Tanya's four silver-grey wings fluttered lightly as she stepped past the heavy doors of the courthouse, the weight of judgment still lingering in the air like the remnants of a dying storm. The sun above Wolvenblade burned fiercely, but the world beneath it felt charged, different—like the very air had been reshaped by the events that had just transpired.
Even now, as she moved through the village, eyes still turned toward her, their gazes bearing the weight of something new—awe, reverence, fear. Some looked at her with quiet admiration, heads inclined slightly in unconscious gestures of respect, while others studied her as though she had become something distant, untouchable.
She ignored them.
Her attention had already drifted toward the clearing ahead, where Luna was locked in a tight embrace with her sister.
Tanya had wanted to speak with the girl—to study the changes in her body, to understand what exactly had happened to her. Luna's transformation had been drastic, and though Tanya had no issue with demons, she found the strange divinity threaded through Luna's new form fascinating in a way that set her mind turning.
But now was not the time.
Sol held Luna so tightly it looked like she might never let go, and Luna, for all the quiet rage that had burned in her through the trial, was crying openly into her sister's shoulder. There was no space for Tanya in that moment. It wasn't one she had any right to interfere with.
So she let it be.
She let them have their moment.
Instead, she turned away and started down the stone steps, her boots clicking softly against the worn path. She had barely made it to the bottom before the sharp, grating sound of Hathor's voice split through the air like a jagged knife.
"Arrrggghhh!"
His scream was raw, furious, laced with something almost unhinged. It clawed through the relative quiet of the village, turning heads as he thrashed against the hands that held him.
"Damn is this how our law is now?! I rebuke this!" His voice cracked, but there was no weakness in it—only bile, only venom. He was spitting, shaking, his body writhing like a caged beast.
Tanya turned her head slightly, watching from the edge of her vision as two of the more loyal elders—loyal to Remus, not to Hathor—hauled the disgraced man forward. They weren't gentle. They weren't cruel either. It was the kind of grip given to a man whose time was over, but who refused to accept it.
"She is a false divinity!" He snarled like a cornered animal, eyes wild, teeth bared.
Tanya didn't flinch.
She simply tilted her head, watching with cold amusement as he was dragged further down the path. The villagers stood aside, some whispering, some shaking their heads, but none stepping forward to defend him.
Hathor had been stripped of everything.
His power. His position. His influence.
Locked away, to be kept in the confines of the village while the world moved on without him. A fate, in some ways, worse than death.
And yet, Tanya had wanted him dead.
She could have pushed for it. Could have twisted the crowd further, could have used the fire of their newfound faith to demand blood in the name of the Suns.
But she hadn't.
Because Luna had spoken to her first.
"I want to kill him with my own two hands," the girl had said, voice heavy with something old, something bitter.
Tanya had understood.
She had felt that same thing once upon a time. That same deep-seated, burning need to be the one to do it—to take back power in the only way that mattered.
So she let it go.
For now.
She exhaled slowly, tuning out the distant echoes of Hathor's raving as he was pulled further from sight. Instead, her focus shifted toward the grander picture—the next step in her game.
Because there was something else to take from all of this.
Her plan.
The sheer force of her newly solidified political influence had allowed her proposal to be accepted with little resistance. And it was necessary. The movement of Vampyrs encroaching upon their territory had to be accounted for, and she had mapped out new routes, alternative paths that would allow for greater control over the region. And to counter the little green beasts.
It wasn't just about defending the village anymore.
This was about taking control.
Wolvenblade had always been at the mercy of its enemies as of late—reacting, rather than acting. Allowing their borders to be dictated by fear and uncertainty rather than strategy and dominance.
But Tanya had no intention of playing defense.
If things went as planned, these new routes wouldn't just allow for safer travel—they would be the key to breaking the goblins' hold over the trade of shadow cores.
Shadow cores were a currency of power. Essential for the warriors of Wolvenblade, used in their weapons, their talismans, their techniques. And yet, the goblins had a stranglehold over them.
That was going to change.
She had already used the shade Midea had captured to demonstrate the difference in their capabilities. Tanya, and her sibling were uniquely suited to wiping them out. No traditional hunter in the village could match their efficiency when it came to eradicating the creatures.
They didn't need to barter with the goblins. Or pacify them. Nor bow to their demands.
They needed to replace them.
But it would take resources. Manpower. A coordinated effort.
So she had pushed.
She had stood in the council hall, wings unfurled, voice steady, laying out the structure of her plan with the same deliberate weight she had used in the trial.
The village would assist in setting up a massive circle—one that would allow them to lure shades, trap them, and efficiently extract their cores without losing men in the process.
The new routes she had mapped would serve as their veins of control, allowing them to move freely, establish a system that would funnel power back into the village.
If it worked—
No.
When it worked—
Wolvenblade would no longer rely on outside forces.
And once they had an influx of shadow cores…
They would trade.
Tanya could already see it—the slow shift of power, the way Wolvenblade would grow from a village scraping by to a force that dictated its own terms.
After all the goblins were not the only race that lurked within the shadowed depths of the of the great jungle outside the walls.
Other beings crept through the underbrush, moving unseen beneath the thick canopy of ancient trees—the Gu, the nameless scavengers, the forgotten creatures that prowled in the spaces between civilization and chaos. There were numerous races indeed. Each had their own means of survival, their own niche carved into the ecosystem of the wild.
But the goblins?
They were different.
Unlike most of the forest-dwellers, they did not rule by might. The little green beings lacked individual strength for the most part, their frail bodies nothing compared to the warriors of Wolvenblade or the monstrous creatures that slithered through the dark. Even their average cultivation was weak—low first layer at best. But that had never been their method of dominance.
Instead, they thrived through cunning.
They bred fast, faster than nearly any other race in these woods. Their numbers swelled like floodwaters, an endless tide of bodies that ensured their continued existence. But more importantly—they controlled the flow of power.
Shadow cores.
The very resource that fueled Wolvenblade's warriors. The essence of darkness, crystallized remnants of slain shades, packed with energy that could be wielded, reforged, and made into tools that allowed survival and the ability to travel the wilds without being torn apart by every creature one encountered.
And the goblins were exceptional at acquiring them.
It was the key to their survival. The only reason anyone dealt with them at all. At least as much as she could see.
While they themselves were weak, they were masters of scavenging the battlefield, picking corpses clean, and harvesting what others left behind. They were also talented at forest combat but in direct confrontation with equal numbers, they would almost always lose.
Some whispered that they had ancient, hidden methods for drawing shadow cores from beyond the veil—techniques unknown to the rest of the world. That was how they stayed relevant. That was how they built power in a world where they had none.
And because of that, the goblins had abused their position.
For years, they had made themselves indispensable, exploiting their monopoly over the cores, using their leverage to demand more and more from the villages that relied on them. Especially from Wolvenblade due to it's current precarious position with the Vampyrs.
If another supplier were to rise—a stronger, better one—then the goblins would lose everything.
They would be isolated. Weakened. Starved of their advantage.
And that was the simplest way to win a war.
No need for battles, no need for endless bloodshed—just strategy, just control over resources.
And Tanya was going to be the one to rip that control away from them.
She had already started laying the groundwork.
If Wolvenblade could become self-sufficient, if they could create a more efficient, structured means of acquiring shadow cores, then the goblins would no longer be necessary.
And Midea's vast stores of knowledge, his noble house's deep, ancient connections, his understanding of the market for materials beyond Wolvenblade's borders—all of that would give them the edge they needed. He had knowledge he could grant that could change a tribe.
They could offer more than just cores.
And when the time came, the goblins would find themselves outmatched, outplayed, and utterly obsolete.
Tanya knew this was only the beginning.
She herself planned to head some of the diplomatic missions, ensuring that key alliances were formed—alliances that would solidify their position as the true power of the region.
Of course, she wouldn't be going alone.
Midea would be there.
Because of course he would be.
She could already picture him, striding through foreign halls with his horns gleaming under torchlight, his smile full of carefully veiled menace, his every word dripping with calculated charm.
It would be interesting.
She'd likely be accompanied by a priestess as well, given her new position—
Her wings twitched slightly.
Yes. Her new position.
Even now, she was still uncertain why the crystal had reacted to her.
The Fragment of the Stars.
That was what they called it.
A sacred relic that had fallen from the heavens some time ago, crashing down as a meteorite from the endless void above. The people of Wolvenblade had taken it as a divine sign—a piece of the Suns' will made manifest.
And yet…
Why had it responded to her?
That was a question she had no answer to.
But she intended to find one.
Which was why she and Tarak were following a trail now, their bodies silent shadows against the moonlit path, moving through the village as the echoes of the night's excitement began to die down.
Their feet pounded the soft, damp earth, kicking up the scent of wild pine and crushed leaves.
Above them, the sky was dominated by the three overhanging moons, massive and luminous, casting their eerie glow over the land below. The silver light of one bled into the deep violet hue of another, while the third—smaller, slightly redder—hung low against the horizon like an ember burning in the heavens.
Wolvenblade was quiet now, the revelry of the earlier night settling into a thick, charged hush.
Here and there, figures still moved—villagers murmuring amongst themselves, soldiers finishing their rounds, mothers pulling their children inside, their voices hushed as they whispered of the trial, of the Suns, of Surya.
Her name drifted through the air like a ghost.
She ignored it.
She and Tarak moved with purpose, their steps sure as they cut through the village, leaving behind the flickering warmth of torchlight in favor of the cold embrace of the forest clearing ahead.
And there, seemingly waiting for them—
Baya.
The High Priestess of Wolvenblade.
She stood at the center of the clearing, surrounded by the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, its twisted branches stretching toward the sky like the fingers of a slumbering god.
Her presence was an unshaken thing, her body poised, her robes fluttering gently in the wind, the faint scent of aged parchment and ceremonial incense clinging to the air around her.
And then—
She laughed.
A crackling, wheezing, utterly indecipherable sound that split the quiet apart like a rusted bell tolling in the night.
"Bagyagyagyagya!!"
Tanya slowed her steps slightly, her brows twitching.
Tarak's tail flicked lazily, his movement so casual it almost seemed an afterthought. But the consequences were immediate. The sharp end of his tail pierced the earth with a subtle crunch, crushing the small creatures that had been scuttling in a neat little line beneath his feet.
The Pipla never stood a chance.
Tiny, soft-bodied things—barely sentient, their black shells glistening faintly in the moonlight before their bodies crumpled inward, curling into themselves like dying leaves. A faint, acrid scent rose into the night air as whatever strange fluid had been inside them leaked into the soil.
Tanya glanced at them briefly but said nothing.
He did that whenever he could.
It wasn't a conscious habit—not entirely. It was an instinct, a small reflex, a simple act of exerting his dominance over the lesser creatures of the world. His body desired power and he indulged it. Tanya had seen it before. Tarak wasn't cruel, nor was he particularly interested in the Pipla, but he killed them nonetheless, as if swiping away gnats buzzing too close to his face.
It should have been nothing. A meaningless gesture.
And yet…
Tanya exhaled softly through her nose, her gaze lingering on the darkened soil.
The concept of killing in this body never quite sat right.
Not because she was unfamiliar with death—far from it.
But there was something different about this.
Something about the absolute nature of it.
Total erasure. Complete annihilation.
It wasn't just death—it was the destruction of a soul. Perhaps she felt something akin to sympathy? After all was she any different.
In the end that was what it meant when she killed.
When Tarak killed.
Nothing was left behind. No afterlife. No lingering remnants. No echoes of existence to haunt the world.
The moment she ended a life, it ceased to be.
Tanya had always been pragmatic.
She would do what needed to be done. That had never changed. Survival came first, strategy second, morality third.
But still—
She shook away the thought, her wings shifting slightly at her back as if physically casting aside the unease.
Now wasn't the time for reflection.
Now was the time for answers.
Her amethyst eyes lifted, locking onto the old woman before her.
"Elder Baya."
She inclined her head slightly, a sign of respect but nothing more.
"I have a few questions for you."
Baya, standing beneath the massive blue-rooted tree, merely grinned. The lines on her face deepened, her features folding like cracked parchment as her sharp grey eyes flickered in amusement.
"Bagyagyagyagya!"
Her laugh split the night air like the hacking caw of some deranged bird.
"Don't be coy, girly." She hawked loudly, spitting onto the ground not far from where Tanya stood. The wet slap of saliva hitting dirt was particularly offensive in the quiet of the clearing. "You wanna ask about the crystal. I'm aware."
Tanya quirked a brow. Even Tarak turned his head slightly, his slitted crimson eyes narrowing in mild curiosity.
"Indeed," Tanya acknowledged smoothly. "When I approached you before the trial, I merely asked for your support."
Her wings shifted, feathers rustling faintly as she crossed her arms.
"Not to become the Reification."
Her voice remained steady, controlled.
"And that crystal?"
A pause.
"Do I really have a connection to the Sun?"
There.
The real question.
The real concern.
The one that had gnawed at her ever since the moment the fragment had bathed her in light.
Tarak's attention sharpened. He was listening just as intently as she was, his piercing gaze locked onto Baya, waiting.
Because, honestly?
Tanya had no idea how that was even possible.
For all intents and purposes—she was an alien to this world.
She hadn't even been born here.
She had hatched from an egg laid in Hell or some other adjacent realm, birthed into existence through forces that had nothing to do with this planet's gods, its Suns, or its sacred relics.
She had no bond to this place.
No divine connection.
No ancestral link.
It shouldn't have worked.
And yet, it had.
Tanya's eyes widened slightly as a sudden thought struck her.
Wait.
She had seen this sort of thing before.
The trope.
The moment in stories where the chosen one touches a legendary artifact, only for it to suddenly respond, lighting up in a radiant display to reveal their immense potential.
She had read that scene a thousand times.
She had watched it play out in countless myths, legends, even the stories spun by the priests in Wolvenblade's temples.
What if…
What if it wasn't about her connection to the Sun?
What if it was simply acknowledging her power?
Recognizing the inherent, overwhelming potential in her body?
It made sense.
More sense than anything else.
Excitement hummed beneath her skin.
Was that it?
Had the fragment simply reacted to the sheer absurdity of her being?
Her mind raced, calculating, analyzing—
And then—
"It was a trick."
Tanya blinked.
Ah.
Of course.
Baya grinned, her weathered face folding like dried parchment as she shifted her stance, resting her weight against her staff. The gnarled wood, wrapped in aged cloth, thudded lightly against the dirt as she adjusted her grip, tilting her head with a knowing smirk.
"Really, it was a matter of creating a small numen gathering and expelling formation within the crystal."
She said it casually, as if it were a simple trick, something no different from tying one's boots or whittling wood.
"Combined with bark from the laser grove being used as the nexus, it wasn't too difficult to give it the color of the Seventh Sun—which, as you may have noticed, you seem to be associated with."
Her yellowed eyes gleamed in the dim moonlight, her expression equal parts amusement and satisfaction.
"What was hard—" she continued, shifting her weight slightly, "—was doing it without anyone noticing."
She tapped the base of her staff against the ground, the impact kicking up a small swirl of dust.
"But that's why I kept it under my robes to conceal my activities."
The moonlight filtering through the gaps in the massive black-rooted trees caught the old woman's silhouette, making the soft fabric of her ceremonial garb shimmer faintly. The sacred threads of Fenrir's clergy—woven with subtle silver sigils—seemed to shift as she spoke, a reminder of the faith she had long upheld.
"And in the end—"
Her grin widened, her gnarled fingers tightening around her staff.
"I'm one of the strongest."
She jerked her chin up sharply, nostrils flaring, shoulders rolling back as if she were a warrior once more, standing tall before an old battlefield.
"Stronger than most elders!"
Her voice rose like a battle cry, the rough, rasping edges of her words scraping against the otherwise quiet night.
"Back in my prime, I could've beaten every damn one of them!"
Her golden eyes burned, the fire of old defiance still flickering beneath her age-worn skin.
"Except for that boy, Remus."
Her mouth twisted in reluctant acknowledgment.
"Hell, even then, I might've given him a fight!"
She spat onto the dirt once more like a hooligan, her defiance a tangible thing, curling around her like the last embers of a dying bonfire refusing to go out.
Tarak nodded in acceptance, crimson eyes gleaming in the moonlight. He did not question it. He did not doubt it. He simply absorbed the information like a stone thrown into deep water, the ripples spreading but never breaking the surface.
Tanya, on the other hand—
Something in her expression must have flickered.
Some small, faint note of disappointment.
Because the old woman noticed.
"Bagyagyagyagyagya!"
The cackling split the stillness of the clearing like an axe through brittle wood.
Baya threw her head back, shoulders shaking, her entire frame overcome with deep, unrestrained amusement.
Tanya's lips thinned.
She did not let her expression twist.
Did not let her irritation show.
But still—something in her bristled.
"Did you expect to be a divine child, truly?"
Baya's grin widened, toothy and sharp, her grey eyes practically dancing as she leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting like a mischievous fox.
Tanya's jaw flexed ever so slightly, not in anger but a bit of surprisingly immature indignance.
Not because she had ever wanted to be one.
But because the way the old woman laughed at the idea—as if it were some farcical notion, some foolish child's dream—irked her.
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A divine child?
Please.
Did she need to be the child of some biig balls of fire in the sky?
Her mother, the monstrous existence beyond comprehension, the god-killer, the heavenless huntress–
Would slap the so-called Suns out of the sky without breaking stride.
The mere thought was enough to make her chest thrum with amusement. But regardless she couldn't say that the woman.
Not to Baya.
Not to someone who had spent her entire life worshiping those Suns.
So instead, Tanya said nothing.
She merely exhaled slowly through her nose, keeping her expression even.
But Tarak—
Tarak had no such restraint.
His voice cut through the old woman's laughter like a blade.
"Surya doesn't need to be a divine child of the Suns."
His tail coiled slightly, a subtle but unmistakable gesture of control, of restraint.
"She's already more than that."
His crimson eyes burned.
"Don't laugh at my sister."
His tone was not sharp. Not particularly loud. Nor was it aggressive.
But it did not waver.
Tanya blinked. Something stirred in her chest. A complicated tangle of emotions, all sharp edges and dull warmth. Lord the emotions relating to family in this body were frustrating her. But outside of that she acknowledged it wouldn't change. And maybe that wasn't horrible.
In regards to his words she was both simultaneously gratified and concerned.
Gratified because—of course he would say that.
Tarak was Tarak.
And he had never cared for anyone's opinion but his own and hers.
Worried because—
Because Tarak was Tarak.
And there were consequences for words like those.
But Baya—
Baya did not react negatively.
She merely hummed, gaze shifting slightly as she regarded the boy before her, her amusement settling into something deeper, something more considering.
"Indeed."
She tapped her staff against the ground again, her expression unreadable.
"Maybe that's so."
She let the words hang for a moment, her sharp gaze flicking back to Tanya.
"The truth of the matter is…"
Her smirk twisted, not unkind, but laced with the wryness of a woman who had lived long enough to see through the illusions others clung to.
"Divine children are a sham."
Silence.
The wind shifted through the blue-rooted trees, rustling the leaves with an almost spectral whisper.
Tanya's fingers twitched.
Baya exhaled, shaking her head.
"The crystal—" she gestured lazily, "—can identify immense talent."
She arched a brow.
"If numen is pumped into it."
She let the words sink in, the weight of them settling over the clearing like a slow-descending mist.
"That is all."
Her grey eyes glinted with something sharp, and something rather somber at the same time.
"It bears no connection to the Suns."
The old woman lifted her head, gazing upward toward the vast, sprawling heavens above. Her weathered features softened for a brief moment, her grey eyes reflecting the varying silver glow of the three moons overhead. The celestial bodies hung motionless in the dark, cloudless sky, their distant, indifferent light casting long shadows over the sacred grove.
She seemed to be pondering something distant, something old.
A moment passed.
And then, with a slow exhale, she spoke.
"This world is vast."
Her voice was a low, measured rasp, carrying with it the weight of years, the weight of knowing.
"Innumerable things exist within it."
She shifted slightly, adjusting her grip on her staff, the motion almost absentminded.
"The beasts in the great expanse, the hidden spirits in the rivers, the gods men whisper prayers to in the dark."
She inhaled, the cool night air filling her lungs.
"And in all that endless stretch of life and wonder…"
Her lips curled faintly, her golden eyes narrowing.
"…this village is nothing."
The wind stirred the branches above them, the skeletal fingers of the blue-rooted trees swaying ever so slightly.
"A small, insignificant corner of existence."
She exhaled sharply through her nose, a dry, almost self-deprecating amusement flickering in her tone.
"I have no doubt that something like Sun Spirits exist—"
She rolled her shoulders as if shaking off the thought.
"—but I have never heard their voices."
Her fingers tightened briefly around the gnarled staff in her hand, nails pressing against the smooth, worn wood.
"And they have never done anything for Wolvenblade."
There was no bitterness in her voice. No resentment. Only cold, firm certainty.
"Not before."
Her eyes flickered back to Tanya, unreadable.
"Not now."
Tanya said nothing, merely watching as the old woman scoffed softly, her lips twisting into something wry and humorless.
"Because we are nothing."
A short, breathy laugh left her lips.
"That's all there is to it."
Tanya regarded her silently.
And then, after a beat, she spoke.
"So it's about power, then?"
It wasn't truly a question. She already knew the answer.
Baya tilted her head slightly, eyes glinting in the dark.
"Power."
Her staff tapped against the dirt with a slow, deliberate motion.
"Order. Tradition."
Her gaze did not waver.
"Simple fact is—people need something to believe in."
The wind shifted again, rustling the thick undergrowth at their feet.
"Hope. Fear. Love."
She let the words roll off her tongue as if they were nothing more than tools, nothing more than names for the things that moved men.
"The love of gods."
She shook her head.
"The fear of gods."
Her eyes narrowed.
"They are in the end the same thing."
Her expression did not change, but the weight of her words pressed against the clearing like a quiet, inevitable truth.
Tanya tilted her head slightly.
"I'm surprised," she admitted after a beat. "That there were so many Reifications before me."
Her brows furrowed slightly, her silver-gray wings shifting against her back.
"It seems a rather significant title."
She paused, her gaze sharpening.
"And if the crystal simply identifies the talented, then surely those chosen must have lived long lives."
She met the old woman's eyes.
"But if that were the case…"
Her voice dropped slightly.
"…wouldn't someone like that still be here?"
Wouldn't someone like that have remained, ruling with the influence they gained?
Wouldn't they have shaped Wolvenblade into something greater?
Baya regarded her for a long moment, her expression impossible to read.
And then—
A short, rasping chuckle.
"You're right."
The staff tapped against the dirt again, the motion slow, methodical.
"There haven't been many in our history."
She lifted a hand, running her fingers idly over the fabric of her robe, as if brushing off dust.
"The simple fact is—most are only known as Reification candidates."
Her lips twisted slightly.
"If they ever get to touch the crystal at all."
Tanya's brow twitched slightly.
Baya met her gaze, something sharper—something almost cruel—dancing in her stine-grey eyes.
"I and the elders control access."
"And there are any number of arguments one can use to disprove someone's divinity."
She lifted a brow, her expression that of a woman who had played this game for far too long.
"Swaying public opinion—"
She tapped at her knee mindlessly.
"—isn't particularly difficult."
Her fingers curled briefly around her staff.
"Especially when it comes to the position of a holy person."
She scoffed, the sound brief, dry.
"Most don't make it far in their tenure. Especially if the chieftain rallies power to get rid of them."
The words left her lips with calm, measured precision.
Baya chuckled.
Then she suddenly tilted her head slightly, as if considering something.
"Remus would have noticed."
A pause.
Her fingers drummed lightly against her staff.
"So would the goat, likely. Though he's on your side."
Tanya's eyebrows rose curiously at the mention..
"But Remus said nothing at all."
Baya's voice dropped slightly.
"Even I was surprised at that."
The wind picked up, the branches above them groaning as they swayed.
She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly.
"But I had, in part, expected it."
Her eyes gleamed.
"Given his actions in the trial."
Tanya turned the words over in her mind, letting the weight of them settle. So that was how it was.
The so-called Reifications weren't divine figures, nor even truly chosen ones—just talented wolfmen who, more often than not, were kept at arm's length, relegated to mere candidates. Few had ever fully ascended to the title, and those who did were swiftly met with opposition—smear campaigns, whispers in the dark, subtle machinations meant to dismantle their power before it could cement.
It made sense.
It wasn't as though it would take much effort to turn public opinion. A false divinity is as easy to disprove as an unproven one. She compared it internally to some guy claiming to be Big J himself. Anyone who rose too high would face resistance because that sort of power was to be feared. It wasn't about truth—it was about control. To hold such a title, one would need something beyond talent—political power, influence, loyalty.
And Tanya had all three.
Through Midea. Through her own actions. Through the events of the trial that had sharpened the public's favor in her direction, curing the people of their doubt, and leaving them enthralled by the spectacle of her ascent.
A spectacle Remus had simply… allowed.
That was the strangest part.
The man had seemed unmoved, unbothered. And more than that—there had been something off about his presence that day, something intentional.
She could only assume he had anticipated this outcome.
More than that—he had spoken with Midea beforehand.
That much, he had confirmed himself.
And now, she found herself curious about what had passed between them.
Still, she pushed that thought aside, refocusing on the matter before her.
Her gaze leveled on Baya, cool and measured.
"I see." She exhaled slowly. "But why go so far in order to support me? You risked your own standing, your own power. What could you possibly gain from this?"
She didn't fully understand.
Not yet.
Baya met her gaze head-on, expression sharp and knowing, the wrinkles on her face deepening as she smirked.
"To bind you."
The words were delivered with absolute confidence.
Tarak's head snapped up at that.
His brows furrowed.
The night air seemed heavier.
The old woman let out a low chuckle, eyes glinting beneath the pale silver of the three moons.
"Like you said," she continued, tilting her head slightly. "You were born to the Canid Clan. You lived in the Canid Clan. But what are you, really?"
Her voice dropped slightly.
"I have no idea where you came from."
Her fingers curled around the wooden staff at her side.
"No idea what you are."
Tanya said nothing.
The wind stirred the trees above them, leaves rustling like murmured voices in the dark.
"But even if the Suns did not descend upon this place…"
Her grey eyes gleamed.
"You did."
A pause.
"And the satyr did."
Tanya felt Tarak shift slightly beside her, his tail curling faintly against the earth.
Baya's gaze remained firm.
"You may have started here," she continued, "but how many creatures ever stay where they begin?"
The weight of her words settled into the space between them.
"I may not recognize what you are, girl. But I can recognize your path."
Her grip on her staff tightened briefly.
"And I know this much—"
She leaned forward slightly.
"It will extend far beyond this clan."
Far beyond Wolvenblade.
Tanya's lips parted slightly.
She hadn't expected the old woman to be so… candid.
Baya smiled, sharp and knowing.
"So I wanted to bind you to our people," she admitted. "Through power. Through responsibility."
Her smirk widened.
"If you are to move forward, then you can carry us with you."
Tanya remained still, her wings shifting faintly.
The village was nothing. A small, insignificant speck in the grand stretch of the world.
And yet—
This woman was smart enough to see beyond it.
To see her beyond it.
"I am old," Baya said simply, adjusting her stance. "And old enough to recognize opportunity when I see one."
A beat passed.
Then—
"Bagyagyagyagya!"
The loud, rasping laughter broke through the silence of the clearing, startling a flock of nightbirds from their perches in the black-rooted trees.
Tanya simply watched her.
Baya's chest shook with amusement as she cackled, her entire frame trembling beneath the weight of it.
Tanya exhaled slowly.
"That's quite a thing to admit."
She studied the woman carefully.
"But that's not the only reason, is it?"
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"It also has to do with Luna's mother."
A pause.
Her voice remained even.
"With Caela."
Baya's laughter ceased immediately.
Tanya didn't think the woman was lying—not about her previous words, not about her reasons, not about the grand scheme she was weaving. And yet, she also didn't think Baya had told the whole truth. Not entirely.
The elder was right about at least one thing—Tanya's path would stretch far beyond Wolvenblade. Far beyond this village, this clan, this world. But binding her to responsibility alone wouldn't be enough. Pinning everything on a single position was shortsighted. Even with power, Tanya was still at the beginning of her mental development. At least in the woman's view, her strength was still forming, her full potential yet to be realized. She was more mature than her years suggested, but that didn't change the apparent reality of things. She was young. A gamble like this could fail.
But it wasn't just about her.
She had seen it—the way Baya twitched when Caela's name had come up. That had been the true wound. And when Luna's name was mentioned, the elder had flinched, just slightly, a reaction so subtle it was easy to miss.
There was something there.
Tanya remained silent, waiting.
The old woman exhaled, and it was as if time itself pressed down on her. Her shoulders slumped, her back curved under an invisible weight. She looked smaller, frailer than she had a moment ago, like the years had finally decided to settle onto her bones all at once.
"Years ago, Caela was my disciple," Baya said at last, her voice quiet, thick with something caught between sorrow and regret. "She was my favored disciple. The one I planned to pass this position to one day."
Her grip on her staff tightened as she continued. "She was talented. Capable. A fighter. She had potential beyond most." A pause, her expression shifting slightly. "But there was an incident."
The wind stirred the trees around them, and Baya's eyes seemed far away, lost in memory.
"She got caught up in an attack during the war. The Gu." The words were heavier than they should have been. "She was saved. The only one saved."
Tanya waited.
"By General Juraf. Luna's father."
Silence stretched between them.
"When she came back… she was poisoned. Her constitution had always been weak, but it worsened after that. She lashed out—whether from pain, grief, or the poison, I can't say. She didn't have many friends to begin with, so no one truly understood what she was going through."
There was something in Baya's voice that Tanya couldn't quite place. Frustration, perhaps. Or guilt.
"Then, soon after, she was found to be with child. Juraf's child."
The air in the clearing grew still.
"A priestess bearing a child out of wedlock. It wasn't impossible. It wasn't forbidden. But for someone in Caela's position? Unacceptable. The weight of tradition and her rivals had come down on her like a falling mountain."
Baya's voice turned strained. "I failed her," she muttered. "I should have helped her. I should have… I failed."
Tanya could hear it now—the deep, aching guilt of time lost. Of choices not made. Of knowing she had the power to change something once and letting it slip through her fingers.
"And now look. She's on her deathbed," Baya murmured. "Even more so than before."
She shook her head slowly. "It's so late. And it's been so long. The least I can do is help her daughter." A pause, and then, with quiet finality, "And put away that beast in wolfman skin."
Tanya didn't need to ask who she meant.
Hathor.
A monster that had used his position to terrorize others. A creature who had feasted on suffering and wielded his authority like a bludgeon. Baya had enabled it once, either through inaction or reluctance, but she wasn't doing so any longer.
Tanya exhaled. "And in part, the reason you gave me lasting power is because you want things to change."
The old woman looked up, the pale light of the moons casting long shadows across her lined face.
"Yes."
She studied Tanya for a long moment before tilting her head. "Indeed, you have that capability."
A gust of wind swept through the clearing, rustling the trees, and sending dust swirling around their feet.
Baya's grey eyes gleamed in the moonlight.
"As whatever you are."
Then, a small, knowing smile.
"And as a woman."
"You should see her," Tarak suddenly interrupted, his voice cutting through the stillness of the clearing like a blade through silk.
Baya turned her head sharply, blinking as if caught off guard. "Huh?"
Tarak didn't immediately meet her gaze. He sat cross-legged on the grass, the cool night wind rustling through his hair. The silver tips caught the moonlight, gleaming like liquid metal against the deep black of the strands. His tail curled lazily behind him, sweeping over the grass in slow, deliberate movements, while his horns—dark and sharp—tilted slightly toward the priestess. He looked utterly at ease, his expression unreadable, yet there was a weight to his words, something firm and unyielding beneath the surface.
"Every moment is an eternity," he said at last, his voice quiet but steady. "Even if it's too little. Even if it's too late. It's still a moment that will never be erased."
The old woman didn't speak.
Tarak's crimson eyes flickered, glinting in the moonlight as he exhaled. "And that is better—infinitely better—than nothing at all," he continued, his tone remaining dull, almost disinterested. "Even if it's painful. Even if it's hard. You should do it."
His words settled over the clearing like dust in the wind.
Baya visibly stiffened, her fingers tightening around the worn wood of her staff. The lines on her face deepened, her lips pressing into a thin line as she turned her gaze away. A long, shallow breath escaped her nostrils.
For a moment, Tanya thought she might scoff, might brush it off with another one of her rough laughs and sharp-edged remarks. But then, a slight tremor ran through the old woman's frame, barely noticeable, as though Tarak's words had rattled something deep within her.
Then, just as quickly, she collected herself.
A bark of laughter burst from her lips, loud and scratchy, cutting through the weight in the air. "Bagyagyagyagya!" The sound rang through the night, shaking the trees and scattering a few resting birds from their perches. "You're right, boy. Each moment an eternity, huh?" She tapped her staff against the ground, shaking her head with amusement. "Since when did I start taking advice from children?"
Tanya smirked slightly, the corner of her lips curving just enough to be noticeable. "You know, they say advice from children is often the most helpful of all."
Baya snorted, but she didn't deny it.
From the mouths of babes, they say.
__________
Peter sat in a dark corner of his home, his silhouette barely distinguishable from the deep shadows that clung to the walls. The dim glow of the tablet in his hands cast eerie patterns across his face, its pale light flickering in tandem with the slow rise and fall of his breath. The room around him seemed to warp, the darkness pressing closer, curling like living tendrils at the edges of his vision.
The tablet displayed the Solgaleo Sutra—a sutra of profound power and unfathomable complexity. A recorded version, meticulously transcribed and delivered by the enigmatic being who called themselves a Dark Satyr. Peter's fingers tightened around the device, his grip just short of trembling. It was powerful Things were changing. Fast. To fast.
And yet, it was not the wisdom within the sutra or its might that made his green eyes darken, his pupils dilating as emotion curled at the edges of his expression. It was the image—the illustration set at the center of the text.
A lion devouring a sun.
His breath hitched.
The longer he stared, the heavier his heartbeat became, each thud resounding in his chest like a war drum. The inked lines seemed to move, the lion's gaping maw swallowing the celestial body whole, its form a twisting mass of hunger and sovereignty. He knew it was just an image. He knew the sutra was merely a tool, a construct of knowledge.
And yet.
The words left his mouth before he could stop them, a quiet whisper, heavy with something deeper than hatred.
"I hate lions."