Juraf watched from a shaded perch, his spear resting casually against his broad shoulder as the midday suns filtered through the trees above. The training field was alive with movement—younger soldiers practicing drills in the distance, the rhythmic clash of wood against wood providing a steady undercurrent to the scene. The earthy aroma of the dirt beneath their feet mingled with the faint metallic tang of sweat in the warm air. This was his domain, and he took pride in molding the next generation into warriors who could endure the hardships to come.

“Alright, now left, then right. After that, slash, spin, and sweep. But against an enemy with a spear?” Juraf's grin widened as he demonstrated, his movements fluid and precise, each strike and pivot a masterclass in control. The dummy before him bore the brunt of his demonstration, its battered wooden frame groaning under the assault. “Twist your hips and finish off by severing them diagonally while they’re stunned from the last blow. Got it?”

His protégé, young Garran, nodded eagerly. The boy’s brown hair clung to his forehead with sweat as he gripped his training spear tightly. The twelve-year-old mimicked Juraf’s movements, his determination palpable. He struck left, then right, before repositioning for a wide slash. The dummy trembled under the force of the blow, but as he transitioned into the sweep, he lost his footing. With an audible yelp, Garran crashed face-first into the dirt, sending up a small cloud of dust.

Groaning, the boy pushed himself onto his hands and knees, brushing dirt from his face as his ears burned with embarrassment. Juraf strode over, his tall frame casting a shadow over the boy.

“No pain, no gain, or something like that, kiddo,” Juraf said, a grin tugging at his lips. He crouched and gave Garran a hearty pat on the back, dislodging more dirt from his hair. “If you want to attain spear intent, this is the least you can do. I'm counting on you to protect my little girl one day, after all.”

The boy looked up at him with wide, determined eyes. “You’ll be around forever, Master Juraf! You’ll attain immortality, I know it. Sol will be fine, but you can definitely count on me!” Garran pounded his small fist against his chest in a bold display of confidence. “When I’m chieftain, I’ll make her birthday a village holiday!”

Juraf burst into laughter, the sound booming across the field like a thunderclap. Without warning, he clapped the boy on the back with such force that Garran toppled forward, his face once again meeting the dirt.

“That’s the spirit, little sapling,” Juraf said, his grin wide and unapologetic. “You’ll grow up just fine.” Then, as if imparting sacred knowledge, his tone shifted to one of solemn authority. “Remember this: A man should…”

“A man should have an abyss in his eyes so no one can see through his thoughts,” Garran recited with fervor, as if the words were etched into his soul. “Fire in his veins for a passion ready to take on the world. A monster in his heart for the instinct to fight for those he loves and destroy those he hates. To keep his edge and instinct. And an oasis in his soul for peace and clarity that can temper one’s fire and instinct.”

The boy’s voice carried the weight of someone much older, each word measured and deliberate. Juraf’s grin softened into something closer to pride as he nodded.

“Good,” Juraf said, his voice steady, carrying a trace of warmth. He stood, towering over the boy, and gestured toward the dummy. “Now I expect you to have that particular combo down by the end of the week. I mean it. Otherwise, you’ll be running the obstacle course of death seven times over. No excuses.”

“Sir, yes, sir! General Juraf, sir!” Garran sprang to his feet, his hand snapping to his forehead in a crooked but enthusiastic salute.

Juraf smirked, giving the boy one last clap on the shoulder. “That’s more like it,” he said before turning and walking toward the edge of the training field.

The field opened into a wide expanse that overlooked the village below. The towering spiral trees, their bark shimmering faintly in the golden light of the most high seven stars, framed the path as Juraf’s boots crunched against the dirt. His sharp eyes caught a familiar figure leaning casually against one of the trees, bathed in dappled sunlight. Naturally, it could only be Remulus.

The Lupus prince pushed off from the tree, falling into step beside Juraf. The two moved in comfortable silence for a moment, their strides in sync as they wandered the well-worn path leading toward the village. The sounds of life buzzed faintly in the distance—the laughter of children playing, the rhythmic clink of a blacksmith’s hammer, the rustling of the breeze through the trees above.

“I hope my own son gets the same treatment from you, General,” Remulus said, his voice carrying an undertone of amusement. His golden eyes flicked to Juraf, who didn’t break his stride.

“Little Peter? Naturally,” Juraf replied without missing a beat, his tone deadpan. “Even though his amazing bloodline is tainted with your genes.”

Remulus let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as the two continued down the path, the world around them alive with quiet vitality.

The suns dipped below the horizon, casting long, fading shadows across the village as the day yielded to the encroaching night. The streets glowed faintly under the bioluminescent aspar drifting lazily through the cool air, their soft light mingling with the dim golden hue of lanterns being lit one by one. The sounds of the bustling village began to quiet as the people retreated to their homes, their silhouettes framed briefly in doorways before vanishing behind wooden walls. Above, the moons rose in unison, their silvery light painting the world in a tranquil glow.

Juraf and Remulus walked side by side, their boots crunching against the dirt paths as they moved through the village. The fading sunlight played across Juraf’s sharp features, accentuating the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Remulus glanced at him, his golden eyes narrowed slightly as he measured his words.

“You do realize I’m the prince of this village, right?” Remulus said, his voice laced with mock indignation. “Between the two of us, just who has the better bloodline?”

Juraf snorted, his smirk widening as he tilted his head lazily toward his companion. “When you can last more than five minutes in a fight with me, then you can talk about your bloodline being any good. Until then, Remmy, you’re just a young pup yapping at a great wolf.” He paused, his grin turning sharp. “And if you’re as fast in the bedroom as you are in a fight, I truly feel sorry for my little sister.”

Remulus froze mid-step, his emerald eyes wide with a mix of shock and indignation. Then, the tension broke as laughter erupted from his chest, rich and unrestrained. “Oh, dude, fuck you! Hehaha!” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

The two men continued walking as the stars began to twinkle above, the warmth of their banter softening the cool embrace of the night. The village around them grew quieter, the hum of distant conversations replaced by the rhythmic chirping of nocturnal insects.

After a moment of companionable silence, Remulus glanced at Juraf, his tone shifting to something more tentative. “Soooo… about kids. How’s that going with Terra and all? And well, you know…”

Juraf’s expression softened at the mention of his daughter, though a shadow of weariness flickered in his dark eyes. “Sol is beautiful and precious,” he said simply, his voice carrying a rare gentleness. “The most divine existence to ever grace this world with her presence.”

Remulus raised an eyebrow, waiting. “And?” he pressed, his curiosity unabated.

Juraf sighed heavily, the sound weighted with the kind of exhaustion that went deeper than the physical. He didn’t respond, his silence speaking volumes as they made their way to a familiar bar nestled at the edge of the village. The establishment was modest but inviting, its warm glow spilling out through the open doorway, accompanied by the faint murmur of conversation and the clinking of mugs.

Inside, the woman behind the counter greeted them with a perpetual grin, her eyes closed as though she were laughing at some unspoken joke. Without a word, she placed two mugs of frothy beer on the counter, her movements quick and practiced. “On the house, for our esteemed General Juraf and Prince Remulus,” she said cheerfully, her voice carrying the slightest hint of mischief.

“Thanks, Serel,” Remulus said, his lips quirking into a polite smile as he accepted his mug.

Juraf merely grunted his thanks, his focus already on the amber liquid in his hand. They left the bar shortly after, their footsteps carrying them away from the bustling heart of the village and into the quiet rural fields beyond. The sounds of insects grew louder here, filling the cool air with a steady rhythm that was both grounding and surreal. The aspar drifted between them, their bioluminescent bodies glowing like tiny stars against the backdrop of towering fields swaying in the gentle breeze.

It was here, under the watchful gaze of the moons and surrounded by the vastness of the rural expanse, that Juraf finally spoke. “I have not yet married Terra,” he began, his voice low and deliberate. “Even though I know she wishes to get married.”

Remulus slowed his pace, turning to look at his companion. “And Caela?”

Juraf’s dark eyes flickered with something unreadable as he raised the mug to his lips, taking a long sip before answering. “Caela is pregnant with my child as well. The baby will be born soon, only two months and a few days apart from my Sol.” He paused, the weight of his words settling between them. “I have not married her because I do not know how to explain to either her or Terra.”

Remulus stopped in his tracks, his emerald eyes wide with disbelief. “And she’s still going on missions?”

“And she’s still going on missions,” Juraf confirmed, the faintest edge of frustration coloring his tone.

Remulus ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Just who is it that you love between the two of them?”

Juraf’s lips twisted into a hollow laugh as he looked skyward, his sharp features illuminated by the silvery light of the moons. “That’s just the thing, isn’t it?” he said, his voice tinged with self-mockery. “There isn’t anyone quite as greedy as I am. I, Juraf, a spear that could swallow the world.” He lifted his mug, saluting the heavens with a bitter grin before taking another drink.

“You say you are greedy,” Remulus said carefully, his brow furrowing in thought, “but one man marrying multiple women is not something especially uncommon in our village. Is that not a solution to your predicament?”

Juraf lowered his mug, his expression darkening as he turned to face his companion. “I wish it were that simple, Remmy. But neither of them are that type of woman.” His voice softened, a rare vulnerability slipping through the cracks of his usual bravado. “Pride and power, that is who they are. They love strongly and are possessive over that love. And it is only natural for them to be so. They are extraordinary, among the greatest people I have ever met in my life. I will not force them into the type of relationship they do not wish to be in.”

The two men stood in silence, the weight of Juraf’s words lingering in the air. Around them, the world seemed to hold its breath, the soft glow of the aspar and the gentle rustling of the fields the only sounds breaking the stillness. Above, the moons continued their slow ascent, their light casting long shadows across the earth as the night deepened.

Remulus nodded slowly, his green eyes reflecting the quiet resolve etched into Juraf’s features. Without another word, they resumed walking, their figures disappearing into the vast expanse of the rural fields, where the shadows of the world swallowed them whole.

The light of the moons spilled across the rolling fields, painting the grass in silvery hues and casting long, shifting shadows as the wind whispered through the aspar, their bioluminescent tendrils glowing faintly. The hum of nocturnal insects provided a steady rhythm to the night, an ever-present reminder of the life that thrived even in these quiet, reflective moments. Juraf and Remulus walked side by side and though their strides were casual, the weight of their conversation carried a gravity that pressed against the stillness of the world around them.

“So instead,” Remulus began, his green eyes sharp despite the calmness of his tone, “you will hide it and prevent consummating your relationship with Terra and even Caela as well? I heard you never even asked Terra out. That you’ve never called her your girlfriend or anything of that nature. You haven’t done the same with Caela either, right?”

Juraf smirked, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. Instead, they held the weight of a man who’d spent too much time in the company of his own demons. “You’d be right,” he admitted. “I haven’t. Because at the end of the day, I’m scum. A boy raised in the slums will act like someone from the slums.” His voice carried a note of self-deprecation, sharp and cutting.

Remulus’s brows furrowed, his green eyes narrowing as he considered his friend. “It’s not as if that’s the reason. Kiyanna turned out just fine, and that’s because of you. You’re a general now, Juraf. You’re not some street rat anymore.”

Juraf waved off the words with a casual flick of his hand, his smirk twisting into something more bitter. “You don’t need to console me, Remmy. I’m not about to break down over this shit. It’s just reality.”

He paused, his gaze drifting to the distant horizon, where the soft glow of the village lamps mingled with the faint light of the stars. “About my sister, though… I wonder.”

The change in tone drew Remulus’s attention, and he listened intently as Juraf continued.

“In my experience, love works like a firelight or a torch,” Juraf began, his voice quieter now, tinged with something raw and unguarded. “It’s passed from one to another. From father to son, mother to daughter, mentor to mentee. One flame lights another, and it spreads, growing, living.” He glanced at Remulus, his dark eyes unreadable under the moonlight. “But me? I was never lit.”

Remulus said nothing, sensing that this was one of those moments where silence was the only appropriate response. Juraf’s words came slowly, as if dredged up from the depths of a well he rarely visited.

“I raised my sister, Remmy. And sometimes, I wonder about her too. What kind of flame did I pass to her? Was it warmth… or just the cold flicker of an ember?” He let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “Is she capable of giving and receiving love? Or did I fail her there, too?”

He stopped walking, turning to face Remulus fully. His expression was solemn, his voice steady but heavy with unspoken emotion. “So I ask you this: love her, Remmy. Love her with all your heart. So she can love in turn. So her flame can burn bright. So her child can feel love from her as well.”

Juraf’s gaze dropped, his smirk returning but without its usual bite. “I’m just a piece of waterlogged wood, Remmy. Extinguishing any fire I’m near in a big cloud of smoke and fucking steam. But I’m too selfish to stop loving them even now.” He exhaled, a sound that was more weary than anything else. “You’re not like me. And that’s a good thing.”

Remulus’s green eyes softened, and he nodded solemnly. “I understand,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of his own experiences. “I have that kind of feeling sometimes too. My mother loved me, but for my father, I was nothing but an extra. Existing in the shadow of Remus. An afterthought.”

Juraf’s smirk turned into a genuine smile, his hand coming up to clap Remulus on the shoulder. “Well, Remmy, you are my brother then. And you are our family. Even if I’m scum, my sister isn’t. Maybe you can love one another in the truest sense. Bring something special out from within each other to create a whole greater than the parts. I believe you can do that, brother of mine.”

Remulus’s lips curved into a faint smile, and he nodded again. “Indeed… brother of mine.”

The two of them walked in silence for a moment, the sounds of the night filling the spaces between their words. The faint rustle of the aspar, the chirping of insects, and the distant call of a nocturnal bird created a symphony that felt both intimate and eternal.

After a while, Remulus broke the silence. “So, Juraf,” he began, his tone curious but careful, “just what is it about them that makes even you so afraid to do that to them?”

Juraf’s smirk returned, but this time, it carried a hint of vulnerability. “Well, aside from the fact that I love them, it’s due to their own personalities. Caela is quite simple. She’s hard on the outside but soft on the inside. She’s endured a lot throughout her life, and because of that, she’s built up a shell. But the insides of that shell…” He paused, his gaze drifting upward to the twin moons that seemed to glow with a quiet, steady light. “They’re softer and more fragile than anything. I don’t even want to risk cracking it.”

The moons cast their light over Juraf’s sharp features, accentuating the shadows and lines that marked him as a man who had lived a life filled with battles—both external and internal. He took a sip of his drink, the cool liquid offering a brief respite from the weight of his thoughts.

“And Terra?” he asked softly, his voice laced with both curiosity and concern.

Juraf’s lips twitched, forming a faint, almost melancholic smile. He glanced at his drink, then back at the earth beneath his boots. “Terra is glass,” he said simply, the words spoken with a quiet reverence that made them feel heavier than they were. “She is a spear or a blade.”

Remulus tilted his head, his brows knitting in confusion. “What do you mean by that exactly?” he asked, leaning forward slightly. The pale light of the moons illuminated the sharp angles of his face, giving his green eyes an almost otherworldly gleam.

Juraf swirled the liquid in his mug, taking a long sip before answering. His voice was low and deliberate, carrying the weight of someone who had spent years pondering the words he was about to speak. “You know that rare stuff—metal they forge into blades and spear tips?” he began, his gaze distant, as though he were seeing something beyond the field in front of them. “When it’s whole, it’s incredible. It can save lives, protect what matters. It’s loyal, sharp, and unyielding.”

Remulus nodded, his brow furrowing. “And when it’s not whole?”

Juraf’s smile faltered, replaced by a grimace that pulled at the edges of his mouth. He stared into the distance, his expression caught somewhere between admiration and sorrow. “When it shatters,” he said slowly, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “it’s not useless, as you might think. No… it becomes dangerous. Broken metal is sharp—jagged. You can’t pick it up without getting cut. It slices into everything it touches, even those trying to help.”

The words hung in the air like an unspoken truth, the kind that gnawed at the edges of the soul. Remulus straightened, his fingers drumming lightly against the mug in his hand. He watched Juraf carefully, the meaning behind his metaphor sinking in like a stone dropped into still water.

“Terra’s strong,” Juraf continued, his voice tinged with both admiration and ponderance. “She’s built herself into something unbreakable, or at least that’s what she wants the world to think. But if she ever did break…” He trailed off, shaking his head as if the thought were too unbearable to finish.

“You think it would destroy her?” Remulus ventured cautiously.

Juraf chuckled, though the sound was hollow, devoid of humor. “Yea, Remmy. It would but not only her. It would destroy everything around her. She’d lash out, not because she wanted to, but because she wouldn’t know how not to. That’s what happens with people like her, people like us. When we hurt, we hurt everything.”

Remulus looked down at his own mug, his expression unreadable. The words struck a chord deep within him, resonating with memories he’d buried long ago. “I think I understand,” he said quietly, his tone pensive.

Juraf’s gaze snapped to his friend, the sharpness of his dark eyes softened by an unspoken gratitude. The silence returned, though it was no longer heavy. It felt more like a pause, a shared moment of understanding that needed no words to bridge the gap between them.

The stillness was broken by Remulus after a time, his voice lighter but still tinged with concern. “You’ve got enough on your plate without this weighing on you. Especially with the war brewing the way it is. The Gu are getting bolder by the day.”

Juraf snorted, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “You don’t need to remind me of that. I know better than anyone. Every skirmish, every patrol—it’s a reminder that they’re testing us, pushing their boundaries. They’re not going to stop until we force them to.”

Remulus nodded, his green eyes narrowing as he stared into the horizon. “Then it’s best you keep your head straight. Problems at home become problems of the heart, and those bleed into the battlefield. You know as well as I do—this village can’t afford that right now.”

Juraf tipped his mug back, draining the last of his drink before letting out a long, weary sigh. He set the mug down gently and leaned back, resting his weight on his elbows as he gazed up at the moons. Their pale light traced the sharp lines of his face, giving him an almost statuesque quality. “That’s more true than you could ever know,” he said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Remulus watched him for a moment longer, then looked away, letting the quiet envelop them once more. The sounds of the night seemed louder now—the gentle rustle of the wind through the grass, the distant chirping of crickets, the faint hum of life that never truly ceased. Above them, the stars burned brightly, eternal witnesses to the burdens they carried.

Neither man spoke again as the weight of the moment settled around them. For now, the silence was enough.

___________

A small animal-fat candle flickered weakly on the desk, its dim, golden light casting elongated shadows across the room's worn stone walls. The faint scent of tallow mingled with the stale air, amplifying the oppressive atmosphere. Remus sat hunched over, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the edges of the high-backed wooden chair. His sharp golden eyes, usually so commanding, were dulled by fatigue as they roved over the seemingly endless stack of reports. The faint scrape of paper against calloused fingers echoed softly in the quiet room, broken only by the occasional sigh of frustration that escaped his lips.

The latest raid in Gu territory had provided a fleeting reprieve, tipping the scales just enough to stave off outright defeat. The spoils—precious resources and rare materials—had boosted the village’s immediate prospects, but the victory felt hollow. At best, they had clawed their way back to an uneasy stalemate. The morale of the soldiers was another matter entirely, one that was not so easily replenished.

The Gu were unlike anything the wolvenkind soldiers were used to facing. Insectoid and utterly alien, they were merciless in battle, their tactics brutal and unrelenting. They fought with no regard for their own lives, drenching their bodies in lethal toxins and unleashing noxious clouds of poison that clung to the air like a death shroud. Their savagery was a blade that cut into the hearts of the wolvenkind, who, for all their strength and ferocity, carried a humanity the Gu utterly lacked. Fighting such enemies day after day was draining the soldiers’ spirits, leaving them haunted by the pervasive dread that no amount of training could dispel.

Remus licked his thumb absentmindedly and flipped to the next report. This one was a tedious account of internal politics, penned in the flowing script of one of the village’s elders. His sharp eyes scanned the document, noting the carefully veiled implications woven between the lines. It detailed the recent rise of Juraf—that annoying bastard—to the position of general. Juraf’s ascension had not come without ripples. His charisma, skill, and undeniable strength had won him the loyalty of his soldiers and the grudging respect of many elders.

More importantly, Juraf had thrown his support behind Remus’ younger brother, Remulus. Some elders, ever eager to further their own agendas, were beginning to entertain the notion of backing Remulus in a challenge to Remus’ leadership. Their motives were obvious—they believed Remulus to be malleable, a figurehead through whom they could exert their influence. It was a foolish idea, but troubling nonetheless. Even if Remulus had no ambitions of his own—and Remus was certain he didn’t—the mere suggestion of dissent was a spark waiting to ignite into something far more dangerous.

The thought of internal strife gnawed at him. The village could ill afford to be divided, not with the Gu looming ever closer, testing their defenses with increasing boldness. Still, the idea grated. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly, but the constant comparison to his younger brother, the whispers and insinuations, stirred something restless and raw within him. Their relationship, once so close, had grown strained under the weight of their roles. Remus missed the simplicity of their childhood, when the only battles were the ones fought with wooden swords in sunlit fields.

He sighed heavily and turned another page, his mind circling back to the pressures bearing down on him. Reports of the Gu’s movements were interspersed with notes on the suspicious behavior of certain elders. One name stood out: Hathor. That elder’s sudden shift was unexpected. Hathor had always been a staunch supporter of Remus’ faction, and his loyalty had only seemed to deepen since Juraf had aligned himself with Remulus. Yet now, whispers of intrigue surrounded him. It was a curiosity, one that warranted careful investigation.

Setting the report aside, Remus pushed himself up from the chair. His joints creaked in protest as he stretched, his tall frame unfolding with a series of satisfying pops. Sitting hunched over for hours, cramped by the weight of responsibility, left him feeling more like an old man than the warrior-leader he was supposed to be. He rolled his shoulders and exhaled sharply, as though trying to expel the tension that had settled deep into his bones.

The air in the hall outside his study was cooler, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and the distant aroma of bread baking in the communal ovens. He passed a series of doors, each leading to the rooms where his wives slept. There were only two—a modest number by the standards of the Lupus clan. His footsteps softened instinctively as he approached their quarters, a small gesture of respect for the women who bore his burdens alongside him.

One of them had given him a son—his firstborn, Garran. The thought of the boy brought a rare smile to his lips, softening the sharp angles of his face. Garran was everything he could have hoped for: strong, intelligent, and brimming with the boundless energy of youth. His pride in the boy was a quiet, unshakable thing, a foundation that steadied him in moments of doubt.

He paused outside Garran’s room, pushing the door open just enough to peer inside. The faint light from the hallway spilled in, illuminating the small figure sprawled across the bed. Garran slept deeply, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Even in sleep, his resemblance to Remus was striking. The boy had inherited the defining features of the Lupus clan—the sharp jawline, the proud tilt of his nose, and hair so dark it seemed to drink in the light.

For a moment, Remus simply stood there, watching his son with a quiet intensity. The sight of him brought a pang of both pride and unease. The boy was his mirror in so many ways, and that resemblance carried a weight of expectation that Garran couldn’t yet understand. Remus’ lips curved into a faint smile as he silently closed the door. Whatever battles lay ahead, Garran would face them in time. For now, the boy deserved his rest.

As Remus turned and walked back into the dimly lit hall, the weight of leadership settled back onto his shoulders. The shadows followed him, long and unyielding, as he made his way through the quiet halls. The village slept, but the world beyond its walls did not, and neither could he. Not yet.

The halls Remus passed through were a shrine to the legacy of his bloodline. Lining the stone walls were the carefully preserved achievements of his ancestors, each previous chieftain immortalized in polished wood carvings, intricate tapestries, and even a few rare glinting metal plaques. These relics told stories of triumph and sacrifice, of battles won and lives spent in service to the village. Between them hung banners dyed in deep blues and greens, the colors of the Lupus clan, embroidered with symbols of the moons and the great Fenrir of legend. The soft glow of ward-infused sconces illuminated this display of history, casting shadows that seemed to breathe and shift as he moved.

The grandeur of the hall spoke to the pride and strength of the Lupus clan, yet to Remus, it carried a weight he could not fully set down. Each relic was a reminder of the expectations resting on his shoulders, the lives looking to him for guidance, and the history he was tasked with upholding. His jaw tightened as he exited the grounds, nodding to the guards stationed at the gates of his residence. They bowed in respect, but he waved them off with a simple gesture, signaling peace and discretion. Tonight, he would walk alone.

The air outside was cool and crisp, carrying the earthy scent of the forest that surrounded the village. The pale light of the moons spilled over the cobbled streets, painting the village in shades of silver and shadow. Remus moved with a quiet purpose, each step muffled by a subtle expenditure of numen, making his journey silent as the night itself. The village slept, its rhythm slowed to the gentle hum of insects and the occasional bark of a distant guard dog.

He was heading to the home of Elder Hathor, a man who had always stood firm in support of his leadership but whose recent actions had become a source of suspicion. Remus had no intention of issuing a formal summons or confrontation—not yet. He preferred a subtler approach, one that often yielded truths hidden behind false smiles. Spying, or perhaps catching Hathor off guard, would be far more telling. A man’s reactions when unguarded often revealed far more than words spoken in the controlled arena of counsel chambers.

The elder’s home was modest compared to the grandeur of Remus’ own, but it was far from simple. Stone walls reinforced with rune work spoke of wealth and influence, though the faint glow of some wards flickered inconsistently. Sloppy, Remus thought as he observed the protections. It was almost insulting how easy it was for someone of his caliber to slip past the sentries and circumvent the wards. His movements were fluid, his large frame moving with a grace that belied his size. He stuck to the shadows, slipping through the halls like a specter.

At times, he had to employ creative maneuvers to avoid detection, hiding in storage chests or clinging to the ceiling like some predatory beast as guards passed beneath him, oblivious to his presence. The thrill of evasion sparked a faint smirk on his lips. For all his frustration with Hathor, moments like these reminded him of the sharp instincts that had carried him through countless battles.

As he neared Hathor’s chambers, the stillness of the home seemed to thrum with unease. Remus pressed himself against the wall, his sharp ears catching the sound of hushed voices within. He edged closer, his heart quickening. The door to the elder’s chambers was slightly ajar, revealing a flickering candlelight that danced erratically against the stone walls.

Through the crack, Remus saw them—Hathor and another man, an ally whose face he could not yet place. The two moved with nervous energy, their conversation inaudible but tense. Then, to Remus’ surprise, they slipped out of the window, their figures vanishing into the night.

Suspicious indeed, Remus thought, his golden eyes narrowing as he followed.

He moved after them with the skill of a predator, his steps silent and measured. They were wary, frequently glancing over their shoulders and pausing to scan the area. More than once, their heightened vigilance nearly exposed him, forcing him to retreat into the shadows or duck behind cover. Despite their caution, Remus remained unseen, his second-layer numen cloaking him like a second skin.

Their path wound through the village, past sleeping homes and quiet fields, until they reached the outer wall. There, Hathor exchanged a series of signals with the guards. The men nodded and stepped aside, allowing the elder and his ally to slip beyond the safety of the village boundaries.

Remus' brows furrowed. This was no ordinary meeting. His suspicions deepened as he continued to follow them, now outside the walls and into the wild forest.

The forest was alive with its own symphony of sounds—the rustling of leaves in the breeze, the distant calls of nocturnal creatures, and the faint chirping of aspar, the bioluminescent insects that flitted like embers through the trees. The moons bathed the woods in their ethereal glow, but even their light seemed muted here, swallowed by the dense canopy above.

At one point, their journey nearly ended in disaster. A vampyr, its pale, elongated form barely visible in the gloom, prowled near their path. Its hungry eyes gleamed like sickly stars, and for a moment, Remus thought it might sense his presence. He held his breath, his hand hovering over the hilt of his blade, but the creature turned away, disappearing into the shadows.

Finally, the two men reached their destination, a small clearing shrouded in shadow. Hathor and his ally paused, their body language shifting from tense to deferential. Remus crouched low, his body concealed among the thick foliage as he peered into the clearing.

And then he saw it.

A Gu emerged from the darkness, and even in the dim light, its presence was commanding. It was tall—even taller than most of its kind—standing nearly nine feet, with a sinewy frame that radiated a grotesque power. Its purple skin, veined with black like rivers of corruption, seemed to pulse faintly under the shadows of the trees. Its pupil-less black eyes glinted with an unsettling intelligence, and its mandibles clicked rhythmically, a sound that sent a chill down Remus’ spine.

Unlike the crude attire of most Gu warriors, this one was draped in garments that bordered on opulence. Dark, iridescent fabric adorned its tall frame, its surface embroidered with jagged patterns that seemed to shimmer faintly in the moonlight. Its presence exuded authority, marking it as a figure of great importance among its kind.

Remus’ heart pounded as he watched Hathor approach the creature. The elder’s posture was deferential, almost submissive, as he began to speak. Though the words were too quiet to make out, the implications were clear. Hathor was not simply meeting with the enemy; he was conspiring with them.

The Gu leaned forward slightly, its mandibles clicking in what might have been amusement or disdain. Remus felt a surge of rage rise within him, his hand tightening around the hilt of his weapon. The urge to act—to strike them both down and end this betrayal—was nearly overwhelming. But he forced himself to remain still.

Information was power, and in this moment, knowledge was more valuable than bloodshed. He needed to know more, to uncover the full extent of this treachery before making his move. Narrowing his eyes, Remus pressed himself lower into the shadows, his golden gaze locked on the unfolding scene as the clearing hummed with quiet menace.

"Elder Gu En, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance this evening," Hathor said, his voice steady as he offered a slight bow.

To Remus’ surprise, the Gu returned the gesture with an eerie grace, its purple-hued mandibles parting slightly in acknowledgment. The sight was strange, even unsettling. The Gu were not known for their manners, but this one—Elder Gu En—clearly operated on a level far removed from the savage hordes his kind typically embodied.

"Hathor," Gu En began, its voice smoother and more articulate than Remus had anticipated. The mandibles, which usually chittered and clicked incessantly, moved only minimally, their sound a faint undercurrent rather than a distraction. "I trust you have something interesting planned to summon me in such a manner. I would hope you value my time enough not to waste it."

Hathor straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "Indeed, Elder Gu En. I come with a proposition, one that could offer mutual benefit. I understand that the Gu pursue the dao of poison and corruption above all else. It is the core of your people’s strength and adaptability and the reason for your lust as well as strength in."

The elder's voice was careful, walking the line between acknowledgment and critique, but the Gu remained unperturbed. Its black, pupil-less eyes gleamed faintly under the moonlight, its expression—or what passed for one—cold and calculating.

Gu En tilted its head, its mandibles twitching in faint acknowledgment. The Gu’s lustful nature, both literal and metaphorical, was no secret. It was an intrinsic part of their being, an unyielding hunger that drove their actions and amplified their connection to their dao. For them, lust was not just carnal but also symbolic—a relentless craving to consume, corrupt, and dominate.

"This war has been harsh on wolvenkind," Hathor continued, "but I know it has not spared the Gu either. Your resources are not infinite, nor are your numbers. I offer a trade that will grant both our peoples room to breathe, to regroup. A temporary reprieve, if you will."

Gu En tilted its head slightly, the faintest hum of curiosity rising from its throat. "A trade, you say? Go on."

Hathor’s confidence grew at the Gu’s apparent interest. "In your territory, there exists a grove of sundew herbs. These plants, while of little use to your people’s dao of poison, hold significant medicinal value for ours. I propose that you replant the majority of the grove elsewhere but leave a portion behind for us to harvest. In return, we offer you something... unique. A woman of our kind. Her name is Caela."

Remus stiffened, a surge of anger rushing through him as Hathor spoke the name.

"She is prideful, strong-willed, and undeniably beautiful," Hathor continued, his voice dripping with calculated persuasion. "Her eyes are can see through numen and wards, and her strength is such that she would make an exceptional tool in the creation of your most potent poisons. A perfect specimen for your purposes, I dare say. Her unique ability and will makes her as such."

Gu En’s mandibles clicked faintly, its alien gaze unwavering. "Do you have an image of this woman?"

Hathor reached into his robes and produced a small portrait, the edges worn as though it had been handled often. The elder extended it with an air of reverence, and the Gu took it, holding it up to the light of the moons.

After a long moment, Gu En gave a faint chitter that might have been approval. "Not bad. She will suffice. However, I am curious—if she is so talented, so valuable—why would you offer her up so willingly?"

Hathor’s expression darkened, a sneer twisting his features. "Because she is a lustful beast who lays with scum and trash. Her pride blinds her to reason, and her choices have made her unworthy of our protection. She is nothing more than a burden to our people." His words were laced with venom, each one spat as though they left a foul taste in his mouth.

The Gu was unmoved, its focus returning to the details of the trade. Whatever contempt Hathor harbored, it held no interest to the creature. The following hours passed in tense negotiation, both parties hammering out the specifics of their arrangement. Gu En asked precise questions, and Hathor answered with a practiced ease that spoke of his resolve. Remus, hidden in the shadows, listened intently, his mind racing.

At times, he wondered if this was a trap—if they had somehow sensed his presence and were staging this exchange to draw him out. Yet the genuine focus and meticulous detail in their discussion dispelled his doubts. The Gu were not known for subtlety, and this level of deception seemed beyond them. No, they were earnest in their treachery, and the implications of their pact sent a chill down Remus’ spine.

When the negotiations concluded, Hathor bowed once more, his movements precise and deliberate. Gu En responded with a low chitter before turning and stalking into the forest, its grotesque form disappearing into the shadows like a nightmare fading into the depths of sleep.

Remus remained motionless as Hathor and his ally began their journey back to the village, their steps hurried and their voices low. Only when they were well out of sight did he allow himself to exhale.

His heart pounded as he replayed the events in his mind. The trade Hathor proposed was monstrous, a betrayal of the highest order, yet its logic was undeniable. The war was bleeding the village dry, and the temporary reprieve offered by this arrangement could provide the time they so desperately needed.

But at what cost?

Remus closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. He had always known that leadership required sacrifice. Yet this—this was a choice that would stain his hands and his soul. Could he allow such an atrocity for the greater good? Could he justify it to himself, to his people? His thoughts churned, a storm of conflict and doubt.

In the end, the answer came not from his heart but from the cold, calculating part of his mind that knew the weight of command.

Sacrifice was a tool. Progress demanded it. The majority was what mattered most. And so, as the night deepened and the shadows grew, Remus remained hidden, his decision made but his spirit heavy. The world was rarely kind to those who bore the mantle of leadership, and tonight, it was unkind indeed.

___________

Terra walked through the village with a soft smile gracing her lips, her steps light and unhurried. The cobbled paths stretched before her, lined with simple wooden houses adorned with vibrant fabrics and small, glowing lanterns swaying in the gentle breeze. The air was alive with the hum of daily life—merchants haggling over prices, the laughter of children darting between stalls, and the mingling aromas of roasted meats and freshly harvested fruits. It was a symphony of ordinary beauty, and she relished every note of it.

It had been years since she had escaped the hellish home of her birth, a place she once thought she would never leave. Those years were a distant memory now, blurred and softened by the passage of time and the warmth of the life she had built since. Though her dreams of becoming a priestess had slipped through her fingers, she had carved out a fulfilling path elsewhere. She had mastered sewing, her hands weaving life into fabrics with skill and care. It wasn’t the exalted role she had once envisioned, but it was enough—it gave her a purpose, and that was a treasure in itself.

Still, there was always a lingering whisper of yearning, a desire for something more. She couldn’t deny the pang of envy that stirred when she watched Caela leave the village on missions, her unique senses making her indispensable. Terra had grown to admire Caela in so many ways, yet the ache of jealousy still reared its head.

But it was okay. It really was. She had Juraf. She had Kiyanna. She had Sol. She had a family. Her heart swelled at the thought of her beautiful, golden-haired daughter, the little miracle who had transformed her life into something she had scarcely dared to dream of. No matter her past, no matter who else existed or what they had, Terra was happy now. Truly happy.

Her gaze drifted skyward to the cluster of seven stars shining brightly in the deep azure of the evening sky. A wistful sigh escaped her lips as she wondered, not for the first time, when Juraf might finally propose.

“Terra!” A loud, exuberant voice broke her reverie.

She turned toward the source of the call, her smile brightening as she recognized the black-haired, dark-eyed woman striding toward her with the boundless energy of a storm. Kiyanna, with her tanned skin and confident stride, was so much like her brother that it was impossible not to see Juraf in her movements.

“Hey, Kiyanna,” Terra greeted warmly. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know,” Kiyanna said, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Just Remulus pissing me off as usual. He’s been sleeping off a hangover from drinking with my idiot brother two days ago. Like we don’t have a baby son to raise or anything!” Her voice was laced with mock indignation, her arms flailing for emphasis.

Terra pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh as a grim smile tugged at Kiyanna’s lips.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Terra,” Kiyanna said quickly, her brow furrowing in a look of sincere apology. “My brother’s being stupid again. The fact that he still hasn’t proposed to you after all this time is insane. You even have my adorable niece together! Please, just give me some time.” She cracked her knuckles with an exaggerated seriousness. “I’ll beat some proper sense into him where the world failed.”

Terra’s laugh bubbled out, light and melodic, as she linked arms with Kiyanna. “I’ll be looking forward to it. Walk with me? Sol should see her auntie.”

“Of course,” Kiyanna said, her face lighting up with a mischievous grin. “I will absolutely be her favorite. Just wait and see! Whenever you and Juraf get into arguments, it’ll be Auntie Kiyanna she runs to. Mark my words.”

The two women strolled through the bustling streets, their laughter mingling with the lively sounds of the village. The wooden stalls lining the market square were draped in colorful cloths, showcasing an array of wares—freshly woven baskets, gleaming trinkets, and jars filled with vibrant spices. The clatter of wooden wheels on cobblestones and the rustle of fabric in the breeze blended with the occasional call of a merchant advertising their goods.

When they reached Terra’s home, she couldn’t help but smile at the sight. The modest but sturdy wooden house was nestled under the protective canopy of a sprawling elder tree, its branches dotted with tiny bioluminescent aspar drifting lazily through the air. The house radiated warmth, just like the life inside it.

Stepping inside, Terra’s heart softened at the sight of Sol’s crib. The finely carved wooden frame was adorned with decorations Juraf had painstakingly selected, sparing no expense. The soft blankets within were stitched with care, their intricate patterns a testament to Terra’s craft. Juraf’s presence in their lives was evident in every detail, from the sturdy structure of the crib to the overabundance of toys scattered across the room. He was a serious man in many ways, but when it came to Sol, he was nothing short of a doting fool.

“There’s my adorable little niece!” Kiyanna exclaimed, darting toward the crib with uncontainable excitement.

She scooped Sol into her arms, the baby’s dark eyes sparkling with delight as a cascade of golden hair framed her cherubic face. The little wolf ears atop her head twitched in response to Kiyanna’s playful cooing. Sol’s laughter filled the room, a sound so pure and joyful that it seemed to banish any lingering shadows from Terra’s heart.

Kiyanna nuzzled her cheek against Sol’s, her movements exaggerated and affectionate. “You’re going to love your Auntie Kiyanna the most, aren’t you?” she said, grinning as the baby giggled uncontrollably. “When you’re older, you’re going to come running to me, and I’ll spoil you rotten. Just you wait.”

Terra leaned against the doorway, watching the scene with a contented smile. Her heart felt full, almost to bursting, as she took in the warmth and light of her little family.

“Ahh, after Peter, I should try for a girl as well. But then again, I have Sol. I can’t wait for them all to meet and grow up together, like we did,” Kiyanna said with a laugh, her dark eyes shining with a mix of anticipation and nostalgia.

“Well, hopefully not like we did,” Terra replied softly, gently taking Sol from Kiyanna’s arms and placing her back into the beautifully adorned crib.

Kiyanna paused, her expression shifting as the weight of Terra’s words settled over them. She nodded slowly, her gaze lingering on the child as her lips pressed into a determined line. “Fair enough. Hopefully, their lives will be better than ours.” Her voice grew firm, conviction hardening her tone. “No—they will be better than ours. Let’s make sure of that. As their parents.”

Terra glanced at her hopefully one day sister-in-law, a warmth blooming in her chest. There was something comforting in Kiyanna’s resolute words, a shared promise that their children would grow up unburdened by the shadows of their past.

Before Terra could respond, the door swung open with a sudden burst of energy. A familiar silhouette filled the frame, tall and broad, exuding an easy confidence that always made her heart race. A man stepped inside, the light catching on the bronzed hue of his skin and the subtle sheen of sweat on his collarbone. His simple black shirt, laced loosely at the collar, exposed the muscular cleft of his chest. His black hair, tied in a loose ponytail his wolf ears long and sleek, framed sharp, striking features that Terra never tired of looking at. The spear slung over his back seemed an extension of him, a testament to his prowess and authority.

And then there was his smile—lopsided, cocky, and entirely too disarming. It was the love of her life.

Juraf.

“Huh, I wasn’t expecting you, Kiyanna,” he said, his dark eyes quirked in curiosity as he glanced between the two women.

“Hey, you useless bas–” Kiyanna began, her voice rising with irritation, but Terra shot her a quick look. The unspoken plea in Terra’s eyes stopped her mid-sentence, though not without a dramatic roll of Kiyanna’s own.

Kiyanna exhaled sharply, exasperation flickering across her face. Terra winced inwardly, knowing exactly what that look meant. She knew she was too soft on Juraf. Always too forgiving, always willing to overlook things she probably shouldn’t. She understood it logically, but logic and the heart rarely aligned. Her love for him ran too deep, overpowering every rational thought. It wasn’t weakness—it was simply truth.

She caught the subtle shift in Juraf’s expression as his eyes moved between them, something fleeting and unreadable before it disappeared behind his usual playful demeanor.

“Calling the general of the village a useless bastard is grounds for arrest, you know,” Juraf said lightly, his grin widening as he crossed the room to wrap an arm around Terra’s waist. His touch sent a familiar warmth coursing through her, and she leaned back into his chest instinctively, her body melting at the contact.

Kiyanna’s dark eyes narrowed, worry and annoyance mingling in her gaze as she watched them. “I’ll let it go for now, but Juraf, we seriously need to talk, okay?” she said, waving a hand as if to dismiss him. Her shoulder-length obsidian hair swayed with the movement, catching the faint light of the room.

Juraf tilted his head, his grin turning mischievous. “I can’t even get a hug, huh?” He stepped away from Terra, his arms opening theatrically toward his sister.

“Maybe stop worrying about other women and start worrying about the mother of your child,” Kiyanna shot back sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a whip. Without waiting for his response, she turned on her heel and strode toward the door, slamming it behind her with a force that left the room vibrating faintly.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Juraf sighed, his shoulders sagging as he turned back to Terra. His gaze softened, and for a moment, the weight he carried seemed to press down visibly on him. Terra panicked slightly under his scrutiny, feeling the urge to smooth things over. “I didn’t tell her to be that mean or anything,” she said quickly, her laugh tinged with nervousness.

His dark eyes fixed on her, their depth and intensity making her breath catch. “Terra,” he said, his voice low and steady, “you of all people never have to apologize to me. When have I ever begrudged you for anything?”

Her chest tightened at the sincerity in his tone. He stepped past her to the crib, his movements slow and deliberate as he reached for their daughter. Despite the rough calluses on his hands—hands that had taken lives and carried the weight of war—they cradled Sol with a gentleness that seemed almost reverent.

“As a man, I only have apologies to give you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion which was unusual for him. He leaned down, pressing his forehead gently against Sol’s. “And as a father, I only have apologies to give our daughter.”

Terra’s heart ached at his words, at the vulnerability he rarely allowed anyone to see. She moved closer, looping her arms around both of them as she pressed her forehead to his, nuzzling against him in a silent reassurance.

“There’s nothing you could ever do, Juraf. Just where would I be without you?” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “I’m the one who should be saying those words.”

Juraf didn’t respond immediately, his gaze locked on Sol’s tiny, peaceful face. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, a quiet confession that sent a shiver through her.

“If only you knew.”

____________

Caela’s hand rested protectively over the subtle curve of her belly, her fingers tracing idle patterns against the fabric of her tunic. She was nearly due, though it was hard to tell just by looking at her. Her bump was modest, almost unnoticeable beneath the loose, flowing garments she had taken to wearing. For a time, the lack of prominence had worried her, but after thorough tests conducted by the other priestesses, she knew everything was fine. Her child was fine.

The realization brought some measure of peace, though it did little to quell the other storm raging inside her. It was better this way, she told herself. If no one noticed, no one would think to stop her. She could continue her missions, heading into the wilds with her keen senses, aiding their forces in the grueling war against the Gu. The ramping tides of bloodshed had forced her hand—every pair of capable eyes was needed, especially hers. If anyone discovered her condition, they might forbid her from leaving the village entirely. And she couldn’t allow that.

The only person who knew the truth was the father of her child—the first and only man she had ever given herself to. Juraf. That hopeless scum of a man.

Caela’s lips twitched into a faint, bitter smile at the thought of him. A few days prior, she had ventured into the village market, making her usual rounds. She didn’t particularly enjoy going out—it was too loud, too crowded—but she had read that such outings were good for an unborn child, exposing them to the vibrancy of life. And so, despite her personal reservations, she made it a habit.

It was during that visit that she sensed a familiar presence. Kiyanna. Caela had been intending to say hello. After all, Kiyanna would be her child’s aunt soon enough, whether the younger woman knew it or not. But as she approached, her steps slowed, and her ears caught fragments of a conversation between Kiyanna and the woman beside her.

They were talking about Juraf.

At first, she thought nothing of it. Juraf was well known in the village—he was the general, after all. Gossip about him was as common as the wind. But then, she heard something that stopped her in her tracks.

His daughter.

Caela froze, the words hitting her like a physical blow. A child? With that woman? She felt the blood drain from her face, her legs threatening to give out beneath her. Her breath came shallow and quick as her mind raced to process what she had heard.

Juraf had a child.

It wasn’t as if she had never heard rumors of him gallivanting with other women before. He was Juraf, larger than life, and his charm was as maddening as it was undeniable. She had always dismissed those whispers as idle gossip, the embellishments of envious tongues. But this was different. This wasn’t just a dalliance or a fleeting scandal. This was a daughter—a tangible, irrefutable connection to someone else.

Their relationship, if one could even call it that, had never been defined. They weren’t lovers, not officially. They had no labels, no promises, no commitments. They had shared stolen moments, whispers in the dark, and one fateful night that had bound them together forever. She had always believed, foolishly perhaps, that he would eventually come to her. That his wandering heart would settle, and it would settle with her.

But now, she wasn’t so sure.

She knew Juraf better than most, better than he probably knew himself. He was a man who blustered and postured, a man who wore his bravado like armor. But beneath that rough exterior, he felt more deeply than anyone she had ever known. His emotions ran like rivers—wild, fierce, and boundless. It was that depth that had drawn her to him, that had made her believe in him, even when logic and pride warned her against it.

And yet, that same pride was her undoing now.

She had thrown herself into mission after mission, knowing full well the risks. Juraf had tried to stop her, of course. He had argued, pleaded, even demanded that she rest and prioritize her safety. But in the end, what could he do? Force her? He wasn’t that kind of man. And she had taken advantage of that, her pride refusing to let her appear weak or dependent. If he wouldn’t commit to her, if he wouldn’t claim her and their child as his, then she would show him that she didn’t need him.

It was a lie, of course. She knew it. Every time she stepped beyond the village’s protective walls, every time she faced the dangers of the wilds, she knew she was endangering herself and the life growing inside her. But she couldn’t stop. To stop would be to admit defeat, to concede the vulnerability she was too stubborn to face.

She exhaled a long, shuddering breath, her hand tightening over her belly. “What a fool I am,” she whispered to herself, her voice trembling with equal parts bitterness and sorrow. But even as the words left her lips, she knew they weren’t entirely true. Because for all her pride and all her anger, she still loved him. Juraf, the hopeless scum of a man.

And that was the cruelest truth of all.

It hurt. For someone like her, it hurt in a way that felt all-consuming, gnawing at her sense of self. It wasn’t the sharp sting of a fresh wound but the dull, persistent ache of betrayal—one she couldn’t even entirely justify. She knew it wasn’t as though she and Juraf had exchanged vows, declared love, or made promises. But it had still hurt. Truly and deeply, it had hurt to hear that he had a whole other child.

Another woman.

A woman his sister apparently expected him to marry. That implication had twisted in her chest like a serrated blade. She felt a cruel, petty satisfaction at the fact they had yet to wed, that Juraf had seemingly avoided broaching the topic altogether. It was pathetic of her to think so, and she knew it. It wasn’t that woman’s fault—she didn’t even know. And yet, the bitterness lingered, souring her thoughts.

Her feelings for Juraf were a tangled mess of contradictions—twisted, angry, sorrowful, and unrelenting. For all the hurt he caused her, for all the unanswered questions and the distance he sometimes maintained though not often, she couldn’t stop loving him. He had carved himself into the deepest recesses of her heart, and no amount of resentment could dislodge him. He had been there since that night all those years ago, and no matter how much she tried, he wouldn’t leave.

Caela let out a breath, her hand resting briefly on her belly as if seeking reassurance. Today, she would bury those feelings. There were more important matters to attend to. The village needed her, her skills, her senses. Her child would need her too—strong, steady, unwavering. She forced herself to stand, pulling on her cloak with deliberate precision. The weight of her weapons rested familiarly at her side, though they were rarely needed. Her abilities often meant she could avoid conflict entirely, but she never left without them.

As she moved, something slipped from her desk, shattering against the floor. She froze, momentarily startled, before shaking her head. Normally, she was more careful, more deft. Pregnancy, she thought. It was making her clumsier than usual. She knelt to pick up the shards, her fingers brushing against the cold, jagged edges. For a moment, she considered fixing it, but then she left it where it lay. There wasn’t time for sentimentality.

Steeling herself, she stepped out of her home, the brisk air of the village brushing against her skin. Her senses flared instinctively, sending out faint waves of numen vibrations. It was second nature, a subtle sweep of the world around her that painted a map in her mind. A few villagers noticed, their curious gazes following her as she passed, but she ignored them. Her steps carried her toward the training field on the outskirts of the village, where her group awaited.

The air buzzed with life as she walked. Merchants shouted about fresh produce and cured meats, the tantalizing scents wafting through the market stalls. Children darted between the legs of their elders, laughing and squealing with abandon. The rhythmic clang of blacksmiths at their forges blended with the hum of conversation and the occasional bark of a dog. It was a symphony of daily life, and yet it felt strangely distant to her today.

When she reached the training field, the noise quieted. The field was sparse, bordered by tall grass that swayed gently in the wind. Her group stood waiting, their figures familiar and steady though their were additions. She nodded to them in silent greeting, her gaze sharp and focused.

“Caela,” the leader of the scouting group called out, his tone casual but carrying an edge of caution. “We’ll be heading into Gu territory today. Word is the area’s mostly unguarded, so it should be a quick in-and-out job. Nothing too serious, but still pretty dangerous. You fine with that?”

She met his eyes evenly, her voice calm and resolute. “Yes, sir. That will be fine.”

As a priestess, Caela wasn’t technically part of the military, so she didn’t have to adhere to its strict hierarchies or even participate in missions like this. Yet, she chose to. Not out of obligation, but out of duty to Wolvenblade, a sense of purpose, and a desire to protect the village that had given her a place to belong. She shook the thought away as they prepared to venture deeper into Gu territory, her focus sharpening. Dwelling on her motivations wouldn’t help her now.

Their group consisted of her and several soldiers—two more than the usual unit. She didn’t recognize these additional men, unlike the others in the group she had worked with before. Still, she thought the adjustment was reasonable. More bodies meant better protection, even if it came at the cost of a slightly higher chance of being detected by the Gu. It wasn’t an ideal trade-off, but in these times, nothing was.

They moved quickly and efficiently, leaping from the wide, spiral-like branches of the forest’s massive trees. The thick canopy above filtered the sunlight into fragmented beams, casting shifting patterns on the forest floor below. Shadows danced in tandem with their movements, a testament to the skillful use of numen they pumped into their shadow cores to muffle the sounds of their approach. The forest was a symphony of rustling leaves and distant calls of unseen beasts, but their steps were silent.

Caela’s senses extended outward, faint vibrations of numen spreading like invisible ripples through the air. The dense, ancient forest seemed alive in more ways than one. The aspar floated in the shadows, their translucent forms casting eerie, faint glows in the periphery of her vision. Occasionally, her senses brushed against a beast hidden among the undergrowth or nestled high in the trees, but none of the numen signatures belonged to the Gu.

And that troubled her.

“There seem to be no traces of Gu in the general area,” she finally said, her voice cutting through the silence of their advance. “Which is… strange.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” one of the men in the back replied. His tone was steady, almost dismissive, as if trying to ease the tension. “This area is said to hold something valuable to them, so it’s likely only high operatives or elites of the Gu come here. Perhaps they’ve hidden their traces or are using some advanced techniques to mask their presence.”

“That makes sense,” another soldier added, his voice carrying a note of reassurance. “If it’s something special, we need to press forward, right, Captain?”

Caela glanced toward their captain, her brow furrowing slightly. The man hesitated, a soft grunt of reluctant acceptance escaping his lips. Normally, he would have taken her observations more seriously, possibly even considering retreat if the situation seemed too unpredictable. But today, he deferred to the men in the back—strangers whose authority seemed to extend beyond the usual chain of command.

The unease in her chest deepened, but she said nothing. Instead, she turned her focus back to the forest as they pushed forward. The world around her was a kaleidoscope of vibrant hues, the result of the potent ambient numen saturating the area. The trees themselves seemed to hum faintly with energy, their spiraling branches thick with moss and luminous fungi. The air carried a heady, almost electric quality, tingling against her skin with every step she took. The deeper they ventured, the more alive the forest felt, as though it were watching them, waiting.

Caela’s thoughts swirled as she moved. The Gu were infamous for their cunning, their ability to twist even the most mundane environments into deadly traps. If they were truly hiding their presence here, it meant one of two things: either they were guarding something of immense value, or they were laying a trap. Neither prospect was comforting.

Her fingers brushed the hilt of her weapon as a precaution, though she doubted she’d need it. Her senses were her true strength, and she relied on them now more than ever. Still, a flicker of doubt crossed her mind. Something about this mission felt off—the added soldiers, the captain’s uncharacteristic compliance, the unnerving silence of the forest.

She glanced back at the two unfamiliar men in their group. Their movements were precise, their eyes scanning the surroundings with sharp focus. They didn’t carry themselves like ordinary soldiers. They radiated an air of authority, one that subtly shifted the group’s dynamic without anyone explicitly acknowledging it.

Her grip on her weapon tightened. Who were they really, and why were they here?

The group continued onward, the forest growing denser and darker as the canopy above thickened, blotting out more of the light. The once-familiar sounds of the village and its outskirts were now a distant memory, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional distant cry of a beast. Despite the oppressive quiet, Caela’s senses picked up nothing—no Gu signatures, no sign of ambushes, nothing but the forest itself.

And yet, her unease refused to abate.

“This place feels… too quiet,” she murmured, her voice low enough that only the captain could hear. He gave a slight nod but didn’t respond, his expression tight with concentration.

As they pressed further into Gu territory, Caela couldn’t shake the feeling that they were walking into something far more dangerous than they’d anticipated. Her senses strained, reaching further and further, searching for any sign of the enemy. But the numen-rich forest seemed to swallow her efforts whole, offering nothing in return.

And for the first time in years, Caela felt a flicker of fear—not for herself, but for the child she carried and the uncertain future that awaited them all.

The further they pressed into the forest, the more the unease within Caela grew, coiling tightly in her chest like a serpent ready to strike. Her hand instinctively moved to her belly, a silent gesture of regret. She shouldn’t have come. She should have listened to Juraf. The warnings he had given her, the concern in his voice—it all echoed now, louder than ever, in her mind. And yet, she couldn’t turn back. Not now. Not with the mission underway. Her pride wouldn’t allow it.

The oppressive weight of the forest seemed to deepen as they crossed a wide clearing. The towering spiral trees cast long shadows that danced in the filtered light, their moss-laden branches forming intricate patterns against the sky. As her senses extended outward, a flicker of something unusual caught her attention—a concentration of numen, twisted and compacted unnaturally. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized what it was.

A ward formation.

It was well-disguised, its intricate threads of numen buried beneath layers of ambient energy to mimic the natural fluctuations of the forest. To the untrained eye, it would seem harmless, part of the environment. But Caela’s senses were not so easily fooled. She could see through the deception, her numen unraveling the structure in her mind. Her lips parted to warn the group, to steer them clear of the trap ahead.

But she never got the chance.

An explosion erupted behind her, shattering the fragile stillness of the clearing. The shockwave was immediate, a violent ripple of numen that tore through the air like a tidal wave. She barely had time to react, instinctively channeling her numen toward her belly, forming a protective barrier around the child within her. The force hit her like a hammer, hurling her forward into the very ward formation she had tried to warn them about.

The world spun as she hit the ground, the impact driving the breath from her lungs. Pain flared along her limbs as sharp fragments of debris tore at her skin, leaving stinging cuts that bled freely. The acrid scent of dust and numen-scorched air filled her nose, choking her as she struggled to regain her bearings.

Through the haze, she sent out a wave of numen, her senses clawing for clarity. The scene that unfolded before her was both surreal and damning.

Two of the men—the strangers who had joined their group—stood outside the ward formation, their stances relaxed, almost smug. Beside them loomed a figure that sent a chill down her spine: a towering Gu, far taller than any she had encountered before. Its purple, vein-covered skin glistened under the dim light, and its mandibles clicked rhythmically as if in a mocking cadence. Its black, pupil-less eyes glinted with malice, reflecting the scene like twin voids. Unlike the usual Gu foot soldiers, this one radiated authority, its presence oppressive and commanding. Its clothing was ornate, a testament to its rank—a general, perhaps, or something even higher.

Caela’s senses spread further, revealing the grim truth. They were surrounded. Dozens of Gu emerged from the shadows, their movements swift and deliberate. Their forms were grotesque yet efficient, a perfect amalgamation of insectoid anatomy and lethal intent. Each one carried a venomous aura, their numen dense and sharp like a blade poised to strike. These weren’t mere soldiers. These were elites—captains and lieutenants, their power undeniable. And among them, she could feel several figures whose numen rivaled even the strongest generals in Wolvenblade.

Her allies had already risen, drawing their weapons with practiced urgency. The captain barked orders, his voice steady despite the chaos. But Caela could see the truth. Their movements were desperate, their stances betraying the knowledge that this fight was hopeless. They were outmatched, their fates sealed the moment they entered this cursed place.

Her gaze flickered back to the two traitors. They were speaking to the Gu general, their voices low and conspiratorial. Though she couldn’t hear their words, their betrayal was deafening. It hung in the air, suffocating and bitter.

Betrayal.

The word echoed in her mind, sharp and unrelenting. It should have ignited a fire of rage within her, a storm of indignation and fury. But instead, all she felt was regret. A deep, hollow ache settled in her chest, spreading like poison.

Her hand pressed against her belly once more, trembling slightly. She wasn’t afraid for herself—she had made her peace with the dangers of her work long ago. But her child? Her daughter? She would never even have the chance to walk this earth, to see the world beyond the confines of Caela’s body. The thought pierced her heart with a pain more profound than any wound the Gu could inflict.

Her allies fought valiantly, their numen flaring brilliantly against the encroaching darkness. Blades clashed, sparks flew, and the air vibrated with the raw power of their desperation. But the Gu were relentless, their movements coordinated and efficient. For every strike her comrades landed, the Gu retaliated with twice the force. The elites moved like predators, their mandibles clicking and limbs slicing through the air with terrifying precision.

Caela’s senses flickered toward the formation itself. The ward’s numen pulsed, a living thing that twisted and warped the battlefield. It wasn’t just a trap—it was a weapon, designed to disorient and weaken its victims. Every attempt to draw on numen felt sluggish, as though the air itself resisted their efforts.

Her mind raced, searching for a way out, a plan, anything that could save them. But the odds were insurmountable. Even if they managed to break free of the formation, the Gu surrounding them were too powerful. And the traitors—they would ensure no one escaped to tell the tale.

Her gaze returned to the Gu general, whose black eyes seemed to meet hers across the battlefield. Its mandibles parted in what could only be described as a grotesque smile, a mockery of the desperation and despair that filled the air. It knew. It had already won.

And Caela knew it too.

The regret in her heart deepened, twisting into something colder, more final. Her thoughts drifted to her daughter, to the life she would never have. A life cut short before it could even begin. The weight of that loss bore down on her, a sorrow too profound for tears. And yet, even in the face of death, she found herself thinking of Juraf—his rough hands, his unreadable eyes, the way he had held her once, so long ago. She wondered if he would ever forgive himself for this, for not being here, for not saving her.

And she hated that, even now, she didn’t blame him.

____________

Juraf stalked through the village, his thoughts weighed down by Caela. She had gone on yet another excursion today, despite everything. The frustration gnawed at him, but what could he do? He of all people had no right to command her, no right to demand she stay safe when his own actions were far from exemplary. A better man, a loyal or committed partner, might have insisted. But as he was now? All he could do was wait. She would return in the evening—she always did. And when she did, he’d finally have the conversation he’d been avoiding for far too long. Late as it was, it had to happen.

The sun bore down on him as he walked, glaring into his eyes. He tilted his head, squinting against the harsh light, glaring right back as if he could will the sun into submission. He was supposed to train Garran today, but he’d decided against it. The kid could take a day off. He’d craft some nonsense about how true mastery of the spear required solitude, self-reflection, and piercing forward alone without a teacher’s guidance. A lesson about independence wrapped in poetic bullshit. Garran would eat it up.

His musings were interrupted as he entered the village square. A commotion had gathered, a dense crowd of soldiers and onlookers buzzing with tension. His brows furrowed, and unease prickled at the back of his neck. Something was wrong. Pushing past the bodies with increasing urgency, he forced his way to the center of the throng.

“What’s going on?” he barked, his deep voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

At the center, two men sat slumped on the ground, their uniforms dirtied and bloodied. Scouting division. His heart sank like a stone. This wasn’t just a disturbance—this was bad.

One of the men, his face pale and drenched in sweat, looked up with hollow eyes. “We were ambushed,” he croaked, his voice hoarse and trembling. “A group of Gu—an entire force. Not just fodder, either. Elites. Too many of them. We barely made it out alive. The rest…” His voice broke, and he shook his head, anguish carved into his expression.

The other scout sat motionless, staring into the distance, his hands trembling. He didn’t speak, but the silence was louder than any words.

Juraf’s fists clenched at his sides, the familiar surge of anger boiling in his veins. The Gu—those venomous bastards. He barely registered the murmurs of the crowd or the rising tension around him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Remulus and Remus approaching, Remus’s presence commanding as they made their way through the throng.

Remus reached the front just as Juraf turned to him, his face grim. “Did you hear the situation, chieftain?” Juraf’s tone was tight, a mix of urgency and barely restrained rage.

“I did,” Remus replied calmly, his face unreadable.

“Then you know we have to prepare a unit and go after them!” Juraf snapped, his voice rising as the surrounding soldiers began to murmur in agreement. “We can’t just leave our people to die at the hands of those beasts.”

A voice cut through the tension, sharp and cold. “We can’t,” Elder Hathor said, stepping forward from the shadows of the gathering. His presence was like ice water poured over a fire.

Juraf rounded on him, his fury igniting like dry tinder. “The fuck do you mean we can’t?” he roared, his voice echoing through the square.

Hathor didn’t flinch, his expression as composed as ever. “Elder Hathor is right,” Remus said, his voice steady but firm. “In reality, even if we sent a unit, we would be marching straight into Gu territory, unprepared and blind. If they have elites—if they’ve set a trap—we’d be sending our men to their deaths for allies who have already passed.”

Remulus turned to his brother, shock and disbelief writ large across his face. “You can’t be serious,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “You’re saying we just leave them? Just let them die out there?”

Remus met his gaze, unwavering. “I’m saying we don’t throw more lives away senselessly. If the Gu truly have elites in that area, it’s suicide. We can’t afford that risk, not now, not with the war balanced so precariously.”

Juraf’s teeth ground together, his jaw tight with fury and frustration. He scanned the crowd, searching for someone aside from Remmy—anyone—who might back him. But the faces of the soldiers and villagers, even those who had murmured in agreement earlier, had gone grim. He understood why. They had families. They had children to protect. It wasn’t cowardice—it was pragmatism. But understanding it didn’t dull the fire roaring in his chest.

He had a family too. And he would save them.

“Then I’ll go alone,” he said, his voice sharp and unwavering. His words cut through the gathered throng like a blade, drawing startled gasps and murmurs. He pushed past the crowd, his strides long and purposeful, but a large hand clamped down on his arm, halting him mid-step.

“You’re the general!” Remus’s voice boomed, tinged with both command and desperation. “You cannot leave like this. I refuse to let you go!”

“If you go, you’ll die!” Remulus shouted, his tone heavy with a mix of fear and anger, his green eyes blazing.

Juraf yanked his arm free with a force that sent Remus stumbling back. He turned to then to his old friend. The harsh light of the twin suns painted his bronze skin in gold and shadow, illuminating his fierce expression as if the very heavens demanded he be seen.

“I know,” he said gently, his voice softer now, but no less resolute.

The weight of those two words hit Remulus like a blow. “Then I’ll go with you!” he blurted, stepping forward, his face set with determination.

Juraf’s gaze softened for a fleeting moment, his lips twitching into a faint, bittersweet smile. “I appreciate the thought, Remmy,” he said, his tone quiet but firm. “But you have my sister to look after. If this is a trap—and it very well might be—then the Gu could be waiting for us to empty the village. Someone has to stay and protect it.”

He placed a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You’ve got Little Peter to think about too. You’ll stay here. You’ll protect them. That’s your job. Mine is to make sure this doesn’t all go to hell.”

“Juraf—” Remulus started, his voice breaking.

“I won’t die,” Juraf interrupted, flashing his trademark grin. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it was as confident as ever. “I'm entirely to greedy to die quite yet. You know I can’t fall until I’ve gotten everything I wanted.”

“Juraf!” Remus bellowed, his voice booming with the authority of a chieftain. “Did you not hear me? Someone stop him!”

But the soldiers, his soldiers, parted as Juraf strode forward. They knew him too well. They had seen that fire in his eyes before—the kind that burned so fiercely, no man could extinguish it. No command, no plea could sway him now.

Juraf laughed, the sound loud and hearty, echoing through the square like a battle cry. He turned back for one final look at his brother and friend, the suns casting his towering figure in a halo of golden light.

“I have yet to swallow the world,” he shouted to the heavens, his voice ringing with the conviction of a man destined to defy fate itself. “And as such, I shall not fall!”

He turned on his heel, the spear on his back glinting in the sunlight, and began his march toward the forest’s edge. Each step was deliberate, echoing with unshakable resolve.

“Take care of Sol and Terra, Remmy!” he called over his shoulder.

And then he was gone, the shadows of the forest swallowing him whole.

___________

Juraf bolted from the village, moving with a single-minded ferocity that left no room for hesitation. The wind howled as he broke through the dense forest, his form a blur of motion. He didn’t bother with stealth or caution—time was too precious for such luxuries. Numen coursed through his veins and wrapped around his legs, amplifying his every step. The ground cracked beneath him, trees shook violently in his wake, and the air itself seemed to part in reverence as he pierced through the forest like an unstoppable green spear. His second-level spear intent wove itself into the numen, allowing him to "pierce" through friction and air resistance, his speed accelerating exponentially.

Explosions echoed behind him as sonic booms marked his path, each one louder and sharper than the last. The sound reverberated across the wilderness like the drumbeats of a vengeful war god. He didn’t care who or what might hear him. Let the Gu know he was coming. Let them prepare. None of it would matter. They had taken what was his, and for that, they would die.

His sharp eyes scanned the forest ahead, numen flaring to augment his senses as he tracked the faint, nearly imperceptible traces left by the patrol. He knew the terrain intimately—every hidden ravine, every faint trail. His position as the general of Wolvenblade had granted him access to knowledge of patrol routes and enemy activity. He pieced the scattered details together, calculating the most likely location where they’d been ambushed.

Juraf pushed harder. The trees blurred into streaks of green and brown, the heavy atmosphere of the forest unable to impede his relentless charge. As he approached the coordinates where the formation had been reported, his numen intensified, forming a crackling aura around his body. The hidden warding formation became visible in his numen-enhanced sight—a twisting lattice of malevolent energy meant to trap and kill intruders. But Juraf didn’t slow down.

He didn’t even hesitate.

With a single, devastating thrust of his numen-infused will, he pierced through the wall of numen as if it were paper, the sheer force of his intent shattering the formation in an explosion of displaced energy. The air rippled with the aftershocks as Juraf burst into the clearing beyond.

The sight that greeted him sent a surge of cold fury through his veins.

Four soldiers lay dead, their bodies surrounded by the mangled corpses of Gu. Blood soaked the ground, and the air reeked of iron and poison. But his eyes quickly found what he sought—the captain of the group stood alive but barely, his stance unsteady, his body battered. And there, a few meters away, was Caela.

Relief flooded Juraf for a split second before his rage returned tenfold. She was alive—injured but alive. Her silver hair shimmered in the faint light filtering through the trees, though it was matted with blood. Her pupil-less blue eyes, dulled by exhaustion and pain, still burned with the will to survive. She clutched her weapon tightly, standing defiant despite the odds stacked against her.

The Gu turned to face him, their tall, insectoid forms snapping their attention toward the new arrival. Their chittering mandibles clicked ominously, and their dark, vein-covered carapaces glistened with numen. There was no hesitation in their actions. The remaining elites recognized him instantly for what he was—the greatest threat in the field—and converged on him as one.

Juraf’s gaze swept across them, his expression cold and unyielding. His grip tightened on the spear slung across his back as he slowly drew it into his hands. The weapon gleamed with a predatory light, its edge honed not just by metal but by his indomitable will.

He didn’t waste words.

He didn’t ask for explanations.

These creatures had taken his people, endangered Caela and their unborn child, and stained this forest with their filth. There was no need for discourse. His actions would speak louder than any words ever could.

Numen flared around him, a tempest of green energy that roared like a living beast. The ground beneath his feet cracked and cratered as his power surged, resonating with the spear in his hands. The air grew heavier, charged with the electric tension of impending violence.

The Gu hissed and charged, their poison-laden claws glinting in the dim light, their forms moving with an unnatural, insectoid precision. They didn’t care about their lives—only about claiming his.

Juraf stepped forward, his spear igniting with numen as his intent crystallized into a singular purpose.

Slaughter.

Juraf slammed into the first Gu like a green comet, his numen-coated feet slicing cleanly through its torso with a wet, visceral crunch. The corpse split apart midair, a spray of dark, pungent blood marking his entry. Two more Gu charged from his flanks, their grotesque mandibles clicking in unison. Juraf’s spear whistled through the air in a perfect circular arc, green numen trailing like comet tails. As the field of energy expanded outward, it manifested into the celestial image of a moon eclipsing a sun.

“Eclipse.” The single word left his lips as their torsos exploded into a sickening display of gore, viscera raining down like macabre confetti. One body spun in his direction, and he skewered it mid-fall, twisting his spear to rip apart bone and sinew before swinging the impaled corpse like a grotesque hammer. The pulverized body slammed into another Gu, their forms colliding with a sound akin to snapping tree trunks.

From the periphery, he caught the glint of daggers flying toward him. With effortless precision, he sliced through them mid-flight, each broken piece spinning away harmlessly. His numen pulsed outward in an invisible sphere, saturated with concentrated spear intent. The edges of the sphere seemed to shimmer and ripple like a mirage, but its effect was devastating—Gu that wandered too close recoiled, their thick hides shredding as if they’d collided with an invisible swarm of blades.

Juraf surged forward, locking eyes with the Gu who had thrown the daggers. The creature hissed in alarm, but before it could flee, Juraf’s spear lanced through its abdomen with a sound like cracking leather. He lifted the impaled creature overhead, spinning it like a grotesque flag before slamming it into the ground with bone-crushing force. Poisonous projectiles hissed through the air from multiple directions, and Juraf ducked beneath one—a gout of acidic green mist—before pivoting to intercept the rest. His numen sphere intercepted most of them, the energy dissipating the poison into harmless vapor.

Still, the Gu came. The next wave wielded a mix of maces, flails, and serrated blades, their movements disjointed but ruthless. Juraf danced through them, his spear a divine instrument of death. He struck with unparalleled precision, thrusting through joints and necks, severing limbs and splitting torsos with surgical efficiency. Each strike was a note in a deadly symphony, the blood of his enemies painting the forest floor.

A particularly large Gu, wielding a jagged halberd, charged him with reckless abandon. Juraf spun on his heel, sidestepping the swing, and delivered a devastating roundhouse kick to its head. The force of the blow was immense, snapping its neck like a dry twig and sending the headless body crumpling to the dirt. Using the momentum, he transitioned into a sweeping strike, his spear carving through five more Gu in a single fluid motion. The cuts were so precise that for a moment, the creatures froze mid-motion, only for their bodies to collapse into meaty chunks seconds later.

Breathing heavily, Juraf felt the strain as his numen sphere began to falter, cracks forming in its protective aura. A projectile—some sort of condensed poison orb—slammed into his unarmored shoulder, searing flesh and muscle. He gritted his teeth, refusing to falter. With a roar, he flipped over another incoming spear, landing behind its thrower. The Gu turned, its grotesque face contorted in shock, but Juraf gave it no chance.

“Insurgent Spear!” he roared, his voice carrying with it the weight of his intent.

The spear in his hand became a vessel for his unyielding will. The air distorted as the image of a colossal spear manifested above him, piercing the heavens. The suns themselves seemed dim and fractured behind its radiance. Gu turned to flee, their chittering mandibles betraying their fear, but it was too late. The ground trembled as the spear crashed down, obliterating everything within its reach. Space and air warped under its power, and the elites caught in its path were eviscerated instantly, their bodies perforated and torn to ribbons. Purple blood painted the forest in wide arcs, the sickly stench of Gu viscera saturating the air.

Still, they came. A Gu lunged at him with wild abandon, and Juraf ducked beneath its swipe, rising with a sharp thrust that drove his spear straight through its chest. He ripped the weapon free, flipping it into a reverse grip as he turned into another attacker. The tip of his spear found its mark in the creature’s throat, severing arteries and mandibles in one clean motion. Another Gu attempted to flank him, but Juraf spun again, the deadly arc of his spear slicing through three torsos in one sweep.

He stood amidst the carnage, blood dripping from his spear, his breathing ragged but steady. His dark eyes burned with unrelenting resolve. Though the Gu still surrounded him, their numbers dwindled, and none dared to rush him without hesitation. But hesitation would not save them.

Juraf's voice carried like thunder as he shouted, “Lunge!”

A surge of green numen erupted around him, so intense it seemed to warp the air. To the remaining Gu, it was as if he had vanished, only to reappear with his spear already piercing through the head of one charging toward Caela. Black ichor sprayed as the insectoid body crumpled lifelessly to the ground. His eyes met hers—tired, but still vibrant with hope. Even though her gaze could not discern his expression, her pupil-less blue eyes seemed to pierce into his very soul. He gave her the faintest of smiles before spinning on his heel.

The butt of his spear lashed out like a serpent, slapping the blade from another Gu’s hands with a metallic clatter. Juraf’s fist followed, punching straight through its skull with a sickening crunch, the force sending a spray of chitin and viscera outward. His movements were unrelenting, fluid yet brutal, like a predator amidst its prey.

He shifted his grip, roaring as numen burst from his body in a shockwave. Dozens of emerald projections materialized around him, spears of numen and intent shimmering with lethal energy. The air crackled as the golden paths of his intent stretched outward from each spear, locking onto each enemy as though guided by divine providence.

The Gu hesitated, some attempting to flee, others raising their weapons or numen shields in a desperate attempt to counter the incoming assault. It was futile.

“A spear,” Juraf’s voice growled low, rising to a shout as the spears quivered, “should always reach its opponent. I will pin you wretched insects to the earth in death as a child pins bugs to a collection board! Myriad Spears!”

The emerald projectiles surged forward as though fired from an unrelenting storm of arrows. They screamed along their golden paths, phasing effortlessly through all obstacles. Shields shattered, walls of numen split like fragile glass, and the Gu fell, impaled one after another. Chitin cracked and ichor poured freely, staining the ground in sickly purples and blacks as dozens of elites were felled in mere moments.

But the energy cost was immense. Juraf gritted his teeth as his reserves waned, his breathing turning heavy. Still, he pushed forward.

A Gu missing its arm from one of his earlier attacks lunged, shrieking as its blade pierced his abdomen, the serrated edge grinding through muscle and bone. Juraf’s pained roar echoed across the battlefield, but he didn’t falter. His elbow snapped back, shattering the Gu’s spine with a sickening crunch, its body collapsing in a grotesque heap.

His injuries were mounting now. A deep gash on his thigh slowed his movement, his blood dripping to mingle with the ichor-soaked ground. Poison coursed through his veins, the telltale numbness spreading across his limbs. Still, Juraf fought, weaving between the remaining Gu, his spear moving like a living thing, precise and unyielding. With each thrust, a throat was pierced, each swing brought another death.

The sky above blurred as stars danced in his vision from blood loss and fatigue. A cluster of arrows thudded into his side, and he staggered but refused to fall. He wrenched one from his flesh, numen flaring around it as he transformed it into a deadly projectile, hurling it with enough force to split the skull of a distant archer.

Ahead, the tall Gu clad in opulent garb limped forward, its carapace cracked and leaking thick black fluid from the earlier Myriad Spears assault. Its mandibles clicked furiously as it began to speak, its guttural voice cutting through the chaos.

“This wasn’t the agreement! What is this monster? Poison Beru!”

A suffocating field of purple numen erupted from the Gu, the energy coalescing into swarms of shimmering, insect-like constructs that buzzed with eerie precision. The air thickened with their movement as the creatures shot forward like guided projectiles, trailing streams of venomous light.

Juraf crouched, his fingers brushing the dirt as he gathered every ounce of strength remaining in his battered body. His vision blurred with black spots as his legs quivered beneath him, but his resolve was unbroken. Pain was secondary now, distant and irrelevant.

"Rush the world!" he roared, his voice splitting the air like a thunderclap.

He launched himself forward, a green blur tearing through the battlefield. Each step pounded into the earth, cracking the ground beneath him as he wove through the storm of venomous insects. The creatures screeched as they adjusted their trajectories, their movements unnervingly precise. Juraf ducked low, his body a whirlwind of motion. He flipped over one group, narrowly avoiding their needle-like appendages, only to roll sideways as another volley of poisonous beams sliced through the air, leaving smoldering gashes in the ground behind him.

The Gu leader shrieked in frustration as Juraf surged closer, his movements unpredictable and ferocious. But then the poison constructs converged, their assault tightening into a deadly net. He leapt high, his body twisting mid-air in a desperate bid to escape, but one beam struck true. It tore into his right arm, and a wave of agonizing pain flooded his senses. The flesh began to rot almost instantly, the Gu poison dissolving muscle and bone in seconds.

Juraf landed hard, staggering as his dominant arm hung useless, the remnants of what had once been his weapon hand dripping blackened flesh onto the dirt. His scream of pain was guttural, animalistic, but it morphed into a growl of defiance. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He surged forward, his left hand surging with numen and spear intent. The energy spiraled violently, condensing into a makeshift blade of raw willpower.

"Die!" he bellowed, his voice carrying the weight of his fury and desperation.

The Gu leader lashed out, its spiked limbs extending with a sickening crack, but Juraf ducked under the strike. He drove his hand forward, piercing through its chest. The numen-infused strike didn’t just wound—it obliterated. The Gu’s torso exploded into a mist of viscera, chunks of its chitinous body scattering in every direction. Its mandibles clicked spasmodically before it collapsed, lifeless.

Juraf barely had time to breathe before another Gu rushed him, this one wielding a serrated spear dripping with venom. He twisted away from the initial strike, the weapon skimming his ribs and leaving a trail of burning pain. Juraf roared, grabbing the spear shaft with his remaining hand and yanking the creature toward him. With a brutal knee to its midsection, he crushed its exoskeleton, the sickening crunch echoing in the clearing. He didn’t hesitate—his makeshift blade sliced upward, decapitating the Gu in a single stroke.

More surged toward him. Arrows whistled through the air, several embedding themselves into his legs and shoulders. Blood poured freely from his wounds, staining the earth beneath him. His breaths came in ragged gasps, but still, he fought. His movements became wild, almost unhinged, as he swung his numen-infused hand like a scythe, carving through the insectoid bodies with a primal ferocity.

One Gu managed to stab a blade into his side, the weapon slipping past his ribs and puncturing deep. Juraf grunted, grabbing the creature’s head and slamming it into the ground with enough force to splinter its skull. Another clawed at his back, ripping flesh and muscle, but he spun around, his numen slicing the Gu clean in half. His own blood mixed with theirs, creating a grotesque mosaic of death and defiance on the battlefield.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the last Gu fell. Its body collapsed with a wet thud, ichor pooling around it. Juraf stood amidst the carnage, his body trembling under the strain. Arrows protruded from his frame, and blood poured from dozens of wounds. His vision blurred, but he remained upright, his gaze locking onto Caela. She was knocked out. And juraf went to lift the woman he loved off of the ground.

___________

Juraf’s pace was relentless despite his tattered state. His feet crushed the undergrowth beneath them, each step agonizing yet defiant as he bore the unconscious form of Caela on his back. The forest seemed to stretch endlessly, its thick canopy above filtering the fading light of the day into streaks of gold and green. The shadows of the towering Aspar trees seemed to grow, their twisted branches reaching out like gnarled hands to grasp at him. The eerie hum of the forest, filled with distant howls and the faint rustling of unseen creatures, was punctuated by the ragged rasp of his breath.

Each step was a battle. His wounds, deep and unrelenting, sent sharp pangs through his body with every movement. Blood trickled down his arm, staining the pale cloak he had wrapped around Caela to protect her from the elements. The aspar floated around him like ghostly sentinels, their dim, greenish light illuminating his path. His focus, razor-sharp despite the haze of pain, kept him moving forward. His mind screamed for him to stop, to rest, but his heart burned with a singular purpose: to bring her back alive. He wouldn’t let her die. Not her. Not their child.

But then, the shadows shifted.

The forest grew quieter. Even the distant hum of the insects seemed to pause. A cold, suffocating presence descended upon him, and his instincts screamed before his eyes confirmed the danger. Ahead, partially obscured by the twisting trees and dense underbrush, a form loomed. Two slit-pupil eyes appeared first, glowing faintly in the dimness, followed by another pair. Then another. Six predatory eyes glinted in the darkness, their focus locked entirely on Juraf. The massive turbeast stepped into view, its hulking frame casting a monstrous shadow across the forest floor.

It was colossal, its sleek, muscular body rippling with primal strength. Jagged spines protruded from its back, each one glistening as if dipped in venom. Its maw, filled with dagger-like teeth, dripped saliva that hissed faintly upon contact with the ground. The creature's claws dug deep furrows into the earth as it stepped closer, its growl reverberating like the roll of distant thunder. Every instinct in Juraf’s body screamed to flee, but fleeing was never his nature.

He stopped in his tracks, his bloodied hand tightening around the hilt of his spear. His legs, trembling under the strain of his injuries, shifted to brace himself. His bloodshot eyes locked onto the beast, wild and unyielding. The spear across his back trembled faintly as if sharing in his determination.

“I don’t have time for this,” Juraf growled through gritted teeth, his voice more a snarl than a statement. His body was broken, his strength spent, yet his presence surged with an overwhelming force, like a cornered predator prepared to tear through anything in its way. The numen that remained in his veins flared, weak yet defiant, as his gaze bore into the creature’s.

The turbeast hesitated. Its growl softened into an uncertain rumble. Those six eyes, predatory and devoid of emotion, flickered as they met the depths of Juraf’s stare. What it saw was not prey. What it saw was a being drenched in the stench of blood and death, a man who defied the inevitable with every breath he took. His eyes burned with a ferocity that no predator could match—an abyss filled with unyielding resolve.

The turbeast lowered its head, stepping back into the shadows. Its massive frame melted into the forest as though conceding to a force it couldn’t understand but instinctively feared.

________________

The village gate loomed ahead as the first lights of the evening fires began to dot the horizon. The sentries on duty caught sight of Juraf’s approaching form, their expressions shifting from confusion to alarm as they noticed the state he was in. His figure was drenched in blood, his movements staggered yet purposeful. The shouts began, and the gates groaned open with urgency.

Juraf stumbled through, his knees threatening to buckle under the weight of Caela and his wounds. He gently laid her on the ground, his trembling hand brushing a stray lock of silver hair from her face. Her chest rose and fell faintly, and he felt relief wash over him despite his own body screaming in protest.

“Juraf…” Remulus’s voice cracked as he pushed through the growing crowd, his green eyes wide with horror at the sight of his friend.

“What are you crying for, man?” Juraf rasped, attempting a grin, but it dissolved into a violent cough, blood speckling his lips.

“Someone get the healers!” a voice shouted, but the urgency of the crowd around him felt distant to Juraf. His focus was on Remulus, his bloodied hand gripping his friend’s shoulder.

“Tell her… Tell her to name the kid Lunus if it’s a boy… and Luna if it’s a girl,” he wheezed. “And tell Kiyanna… I love her. Tell her I hope she’s able to love… that her useless brother didn’t ruin her.”

Remulus opened his mouth to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. He watched helplessly as Juraf pushed himself to his feet, blood dripping from his wounds and leaving a trail in his wake. The soldiers, once hesitant, now fell into step behind him. Their general, their unstoppable force, was moving forward, and they followed in reverent silence.

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

The village itself seemed to hold its breath as Juraf trudged through its streets. Villagers emerged from their homes, drawn by the commotion. Mothers clutched their children close, and old men removed their bowed their head their ears downturned in solemn respect. No words were spoken, only the sound of Juraf’s boots dragging against the dirt and the occasional drip of blood hitting the ground. His body trembled, his vision blurred, but his path was clear.

By the time he reached Terra’s home, the crowd had grown massive. Soldiers and civilians alike gathered outside, watching in silence as he pushed open the door. Inside, the warm light of a single lantern flickered against the walls. Sol’s small form lay in her crib, her gentle breathing a stark contrast to the chaos outside.

Juraf knelt beside her, his bloody hand trembling as he reached out to brush a finger across her forehead. His lips curled into a sad smile, his gaze softening for the first time since he’d left the battlefield.

The door burst open behind him, and Terra’s horrified gasp filled the room. She rushed to his side, her hands gripping his shoulders as tears streamed down her face. “Juraf… no, no, no, no…”

Her arms wrapped around him as they sank to the floor together. His strength gave out entirely, his head resting against her shoulder as her sobs filled the space.

The world outside was bathed in the fading hues of twilight, the last golden rays of the sun painting the sky in a brilliant cascade of orange and pink. Yet, within the home, those colors felt distant, their warmth unable to penetrate the somber weight of the moment. Terra cradled Juraf's battered body, his bronze skin now pale, his once-vivid eyes dimming with the creeping shadow of death. Blood seeped from his wounds, staining her dress and pooling on the floorboards, the dark crimson a stark contrast to the life he once radiated.

"Terra," he rasped, his voice a threadbare whisper, each word an effort that seemed to cost him another fragment of his fleeting life. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did this. I’m sorry I never got to—" He coughed violently, blood splattering his lips and chin, cutting his sentence short.

“Please, stop talking,” Terra begged, her voice trembling, breaking. Her hands, normally so steady, shook as they pressed against his wounds, futilely trying to stem the bleeding. “We can fix this, I promise! I promise, Juraf, just stay with me. Please.”

A shadow of a smile touched his lips, though it was tinged with sorrow. “I’m sorry… I was never able to marry you, Terra. You fell in love with scum like me. I’m sorry I was never brave enough to tell you… I had another love. Another child.” His words hit her like a blow, and she flinched, physically recoiling, her tear-streaked face frozen in shock. But before she could fully react, his trembling hand reached up, weakly cupping her cheek. His touch, so gentle despite his calloused, bloodied fingers, broke through her disbelief.

“But know,” he croaked, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a flicker of the intensity they had once held, “I never once didn’t love you. Not for a single moment.”

Tears spilled freely from Terra’s eyes, and she collapsed against him, her forehead pressing to his, her sobs wracking her body. “I’ll forgive you, OK? I don’t care, OK? Just stay alive!” she pleaded, her voice cracking under the weight of her despair. “What am I supposed to do without you?! You can’t leave us, Juraf!”

His gaze softened, and his lips quirked in a faint smile, tinged with a bittersweet regret. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice growing fainter. “I’m sorry you’ll have to raise Sol alone. I’m sorry for the struggles you’ll face. I’m sorry for not treating you better. I’m sorry… for making you angry. How sad is it,” he mused weakly, a small, bitter laugh escaping his lips, “that in my final moments, I have nothing but regrets?”

Terra shook her head violently, refusing his words. “No! You’ll have more moments! You’ll live! You’ll suffer and grow and be with us—be with me and Sol!” she screamed, her desperation spilling out, raw and unfiltered. Her voice cracked as she clung to him, her tears mixing with the blood on his chest.

Juraf’s eyes fluttered, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Terra… the necklaces,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “Give the one with the sun… to our daughter. And the one with the moon… to Remmy. He’ll know what to do.” His gaze grew distant, his words slowing. “If my life kept you apart, maybe… my end can bring you together.”

“Juraf, no! Don’t talk like this!” Terra sobbed, her hands gripping his shoulders as if her touch alone could anchor him to this world. Her cries were frantic, her voice rising. “Wait! Please—PLEASE!”

But Juraf’s strength was fading. His head tilted back slightly, his dark eyes losing their sharp focus as he exhaled a final, weary sigh. “Terra…” he murmured, his voice softer than the whispering wind. “You really are… a good woman.”

And then he was still. His body, once so full of life and vitality, fell limp in her arms as the last vestiges of his soul slipped away.

Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, its golden light giving way to the somber blue of twilight. The village seemed to pause, as if the world itself held its breath in mourning. Night descended, wrapping the land in a veil of shadow.

From within the small home, a sound rose—a sound that cut through the quiet like a blade. It was the anguished wail of a woman who had lost the love of her life. Terra’s cries echoed out into the village, raw and unrestrained, filled with the weight of a broken heart.

The villagers who had gathered outside the home lowered their heads, unable to bear the intensity of her grief. The stars above twinkled coldly, indifferent to the pain below. The world felt heavier, darker, as Terra’s sorrow seeped into the very air.

Into the heavens and into the earth.

___________

Caela wiped her swollen red eyes, staring down at the faint numen signature of her child. Her heart felt like it had been torn into pieces and crudely stitched back together, the seams barely holding. For the past month, tears had been her constant companion. She couldn’t seem to stop. The sheer weight of grief and guilt sat on her chest, suffocating her with every breath.

She adjusted Luna’s swaddle, her trembling hands brushing over the moon-shaped necklace that rested on the baby’s small chest. It had been a gift from a very tired and broken Remulus. His voice, heavy with exhaustion and sorrow, still echoed in her ears. Kiyanna had fallen into a coma, he’d said, utterly consumed by grief over Juraf’s death. Caela had felt the same pull, the temptation to simply give in to despair and let it consume her entirely. But she couldn’t. Not now. Not with Luna here, relying on her every moment.

Juraf had gone to that cursed battlefield, risking everything to save her and Luna. And now he was gone. She’d already been to his funeral, her body trembling with sorrow, only to be slapped and beaten by Terra, the other woman he had loved in his life. Caela hadn’t even been angry. How could she be? She had been the reason Juraf was dead every accusation rung true. And that truth carved deeper wounds than any blow Terra could deliver.

She wiped at her eyes again, forcing herself to focus on Luna. The baby shifted slightly in her swaddle, her tiny fingers curling as she let out a soft, contented sigh. Caela’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smile, but the moment shattered as a voice slithered from behind her, cutting through the fragile peace like a blade.

“Hello, dearest Caela,” the voice said, dripping with mockery and smugness. “To be honest, I had hoped you’d simply vanish after all this. But now, I see I may have been wrong. That piece of trash is gone, and you’re still here. So, what do you say?”

The voice belonged to Elder Hathor. His presence, once merely an irritant, now filled her with cold dread. She turned sharply, her eyes igniting with the numen glow of suppressed rage and grief.

“Fuck off and die!” she roared, her voice raw and unrestrained. “I have no time for you! You are not a fraction of the man Juraf was, you geriatric bastard!”

Hathor’s expression darkened, his smug smirk twisting into something cruel and venomous. His voice dropped, laced with malice. “At this point, I’m done courting you, girl. My patience has run thin, and my plans have failed. But that doesn’t mean I’ll walk away empty-handed. No, I’ll take something from that bastard, even from beyond the grave. I hope his ghost is watching.”

Before she could react, Hathor lunged at her, tackling her to the ground. The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain through her body, but Caela was no fragile victim. Her survival instincts kicked in, fueled by years of training and a mother’s primal desperation. She thrashed beneath him, biting, clawing, and kicking with all her might. Her nails glowed faintly with numen as she raked them across his face, catching one of his eyes.

Hathor screamed in agony, reeling back as blood streamed from the deep gash. “You bitch!” he bellowed, clutching his ruined eye.

Caela scrambled to her feet, chest heaving as she steadied herself. But Hathor was far from done. He pulled a knife from his belt, its blade glinting ominously in the dim light.

“You think this changes anything?” he snarled, his voice a mix of pain and fury. “I’ll make sure you’ll never touch another man again. You’ll be nothing but a crippled, traumatized single mother with no friends, no allies, and no future. You’ll rot here, Caela. Mark my words. And no one will ever believe a word you utter.”

He lunged again, this time driving the knife into her chest. The blade didn’t pierce deep enough to kill, but the pain was immediate and excruciating. Black veins began to spiderweb from the wound, the poison taking hold almost instantly.

Caela let out a choked gasp, her vision swimming as she staggered back. Her knees buckled, but she refused to fall. Gritting her teeth, she surged forward, numen surging to her claws as she struck out again. Her aim was true, her claws slicing deep into his chest. Hathor screamed again, this time a guttural, primal howl of pain as he stumbled back, completely blinded.

“Stay the fuck away from me and my daughter,” Caela growled, her voice trembling with fury and resolve.

Hathor didn’t reply. He clutched his bleeding face, muttering curses as he stumbled out of the room, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

As the door slammed shut, Caela’s legs gave out, and she collapsed to the floor. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, her vision blurring as the poison continued its cruel work. She crawled, inch by agonizing inch, toward Luna’s crib. Her hands, slick with her own blood, gripped the edge as she pulled herself up just enough to see her daughter’s peaceful, sleeping face.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she whispered, “I’m here, Luna. I’m here.” Her strength failed her, and she slumped to the floor, her body trembling as the world faded to black.

____________

Five years later, a little girl with silver hair and a moon necklace wandered into the rural outskirts of her small village. The necklace, a gift from a man she would never know, glinted faintly under the muted sunlight, its soft glow a stark contrast to the dreary surroundings. Her silver hair, unusual and almost ethereal, caught the light as she moved, a child of innocence in a world that felt far too heavy for her small frame.

Her mother, often bedridden by illness, had remained inside their modest home. Caela rarely had the strength to accompany Luna outdoors anymore, and though Luna was too young to fully understand, she knew her mother’s pain ran deep—deeper than the sickness that kept her confined to their home. It was why Luna wandered alone today, her small footsteps kicking up clouds of dust as she ventured further than she ever had before.

The shacks in this part of the village were old and decayed, their wooden frames warped by time and neglect. Luna’s childlike curiosity led her to explore the cracks and shadows between them, her small fingers brushing against weathered walls as her soft humming filled the empty air. She turned a corner, skipping lightly, when she froze mid-step.

A man stood there, shrouded in a dark, tattered cloak that barely concealed his looming presence. His face was partly obscured by the hood, but one detail stood out with chilling clarity: a single milky white eye gleamed from the shadow of his face, its blankness a stark and horrifying void. The other eye, sharp and burning with malice, locked onto her.

“I couldn’t take her back then,” the man said, his voice rough and gravelly, the words dripping with venom. His lips curled into a twisted grin, revealing teeth that were yellowed and uneven. “So instead I crippled her and I'll take hers and your daughter. You hear me, Juraf? I’m going to take it all. You can’t stop me. No one can.”

He laughed then, a sound that reverberated through the empty shacks and seemed to make the very air around him colder. It wasn’t just a laugh; it was a promise, a declaration of something wicked and inevitable. The noise burrowed into Luna’s ears, making her small hands fly up to cover them as she stumbled back a step.

At that moment, she could think of nothing scarier in the entire world than the man’s smile.