One week had passed, and everything wasn't going as planned. Messed up as Gwenda imagined hell to be.

Starting to train with her fists was harder than returning to aim and shoot after a while. Gwenda's muscles felt weak, but she knew it was just her body screaming to stop because it wanted to. But she couldn't. The knuckles beneath the wrapped bands around her fists were now sore, the skin red and irritated from pounding trees.

Ethan had refused to spar with her, despite teaching her everything she needed to know for the moment. New techniques Gwenda hadn't even heard of were on the list of those that could kill in just two moves. He watched Gwenda from afar, as if admiring. Even when she didn't notice and continued training until she couldn't bear it anymore. Her back ached, tingling like small explosions down her spine, even when she was letting loose by punching trees.

One day, Sinclair mentioned that there was a base in the Opposite Continent that welcomed people like Gwenda to heal them. He offered to take her there, but she hadn't received a response yet. And he wasn't expecting one, Gwenda realized. Or rather, he didn't care whether she would accept or not, as if he already had a plan in case Gwenda gave any response.

But... Gwenda wouldn't dare step outside Carsany once again. The first experience had become the last.

Outside her realm where her family fought to stay alive, she didn't feel the same, and it was a strange, different feeling. Too good to be true, and too good for Gwenda to endure. So staying there was her best option, remaining in the familiar and accustomed.

Her heart raced so fast outside the wall that Gwenda felt crazy. An adrenaline rush and butterflies in her stomach exploded through her body, blood seemed to run faster in her veins, and her body felt lighter. A bit eerie, she said. She wouldn't return to the freedom that many in Carsany must desire.

Gwenda spent three years out of Carsany, trying to learn to accept a new sensation so good that it seemed to destroy her. And she endured for three years, until she was back and could breathe like she did before running away.

Now she was breathing heavily and punching a tree between gasps, relishing the wood chips that flew off and landed on her face. The long braid swayed on her back, and sweaty strands of hair fell in front of her face with a welcome caress. She threw a left hook and felt her whole hand twist. And then she stopped, motionless except for her rapid, heavy breathing. She left her hand where it was on the tree and the other still trembling, clenched in a fist. Sweat trickled down her back under the leather outfit Ethan had given her on the fifth day of training. Before that, she had settled for an old, thin, loose pair of pants and a top so tight that, unbelievably, it helped hold her breasts in place while directing deadly, rage-filled blows at something inanimate.

Gods, she was eager to train her moves with Ethan.

Gwenda opened her hands, and her palms thanked her as the nails unburied themselves, then she put them on the tree and rested her forehead on her hands. She closed her eyes and stayed there, waiting for her breathing to return to normal.

— Do some sit-ups and then take a shower; we're going out.

Gwenda didn't open her eyes or agree, nor did Ethan wait for a response before going back in. Every night when it came, Ethan asked about Gwenda's past, and she did the same. She knew enough about Ethan to be able to tell about herself. As she had imagined, Sinclair was the only one there to listen to her, just as he had made it clear that only Gwenda was willing to listen to his problems and controversies.

Ethan had been left behind as soon as he was born, as his second mother told him when he turned five. And obviously, he wouldn't forget that trauma so easily. The third mother, still at five, kicked him out of the house. Ethan wandered the streets, refusing to enter strangers' homes. Until he was convinced by a man and he took a six-year-old Ethan to his rundown home. But the man had no money even for himself, and when he got something, he didn't share it with Ethan, even when he was starving.

And then came the fourth mother, the fifth, the sixth... until there came a point when he got tired and sought to understand how negotiations worked. Not those of commerce, but those where Ethan gave a piece of sanity in exchange for training. He trained for years and killed for years, seeking to understand how he could be more than others, more than he was destined to be. He was a hired assassin for a long time, then started making his own deals, eliminating those who deserved it and those who insulted and violated him when he was still a scared child.

Ethan didn't regret anything.

And in exchange for all the details of his miserable life, he demanded the same from Gwenda. So he knew about her back pain, knew how her father was killed—as did any civilian who knew him—about Átila Killian and about Trytan. Besides Arth Cheack and the months he spent underground praying for it to end, but he held onto the details to himself, and Ethan didn't care. He told her about fleeing from Carsany. That she was trained for three years before returning to Carsany and was stupid to let Rubben buy her. And then when Darcy Raux bought her with all the money she had saved.

The boss liked to make it clear from the start: I spent my entire three-year salary to save you, don't disappoint me, agent.

Gwenda took a deep breath and stepped away from the tree, still trembling as she bent down and prepared to do a series of exercises that had never been in her routine. But now they were.

----------------------------------------

— Where are we going? — Gwenda asked as she walked through the woods, dodging leaves and flowers that seemed somewhat poisonous. She didn't know this kind of thing.

Ethan didn't respond.

Gwenda had asked five times in the last ten minutes, unable to hold her tongue and anxiety. After all, Ethan was taking her somewhere she had no idea about.

— It would be a great idea if we moved to Marímbea, you know? Nobody would recognize me if I cut my hair or...

— We're arrived.

Thank god. She was almost certain she groaned that word out loud. Because she wouldn't cut her hair to save her own life or for anything.

Gwenda frowned as Ethan stopped and stepped aside.

It was the most frighteningly confusing thing Gwenda had ever witnessed. Not just because nomads were walking back and forth, cooking and hanging clothes to dry in the sun, but because elves and witches were there mixed in with humans.

Gwenda's heart raced, and her insides began to scream and shake.

Kill. Kill. Kill.

Mystics dead. Mystics dead.

Gwenda had already reached for the nonexistent weapon at her hip and had taken two mere steps back, her eyes wide, quickly scanning over each one after the bush, their light and floating movements that could become deadly... She felt the magic coursing through that place, felt the dark magic of the witches in every corner...

Ethan stepped in front of her, blocking her view.

— Why did you bring me here? — she shot out so fast and loud that she had to turn around and grab her hair...

Kill, for god's sake.

Gwenda gritted her teeth.

Where are my wings?

You killed her.

— No! — Gwenda shouted and turned to Sinclair. — Why did you bring me here?!

But he was expressionless.

— Why...

Mystics dead. Quick.

— Shut up! — she yelled.

— Scar. — Ethan warned, loud and firm enough for Gwenda to stop and stare at him.

Kill them all.

Ethan continued:

— They can help with your back.

— No, they can't. — She grunted forcefully. And she was almost certain that voice spoke along with her.

Her head was spinning, and screams were everywhere. Whispers scraped against her skull as if sharpening the edge of a blade.

Ethan approached, closing one hand on her elbow and pulling her against him. Gwenda crashed into Sinclair's body, and his arms wrapped around her. A warm embrace.

Step back. Kill and then escape back.

— Scar...

— My name is Gwenda.

— Relax, Scar. — His voice was light, calm. And Gwenda buried her face in Ethan's chest, inhaling his scent deeply until it was marked on her lungs.

Let me out.

— No.

Open the barriers. Let me out.

— Shut up. — her voice was muffled as she spoke with her face buried in Ethan's sweater.

— Scar, control. — someone above her said, and a hand began to stroke her hair.

She took a deep breath. Once. Twice. And she gripped Ethan's clothes tightly between her fingers.

— Take me back. — she calmly, tremulously pleaded.

No.

— Yes. — she grunted.

— Later.

— Please. — she begged. — Now.

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Ethan seemed to growl and moved away enough to crouch down and spread her legs, lifting her up and putting her thighs around his waist. Gwenda buried her face in Sinclair's neck.

Kill them all.

She gritted her teeth and tightened his beige sweater even tighter and moved as close as possible to his body. Gwenda didn't want to. She couldn't kill anyone else. Not after everything.

But that voice that was always haunting her when faced with a mystic was bothering her in a way it never had before. Not only that, but the gate of her mind seemed to want to open now, as if to nullify the murderous voice.

Gwenda was happy when she saw the North Elf, when she spent several days by his side without that voice interrupting. That's why she wanted to be inside, wanted to stand by a mystic at least once without intending to annihilate. But, with that thought, Gwenda felt weak, so she tried to convince herself that she was just entering that cell with the elf to test the voice.

A ridiculous lie.

She hardly felt Ethan move, but he was walking through murmurs that made Gwenda shrink, praying not to be recognized.

Let me go and you'll be free. Let me out.

Kill.

Do something.

Gwenda was starting to not be able to differentiate between the desperation of the gate and the murderous voice. Until someone spoke:

— What's wrong with her?

It was a raspy, old voice, and Gwenda pulled her face away from Ethan's neck enough to look around. Her eyes burned at the sight of so many elves and witches in one place, and she groaned in pain, clutching Ethan as if she could push him away. Gwenda curled up.

KILL.

Her eyes burned and then quieted. The same thing happened the last time she went on a hunt and came out with her back torn apart. But Gwenda ignored that incident, believing and convincing herself that it had just been a delusion.

SET YOU FREE.

— Shut up shut up shut up shut up. — Gwenda murmured, nonstop.

She began to wriggle in Ethan's arms, trying to break free.

Ethan let her go as he said:

— I'm not sure.

How not?

So she realized she hadn't told him, anyone, about the voices and the pains that weren't physical and were devouring her alive, piece by piece.

Standing on the ground, Gwenda only wanted to run away and squeezed herself against Ethan's body as much as she could, desperate to disappear and hide from everything.

It's raining, Gwen. It's raining.

Make it stop raining.

— Make it yourself! — she replied back.

Strong hands closed on her biceps and pulled her away from the one who seemed to be keeping her safe at the moment. Gwenda couldn't close her eyes, which deceived her, forming a wine-red lake. So, unable to hide her face, she fought against whoever was holding her and put her hands over her eyes, hiding and protecting them, and fell to her knees.

She felt someone kneel in front of her.

— Scar, look at me.

Gwenda didn't.

— Look at me, Scar!

And with the powerful command that echoed inside her mental gates, she did, and faced a beautiful face beneath all the blood filling her vision. Ethan Sinclair was in front of her, his chin slightly dropped and his eyebrows furrowed.

A tear... or whatever it was, rolled down Gwenda's face from the inside. She barely saw when Ethan touched her with his finger and wiped it off her face, but not in a loving way.

Ethan observed his finger with a face dressed in confusion and terror, then raised his eyes to Gwenda again.

Look around you.

Gwenda lowered her head, her eyes fixed on the ground. She wouldn't look...

Look around you.

She wouldn't look at them, at anyone. There were too many elves, too many witches...

And Gwenda trembled incessantly, tense and awkward. She trembled, trembled, and trembled.

— What have you brought to us, sir? — The same old voice.

And by the way she said it, she was concerned and afraid.

Gwenda was too.

They hate you.

You're a waste.

Gwenda put her hands over her eyes again, screaming internally.

— Did you bring us the Shooter? — A man asked, annoyed.

— They said she was dead. — Another commented, confused and the tone displaying his displeasure.

Whispers started, and that was enough for her to take her hands away and look around, breathing heavily and scared, like a wild animal.

People and elves backed away when they saw that, and Gwenda struggled to stand. Ethan was already by her side like a warm and comforting wall, but she had already begun to walk towards the villagers.

The first step left her powerless, and her body took a long, strong shock. Gwenda fell to the ground with a gasp.

The shouting began.

— He betrayed us!

A sword was unsheathed.

— We shouldn't have trusted him!

Over Gwenda's head, Ethan seemed to threaten anyone who dared to approach.

Lying on her side with a body on top of hers to protect her, Gwenda rested her head on the ground, her eyes still wide open. She didn't dare to close them, couldn't blink and let anything pass.

Gwenda was lifted by a pair of hands to sit with her body pressed against another. By the smell, she knew it was Ethan. She was motionless but let Sinclair hold her there gently, quietly.

— She needs your help — he said to someone.

Silence filled the place, and Gwenda's eyes trembled, waiting.

Help with what?

Why are you letting him live?

The way she was held between Ethan's torso and arms was comfortable, and she wondered why she couldn't always be like this. His heart beat fiercely in his chest, and Gwenda focused her attention there.

— It's okay. — the old voice said again.

Relief passed from Ethan to Gwenda when she felt his body relax under hers.

Kill him.

Something bit her arm hard, and Gwenda swore it had torn a piece off her, but before she could scream, that same pain shattered her senses, and she finally closed her eyes.

----------------------------------------

Ethan rested his elbows on his knees, hands in front of his mouth, intertwined. His eyes widened and his forehead creased even as he thought. The single lantern illuminated the tent with a watery yellow-orange light, highlighting the thousands of red fabrics with yellow dots and other types that the witch liked to use everywhere, from her body to the inside of her tent.

But what Ethan saw in Gwenda, eyes filled with red from the pupil to the white part, filling everything it could with blood-red. Not to mention the sides that seemed to accumulate. And when Gwenda blinked, the red tear left a trail on her face.

A wrinkled hand with long fingers stretched out half a coconut with water to him. Ethan thanked with a nod and took it before gulping it down, letting a few drops trickle down the sides

How long had it been since he drank water?

— Your girl needs help. — the woman, calm as Ethan had never seen her, spoke, then snatched the coconut from Ethan as she turned around.

She was short, her voluminous white hair with dark streaks was tied in a poorly done bun. The small, wrinkled nose always wrinkled more when she spoke to Ethan, believing he was wasting time on his hobbies.

— I know. — he replied in the same calm tone.

— No, man. — the witch waved her hand in his direction, as if dismissing him. — You don’t know that you know and don't want to admit it.

Ethan leaned back until he was upright, hands still intertwined.

— I know she needs help.

— Not from me and certainly not from you.

Ethan rolled his eyes, but she kept talking:

— She needs the Soul Savior himself.

— The problem is he's late.

— This girl isn't yours. — the woman turned to him — In fact, who am I to say who belongs to whom, in my opinion, that's morbid. — She let out a sincere and amused laugh, hoarse, and filled the half coconut Ethan drank water from with a hot liquid from the pot placed right above the embers of a former bonfire. She stretched it towards him when finished. — Want some soup?

Ethan pondered what was probably in that soup, and it definitely wasn't good, so he declined.

The witch shrugged and began to eat.

— If you want to save her, my son, you'll need to hand her over to the Soul Savior.

— And what if I don't? — he asked.

— Then she'll have to make the passage alone, and if she can't, this girl will take many with her to hell.

Ethan diverted his attention to the fallen and asleep body at the back of the tent, the bare and sweaty back turned to them. The screams of Gwenda when the witch started the work... Ethan couldn't bear it, he had left the tent before she asked the old woman to stop.

— You want to see her suffer.

Ethan turned to the witch, calculating if it really wasn't a question. He felt anger rising up his neck.

— I don't...

— Or you would hand her over to him.

— I thought you'd be on my side.

— There are no sides in this game, Mr. Schndyer. — The witch sipped her soup cautiously, making noises as if bubbles were popping.

Ethan just stared at her, but she looked at the coconut in her slender hands.

His surname hadn't been used in a while, but Ethan didn't shrink when it was pronounced as he thought he would. She interrupted the noise to speak:

— The only sensible thing here is to accept the right path, the path of destiny. And this girl's is far from being completed.

— You see the future now, madam? — he mocked.

She moved the coconut away from her now moist mouth and wrinkled her nose even more.

— Mr. Schndyer, are you messing with my powers and abilities?

He didn't hide the smirk, but commented:

— Not all destinies are the right path.

— Correct. — she said — But there's no other besides this one.

— Then let me create another.

The witch blinked.

— You want to go beyond what's possible, child. Like it or not, if you want to fulfill yours, let her fulfill hers. Or things will unravel.

Ethan lowered his head, looking at the feet right below him.

— It's not that simple. I've spent over a century looking for her.

— She's not the right person, you know that. — Ethan thought hard if he shouldn't stand up and leave with Gwenda. — And you weren't looking for anyone, you were looking for the feeling and comfort.

— Which she'll give me.

— But deep down, it's the soul that will share yours that matters, not the presence.

— Nonsense.

— Nonsense is you, you sack of garlic. — the witch resumed sipping her soup.

Ethan grunted at her, but the woman seemed not to notice or care as she continued with that bubble-like noise. Then he turned to Gwenda and ran his eyes over her back and down to the hip and legs covered by the sheets.

Gwenda was the presence. Her presence drove Ethan crazy, hungry... but it wasn't Gwenda who shared the soul, it wasn't her who belonged to him. And he hated that. Ethan was tired of searching for more, for what was his. Gwenda was there, in front of him, he had found a part of himself, but not the one that would fill him entirely.

What if there was no one else but Gwenda? At least not anymore.

Gwenda and he were connected by a thread, but there was another in Ethan, a stronger and more potent one, connecting him with someone else. And if that person were alive, how would he know if they would work out? If there would be love? Did he at least want love from someone who didn't have the same personality as him?

Ethan sighed. Gwenda was his best option, and he wasn't in a position to lose her.