happened that she only dug her fingers into the shoulder wound and removed the bullet with a grimace and a grunt. But when she tried to get up, swaying and muttering things about Trytan, Darcy stopped her and pushed her back onto the couch, and then the process began.

They removed her suit and tended to her wound, cleaning and bandaging it to finish. Not to mention that sticky, cold stuff they put in the wound, stopping the bleeding.

She admitted she never thought something like this would happen. A body in that sheet. Trytan was about to do something; Gwenda never thought he would have all that courage and foolishness.

The Shooter took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door, only to come face to face with a Ryxer playing with his food with the fork, not very hungry.

She walked out and went to her corner, leaning against the wall and sliding down to sit on the mattress. When she shivered from Vannyer's penetrating gaze that never wavered from her, Gwenda said:

— He was rooting for you.

Her voice came out hoarse and bitter.

Gwenda turned her gaze to Ryxer. He was motionless, tense. He affirmed slowly, understanding.

— He was there at every game, you were his idol. — She let the word come out with a contemptuous taste. Gwenda held back tears as her eyes welled up — He said he wanted to meet you.

Vannyer frowned, and Gwenda turned away.

All this time, and Gwenda didn't know that Ryxer Vannyer was D.J Djenevieve. And when she found out, she could have still taken Trytan to meet him. But no, she was too proud and selfish to grant this wish that burned in his heart every time he watched the games in the past.

Not that she cared back then; she was with Átila. Trytan was just a friend, understanding and welcoming in difficult times, but he was someone to Gwenda. Nods of acknowledgment from him always appeared when he saw her on the roads with her friends or Killian.

In the end, she could have said that now D.J Djenevieve had been working with her for a long time and she hadn't recognized him. In fact, it wasn't him she was interested in at that time, even though she knew him by name.

Trytan would have laughed and mocked her before hugging her and kissing her. She knew exactly how Trytan reacted to things like that... to almost everything.

— If it makes you feel better, — Ryxer said — I would have denied knowing him.

Gwenda felt the blood run cold through her body and turned to him. She absorbed the words and his gaze on hers.

If Trytan were alive, and Ryxer refused to appear to him... would Gwenda have cared? Would she have forced Vannyer to fulfill his wish? Or wouldn't she care what Trytan wanted and just let him dream.

The most obvious thing would be to find this adoration thing stupid and ignore it. But now, even if she wanted to, she had nothing she could do to ensure Trytan would at least get a handshake from D.J Djenevieve.

She felt guilty and ungrateful.

Gwenda groaned at herself and rested her head against the wall.

— It doesn't matter. — She said, her voice choked, and her eyes trembled. She just felt a tear roll down her cheek.

The Shooter twisted her hands in front of each other, her arms resting on her knees. The knot in her stomach tightened, and she could swear she would throw up everything right now.

Vannyer pushed the chair back, making an irritating noise that sent shivers down Gwenda's spine. He took two seconds, as if reconsidering what he was going to do, then stood up and approached the Shooter.

Her back tensed, and that anguish spread through her spine. Gwen was more upright than she could manage when Ryxer sat next to her.

His arm brushed against hers, and another shiver ran through her. Gwenda shuddered.

— You're freezing. — Ryxer commented beside her.

She knew. It was cold outside, and Gwenda was all wet.

The two stared at the opposite wall, waiting for something that Gwenda didn't quite understand. Her thoughts were more focused on Trytan's body inside the black coffin with shiny golden straps, exactly like his father's.

— I saw your flowers. — Gwenda commented softly.

Vannyer sighed, perhaps a little relieved.

— How do you know they were mine. — It wasn't exactly a question.

Tears streamed from the Shooter's eyes, and she looked at her own hands before letting the weight of her head fall to the left side. As soon as she touched Ryxer's shoulder, exhaustion caught her off guard. Her legs slid forward and stretched out, arms drooping between them.

She didn't want to say she had been watching from afar, didn't want to show that she was there when Darcy and Ryxer left earlier.

So she simply said:

— They were next to Darcy's rose.

They were the only ones there anyway, tossed about. Gwenda didn't want to stay to see what would happen after the rain spoiled the flowers.

Ryxer let out a snort that sounded more like a laugh.

— How do you know it was Darcy's rose.

Gwenda swallowed hard and closed her eyes.

— It's the same as the one she used at my parents' funeral.

The agent beside her fell silent and exhaled before resting his head against the wall and relaxing.

The truth was, Darcy had left a rose at her father's funeral, and when Gwenda appeared at her mother's grave the next day, the same beautiful rose was there, recently placed. Darcy Raux still leaves her roses at both graves, showing that the memory of both is still cherished.

Gwenda simply let Vannyer's breathing movements calm her own as she rested her head on his shoulder. She had no more strength.

And so she remained until sleep covered her like a warm blanket.