Remus sat on a weathered stump in a clearing not far from the courthouse, the wood beneath him groaning softly under his weight. The air was crisp, laced with the faint tang of moss and damp earth, while the cool wind carried whispers of conversations long since ended. The light of the three moons bathed the clearing in an ethereal glow, falling unevenly across his broad frame, shadowing one half in muted darkness while the other was illuminated with pale, silvery radiance.
Above him, the night sky stretched endlessly, vast and unyielding. The moons hung like sentinels, each bearing a distinct personality. The largest of the three glowered with a quiet gravity, its cratered face etched with patterns that reminded him of ancient scars. On the other hand, the middle moon, gleamed softer, gentle and serene as if watching over the world with a maternal eye. And then there was the smallest, wild and unpredictable, its surface streaked with pale crimson veins that seemed to shift when observed too long though its light was still silvery in nature.
Aspar drifted lazily through the air around him, their tubular bodies glowing gold and amber in the moonlight. The bioluminescent creatures wove patterns in the void, their movements like cosmic calligraphy painted across a living canvas. Each swirl and twist left behind faint trails of light, vanishing after a few heartbeats. Remus found himself watching the luminous patterns, his mind drifting with their lazy spirals.
From a distance, he might have appeared statuesque—a silent, monolithic figure etched into the night's serenity. But beneath the stillness of his body, his thoughts churned like a restless sea.
He had once hated change. The passing of seasons, the slow shift of leadership, the inevitable evolution of the world itself. Stability had been his guiding principle, the bedrock upon which he built his ideals. And now? Now the ground beneath his feet felt like sand, shifting and unstable, refusing to hold the weight of certainty.
A sharp breeze cut through the clearing, stirring the edges of his cloak. The fabric rustled softly, a whisper against the night. His jaw tightened as the cool air brushed against his skin, pulling him slightly from his reverie. His fingers flexed against the hilt of the dagger at his waist, the leather-wrapped handle worn smooth from years of use. A familiar weight, grounding him in the present.
The Aspar twisted midair, reacting to the breeze as though it were an invisible hand guiding their path. One of them drifted closer, its golden light reflecting in Remus' green eyes. The creature hovered for a moment, seemingly curious, before spinning away to rejoin its kin in their silent nocturnal ballet.
His gaze shifted beyond the bioluminescent dance to the faint silhouette of the courthouse in the distance. His thoughts focused on decisions made and allowed to be made. About stability and chaos. And about the nature of change. He exhaled.
Then he sensed it—a shift in the numen, a ripple in the invisible currents of power that brushed against his skin like a cold whisper. The person he had been waiting for was about to appear. Remus turned his tired, verdant eyes toward a shadow lingering just beyond the reach of the moonlight. The air thickened, the night itself holding its breath.
The shadow stirred.
With a slow, deliberate grace, the darkness twisted and coiled like silk caught in an unseen breeze. It stretched, bent, and folded in on itself, warping unnaturally before splitting apart with a sharp crack, like fabric being torn from reality. From the sundered shadow emerged a figure, the dark satyr he'd anticipated.
Midea.
His tall form, though shorter than Remus, moved with predatory ease. His ebony skin seemed to drink in the night, blending seamlessly with the shadows. Only the curve of his horns broke the illusion; they caught the moonlight, stark against the blackness, their polished surface gleaming like twin crescent scythes. The Aspar, still dancing lazily in the air, cast faint gold trails across his form. The bioluminescent light shimmered along his horns and reflected crimson in his eyes, giving them a molten, predatory glow.
His hooves clodded against the ground with a rhythmic, deliberate cadence. The sound was muted against the mossy earth yet carried a weight that resonated with each step. He stopped a few paces away, the faint smirk on his lips visible even in the dimness.
"Chieftain," Midea greeted, his voice smooth and low. The word slithered through the clearing, carrying a subtle, almost mocking undertone. Remus could almost hear serpents coiling around his tongue.
Remus straightened slightly, his arms still crossed over his chest. The air seemed colder now, the crisp scent of damp earth replaced by the faint, metallic tang of something more primal. His jaw tightened.
"Are you satisfied, Satyr?" he asked coolly. His voice was even, but the tension beneath the surface was unmistakable.
Midea tilted his head slightly, his crimson gaze flicking to the moons above as though weighing his response. The smirk widened just a fraction.
"You say that as if I forced you to do something against your will," he said, voice casual but laced with amusement. His eyes returned to Remus, gleaming. "Ultimately, I only brought your own thoughts to the forefront. Did I not?"
He turned then, angling his head toward the sky where the three moons hung in quiet judgment. The Aspar floated around him, seemingly drawn to his presence, their golden light tracing faint outlines along his silhouette.
Remus grunted, his mind pulled backward through the tangled corridors of memory. The weight of Midea's visit before the trial pressed against his chest like a phantom hand.
The satyr had spoken then, too. Whispered with that same serpentine ease, planting seeds of doubt and truths Remus hadn't wanted to confront. Seeds that had since taken root, growing into the cracks of his certainty.
_________
Remus sat in his office, the flickering glow of a solitary candle casting elongated shadows across the room. The walls, lined with the less valuable relics of the Lupus clan, stood as silent witnesses to generations of triumph and loss. Each artifact, each worn weapon and faded tapestry, whispered stories of ancestors who had fought, bled, and built the foundation upon which he now sat. The candlelight danced across a bronze medallion etched with the crest of his father—the chieftain before him—a stark reminder of the legacy he was meant to uphold.
Green banners bearing the clan's sigil hung on either side of the room, the fabric swaying slightly in a draft that crept in through the cracks in the wooden window frame. Outside, the faint hum of nocturnal life drifted through the village air, blending with the rhythmic creak of the night watch patrolling the flattened dirt streets. The scent of melting animal fat mingled with the faint aroma of dried herbs stored in the corner of the room, meant to ward off the dampness that plagued the building's foundation.
Reclining in his chair, Remus shifted through the papyrus sheets spread haphazardly across his desk. Logistics reports, supply assessments, and casualty tallies from the most recent meteor storm attack covered the worn surface. His eyes, heavy with fatigue, scanned the numbers once more. The situation was worse than he'd initially realized.
The recent lack of common excursions had disrupted the village's delicate ecosystem. Hunting parties, once a routine measure to maintain balance with the surrounding forests, had been deprioritized to address the crisis of defense and infrastructure. The results were becoming clear: smaller game populations surged unchecked, while larger prey, the true source of sustenance, grew scarce. Hunger was spreading—not yet to the point of famine, but enough that murmurs of discontent stirred in the market square.
Hungry people grew restless. Restless people stopped working. And when the lifeblood of labor slowed, the village itself faltered.
But food could be scrounged up, rationed if necessary. Water, however, was a different matter.
Remus rubbed his temple, the rough texture of his skin catching against the growing stubble on his jaw. Rainfall, while not uncommon, was irregular, forcing Wolvenblade to rely on its primary water source: a deep, crystal-clear spring nestled along one of the old forest paths. Normally, the clan dispatched a few well-equipped groups throughout the year, sending them with ward-laden baskets to collect enough water to sustain the village's wells. The dew, the occasional rain, and this routine collection were usually sufficient.
But the meteor storm attack had changed everything.
The fires that had raged through the village had demanded immediate action. Water that might have lasted months was dumped by the barrelful to quench the flames. Even the sacred well at Fenrir's Shrine had been tapped—a measure of last resort. Now, the wells stood low, their stones slick with residual dampness but no longer reflecting the surface of life-giving water.
And the path to the spring? Infested with Vampyrs.
"Damn it," he muttered, voice low, gravelly.
His father's medallion caught his eye again, its surface gleaming in the candlelight. The inscription on the back echoed in his mind: Lead with strength, shield with wisdom.
Easier said than done when the village teetered on the edge of scarcity
Hopefully, Baya and Lain's plan would work.
However, on the bright side, the reinforced walls had held up much better than expected, thanks to Midea's wards. The shift in cultivation methods had yielded a noticeable increase in the general strength of Wolvenblade's fighters. The air itself seemed denser with latent power, the numen resonating faintly in the stones of the village's foundation. And the weapons—yes, the weapons were sharper, more resilient. Midea had been teaching Bardo and his men ward techniques, which, when properly etched into the wood, gave their spears a bite that could pierce even a greater featherlin's hide. Perhaps that of even a Turbeast.
But even that progress came with complications. Bardo had sent complaints about the lack of quality wood and usable creature parts. Spears needed cores of Maghtiberra-bone and handles made from ironwood trees that grew and survived in parts of the forest where the iron winds were particularly strong, however, recent shortages forced the smiths to improvise with lesser materials. The results were serviceable but far from ideal. Not to mention there were rumors of great beasts traveling through the ironwood groves from Wolvenblades allies. Unlikely as that was.
So things were better. And they were worse. A strange sort of equilibrium—a teetering balance on the edge of survival.
Remus rubbed his temple, thinking of Midea. The Scelus was clever, perhaps too clever. After what had happened with Hathor, meeting with the satyr was no longer optional. It was inevitable.
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, a weight he couldn't shake.
Knock. Knock.
The sound was soft but distinct, pulling him from his thoughts. Remus straightened in his chair, squared his shoulders, and projected his voice with the authority expected of a chieftain.
"Come in."
The door creaked open, revealing the dark silhouette of Midea. The satyr's horns, polished and gleaming, caught the dim candlelight. His crimson eyes glimmered beneath the shadow of his brow, curiosity and amusement mingling in their depths.
But Remus's attention shifted to the figure standing beside him. His wife, Cylo, Garran's mother, had led the satyr into the room. It was a calculated gesture—an apology, a sign of respect, and an acknowledgment of the satyr's contributions. Cylo's presence here was subtle but significant. Not submission, no. Never that. But recognition.
Cylo's eyes remained closed, as always, lending her an air of serene detachment. Her hair, a soft chestnut brown that glinted with copper undertones in the candlelight, cascaded down her back in a thick braid. Her expression was gentle, with a small, knowing smile. Her skin, sun-kissed from years spent tending the clan's herb gardens, radiated warmth even in the cold atmosphere of the office. Her nose, slightly upturned just like their son's, crinkled faintly as she inclined her head.
"Thank you, Cylo," Remus said genuinely, his voice softer now.
Her eyes, though closed, seemed to sense the gratitude beneath the words. She gave a slight bow of acknowledgment before stepping back. The door clicked shut behind her with a quiet finality, leaving Remus alone with Midea.
The satyr's smirk deepened as he stepped forward, his hooves thudding against the wooden floor. He took a seat without invitation, crossing one leg over the other. The candlelight caught the faint etchings of warding marks along his horns, marks that pulsed faintly with suppressed power.
"A clever touch," Midea said, gesturing toward the door with a slight nod. "Sending Cylo to greet me. It speaks volumes without saying a word."
Remus said nothing, his eyes hard. He clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. "You're here because we have a problem."
"Of course," Midea replied smoothly. "And here I thought you'd simply missed my company."
He sighed deeply, the sound resonating in the dimly lit office like the groan of an old tree bending under a storm. "Midea, I assume you want to speak about the incident?" Remus asked, his voice low but firm. He straightened his posture and stood, his broad frame towering over the satyr. His cultivation level was higher, his body seemingly stronger, but his presence always seemed to falter when measured against Midea's unyielding composure.
The satyr's crimson eyes glinted in the wavering light of the animal-fat candle, twin embers that burned with an inscrutable intensity. The flame crackled softly, sending shadows dancing across the relic-laden walls.
"I want to talk about your conscience, Chieftain," Midea said simply, his gaze locking with Remus's. The words hung in the air, weighty and deliberate.
"My conscience?" Remus repeated, genuine confusion creasing his brow. But even as he spoke, a whisper at the edge of his thoughts stirred. Something in him already suspected what Midea meant.
The satyr moved with predatory ease, circling the desk. His hooves clopped against the wooden floor, muffled by the woven rug. Without invitation, he lowered himself into a chair at the blue-green wooden table, folding his hands atop it as though claiming dominion over the space.
Remus's eyes narrowed at the display but said nothing. He moved to the opposite side of the table and seated himself, the chair creaking under his weight. The candlelight flickered between them, casting their features in sharp relief.
Midea leaned forward slightly, the horns atop his head catching glimmers of amber light. "I do not know if you care for Surya and Tarak," he began, voice smooth as silk. "No, in fact, I would assume you do not. To you, they are little more than an opportunity—a pathway to knowledge you wish to extract. An obligation to endure." He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "Our mere existence has stirred the pot of village politics. Tarak's actions, in particular, have hurt many of your kind and bred suspicion. The scars are fresh, especially given the former state of Wolvenblade. Yet, despite your reservations, you know the truth: with the new moons approaching, your brother's... complications... and the support we've provided, we are already entrenched."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
The Aspar outside the window drifted lazily, their bioluminescent trails painting soft golden arcs across the glass. The faint scent of burnt wax mixed with the sharper undertones of tension coiling in the room.
"And as much as we may bother you at times," Midea continued, voice softening but never losing its edge, "you need us. The techniques we've shared, the wards that held against the meteor storm, the strength the children have lent to your warriors—all of it has become part of your village's survival."
Remus's jaw tightened. His hands flexed against the table, knuckles whitening.
"And that is fine," Midea said with an almost lazy shrug. "Deals do not require affection, only adherence. But you, Chieftain, must uphold your end of our agreement."
The candle sputtered, as though the air itself recoiled from the satyr's words.
Remus sneered, the expression twisting his face. "So," he said slowly, voice rough with restrained anger, "you're suggesting I bend the trial to ensure Surya wins?" His eyes glimmered like fractured ice. "Even if they lose I won't punish them too severely. I'll uphold my side of the bargain. But don't mistake necessity for weakness. Our deal was struck to help my village, not to let you run roughshod over our customs."
His fists curled atop the table. The veins in his forearms stood out like taut cords. "I admit I need you," he continued. "I'll make sacrifices for my people. I have before, and I will again if needed. But I won't trample our traditions to elevate you, no matter how much you've helped us. Mutual benefit, Midea." The firelight danced across his face, emphasizing the hard lines of his expression.
The satyr's lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes remained cold. The candle between them flickered once more, the shadows on the walls swaying like silent spectators to their clash.
And just like that, the equilibrium of the moment teetered, the air growing heavier.
Remus's words lingered, solid and immovable.
Midea's silence stretched, broken only by the soft crackle of melting fat. Before he spoke once more.
"I don't expect you to," Midea said, his voice low and measured, each word carrying the weight of a stone dropped into still water. "That is why I am appealing to your conscience." His crimson eyes gleamed in the dim candlelight, sharp and unrelenting as they fixed on Remus. "I saw your face when you realized Luna was Caela's daughter. You turned away. That was not the look of a guiltless man. You went from enraged, ready to trade blows, to accepting Surya's compromise in an instant. There was a sag in your shoulders, Chieftain. You are very well aware that something is not right with that man."
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His words slithered into the room like smoke seeping through cracks. They coiled around Remus's chest, squeezing tight. The chieftain nearly flinched, his body instinctively recoiling from the truth laid bare. But years of training held his face firm. His jaw tightened, lips pressing into a thin line. Even so, he knew something had betrayed him—a flicker of his eyes, a shift in his breath—because Midea's mouth curled into a knowing grin.
Yes, Remus was aware. Aware that Hathor had orchestrated Caela's capture by the Gu. He had known for years and had let it slide. He had hardened his heart, convincing himself it was for the good of the village. At the time, Wolvenblade teetered on the edge of collapse. Their fighters were exhausted, and their resources strained to the brink. The capture of Caela through the deal Hathor had made would have made the Gu pause, giving Wolvenblade precious time to recover and rebuild.
And it had worked in a way.
The village had found its footing. The warriors had regained their strength. It had been a grim necessity. A sacrifice for the greater good.
But the price of that decision hung heavy around his neck like a millstone.
Because of his choice, Juraf had perished—a man who, alone, had slain dozens of Gu soldiers and even brought down Gu En, one of their most formidable cultivators. Caela had been wounded beyond full recovery. His own brother had spiraled into depression, the fire in his eyes dimmed. His sister-in-law, once vibrant and strong, had grown sickly. And then of course came her passing years after. Even the village itself seemed changed, brittle and frayed at the edges.
Perhaps, he thought bitterly, the decay they fought now had started in that moment. When he chose logic over heart. Duty over kin.
And yet, the most damning truth of all was that he hadn't been entirely wrong.
Juraf's actions, reckless though they had been to save Caela, had devastated the Gu forces. The death of their commander had fractured their morale and sapped their strength, allowing Wolvenblade to claim hard-won concessions in the eventual treaty. Victories had come. Safety had been bought with blood. People mourned Juraf but everyone said he was a hero for his actions. None of them knew the truth. Well, none but him.
But every time Remus thought of that war, he felt a bile-like disgust rise in his throat.
The village's safety had been built atop bones. And he had stood atop that mound of the dead, staring into the eyes of the survivors with the hollow reassurance that it had been necessary.
And then there was Hathor.
The man had been one of his strongest supporters in the council of elders. His influence had helped sway decisions during times when indecision might have spelled disaster. Rather than one of the ones who stirred shit by backing his brother who had no intention of being chieftain. Not only that over the mans long tenure Hathor had rallied warriors to the cause, stirred morale when it flagged, and whispered strategies that had proven effective. His involvement in Caela's capture had come at a cost, but the village survived because of it in the end.
Yet... there was always that grin. That smug satisfaction whenever the war's aftermath was discussed. And then there were the rumors. The whispered accounts of cruelty, of unnecessary suffering inflicted upon people who confronted the man rare as they were.
Remus's nails dug into the wood of the table.
His silence had enabled all of it. And what made it worse was knowing that some elders nowadays backed Hathor and whatever faction he had—not out of loyalty, but because supporting him was a way to oppose Remus's own authority. They stirred the pot for their own ambitions, disregarding the weight of bloodshed that fed their manipulations. It wasn't as if Hathor was unique in this regard the elders had their motives but the man's plan and his hand in it made it particularly scathing.
Across the table, Midea's expression softened just slightly, though the glint in his eyes remained sharp.
"You let it slide," Midea said, voice like silk wrapping around a dagger. "For the greater good. For survival. I understand, Chieftain. I truly do. But the consequences have not vanished. They merely sit in the shadows, waiting. And shadows... well, they always grow longer when left unchecked."
Remus inhaled through his nose, forcing air into lungs that felt constricted by the weight of unspoken truths.
He said nothing.
Because Midea was right.
"I do not know what you know, Remus," Midea said, his voice remaining soft yet unyielding, smooth as silk yet weighted with intent. "But I can see it in your eyes—you've glimpsed the depths of that man's depravity. You've felt it, haven't you? That instinctive recoil whenever he speaks. This... this is your opportunity once more to simply do the right thing." His crimson eyes narrowed, glinting like molten embers beneath the flicker of the candlelight. "I know he leaves a bad taste in your mouth every time you see him. Even if you don't support Surya. Even if you don't support me... don't fight against us."
The words settled into the space between them like falling ash. His tone was measured, devoid of aggression, yet each syllable struck with precision.
"I ask for nothing more from you," Midea continued, voice dropping to a near whisper. "We are here to help. Hathor, though? Hathor is here only to cause problems. Look at the facts, Chieftain—think about it. Both he and his son have been the root of every issue involving us since our arrival." His fingers drummed lightly against the table's surface. "If you need loyalty, I can offer it. I'll make it a deal. But deep down, you already know what you must do."
The words dripped with honeyed sweetness, saturated with manipulation so thick it was almost palpable. But they were true. And Remus knew it.
The man had broken him down with nothing more than a handful of sentences, carefully placed like stones on a brittle dam. A few observations, a single sharp remark about his conscience, and now here he sat, shoulders heavy with the truth.
He exhaled slowly, tilting his head back to stare at the wooden ceiling above. The candle's wavering light cast distorted shadows across the planks, shapes that twisted and blurred as though mocking his indecision.
When he lowered his gaze once more, he saw it: a six-fingered hand stretched across the table toward him. Pitch black and powerful, marked by faint purple lines that pulsed faintly beneath the skin like veins filled with liquid fire. A silent offer. A promise wrapped in shadow.
Remus hesitated for a fraction of a breath, then extended his own calloused hand and grasped Midea's.
The satyr's smile widened, and the candlelight flickered as if in acknowledgment.
_____________
"To be honest," Midea said, voice casual, almost lighthearted, as numen flickered lazily between the tips of his claws like fireflies caught in a net. "I was surprised when you didn't object to Surya becoming the reification of this village. It wasn't what we agreed to. Honestly, it wouldn't even have been a breach of contract."
The purple threads of numen twisted and curled, forming fleeting shapes—a great Rams head, a crescent moon, a dark upside-down pentagram—before unraveling into shimmering mist. The satyr's crimson eyes glimmered in the dim light, watching Remus with the patience of a predator awaiting a telltale sign of weakness.
Remus inhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging beneath the invisible weight that had clung to him since the trial. His gaze dropped to the grain of the stump beneath him, tracing the faint imperfections in the surface.
"Maybe it's time," he said simply. The words left his mouth with the weariness of a man who had wrestled with them for far too long.
The flickering numen paused. Midea's head turned slightly, the question in his eyes unspoken but unmistakable. Remus shifted in his seat, pressing his fingertips to his temples as his thoughts coiled and tangled.
He didn't know why he wanted to speak. Perhaps it had been too long since he last spoke to an equal. He had his wives, of course, but they treated him first as their husband, then as their chieftain, and finally as the man who shared their home. None of them challenged him as an equal, not really. Midea, however, stood beneath him in no official capacity. His power was distinct, separate, and undeniably vast. The only other person Remus might have spoken to like this was his brother.
But Remulus...they were enemies now. The thought sent a sharp, throbbing pain through his skull. He shoved it aside with practiced effort.
"There was once a man," Remus began, voice rough and quiet. "Juraf. Former general of Wolvenblade. Astoundingly talented." He huffed out a humorless laugh. "Never liked that bastard, to be honest. But everyone else did for one reason or another. Even my own son." His eyes glazed over as the memories stirred, rising unbidden from the depths of his mind. "Juraf was arrogant and boisterous. Walked around like the sun itself owed him respect. If anyone had a mountain on their shoulder instead of a chip, it was him. Authority grated on him, and he grated on authority. But..." Remus sighed the sound hollow. "I won't deny his might. Or what he did for Wolvenblade."
His words drifted into the night, soft enough that they seemed to dissolve in the air alongside the dying candle's smoke.
Midea tilted his head. "You felt threatened," he said, not as a question, but as a statement.
The corners of Remus's mouth twitched upward in a bitter smile. He laughed then, a deep, throaty sound that lacked true amusement. "He was never going to be chieftain. He wasn't a Lupus and he had no intention of going there. But yes..." His knuckles turned white as he clenched his fists. "His existence caused problems for me. My son admired him. My brother practically idolized him. Juraf could bark a command and people would jump to follow it. I?" He shook his head. "I was the chieftain, and some still hesitated. He had so much influence elders backed my brother to oppose me secure in knowing he and Juraf were two peas in a pod."
Midea leaned forward slightly, the moonlight casting long shadows of his horns across the clearing. His brows raised just a tad.
"Jealousy," the satyr said softly. "Annoyance. Perhaps a touch of fear."
"I'm not proud of it," Remus admitted. "But yes. I won't deny it. His presence was a thorn in my side. My own child... my own brother... they seemed to love him more than they loved me."
His voice cracked on the final word, betraying the rawness he had buried for so long. His throat constricted with shame, and he forced himself to meet Midea's gaze.
"Even so," he said, voice low and deliberate. "I never once wanted him dead."
The air between them grew still, thick with the weight of past regrets and present uncertainty.
"Then Hathor wanted him dead? Was it that he had a vendetta against Juraf, Is that why he was so interested in the man's woman to do what he did?" Midea asked, his voice laced with curiosity, though his crimson eyes betrayed the sharper, calculating mind beneath.
Remus's gaze drifted toward the wavering Aspar in the night and the trails of Pipla and Katydid in the grass as he mulled over the question. "Hathor was likely involved with Caela before that time," he said slowly. "But yes, he hated Juraf. Probably because they were so similar yet ended up so different."
His fingers tapped the table in an unconscious rhythm. "Hathor is one of the weakest elders. You sensed it yourself—barely at the first shackle of the second layer. He never had access to many resources on his path growing up. The man was talented, yes, but not exceedingly so. He grew up in Shadeside, scrounged his way into the army, and earned accolades during a past war. His connections to the slums helped him manipulate and lie his way up the food chain after he became a paper pusher. Bit by bit, he gathered enough personal power to become an elder."
Midea's eyes glinted as he listened, silent as a shadow.
"But that," Remus continued, "was just par for the course. He wasn't always like this. He helped the village many times. He used to have a heart. He was one of my supporters." His voice faltered for a moment, then hardened. "But power struggles change people. He changed. Turned into... whatever he is now."
He paused as an Aspar drifted close, its glowing body weaving through the air like a miniature star. Its golden light filled his vision. Remus smirked faintly, though the amusement never reached his eyes.
"Juraf was the opposite," he said after a moment. "Despite coming from the same place, generally, he was too talented. Rose to fast. What took Hathor decades to accomplish, Juraf did in ten years." He leaned back slightly, the stump creaking beneath his weight. "The man was full of charisma. He didn't conform to anyone or anything. He was an abyss that swallowed everything around him and bent it to his will."
"And Hathor recognized that," Midea said, voice low.
"Yes," Remus confirmed. "So did Juraf. At least subconsciously, I'd assume."
The moonlight seemed to brighten, the light casting shifting patterns on the surrounding trees.
"Opposites do tend to be that way," Midea said, his voice low and contemplative. The flickering light of the Aspar illuminated the gaps between his fingers, their glow softening like a heartbeat winding down. "All opposites emerge from neutrality—a common point between the two. That is why opposites cannot escape one another. They are inextricably linked by nature. They diverge from that point because they don't want to remain where they are. They want to escape it. And for people, that point of neutrality can represent a great many things."
He shifted slightly, the golden glow catching the sharp curve of his horns. "But when we look at our opposites—or even those who traveled the same path but arrived at a different place—we see reflections of the parts of ourselves we tried so desperately to leave behind. We rage against that image because it feels like we never escaped at all. Like no matter how far we run, the core of who we were lingers, unchanged. It is not the person we see that unsettles us, but the reminder of the battle we thought we won."
The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of experience. The wind crackled softly, filling the silence with its faint, rhythmic whispers.
Remus shifted, feeling the tension coil in his chest. He recognized that feeling, that quiet despair. The speech had likely drawn up ghosts from Midea's past as easily as it had from his own.
"Hathor made a decision," Remus said, voice brittle. "A decision that violated Caela. One that led to Juraf's death. And I let it go." His eyes closed for a moment, and the memories surged forward like a flood breaking through cracked walls. "For the good of the village, I told myself. But also because of my own insecurities. My own... inadequacies. It was wartime, after all. And maybe I thought we had no other choice."
The wooden stump creaked beneath him once more as he leaned back, gaze drifting to the constellations above. "But maybe... maybe things wouldn't be like this if he were still around. Maybe we could've avoided this entire mess. Maybe—"
"Unless you manage to have a ninth-layer cultivator do it for you," Midea interrupted, voice calm but firm, "the past will not change, Remus."
Remus gave a short, bitter laugh. "Ninth layer, huh?" He tilted his head back, catching the pale beams of moonlight filtering through the branches. The light traced the creases in his forehead and cast shadows beneath his eyes. "Do beings that powerful really exist?"
Midea didn't answer immediately. The silence spoke enough.
"I may not be able to go back in time," Remus murmured after a moment. "But I can see the path forward. I've made so many mistakes... so many." His hands relaxed, the tension in his fingers releasing as though letting go of an invisible weight. "Perhaps it's time to loosen my grip. To see where things may flow if I step back."
He exhaled, the sound weary and resolute all at once. "Maybe if I give the next generation a chance, this village will finally change for the better."
The night stilled. Even he was shocked by his admission. He used to hate change after all. He didn't want to let go completely. But Fenrir knew he was tired. Tired and exhausted. The mantle that hung around his head seemed to threaten to decapitate him.
"Yes, perhaps that is for the best," Midea said, his grin sharp and knowing. But most importantly almost understanding. "But you are still needed, Remus. It is only through the linkage of the future and past that things can change in any way worthwhile."
A sharp wind blew threw the clearing moving his hair about his horns as it stuck to and then caught the sharp angles of his face, casting strange shadows that made his expression seem even more enigmatic and almost mystical.
"Such is the way of House Valefor," he continued, voice laced with quiet pride. "History must be remembered in order to be surpassed."
His crimson eyes seemed to glow, twin embers burning with the weight of ancestral knowledge. The words lingered in the air like smoke, curling into the crevices of Remus's mind.
"Only past and present," Remus responded, the phrase tumbling from his lips without thought. His mother's voice echoed in his ears—a memory from childhood, whispered beside a crackling hearth. "The future is only ever born from the ashes of what came before."
Midea tilted his head in acknowledgment, the gesture graceful and deliberate. The tip of his tail twitched, the motion sharp as a punctuation mark as if something alerted him.
"I have to go," the satyr said simply.
Without another word, he turned and melted into the shadows from which he had emerged. The darkness swirled around him like a cloak, devouring his form until only the faintest shimmer of numen remained. Then even that vanished, leaving the room clearing which returned to silence.
Remus sat there, under the full view of heaven's light as it enveloped him, his thoughts tangled with past mistakes and uncertain possibilities.
Alone, he pondered the future.