Rather than interrupt the scene of her brother's ongoing puppy love, Tanya decided to leave him to it and shift her focus to something far more pressing—her own preparations for the courthouse. There was no need to hover. Tarak could handle himself, and besides, there was something strangely amusing about watching him interact so naturally with someone that was not herself . She almost wanted to stay and observe, just for the novelty of it, but time was short.

She turned from the window, stretching the stiffness from her limbs before setting about gathering her materials.

Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, collecting the notes and documents she had been reviewing the night before. She shuffled them into a bag woven from animal hide, its surface uneven beneath her fingers. It was rough, bumpy—not the usual kind of tanned leather one would expect from common game.

Tanya paused, running her fingertips over its peculiar texture, her brows furrowing slightly in thought.

What kind of creature did this even come from?

She had encountered a fair number of beasts since her arrival, though none of them seemed large enough to match the sheer scale required for a hide like this. The Vampyrs didn't count, obviously—their bodies were strangely dense but stretched thin like sinew over bone. And Shades? Well, Shades weren't even alive in the biological sense, so they were right out of the equation.

She lifted the bag slightly, testing its weight, before finally shrugging off the thought. It wasn't important.

Her focus returned to her work. She moved her notes inside, arranging them neatly before pulling the flap shut. Just as she was cinching the straps into place, the sound of the door creaking open broke the relative quiet of the room.

She turned her head just in time to see her younger brother stepping inside, the lingering scent of the early morning air trailing in behind him. His expression was subtle, subdued—but even that was enough to tell Tanya he was mildly pleased about something.

Her lips curled into a slow smirk.

Interesting.

It was rare to see any real emotion grace his face beyond the usual deadpan calm or occasional flashes of quiet amusement. The sight of even mild satisfaction written across his features was something worth noting.

"Had fun?" she asked casually, tilting her head as she studied him.

Tarak simply nodded, his answer as concise as ever.

"I did."

Tanya let out a soft chuckle under her breath. She supposed she should have expected that much—her brother had never been the talkative sort.

Still, it was funny in its own way.

There was something almost cute about it, the way he returned from his little morning meeting as if it had been nothing special. As if he hadn't just spent his time having what could only be described as the most sentimental conversation she had ever heard come out of his mouth.

But she didn't comment on it.

Not directly, at least.

Instead, she gave him a knowing look, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement as she turned her attention back to adjusting the strap of her bag.

"Are you ready, sister?"

His voice cut through the moment, even and composed as always.

Tanya let out a small hum of acknowledgment, rolling her shoulders to loosen them.

"Of course."

With one last glance toward the window—where traces of morning light filtered through in soft golden hues—she fastened the bag over her shoulder and made her way toward her sibling.

"Indeed, the old goat should already be there." Tanya stepped forward, reaching out casually to tap at her brother's horns. A simple motion, but one filled with a natural ease, a silent exchange that only siblings could share. Tarak blinked but didn't react beyond that, merely watching as she turned, her steps carrying her out of Midea's home.

The light of the seven suns poured down upon them, their golden brilliance splintering through the air like cascading beams of divine attention. The sky above was vast and endless, an ocean of deep blues and violets that swirled in slow currents, punctuated by drifting creatures that defied nature as she knew it. Strange birds floated overhead, their figures casting brief shadows over the dusty ground. They had singular legs, balanced with an unnatural grace, and wide, unblinking eyes that gleamed like polished orbs. Tanya had noticed them before, circling, perching atop the wooden structures of the village, silent observers to the world below.

She made a mental note to ask someone about them. What were they called? Were they pests? Whether they were or not, she'd take to eating them if they were edible. Even if they weren't she was sure her body could manage. A meal was a meal, and she had yet to take full advantage of the most intrinsic part of her nature—hunting, killing, and growing stronger in return. Seldom had she killed and eaten said kills. Her instincts constantly bothered her about it. Her strength would not stagnate forever, but she knew patience. The world beyond the village was dangerous, unpredictable, filled with threats lurking just beyond the horizon. She was not naïve. Even with the blood that ran through her veins, she was not invincible. She would not risk exiting the village in order to hunt. There were things out there she had no way of measuring. Enemies beyond her strength alone. And there was always the swamp.

A place of sickness, of decay, of something that smelled like rot and felt like something worse. It would take one creature from that place infecting her. And honestly she did not know if she could survive an infection from such a place. Could she rely on her body's adaptation, her innate power? Perhaps. But she would never bet everything on an unknown. Her mother was strong—incomprehensibly strong—but even she had limits, somewhere beyond sight. At least she probably did. Strength alone was never the only factor in survival.

Her feet struck the soil, steady and sure, the impact resonating through the ground. The dirt beneath her was rich, warm from the sun's embrace, but every step carried weight, a presence that did not go unnoticed. They were being watched.

The canid clan's eyes followed them, cold and sharp, keen observers of their every movement. The villagers paused in their work, some lifting their heads from their tasks, others stealing quick glances from shaded doorways. The atmosphere was charged, neither welcoming nor entirely hostile, but heavy with the weight of something unspoken.

Some gazes were filled with admiration, quiet awe hidden beneath the natural wariness of their kind. Others, however, were not so kind. Hesitation, unease—resentment. They had upset the balance.

Tanya did not look away. She met their eyes when they lingered too long, her expression unreadable, her posture unyielding. She did not flinch. And yet, beneath the surface, her keen ears caught everything.

A serpent's hiss, whispers sliding between lips like rustling leaves in the underbrush.

"The Seventh Surya and her brother have done it again. They confronted a village elder!"

"They should have never been born like this. It isn't normal—did you see their size when they were born?"

"What is wrong with you?! They saved our people—did you forget that? Or did you simply choose to ignore it?"

"The satyr has brought nothing but prosperity since his arrival. He is no curse."

"Tch. And yet she injured a hardworking elder?"

"You know the whispers about that elder, don't you?"

The murmur spread, flickering through the crowd like kindling catching flame. Tanya exhaled through her nose, suppressing a scoff. They were predictable.

Midea had done good work—she had done good work. And it showed. The doubtful voices were outnumbered. The eyes that gleamed with light and trust outweighed those that simmered with unease and envy. Still, they would talk. Of course, they would. That was the nature of people. They whispered in the shadows because they lacked the courage to speak in the light.

She did not care for their opinions. What mattered was what would come next.

Surya shook her head, exhaling softly as she passed a small group of village women gathered near a modest wooden shop. The structure was simple, its walls weathered by time and the ever-present heat of the suns, but it bore the warm scent of fresh milk and curd. The women stood clad in common bronze-hued tunics, their faces marked by both curiosity and thinly veiled wariness and distrust as their eyes flitted between her and Tarak. Their conversation quieted as she walked by, their hushed murmurs slipping between the cracks of the dry, sunlit air like whispers carried on the wind.

Tarak, however, had slowed his steps, his crimson slit-pupiled eyes lingering on the women with that dull, unreadable expression of his—one that Surya recognized all too well. A gaze that was both detached and observant, sifting through people as though they were nothing more than fleeting shadows, registering them but offering no weight to their existence.

She clicked her tongue. Not now.

Without breaking stride, she reached out and grabbed his wrist, her fingers wrapping firm around his pulse. She gave it a slight but insistent tug, her silent way of telling him to focus. Stay on the path. Stay on the goal.

His eyes flicked toward her, the dim glaze vanishing as sharp clarity returned. He blinked once and nodded slightly, saying nothing, but the dull air around him seemed to crackle back into its usual quiet intensity.

The village paths stretched ahead, worn smooth by generations of treaded steps. The heat of the seven suns above shimmered faintly along the dirt roads, distorting the air just slightly, though the ever-present shade of the trees lining the outskirts offered some reprieve.

And then, they arrived.

The courthouse stood before them. A large blue-green wooden structure—not grand, not particularly imposing, but its presence loomed with an air of finality. Judgment was passed here. Lives were changed here. Fates were sealed here.

The exterior was adorned with cloth streamers that hung in long, sweeping arcs from the wooden beams, fluttering slightly in the hot breeze. Painted upon them were images, each one carefully etched in deep, earthen hues. A wolf with a halo. Seven celestial orbs encircling its head.

A depiction of Fenrir, the great wolf, revered not just as a being of power but as a celestial omen. A reference to the stars that the village held sacred, woven into their stories, their traditions, their law.

And yet, despite the reverence, despite the artistry—it was an imperious image. A reminder that this was a place where judgment reigned. A place where the weight of the past could crush the present beneath its heel.

As they approached, the villagers began to part before them.

Like the waters before Moses.

They did not move suddenly or in panic, nor did they cower. But there was a deliberate shift. A silent understanding in their retreat. Some eyes flicked downward in acknowledgement. Others remained steady, watching, measuring, waiting.

They knew why she and Tarak were here.

Surya barely acknowledged them. She simply walked.

The inside of the courthouse was a stark contrast to its exterior. Colorful. Surprisingly so. The walls were decorated with vibrant murals, shapes twisting and interwoven in depictions of cosmic forces, of beasts, of the heavens in motion. Rows of seats lined the space, constructed from a blue-green wood native to the region, its smooth surface polished from years of use. The floor, the podium, the walls beyond—painted black and white.

A clear dichotomy. Order and chaos. Light and shadow. Guilt and innocence.

At the center, where the eyes of the room naturally converged, stood the podium. Not just any podium—the witness stand. Where words could shape fates. Where truth and lies were measured in the same breath.

And beyond it, seated at the place of judgment, was Remus.

His form was imposing, though he sat with the rigid grace of someone who had spent a lifetime carrying authority on his shoulders. His expression was unreadable, yet there was a weight in his gaze, a quiet calculation as he observed the room. On either side of him sat the elders, their presence evenly distributed, their expressions ranging from solemn to unreadable.

And then, in a seat of honor, separate from the rest, was the High priestess—Baya.

A relic of wisdom, a keeper of knowledge that stretched back further than most in the village could remember. Her presence alone made the air in the room feel heavier, as if every word spoken here would echo far beyond this day. A sacred sort of ambiance. Matching with her job description Tanya mused.

And at the opposite stand, the accused, sat Hathor.

His body was wrapped in thick bandages, the remnants of his wounds from their battle still stark against his skin. His posture was stiff, controlled, though the very air around him carried the unmistakable scent of pain. Yet, for all his wounds, for all his injuries, he still sat there. Still faced them.

And that, to Tanya, was amusing.

Her lips curled into a grin.

She stood there—untouched. Unmarred. Not a scratch upon her, nor upon her brother. The contrast was glaring.

She could feel it. The resentment. The humiliation. The unspoken fury. He had lost. He had been beaten—publicly, undeniably. And now, he sat there, bandaged and broken, before the judgment of those who would decide what came next.

And then, from beside her, she heard it—a low growl.

Tarak's breath had become heavier, more controlled, but it did nothing to hide the tension that coiled through his frame. His veins bulged along his forehead, his jaw clenched tight, and his slit pupils had thinned into sharp, dangerous lines.

He was staring at Hathor.

Not with curiosity. Not with disdain.

But with something far darker.

Rage.

Tanya's fingers twitched. This wouldn't do.

Before he could let it spill over, before the storm inside him could erupt, she reached out once more. Calm.

Her hand found his.

A steady grip. A silent command.

Focus.

And in that moment, in that simple act, his breath began to even. The tension in his shoulders, though still present, halted. His fingers curled slightly around hers, a silent acknowledgment of the connection she offered.

Not now. Not yet.

"Calm," Tanya whispered, her voice low, firm. A promise meant only for him. "It will be fine. I promise you—we'll get rid of him one day. But you must be calm."

Her grip on Tarak's hand tightened, just slightly. Just enough to ground him. She could feel the tension thrumming beneath his skin, his pulse like a coiled beast ready to strike. The way his claws had begun to lengthen, the way the air around him seemed to hum with an unseen, restrained violence—she knew him well enough to sense it all. But slowly, slowly, his breath evened completely.

Not because he had forgiven. Not because his fury had faded.

But because he trusted her.

That was enough.

Tanya exhaled softly, letting her gaze sweep across the room in search of Midea.

Where was he?

Her sharp amethyst eyes scanned the space, flicking past the elders, past Remus, past the seated spectators whose hushed murmurs laced the thick courtroom air. Yet, nowhere.

Her lips curled downward, the barest flicker of annoyance creeping into her expression. He should have been here by now. He wasn't one to be late—not for this.

"Surya! Tarak!"

A voice rang from behind her, cutting through the din of murmurs and whispers.

She turned instinctively, catching sight of Hati and Garran as they filed in among the growing crowd.

The contrast between the two was almost amusing.

Garran, tall and composed, his presence imposing yet unreadable, his deep-set handsome features betraying little but measured restraint. He moved with the same calm precision he always did, as though he carried the weight of duty itself upon his back. His gaze flicked toward the center of the room, where his father sat in judgment, and in return, Remus gave him a curt nod. A natural exchange, devoid of tension.

Hati, on the other hand—

Hati launched herself at them.

Before Tanya could even react, she felt the impact of the woman's unyielding embrace, arms coiling around her and Tarak with relentless force.

Tanya barely held in a sigh as she was crushed, a deep mental weariness settling over her. Hati was many things. Loud. Reckless. Annoyingly persistent.

Respectful of personal space?

Never.

Tanya felt her brother twitch slightly beside her, likely just as exasperated, but he didn't pull away. He rarely did, not from her.

After a few long, suffocating seconds, Hati finally pulled back—only to immediately seize their faces.

Tanya let out a breath through her nose, her expression flattening as the woman's fingers stretched their cheeks with absolute impunity.

Tarak's eyes, slit and gleaming, narrowed in vague displeasure, though he didn't say anything. Tanya merely raised a brow, unimpressed but not surprised.

Hati, for all her boundless energy, knew exactly what she was doing.

And then she spoke—loudly. Deliberately.

"Don't worry, I'm on your side no matter what."

Her voice carried. It was meant to.

Tanya felt the shift. The ripple.

The audience heard. The villagers—some whispering, some still cautious, some clutching their biases tightly—heard.

Hati's amber eyes, gleaming like fire-lit honey, were serious despite the grin that stretched across her lips.

And then, she turned.

"And you are too. Right, Garran?!"

The question wasn't a question. It was a demand.

Tanya watched, intrigued, as the towering general let out a long, slow sigh, his fingers raking through his dark hair as though she had just thrown another burden onto his already-overflowing plate.

Exasperated.

But he nodded.

"As long as you did nothing wrong, I will give you the benefit of the doubt," he said, his voice steady. "You have fought for this village. And in the end… you are just children after all."

Tanya almost rolled her eyes at that last part.

Just children.

If they were just children, then what did that make the men who had already tried and failed to control and kill them?

Tarak, beside her, didn't react. Not outwardly. He was watching Garran carefully, his crimson eyes gleaming in thought. Surya didn't need to ask what he was thinking.

That might be useful later.

And then—

Hati's grin widened.

And widened.

Until it was practically splitting her face.

"See?! There we go, Garran!" She cackled, bouncing up on the balls of her feet before—

She jumped.

Tanya's brow arched as she watched Hati leap up, her arms locking around Garran's head in a playful headlock.

The contrast was so stark that even the nearby spectators paused, watching with a mixture of amusement and outright disbelief.

The tall, disciplined, no-nonsense general, stiff-backed and controlled—being held hostage in a chokehold by a grinning wild woman about a foot shorter then him.

Tanya didn't bother stopping the small smirk that curled the edges of her lips.

"Thanks, Hati," she said at last, her voice wry but genuine.

Hati, still dangling off Garran's shoulders, beamed.

"Anytime, sunshine!"

"And you too, Garran."

Tanya turned her head toward the general, her gaze steady, her voice deliberate. Garran's sharp green eyes widened slightly—not in shock, but in something close. He hadn't expected her to address him. He certainly hadn't expected gratitude.

But Tanya was nothing if not intentional.

She had already calculated the impact of her words. Showing appreciation toward Garran was not merely a formality—it was a maneuver. A subtle tilt in his direction. He was not a fool. He was not someone who leapt at idealism the way Hati did. If she wanted his support to remain firm, she needed to give him a reason beyond vague connections with Hati and family obligations or honor for literal deals with demons.

His expression smoothed quickly, the flicker of surprise vanishing beneath the weight of his usual composure. Then, with a measured nod, he acknowledged her thanks.

That was enough.

From the corner of her eye, Surya saw Hati whip her head toward him, her sharp amber eyes alight with mischief.

And then—

"See? See?! I told you she was great! You should have listened to me sooner, but nooo—"

Garran sighed, long and suffering, as Hati launched into a rapid, impassioned speech about Surya's many virtues. Too many virtues. It was less a conversation and more an endless verbal onslaught, her hands gesturing wildly, her voice rising with exaggerated indignation.

Garran, unimpressed, rubbed at his ears as though trying to physically block her out.

Tanya stifled a smirk.

And then Hati's voice shifted, her boundless energy narrowing into something more focused.

"Hmm. On that note, where is the Satyr?"

The change in topic was so abrupt that even Garran perked up, his gaze cutting back toward the group. The mention of the Satyr was enough to draw the attention of a few villagers, some whispering, some turning their heads toward the entrance, as if expecting him to suddenly materialize.

Hati, standing with her hands on her hips, scanned the crowd with an exaggerated squint. As if she could simply will him into existence through sheer determination.

When no answer came, Tarak finally spoke.

"He's probably with Luna."

His voice, low and steady, was the first he had offered since entering the courthouse.

Tanya turned slightly toward him, studying his face. His expression was neutral—too neutral.

That meant he was certain.

Tarak didn't assume things. Not unless he had already pieced together enough clues to be sure.

Which meant Luna was still undergoing whatever change had taken hold of her.

Surya gave a small nod.

She was supposed to be here.

Midea, too.

The trial had already begun, but neither had arrived.

That… was a problem.

Before she could dwell on it further, the shift in atmosphere stilled her thoughts.

The courthouse was settling.

The murmurs of the villagers faded. The restless shuffling of bodies ceased. The energy in the room, once lively and flickering with quiet gossip, now hardened.

Tanya turned her head just as Remus—his presence formidable beneath the hanging banners of Fenrir—stepped forward.

His voice, deep and resonant, cut through the silence like the crack of a falling axe.

"Settle down!"

The command was not shouted, yet it rang out like a hammer against stone.

Immediately, the crowd obeyed.

Tanya straightened her back, her amethyst eyes fixed ahead as the ritual words were spoken.

"Under the light of the Seven Suns."

The crowd collectively lowered their heads, a show of reverence to the celestial bodies that had long governed their fates.

"On the firmament of Fenrir."

The banners of the great wolf swayed gently, as if stirred by unseen hands.

"Under the scales of the Wolf, we hold a trial today."

Tanya's fingers flexed, anticipation settling into the marrow of her bones.

Remus' gaze swept the room before landing on the three figures at the heart of today's judgment.

"Elder Hathor. The Seventh Surya. Tarak."

The names carried weight, each syllable a stone cast into still waters.

Some in the crowd exhaled sharply, their shoulders tensing at the final name.

Others simply watched.

Waiting.

"Make your way to the stands."

A pause.

A breath.

"Now, we enter under the Light of Judgment."

The words were final. Absolute.

The moment hung in the air like a blade, suspended, waiting to fall.

Tanya squared her shoulders, her heartbeat steady.

Well, here goes.

__________

Midea held the girl—no, not just a girl. Something more. Something profound. She was his daughter now. The weight of the thought settled into his mind, an unfamiliar, almost absurd concept that he couldn't shake. He snorted quietly, the sound barely audible over the muffled sobs that wracked her trembling frame. His arms remained steady around her, unfaltering, despite the whirlwind of thoughts threatening to distract him.

What would his father think? He almost laughed at the idea. What would she think? He already knew the answer. She'd probably scoff, tell him that he wasn't ready for something like this, that responsibility wasn't something he had ever been suited for. A flicker of irritation fused with sentiment flared in his chest, but he smothered it before it could grow. Now wasn't the time for useless introspection. Not of her. He shook his head, driving away the unwanted thoughts.

The truth of the matter remained: Luna was a Nahemoth.

That was what truly caught him off guard, what made all of this surreal. He had expected anything but that. Even with all his knowledge, all his experience, he never would have predicted this. It was absurd in every possible way.

A Nahemoth was no mere demon. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

She was a Kabbalistic. Kabbalistic demons were different. Their existence was woven into the very foundations of Hell's structure. More clearly they were the progenitors of demonkind. To become one wasn't just an evolution—it was an ascension. The bodies of the kabbalistic demons were the true bodies of the denizens of hell. No not denizens the conquerors.

Hell was vast, a great realm composed of eight realms, but the Seven Circles? Those were merely extensions, the outward limbs that had grown from the original core—the true Hell, the First Realm. The Abyss.

And from the Abyss had grown something ancient, something immutable: Qliphoth.

The Tree. The axis from which the demonic race had spawned. Not a tree in the mortal sense well at least not completely it was so much more, It was also a construct of reality itself—a space-time structure that twisted through existence, its branches stretching into realms unknown, its roots burrowing into the very fabric of Hell. The Seven Circles were but extensions of its will, mere shadows of the original Abyss.

And Nahemoths…

Nahemoths were demons born of Qliphoth itself. Demons of one of it's eleven aspects. Not just creatures of Hell, but expressions of it, intimately tied to its law. Kabbalistic demons were the oldest and strongest of demonkind, standing as the greatest and oldest of their race. All of the Archdemons—every last one—had evolved into the form of a Kabbalistic demon.

Satan himself had begun as one. That is how old the Devil was.

For a demon, achieving such an evolution was the ultimate aspiration. It was the pinnacle, the path to true sovereignty over the demonic race.

And yet…

Luna had become a Nahemoth as a mere Darkling.

The sheer impossibility of it gnawed at him. He could feel the implications weighing on his mind, pressing against the edges of his understanding. This shouldn't have happened. This couldn't have happened. And yet, she was here, trembling in his arms, her entire being wrapped in the shroud of her transformation.

Her sobs had quieted, reduced to occasional, shallow gasps. The raw grief in her had not faded, but it had settled, curled in on itself like a slumbering beast.

Midea looked down at her, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. He could feel the difference in her. He could see it.

Her affinity for Yin Energy had strengthened immensely.

Not merely in a way that was perceptible—no, this was something deeper. This was a transformation, a restructuring of her body and soul. He could sense it in the way her presence bled into the air around her, a cold that was not mere temperature but something conceptual. It was Yin in its purest form, refined beyond what it had once been.

It was more than an affinity now.

Hell it was basically a physique. He needed to check to be sure but his senses were rarely wrong.

A fundamental shift had taken place, elevating what had once been a natural inclination into something far greater. It was the result of two forces converging—her transformation into a demon, refining her Yin essence through the change, and her evolution into a Nahemoth, amplifying and purifying it beyond what should have been possible. And finally another force to take it over the edge.

But there was one thing that stood out even among all the abnormalities.

The moon on her chest.

Midea's gaze drifted to the pale symbol etched into her skin, its presence stark against her complexion. It pulsed faintly, a rhythmic glow that seemed to synchronize with her breathing, as if it were alive. That… that was an anomaly even he didn't understand.

There was something strange about it.

Something unnatural.

Something divine.

He wanted to understand it. He wanted to see just how far her Yin energy had been elevated—just what else had changed within her. Because if his instincts were right… this was no ordinary transformation.

"Have you calmed?" Midea asked, his voice as gentle as he could manage. He wasn't familiar with this—this role, this responsibility, this moment. Comfort was not something he had ever received as a child. Not once had an adult held him in the wake of his sorrows, nor had they soothed his pains with soft words or quiet reassurances. Crying was unworthy of a demon of House Valefor. He had been taught that weakness was a thing to be carved out and discarded, that suffering was nothing more than fuel for greater strength.

And yet, here he was, holding her. A child—no, more than that. His child now.

The girl sniffled, rubbing at her darkened eyes, their depths still glassy with lingering tears. "Mmmhmmm." Her voice was small, a fragile hum between barely parted lips.

Midea let out a slow breath, then nodded. This was already done. There was no point in debating what had happened or in fighting the tide of what she had become. He would care for her. Even if only to preserve his pride. Even if only to be better than the man who had sired him.

"Alright." His hands, still firm on her shoulders, tightened just slightly. "May I test some things? Just to find out about your new body. It won't take long, I promise."

She peered up at him, her gaze searching. Trust. He could see it forming in those shadowed irises. Reliance. It was something small, something terrifyingly delicate, and yet it sat there between them, undeniable.

A slight pang ran through his chest. He ignored it.

The girl nodded, her agreement silent but clear.

Midea wasted no time. His numen thrummed to life, a deep violet glow rolling from his fingertips, slithering over his arms in ghostly veins of power. He pushed the energy outward, sending a pulse of pure intent into her, letting it thread through the delicate pathways of her new form.

Resonance.

The sensation struck him immediately. Deep. Innate. Familiar. It wasn't just because he had placed so much of himself into her transformation—it was because their bloodlines were now woven together. His numen had already left its imprint upon her; his essence had shaped hers.

She was Scelus now. His clan. His kin.

The old blood in his veins responded, whispering truths about her being, about the state of her body, her soul, her new reality.

The Scelus bloodline was ancient—its roots sank deep into the First Circle of Hell. Unlike some other demon bloodlines that granted monstrous physical strength or devastating abilities, the blood of Sin and Squalor worked differently.

It altered. It twisted. It refined.

It enhanced cultivation, deepened comprehension, and strengthened the quality of the daos one could wield and gave affinity to certain daos. They also possessed a minorly stronger physical form and recovery rate but nothing too special. But more than that, it did something far rarer.

It created curses.

Not the crude, artificial curses forged from wards and rituals, but something much more intrinsic. Scelus demons could trap trauma within their blood. Whether it was a flaw in cultivation, an old wound, a deep scar, a sin committed or suffered—it could be locked away, crystallized into a curse, a wound-turned-weapon that grew alongside its wielder.

Midea felt the blood vibrate. A silent hum beneath his numen, stirring in acknowledgment. Something had awakened.

His lips pressed into a firm line. She was already absorbing the properties of his lineage.

But there was more to uncover.

He exhaled slowly, pushing deeper, threading his numen into the core of her being, mapping her meridians.

And then he stopped.

His fingers stilled on her shoulders. A slow breath left his lips as his eyes widened slightly in shock.

Her meridians—they were wrong.

No… not wrong. Different. More.

Midea narrowed his eyes, his numen tracing the intricate pathways within her. They should not be like this. Before her evolution, he had examined them. She had been nothing special. A standard set of meridians, the kind possessed by any average cultivator.

But now—

Now, her meridians were enormous.

They absorbed far more than they should, drinking in numen like a starving beast at a river's edge. The sheer pull of energy was unnatural.

His numen pressed deeper. He focused.

Her meridians weren't just large. They weren't merely overactive.

They were Star-Grade.

Midea felt his breath catch in his throat. That was impossible.

Star-Grade meridians were anomaly-tier talent. A single one of her meridians could pull in three times the amount of numen as a normal cultivator. It was the difference between a candle and a roaring bonfire, between a novice and a prodigy.

He pushed further. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty. Forty-five. Fifty-six.

Fifty-six meridians.

Gold-Grade. The fifth tier of meridian number.

That was definitely talented but nothing insane. If you ignore the fact she had star-grade meridians that is.

Midea's mind raced. The sheer advantage of high-quality meridians was immeasurable.

It wasn't just about absorbing more energy. It was about purification.

Her numen would be denser, her techniques stronger, her progress infinitely faster. Where others would take years to refine their cultivation, she would take months. A single meridian of her caliber was worth three normal ones—and she had fifty-six. A top tier god level talent with normal meridians would have eighty-one. She had fifty-six star-grade meridians. That was the equivalent of a hundred and sixty-eight meridians.

He pressed his fingers tighter against her shoulders, his gaze flickering to her face. She was completely unaware. Unaware of what this meant. What she had become.

Something was off.

Her meridian count had changed. He knew for certain she had possessed fewer before. That was another impossibility. The number of meridians a person had was set from birth. Admittedly not for demons however. It sometimes though rarely increased with evolution.

Aside from that it could be expanded through extreme means, but that was rare. Well rather than rare takes significant resources is more accurate.

Quality, however… that should have been fixed.

And yet here she was. Transformed.

His voice was even when he finally spoke. "Luna."

She blinked up at him. "Yes?"

His crimson eyes flickered with something unreadable.

"You don't feel different?"

She tilted her head, considering. "I feel… strong. I feel… complete." Her voice was quiet. Thoughtful. "Like I was missing something before, and now it's… just there."

Midea exhaled sharply through his nose. Missing something. He hadn't just changed her—she had remade herself. Her evolution had rewritten fundamental truths about her body.

He closed his eyes briefly.

This changed everything.

He opened his eyes again, regarding her carefully. "Your evolution wasn't normal."

Luna frowned slightly. "Is that… bad?"

Midea hesitated for half a second before shaking his head.

"No," he said at last. "It's not bad. Not bad at all."

Midea continued his examination, his numen slipping deeper, tracing along the invisible lines of her being, threading through muscle, bone, and blood until he reached her soul.

And then he felt it.

At the very core of her existence, coiled within her vitra and spectra, there was an immense, foreign force—a vast ocean of Yin energy, cold and all-encompassing.

It was alive. It was moving.

His numen pulsed forward, reaching to map it out, to understand how deeply it had embedded itself into her essence. But the moment his energy grazed the boundary of that abyss, something pushed back.

A surge. A violent rejection. A blast of Yin energy that erupted like a storm breaking through weakened walls.

A shockwave of frost cascaded outward from her core, rushing up his numen's path, slamming into his extended hand.

Cold. Bitter, unnatural cold.

Dark frost crawled up his fingers in jagged, intricate formations, not like ice, but like something ancient and sentient. It latched onto him, creeping along his skin like a curse, each frozen tendril pulsing with a ghostly, blue-black glow.

Midea's teeth clenched as the biting chill burrowed into his bones. He recoiled, yanking his numen back in a sharp withdrawal. A sharp grunt left his lips as he instinctively dispelled the creeping frost, his other hand igniting with purple fire.

The flames danced along his arm, eating away at the frost, dispelling its invasive grasp in slow, crackling bursts. He flexed his fingers as the last remnants of it crumbled into the air, vanishing like spectral embers.

Luna's eyes snapped open immediately, wide with alarm, her dark pupils shimmering with worry.

"Midea—" she started, her voice laced with hesitation.

"I'm fine." He held up a hand, his tone controlled, but there was an edge to it, the lingering residue of what had just happened.

That was not normal.

He turned his focus inward, his mind racing through posssibilities. He had seen Yin-based cultivators, Yin-inclined spirits, even demons with strong Yin affinities—but this was not a simple case of high Yin energy.

This was carving itself into her soul.

It wasn't just empowering her. It was rewriting her.

Midea's crimson eyes narrowed slightly.

A Yin Physique. As expected.

That much was clear now. But physiques were inherited at birth or cultivated through rare and extreme means. They did not simply appear overnight. They did not form out of nowhere. They were not gifted like this.

And yet, it was happening.

This wasn't an external force invading her, nor was it something she had absorbed. It was intimate. Deep. As if it had always been a part of her, waiting for the right moment to awaken.

His fingers twitched slightly at the thought.

Once this process finished, it wouldn't be something separate from her. It would become her.

It was like an inheritance.

A powerful one.

Midea snorted, shaking his head. Tch.

This girl, this child, had gone from being unremarkable, mundane, ordinary— to something far beyond the norm in mere moments. A Nahemoth. A Kabbalistic Demon. An inheritor of an unknown Yin Physique.

She had surpassed the talent of nobles, of prodigies, of his own expectations.

And suddenly, she had more potential than even himself.

A wry smirk pulled at the corner of his lips despite himself. How ridiculous.

A darkling—a girl who was nothing, who had nothing— had somehow become one of the most talented beings he had ever laid eyes on.

Perhaps he should thank Surya.

If nothing else, it meant his investment had not been wasted.

"I'll tell you about your new body later," Midea said solemnly, his voice measured, careful. "But I'm sure you want to see your mother."

Luna's breath hitched. Her entire body tensed.

"She's alive?!" she shouted, her voice a mix of raw desperation and fragile hope. Her dark eyes flew open, wide and unblinking, as if the very act of hearing those words might make them vanish.

Midea nodded, his expression unreadable. "Indeed. But…" He exhaled through his nose, gaze unwavering. "She's not in the best state. Not at all for a child's eyes."

He watched as Luna's fingers curled into the fabric of her borrowed clothes, gripping the material like it was the only thing keeping her upright. She didn't look away. That was good.

"But in my experience," he continued, "you will want to see her anyway. It's always like that." His voice carried something beneath the surface—a knowledge beyond words, an unspoken weight that came from a past he didn't care to discuss. "And you should. No matter how it scars you. For this may be the last time you ever see her."

Luna swallowed hard, her throat bobbing, the sharp edges of her newly formed fangs barely visible as her lips parted in silent agony.

Tears welled up at the corners of her eyes again, but she didn't sob this time.

She just nodded. A single, deliberate movement.

Midea studied her, crimson gaze flickering over her features. She was holding herself together. For now.

Without another word, he turned, leading her down the dimly lit corridors of the stronghold, his presence solid and steady beside her.

The walls were carved wood, dark and polished, absorbing the faint torchlight that flickered in the blue-green sconces. The halls smelled faintly of incense, a cloying, bitter scent that did little to mask the underlying scent of blood and flesh—the lingering fscent of ash and the thrum of healing magic woven into the very foundations of the place from the events of the meteor storm.

Midea didn't speak. Neither did Luna.

She followed him, small and silent, her bare feet barely making a sound against the cold floor.

The deeper they went, the quieter everything became. The air grew heavier, thick with something unspoken, something ominous. The weight of grief.

They stopped in front of a heavy wooden door, its frame decorated with faded talismans. Not to keep something out—but to keep something in.

Outside stood a priestess.

She was a tall woman, draped in dark robes embroidered with a slavery silk, her hood pulled back to reveal sharp emerald eyes that flickered with recognition. Her dark skin was smooth, but lined faintly with age, a lifetime of wisdom and hardship written in the creases around her mouth.

The moment her gaze landed on Luna, she stilled, her breath catching in her throat.

Shock. Confusion. Fear. All of it flashed across her face in rapid succession.

"Are you…" The priestess hesitated, her golden eyes narrowing as she took in Luna's changed appearance. "Are you Luna? Caela's daughter?"

Her voice was laced with uncertainty, her fingers twitching as if debating whether to reach for her or step away.

"I can tell from the hair, but…" The priestess' gaze flickered to Luna's horns, her claws, the unnatural gleam of her newly transformed body. "What happened to you?"

Luna stiffened. Her throat worked, but no words came.

Midea, ever the shield, stepped in smoothly. His voice was as calm as ever, but firm. "It is indeed her. Please let us through."

The priestess' brows knit together, but she did not argue. She studied Luna a moment longer, searching for something—perhaps the remnants of the child she once knew of.

Whatever she found in Luna's dark, haunted eyes made her lips press into a thin line.

She stepped aside.

But before they passed, she spoke again. Her voice softer this time.

"Don't be too loud," the priestess murmured, the weight of sorrow settling over her words. "Don't aggravate her. She is… struggling."

Luna inhaled sharply. The pain in her chest coiled tighter, suffocating, wrapping around her ribs like a vice.

She clenched her fists, nodded once, and stepped forward.

Midea placed a hand on the door.

It creaked open.

Midea exhaled, looking to Luna before sliding the door open completely.

A wave of stagnant, sterile air washed over him—a mixture of numen-infused ointments, herbs meant to slow decay, and the lingering metallic tang of blood. It was the scent of suffering, of a body desperately clinging to life.

Inside, Caela lay motionless.

She was wrapped in bandages from head to toe, the white cloth stark against the dimness of the room. Yet despite the freshness of the wrappings, crimson had already seeped through in places, blooming like wounds that refused to close. The bandages covered nearly every inch of her, concealing what Midea already knew to be grievous, near-unrecoverable injuries.

Where the gauze parted, her flesh was visible—charred, warped, barely clinging to her bones. In some areas, the burned tissue had sloughed off entirely, revealing raw sinew beneath, as though her body itself had begun rejecting its own existence.

Her face… or what remained of it.

One side was wrapped, but the other was left bare—burned beyond recognition. The flesh of her cheek was gone, stripped away to expose the darkened gums and the gleaming, unnatural white of her teeth. Ointments had been applied in an attempt to stave off infection, their thick consistency giving her skin an almost waxy appearance. She could not smile. She did not have the flesh left for it.

And yet—her silver hair remained.

It spilled across the pillows, disheveled and tangled, but unmistakable. A contrast against the devastation. A remnant of who she once was.

And her eye.

She had only one left, the other socket bandaged over, but that single beautiful pupil-less blue eye flickered open the moment the door creaked.

A slow, careful movement. Not from weakness, but from intent.

She had been waiting.

The room was silent, the weight of her awareness suffocating in the dim light.

Midea remained still, watching as Luna stepped forward.

Her movements were hesitant, almost stilted. Like she was afraid. Not of what she saw, but of what stepping forward would mean.

Her breath hitched audibly.

One step.

Her tail curled behind her, rigid with tension.

Another.

Her hands clenched at her sides, claws digging into her palms. She didn't notice.

Each step was agony. Not physically, but emotionally—a venture into the unknown.

Like the mere act of approaching was an act of defiance against reality itself. Like if she moved too quickly, the abyss would open beneath her, and she would fall.

And yet, she kept going.

Slow. Measured. Fragile.

Until finally, she fell to her knees before her mother's bedside.

Luna pressed her forehead against the sheets. Her horns scraped against the fabric. Her hands trembled as they curled into the bedding, gripping it as if it were the only thing tethering her to the moment.

And then, the tears came.

Heavy. Unrelenting.

Choked sobs wracked through her small frame, muffled against the blankets.

Caela moved.

Or at least, she tried to.

Her skeletal fingers twitched against the mattress, struggling to lift themselves. A single tremor-ridden attempt.

Her arm shook violently, jerking in small, faltering movements. The nerves were damaged, likely beyond repair. The pain must have been excruciating, yet she did not make a sound.

Her hand fell.

Midea saw her entire body flinch.

She was straining. Fighting.

Fighting to lift her hand.

Fighting against her ruined body.

Fighting against the agony.

For this.

For her child.

A visible shudder wracked through her as she forced the limb upward once more. It was agonizing to watch.

Midea could see the effort it took, the sheer willpower involved in such a simple act. But she did not stop.

Her hand trembled violently—fingers spasming, curling inward from the effort. The tendons were failing, her grip weak. It fell again.

And still—she tried.

A ragged, uneven breath escaped her exposed mouth.

Then, one final push.

Her fingertips brushed against Luna's hair.

A simple touch.

Nothing extravagant.

Nothing dramatic.

But it was everything.

Her fingers curled as best they could, running through the soft strands—stroking gently, like a mother should.

Like a mother does.

No hesitation.

No flinching at Luna's new horns.

No questioning of the girl's changed appearance.

No fear.

Just love.

The moment her mother touched her, Luna broke.

Her sobs deepened, her body convulsing against the bedside as she wept, her cries raw and unfiltered.

She buried herself into the sheets, pressing herself closer, trembling with the weight of everything she had tried to hold back.

She could not hold it anymore.

Midea did not move.

He did not speak.

He simply stood there, watching, his crimson eyes unreadable.

This was not his moment to intrude upon.

He let it pass in silence.

And though Caela could not smile, he saw the joy in her eye.

Even in the midst of her agony.

Even with what little strength she had left.

She was happy.

________________

"I'm sorry, Mama. I'm so—"

Luna's words barely formed between the sharp, hiccuping sobs that wracked through her small body. Her voice cracked, strained from emotion, but the words still pushed through, raw and broken.

"What can I do without you?" she whispered, her breath stuttering as though she were gasping for air. "I really don't know. How will I—"

Her chest heaved.

For a moment, she seemed to choke on her own grief, struggling to form even the simplest of sentences. The weight of it crushed down on her ribs, as if the very air had thickened into something suffocating. Her fingers curled tighter into the sheets, her claws piercing through the fabric, trembling.

But then—Caela moved.

The woman, despite her grievous state, turned her head just slightly.

Her one remaining eye, blue, happy yet clouded with exhaustion, focused.

Her jaw shifted, lips barely parting. She mouthed something.

A whisper. A ghost of words.

Luna stilled.

The girl's breath caught in her throat, her entire body going rigid. The moment stretched—a fragile eternity.

Then, silence.

She did not cry out again. Did not sob.

She just knelt there, absorbing whatever her mother had tried to say.

Half an hour passed. Neither spoke.

The room was heavy, thick with an unspoken exchange, something greater than language could express. A mother's strength. A daughter's sorrow. A bond that had not shattered, even beneath the weight of fire and pain.

Finally, Caela's eye fluttered shut.

Her body, so fragile yet unrelenting, surrendered to slumber.

Luna remained still for a long moment, staring at her mother's still form as if memorizing every detail—every breath, every shift of light across the ruined remnants of her face.

Then, she stood.

She moved slowly, deliberately. Not out of hesitation, but out of reverence. She did not wish to disturb her mother's hard-earned rest.

"I'll be back, Mama," she whispered.

The words were simple.

A promise.

A vow.

She lingered for just a moment longer, fingers ghosting over the sheets where her mother lay. Then, she turned.

Midea, who had remained silent throughout the entire exchange, simply nodded as she approached. He did not speak. Did not ask what had passed between them. Nor was it his place to know

Instead, he simply stepped aside, allowing her to leave first.

As they stepped out into the open air, the shift in the world was jarring.

The building was silent, its corridors dimly lit by the dying glow of lanterns. But beyond its threshold—the village breathed.

Life had continued. People moved through the streets, their conversations soft but constant. The world had not stopped for Luna's grief.

Midea glanced upward.

The suns had risen high. It was time.

The trial would begin soon.

He grimaced, exhaling sharply through his nose before glancing toward the girl beside him. Her face was unreadable. But her eyes—those were sharp.

"The elder is being tried today," he said plainly. His voice cut through the air like a blade, precise and unwavering. "Surya needs your help."

He tilted his head slightly, watching her carefully.

"What do you think?"

Luna froze.

A shudder ran through her.

It was brief, barely visible—but Midea caught it.

Fear.

His gaze flickered, watching as the emotion passed through her like a shadow. She was still afraid.

Midea sighed internally. She wasn't ready.

Not yet.

His lips parted, about to tell her to let it go for now—to tell her she had already been through enough—when the ground trembled beneath his feet.

His eyes snapped to her.

Luna's fists were clenched so tightly her nails drew blood.

Her numen thrummed around her, crackling against the air like an oncoming storm. A wave of unseen force rippled outward, sending cracks splintering through the earth beneath her feet.

Midea narrowed his eyes.

That ability again.

What he observed before was inaccurate. Rather than her numen cracking the earth, it was as if the earth cracked at her signal. Like it did it for her. It was certainly something.

He examined her closely. She was trembling. Fear still lingered in her eyes.

But layered over it—no, towering above it—was something else entirely.

Hatred.

And something even greater than that.

Determination.

"A woman," she said suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper, "should have an abyss in her eyes."

Midea stilled.

He had not expected her to speak—not like this.

Her lips parted once more, and this time, her voice was stronger.

"Fire in her veins."

Her shoulders straightened.

"A monster in her heart."

Her fists unclenched.

"And an oasis in her soul."

She exhaled slowly, steadying herself.

"A woman should be ready to swallow the world."

Her eyes lifted.

"I refuse to be afraid of the outside world any longer."

She stepped forward, the earth racking before her feet listening to her will. Feeling it's weight. Shattering itself before her determination.

"No more."

The numen around her pulsed.

"Never again."

Midea watched her in silence, his crimson gaze unreadable.

Then—he laughed.

A quiet chuckle, deep and rich.

Not mocking.

Not cruel.

Just genuine amusement.

His head tilted slightly, silver strands of hair falling over his sharp horns.

"Those are wise words, Luna." His voice was calm, smooth as flowing ink.

Luna's gaze did not waver.

She turned, her dark, unfathomable eyes locking onto his own.

"For her sake," she murmured, but there was a weight to it. A vow laced in every syllable.

Midea did not need to ask who she meant.

"And for my own," she continued.

Her fingers twitched at her sides.

"For the future," she breathed.

Wind swirled around her.

"And for the past."

The world began to grow cold.

"For the living," she exhaled.

A slow breath. Controlled. Composed.

Her dark eyes burned with purpose. As the world around her yelled.

"And for the soon-to-be dead."

Midea grinned.

A sharp, almost predatory expression.

"Oh?" His voice was velvety, almost teasing. "That's quite the promise."

She did not look away. Her voice was steel.

"He can't be allowed to go free."

The words carried the weight of something absolute. A truth. A decree. She had decided.

"He won't be allowed to go free."

There was no going back.

Luna's fear still lingered, but it no longer ruled her.

It no longer bound her.

And Midea knew then, without a doubt—

She was ready.

___________________

Tanya moved forward, her steps precise, measured, yet carrying an undeniable weight as she took her place beside her brother. The air in the courthouse was thick, not just with the scent of aged wood and the faint trace of incense that still clung to the rafters, but with something far heavier—judgment. Suspicion. Uncertainty.

She could feel it pressing against her skin like a physical force, whispering through the stifled breath of the gathered villagers, thrumming in the tense silence that had settled over the room.

Before her, across the wooden platform that separated the accused from the accuser, stood Hathor.

The elder's presence was as imposing as ever, though his usual self-assured arrogance had soured into something darker. His frame, wrapped in fresh bandages from the battle, was stiff with barely restrained rage. His face, lined with the marks of age and experience, twisted into something that might have resembled pain if not for the venom lurking behind his gaze.

His milky eye burned with hatred.

Tanya did not flinch. Her expression remained still—ice-cold, unreadable. She had mastered that much. It wasn't as if she feared him regardless. He was an enemy. Nothing more nothing less.

On one side of the room, Baya sat with the elders, their robes flowing like rivers of muted color, stark against the otherwise austere setting. The chieftain, Remus, sat at the center of them, his presence one of command, though Tanya did not miss the slight furrow of his brow, the way his fingers drummed against the armrest of his seat—a subtle tell that even he was not without apprehension.

Beside him, Garran stood tall.

The general's green eyes flickered to her and Tarak for just a moment, assessing, but he gave no sign of where he leaned. Curious. Watching. Calculating.

And on the other side—the villagers.

Rows upon rows of them, their bodies pressed close together, filling every available space. She could feel their eyes on her, on Tarak. Some were warm, flickering with admiration and support, others uncertain, their loyalty to Hathor or rather Wolvenblade deeply ingrained. And then there were those whose gazes were filled with nothing but doubt and quiet hostility.

Divided.

It would be difficult. But that was fine.

She had climbed higher mountains before. And to be fair she had some allies this time around as well.

Remus stood from his seat, his deep voice booming through the vast hall, commanding absolute silence.

"Today, we are gathered to settle a dispute."

His words rolled like thunder, measured and firm, echoing against the wooden walls. He did not embellish. He did not waver.

"Hathor, the elder of our village, claims that Surya and Tarak attacked him unprovoked while he was rescuing a young girl from a fire during the meteor storm."

The murmurs among the villagers swelled slightly at that. There it was. The planting of doubt.

Remus allowed the ripple to pass before continuing.

"On the other hand, Surya stands in accusation, claiming that Hathor was not the savior in this tale, but the assailant. That it was he who threatened the girl—and that was the reason the battle began."

This time, the murmurs were louder. The weight of the claim pressed against the room like a coiling beast, wrapping its tendrils around the gathered audience, squeezing tightly.

Tanya kept her expression neutral.

She had expected this.

Remus straightened his broad shoulders before delivering the final decree.

"As is our custom, judgment will be decided through evidence and through the will of the people. And the will of the council."

The will of the people.

Tanya internally clicked her tongue in annoyance.

How much had this man done for them?

How many winters had he spent tending to their wounds? How many feasts had been prepared under his guidance? How many favors had he accumulated over the years, weaving his influence into the very fabric of this place?

Tanya had been here for less than a month.

A single month.

It was an uphill battle.

But so what?

"The final decision rests upon us," Remus continued, "the council, the chieftain, and most of all, the people of this village."

He let the weight of those words settle.

"Elder Hathor, given your status and position, you will be allowed to speak first."

Tanya's fingers twitched at her side.

She exhaled slowly, pushing down the irritation that curled at the edges of her thoughts.

It was expected.

Traditional.

It made sense.

But it didn't mean she had to like it.

Allowing that piece of filth to speak first?

She understood why, but it did not make it any less bothersome.

Her face, however, remained calm. Composed.

As always.

Hathor stepped forward, his frame stiff with pain, but his eyes locked onto her and Tarak with the full force of his loathing.

Tanya felt his glare settle on her like a smoldering brand.

If looks could kill—no, if there existed a technique powerful enough to erase a person with sheer force of will, she had no doubt he would have obliterated her and Tarak ten thousand times over by now.

But she gave the old injured raisin no mind.

Instead, she simply lifted her chin ever so slightly, holding his gaze with quiet, effortless authority.

It infuriated him. She could see it.

Hathor's lips curled, his expression twisting for just a moment before he turned away from her, redirecting his focus to the crowd.

That was what mattered, after all.

Not her.

Not Tarak.

The people.

She watched as he drew in a slow breath, steeling himself before beginning his defense.

Hathor stepped forward, his presence looming like a shadow over the gathered crowd. His posture was stiff, the bandages across his body a stark reminder of the battle he had barely survived. Yet despite the pain, despite the lingering wounds that wrapped his flesh like the aftermath of a storm, his voice carried no weakness.

"Many of you know me."

The elder's tone was deep, resonant, practiced. His words slithered into the silence, filling the air with an almost rhythmic certainty. He wasn't merely speaking—he was commanding attention.

"I have been an elder since before the current chieftain even came into power. For eighty years, I have served this village, managing its funds, overseeing its defenses, organizing events, ensuring that Wolvenblade thrives. I have been structural to our survival, to our legacy."

His voice reverberated across the hall, his words steeped in conviction. A slow murmur rippled through the crowd.

Tanya's fingers twitched at her side.

This was the problem.

This was what she feared.

She knew this wouldn't be a trial of facts. It never was. Not truly.

Hathor wasn't here to argue his innocence. He was here to remind them who he was.

To remind them that he was one of them.

Even before he spoke another word, Tanya could already hear the sway of public opinion shifting. That was the problem with history, wasn't it? When you had roots that ran deep, when you had woven yourself into the very fabric of a place, you did not need truth. You only needed sentiment.

Hathor turned his gaze to the people, his expression somber, his voice carrying the weight of remembrance.

"Even before my tenure as an elder, I fought for us. For all of you. I stood on the frontlines against the outside world, against threats that sought to tear us apart. When I ascended beyond being one to wield a blade, I worked behind the war lines, ensuring our warriors had what they needed. I have always been a servant."

His voice dropped lower, heavier.

"And more importantly…"

He paused for effect, letting his words settle.

Letting the weight of them sink into the bones of his audience.

"…I am of the Canid Clan."

A low murmur swept through the gathered villagers—a murmur that turned into nods of agreement, into quiet affirmations.

Tanya grit her teeth.

There it was.

The unspoken bond.

The words that turned strangers into enemies.

Hathor straightened, his hands folding behind his back, his tone sharpening like the edge of a knife.

"Our clan has existed in these forests for generations. Long before our so-called allies, we were here alone. And through every hardship, through every storm, through every war, who has always been there for us?"

He let the question linger.

He let the crowd answer in their own minds.

Not outsiders.

Not people like Tanya. Not people like Tarak.

"When famine struck us," he continued, voice rising slightly, "was it our allies who saved us? No. When the great turbeast stampede threatened to wipe us from existence, was it them who stood against it? No. When the Snavines grew too rampant and devoured our crops and slaughtered our farmers, when the Ermite infestations chewed through our homes, collapsing our infrastructure, who was it who saved us?"

He spread his arms wide.

"It was us."

His voice boomed through the wooden hall, and the crowd was with him now.

"It was our own people, the People of the Wolf, the People of Fenrir, who stood against every hardship."

The air in the courthouse shifted.

Tanya felt it, like the shifting of the wind before a storm. A tide she was not certain could be turned.

He was good.

Infuriatingly, annoyingly, damn good.

He was stoking the fire of their pride. Appealing to their unity, to their traditions.

And in doing so, he was making her and Tarak the outsiders. The intruders.

He didn't need to prove his innocence. All he needed to do was prove they didn't belong.

She clenched her jaw.

Hathor's eyes turned back to her and her brother.

"In the end," he said, tone lower now, quieter, but no less potent, "they are outsiders."

The words hung like a guillotine.

"I will not deny that they have helped us," he admitted, his voice feigning magnanimity. "But ultimately, they are not one of us."

The murmurs turned to whispers.

It was working.

Hathor's voice darkened.

"And who is to say they will stay around? Who is to say they will not abandon us when the time comes? Or worse…"

He let the pause stretch, long enough to let the thought sink into the minds of the people.

"…What if this has all been a deception?"

Tanya's muscles tensed.

She had to bite back some choice words as she saw some villagers nod.

Hathor turned to the crowd, his voice tightening like a vice.

"What if they are trying to take us down from the inside?"

That was enough.

Tanya stepped forward, her voice cutting through the rising whispers like a blade.

"Is this relevant to the case at hand?"

The room stilled.

Remus turned to her, his sharp eyes acknowledging her.

Before he could speak, one of the other elders snapped.

"You will be silent when an elder is speaking, girl."

The dismissal was swift, sharp, and absolute.

Tanya's nails dug into her palms, but she did not let her irritation show.

She turned her gaze to Remus.

The chieftain studied her, then lifted a hand.

"In part, she's right," he admitted, voice measured. "Hathor, hurry and get to your point. You are wasting time."

Hathor snorted, shifting his weight slightly.

"Is this not relevant?" he countered smoothly. "We have allowed powerful outsiders into the village—outsiders who have helped, yes, but also harmed. Outsiders who have been gaining the confidence of the people."

His gaze swept over the crowd.

"Did they not even manage to turn your own child, chieftain?"

Doubt was a seed that only needed a single crack in the foundation to take root.

And Hathor had planted it.

"You will shut your mouth and focus, Hathor!"

Remus' voice was a snarl, his normally measured tone slipping into something sharper, something dangerous. The weight of his authority pressed against the air, momentarily silencing the muttering crowd. His presence alone might have been enough to quell a lesser man, but Hathor was not so easily cowed.

Across the room, Garran merely narrowed his green eyes, his arms crossed, the tension in his jaw barely concealed.

But Hathor—Hathor only smiled.

Like he had expected this.

Like he knew exactly what to say next.

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"I say this," he began, his voice smooth, confident, calculated, "because we are at an actual security risk."

He turned slowly, facing the gathered villagers, ensuring each and every one of them felt the weight of his words.

"Not only that, but I ask you all to remember, to recall the events that have already transpired. To remember what the one named after the very beast of our religion did the moment he entered this world."

Tanya's muscles tensed.

There it was.

The real attack.

Hathor's lips curled slightly, his eyes narrowing as he gestured outward.

"Upon his birth, he attacked the children of this village."

A collective murmur swept through the crowd—low, uncertain, but growing.

"Two of them…" He let the words hang for a moment, then delivered them like a death sentence.

"Two of them will never fight again."

His voice cut through the hushed silence like the edge of a blade.

Tanya's heartbeat pounded in her ears.

"Their bodies were shattered before they had even come of age! They will never be able to live normally. And their families—their parents—" Hathor's voice tightened, his eyes sweeping over the gathered villagers, "—they may be forced into the slums, just to care for them!"

He waved a hand, and four people stood from the crowd.

The first was a woman, her face twisted with grief, her eyes rimmed red with the echoes of too many nights spent crying. Next to her, a man with a muscular build clenched his fists, his expression hard and bitter, his jaw tight as if his teeth might shatter from the pressure. The other two—gaunt, thinner a pair of husband and wife, younger, less imposing—mirrored the first pair, their eyes hollow.

Their pain was real.

And that was what made this dangerous.

Tanya watched them, eyes cold, mind racing. She took in every detail, the way the crowd shifted, the way people leaned forward, drawn in by the weight of these testimonies.

For the briefest of moments, she almost scoffed.

How similar they looked to Conryn's goons. The resemblance was uncanny. It would've been funny, if not for the very real stakes at play.

But this was no time for humor.

One of the women stepped forward, her hands trembling as she gripped the hem of her tunic. Then, she pointed—directly at Tarak.

"Our son lost both his legs."

The words came raw, choked, trembling.

"He will never be able to walk again!" she continued, her voice cracking, her breath unsteady. "How will he contribute? How will he get married? How will he live?"

She inhaled sharply, her shoulders shaking.

"That—that beast—" she spat the word, her grief twisting into rage, "—up there did that to him!"

She jabbed a trembling finger toward Tarak once more, her eyes wet with fury.

Tanya's hands curled into fists.

She could see Tarak's reaction without even needing to look at him. The tension in his shoulders. The way his tail flicked sharply behind him, an old, irritated twitch. His fingers flexed as his eyes traced to herself.

He was annoyed genuinely so. But not merely at them. At himself. Not because he cared but rather because he had caused trouble for her.

She acknowledged the feeling and prepared for the further appeals to emotion the others would cast.

Another man stepped forward the muscular one, his broad frame casting a shadow beneath the courthouse lanterns. He was thickly built, and his voice was iron.

"These outsiders spoke honeyed words."

His gaze swept over Tanya, then Tarak.

His face twisted.

"But in the end, they are evil."

A chill spread through the courthouse.

The air grew thick as if the world was taking a pause around them. A beast, silent and waiting.

"What more proof do you need?" the man demanded. "Even the girl—" He jabbed a finger at Tanya. "—crawled from her egg killing."

The murmurs grew louder.

"She was born in blood!"

Tanya sneered internally. She was born protecting her sibling and killing an enemy of the village.

But her expression remained unreadable.

She had known this would happen.

She had expected it.

But hearing it still left a bitter taste in her mouth. People were stupid. But then again these were hurt people.

The man's hands curled into fists.

"We were just lucky it wasn't one of our own who endured her savagery. Unlike my own child."

The murmurs became whispers.

And the whispers became questions.

Hathor turned back to the villagers, his movements deliberate, controlled, every word measured with precision.

"I will say this once more, Chieftain Remus."

His voice hardened, gaining weight.

"These two are a serious danger."

His words were iron chains, meant to bind them, to cement their status as threats, as outsiders.

"To everyone. To our security."

He turned sharply, gesturing to Tanya and Tarak.

"No child should be that savage."

He let the words settle before he continued.

"And they certainly shouldn't have that much power."

The weight of the statement sent another ripple through the crowd.

He leaned forward, voice dropping—lower now, more insidious.

"They are toddlers with the strength to kill anyone."

His eyes glinted.

"Anyone but an elder."

Tanya's chest tightened.

She could see the doubt blooming. The flickers of hesitation.

Hathor took a slow, deliberate breath.

"Does that sound safe to you?"

He turned to Remus.

And then to the people.

His voice was softer now, almost pleading.

"Even my own son was nearly crippled by that boy. I only attacked to save him."

He gestured to Tarak, his expression carefully molded into something grave, something sorrowful.

Theatrics.

It was all theatrics.

Tanya bit the inside of her cheek, her patience thinning.

"I was then attacked—nearly killed—by his sibling."

He gestured toward Tanya now, his face twisting into something like betrayal.

"They both ganged up on me."

His voice rang out.

"Tell me—is this so implausible?"

Silence.

"Is this such an insane thought?"

His tone dropped lower, dripping with quiet calculation.

"Or is it more plausible that I, a man who has spent his entire life serving this village, would suddenly decide to hurt one of our own?"

His voice cut through the air, sharp and bitter.

"Is that the more rational conclusion? Could it be that they have ulterior motives?"

The weight of the question settled. The courtroom held its breath. Tanya knew it.

This was the moment.

The moment where doubt was either crushed—or left to fester.

She met Hathor's eyes.

Cold.

Unwavering.

The room buzzed with conversation, the murmur of uncertainty spreading like a slow-burning fire across the gathered villagers. Some whispered amongst themselves, heads bowed together, exchanging hurried words. Others sat silent, their gazes flickering between Hathor's retreating form and the still-standing figures of Tanya and Tarak.

The weight of what had just transpired hung thick in the air.

Hathor stepped back from the stand, his expression neutral but his gait confident, almost smug. The older man moved with the quiet assurance of someone who had played his hand well, who had woven his words carefully and placed his stones where they would have the most impact.

Tanya's sharp amethyst eyes flickered across the room, reading every face she could, catching the way some of the elders exchanged nods, their lips pressed into thin lines.

It didn't take a genius to see that many of them were considering his words.

Some might even have agreed.

Not because Hathor was right.

But because they were afraid.

Afraid of what she, Tarak, and Midea represented.

This was never just about the trial. Not really.

It was a game of power and control.

A new faction had been growing within Wolvenblade—the influence that Midea, a foreigner, had brought into the village was undeniable. The Satyr had resources, knowledge, and techniques that the village had never had access to before. His presence shifted the balance.

And her and Tarak?

They were proof of that shift.

Symbols of change.

And that made them dangerous. Mostly to the elders whose power was entrenched.

Tanya could feel the tension in the room—the elders weighing the scales in their minds.

If she, Tarak, and Midea gained too much power, the existing factions would be weakened.

They wouldn't be able to dictate the village's future as they had before.

And for men like Hathor, that was unacceptable. For his allies or even those who may be neutral to him, it was the same.

She exhaled slowly. She had expected this. This was politics 101.

Hathor's voice rose again, cutting through the murmurs.

"They should be locked up," he declared, the words heavy with certainty.

A fresh ripple of murmuring spread through the crowd.

"The Satyr's influence should be curtailed."

His eyes scanned the elders as he spoke, his tone firm but reasonable—calculated to make it seem like he wasn't advocating for anything too extreme.

"They have helped us, yes. I will not deny that, once more. I am not ungrateful." he continued, nodding as if to feign fairness. "But I think this event has revealed their true nature."

A few nods came from some of the elders. Others remained impassive.

Tanya watched Remus carefully.

She saw it—the irritation behind his eyes, the way his jaw tightened.

He was losing patience.

And not with her.

He turned to face the gathered villagers, his voice cutting through the uncertainty with quiet authority.

"Since the elder is done speaking, now taking the stand will be The Seventh Surya and her brother, Tarak."

There was an edge to his voice.

Not sharp enough to be obvious.

But Tanya heard it. It wasn't targeted at her. It was Hathor's arrogance that had irritated the chieftain. Tanya felt a flicker of amusement, but she didn't let it show. Her silver-grey wings shifted subtly, the feathers ruffling as she stepped forward, her movements deliberate, unhurried.

She unclasped the strap of her satchel and placed it beside her, setting it down with purpose.

She wasn't just stepping forward to speak.

She was taking the space, claiming it.

The crowd's whispers dimmed. All eyes were on her now.

The room settled.

She could feel the anticipation, the tension—the weight of expectation pressing against her skin.

For a moment, she simply let the silence sit. She wanted them to feel it.

Let them wait.

Let them lean forward.

Tanya let the silence settle in deep, the weight of a thousand gazes pressing against her. She felt their scrutiny, the judgment hanging in the air like a poised dagger, waiting to fall. Yet she did not falter.

Her amethyst eyes, cool and unwavering, swept across the gathered villagers. They met anger, suspicion, hope, admiration. She saw fear, uncertainty—resentment. She saw the conflicted emotions that warred within the crowd.

But most of all, she saw doubt.

Doubt in her.

Doubt in Tarak.

And doubt could be molded.

Tanya inhaled slowly, her four silver-grey wings shifting behind her, catching the light of the seven suns filtering through the painted streamers that hung from the ceiling. Her posture was relaxed but deliberate, her expression impassive yet commanding.

Then, she spoke.

"I am four weeks old today."

The words rang out crisp and clear, cutting through the murmurs. The statement landed heavily, like a stone cast into still water, sending ripples of reaction through the villagers. She saw brows furrow, saw uncertainty flash across several faces.

She pressed forward.

"My brother, Tarak, is a week younger than myself. If the elder is referring to the incident where my brother injured two village children, then I will not argue—it was savage."

More whispers. Some surprised, some expectant.

"But let us speak the whole truth we know already. The elder's own son, Conryn, was the one who first attacked the barrier of my brother's pen. He struck first. And when my brother broke free, he was surrounded, outnumbered—attacked from all sides.

I ask you, was it truly his fault for lashing out?

Is it so unnatural?

Tell me, if the first thing you ever saw was an enemy, if the first breath you ever took was among threats, would you not have fought back?

Would you not have defended yourself?"

She let the words hang.

Some nodded instinctively, while others remained hesitant, their expressions flickering between agreement and stubborn resistance. But Tanya could feel the shift. She wasn't here to apologize. She was here to plant her own doubts. This was not her first rodeo.

"I do not know why he accuses us of wanting to take over."

She turned her head slightly, directing her gaze toward Hathor, who now sat stiffly in his seat, his eyes narrowing. His face betrayed nothing, but Tanya wasn't speaking for him.

She was speaking for the people.

"I say this because all I have known is this village. I was born here. I was raised here. And I have fought for it."

Her voice rose slightly, her tone measured yet resolute.

"We may not be of the Canid Clan, but we were born into it.

We know nothing but you.

And you—" she lifted her chin slightly, "—have not disappointed us."

A flicker of surprise.

She saw several expressions soften, saw confusion replace hostility on more than a few faces. This was not the argument they expected.

"If I did not belong here, if my brother did not belong here, then tell me—why did we fight for you?"

Her eyes swept the crowd.

"How many Vampyrs did we slay?

How many lives did we save?

Was that the work of outsiders?

Was that the work of monsters?"

Her voice was a blade, cutting through the uncertainty.

Then—a voice.

"That's right!"

A figure stood abruptly.

An old woman, her back slightly hunched, yet her gaze fierce with conviction. Her wrinkled hands gripped a wooden cane, but she held herself tall.

"She saved me!"

A murmur rippled through the room.

The old woman gestured toward Tanya.

"That girl is a sun angel! I was trapped, the flames were coming, and she lifted me out of it with her own two hands!"

A pause.

Then another voice.

"She saved my son."

A younger woman rose to her feet, her hands gripping the shoulders of a boy who stood beside her. His wide brown eyes darted to Tanya, a flicker of recognition and adoration lighting within them. It was the first boy she had saved from a fire spirit.

"She carried him saved him from a great flame spirit when none of us could reach him."

More whispers.

Another man stood—a soldier.

Lennix.

Tanya recognized him immediately. She had caught him when he nearly fell to his death.

"She caught me when I was going to fall." His voice was firm. "Had she not been there, I would be injured, maybe dead."

His companion, a fellow soldier, rose beside him.

"She fought for us. We were a small force running into the village some of us injured. We would have been the first to fall if forced to to face the Vampyrs that day.."

Another voice—an older man this time, grizzled and weathered by years of hardship. His arms were scarred, his beard streaked with silver.

"Even the other brat saved a few people during the storm even if inadverdently, ain't that worth something?"

More voices murmured in agreement.

The shift was happening.

Tanya smiled. The fruits of her preparation.

She could see Hati beaming from the sidelines, pride shining in her amber eyes.

She held Tanya's gaze for a moment, offering silent approval.

Then, Tanya turned back to the crowd.

"We have stemmed an attack against this village.

We have fought beside you, not against you.

We have saved your people with our own hands.

We were born here.

And I ask you, before you cast judgment—

Do we seem like monsters to you?"

"Fine, but that still doesn't excuse their accusation of a village elder. Or their attack on him."

The words came from Randalk, his tone clipped, firm, carrying the weight of someone who had long since made up his mind. Tanya's eyes flicked toward him, her expression impassive, unreadable. His grizzled face was set, his stance steady, rigid, a stark contrast to the murmuring uncertainty spreading once more through the gathered villagers.

She could hear the rustling of fabric, the shifting of feet. Some were indeed curious about that fact as was only natural.

That was expected. But it was easy to counter.

Tanya held her ground, her mind whirring through possibilities. She had to dismantle their argument piece by piece. And for that, she needed certainty.

Her voice cut through the restless air, smooth, controlled, calculated.

"One thing no one here can even prove," she began, her words measured, deliberately steady, "is that I was the first to attack."

A pause.

Just long enough to let the weight of her statement settle into the ears of the audience.

Then came the scoff.

Elder Skollf—tall, broad, his presence almost as imposing as his stance. A staunch supporter of Hathor. His pale eyes glinted with something between amusement and disdain as he crossed his arms.

"Of course you were. Look at yourselves—then look at Elder Hathor."

Ah.

So that was the angle they would take.

Tanya exhaled quietly, her expression remaining composed. It wasn't unexpected. In fact, she had been waiting for it. Rather she had baited them.

She lifted her chin slightly, not in defiance, but in precise confidence.

Her wings shifted slightly behind her as she stepped forward, keeping her movements controlled, unhurried.

Then, she extended her unblemished arm.

"My chieftain, will you please help me?"

A small ripple spread through the gathered villagers.

Even Remus, who had remained stoic, watching, now lifted an eyebrow in visible surprise.

"What do you mean?" His deep voice carried a slight edge of curiosity, perhaps even caution.

Tanya held his gaze evenly.

"Please injure me."

Voices rose again, this time louder. She didn't waver.

"I am not strong enough to do so without significant struggle."

Her thoughts turned inward.

And I'd also get blood on my wings.

She kept that thought to herself.

Remus's brows shot up to his hairline, his sharp green eyes flickering with a mix of intrigue and skepticism.

Still, he stepped forward, his movements measured, calculating. The weight of expectation settled over the room, pressing down like an unseen force as all eyes locked onto the chieftain. The villagers sat forward in their seats, silent but restless, anticipation brimming in their gazes. The elders, ever-stoic, watched with carefully concealed interest, though Tanya caught the flicker of curiosity beneath their impassive expressions.

Without a word, Remus raised a single hand, his fingers barely twitching as a fang of numen took shape. The energy manifested in the air beside him, shimmering faintly—a concentrated, crystalline spear of translucent gold edged with jagged points. It hummed softly, vibrating with an unseen force, its surface shifting as though alive.

Then, with an almost casual motion, he brought it down onto Tanya's outstretched arm.

The impact was immediate— but the fang bounced off.

A ripple of tension passed through the assembly. A hushed murmur spread like wildfire, whispered voices barely contained as shock flickered in the eyes of the crowd.

Remus furrowed his brows. His lips pressed into a thin line, and without hesitation, he formed another fang—this one sharper, more concentrated, refined into a finer point. This time, he applied real pressure.

He pressed it down onto her forearm.

At first, nothing.

The energy construct, shimmering and solid, deformed her flesh slightly, as though pressing against an immovable object. The resistance was palpable. Tanya could feel the force of it, the energy desperately trying to break through her skin—her unreinforced, unguarded, untouched skin.

Only when Remus increased his force again did it finally manage to puncture the surface.

A single thin line was carved into her forearm, splitting her flesh ever so slightly before the numen dispersed into fading golden motes.

Silence.

The wound was shallow— insultingly shallow.

A few scarlet drops of blood welled up from the thin cut, the crimson liquid glistening under the light of the seven suns. But even that was not normal. Within the blood were flecks of silver-grey, tiny specks interwoven into the red like a celestial pattern. The light caught the metallic hues, making them glimmer like stardust against the deep contrast of her skin.

Tanya didn't react. She had already expected this outcome.

She lifted her gaze to Remus, only to find him staring at her.

Not just him.

The elders.

The crowd.

All of them.

Shock marred their expressions, subtle yet undeniable. Well except for hathor who already knew. Whispers flickered through the rows of villagers, their murmuring voices growing in volume. This was not the result they had expected. Remus was strong—stronger than everyone in this village except likely Midea, a third-layer warrior with ample combat experience. While it was true that he hadn't poured all his numen into the attack, the fact that he had to exert any effort at all to pierce the bare, unguarded flesh of a child was a testament to something else entirely.

Something monstrous.

Tanya already knew exactly what was running through his mind.

She turned, her every movement slow, deliberate, commanding attention as she faced the crowd.

Lifting her arm, she held the shallow wound up for all to see.

Gasps rippled through the villagers as their eyes landed on the injury—small, unimpressive, barely a scratch. But that was not what shocked them.

She reached up, dragging two fingers across the wound, wiping away the gathering blood.

The moment her skin was cleared, the murmurings of the crowd became full-fledged exclamations.

The wound was gone.

Or rather, it had never been there at all.

The cut had sealed itself shut the instant the blood was removed. Not a single mark remained. No scarring, no irritation, no lingering sign that she had ever been injured in the first place. The whispers turned into stunned gasps as eyes darted between her and the chieftain, as though seeking confirmation that they had truly seen what had just transpired.

The elders, normally composed, leaned forward in their seats.

A few of them exchanged glances. Others said nothing, their gazes unreadable.

Tanya let the moment settle, allowed the weight of her demonstration to fully take root in the minds of the gathered villagers before she finally spoke.

Her voice was even. Measured. Absolute.

"I did not use any numen," Tanya stated plainly.

She swept her gaze across the room, ensuring that all those present understood her words.

"Otherwise, the elder or chief would have sensed it. And I had no one to heal me. Both me and my brother's bodies are naturally capable of regenerating.

Her wings flexed slightly behind her, their silvered edges catching the light as she continued, her expression unwavering.

"There are beasts and plants with the same ability, no?"

Silence.

A tense, thoughtful silence.

Tanya stood there, her presence commanding, her words hanging heavy in the air.

Then she saw discussions erupt among the gathered villagers. Voices rose in hushed but fervent tones, some speaking in hurried whispers while others argued more openly. The tension in the room thickened, the weight of her words sinking in as the debate spread like wildfire.

Tanya remained silent, letting them talk. Letting the reality of the situation fester in their minds. She watched them carefully, her amethyst eyes sharp, calculating.

Then, when the noise began to quiet, she spoke.

Her voice was calm, unwavering—absolute.

"So who attacked who first?" she asked, letting the question settle, letting it echo in the silence that followed. She tilted her head slightly, the motion deliberate, almost taunting in its confidence.

"He can claim I did. He can repeat it again and again. But where is his proof?" Her wings shifted slightly, the motion drawing attention to her presence once more.

Her voice didn't rise, didn't waver. It was steady—certain.

"He lacks it."

A few villagers nodded their heads. Their murmurs continued, but there was less certainty now, more hesitation.

And then, she gave them the truth.

"However, I will not lie."

The crowd stilled. Even the elders leaned forward, as if sensing something important.

Tanya took a slow breath, exhaling deliberately before delivering the words with precision.

"I was indeed the first to attack the elder. Because, like I said—he was attacking Luna."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd, but this time, it was different.

She had admitted it.

There was no deflection. No attempt to evade or twist the narrative. No desperate excuses or embellishments.

She had attacked first—and she had no shame in saying it.

It was the truth.

And that made it all the more convincing.

More heads nodded. A few people muttered to each other in agreement. There was something undeniably powerful about a person who did not shy away from their own actions.

Tanya felt the momentum shift.

But then—

Hathor's voice cut through the air, slow, measured, and yet weighted with a kind of calculated sharpness.

"You can claim and claim I attacked the girl again and again, but do you have any witnesses?"

The murmuring died down.

Hathor's gaze swept across the villagers, the weight of his age, his experience, his authority pressing down on them. He turned, looking at the elders with deliberate calculation, then back at the chieftain.

"It's baseless. Nothing but a lie."

His words were crisp, spoken with the confidence of a man who had spent decades shaping the minds of these people.

He turned his gaze back to her.

"On the other hand, you have admitted to attacking me first."

A pause.

Then, he reached up, and with an exaggerated motion, he touched the bandages wrapped around his body.

"And the evidence of your attacks mar my flesh."

Tanya's eyes narrowed.

At those words, the room went silent.

Completely silent.

A stillness settled over the courthouse, suffocating in its weight. The villagers, the elders—all paused, considering his words.

Because in the end… what he had said was true.

Objective fact.

No matter how convincing she was, no matter how much favor she had gained, she could not deny that the injuries were real.

The proof was right there, wrapped around his body like a carefully crafted shield, presented for all to see.

Her mind raced, considering every angle, every possible response.

Because this was the moment.

The turning point.

She had the support of many.

She had proven her strength, her worth, her loyalty.

But here, now, in this particular instance—

Who could really prove that she and Tarak weren't the aggressors?

Who could truly confirm their version of events?

There were no eyewitnesses. No one had seen the start of the fight. No one but Luna herself—

And she was currently going through a transformation. Another key witness would be her other who was on her deathbed.

The villagers weren't stupid.

They understood the difficulty of proving such a thing. And while she had won their respect in many ways, this trial wasn't just about their respect.

This was about truth.

Or at least, the illusion of truth.

The way some of them shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The way their eyes darted between her, Tarak, and Hathor. The way the elders, particularly those in Hathor's favor, sat just a little too still, their silence a careful calculation rather than neutrality.

Tanya inhaled, ready to speak.

Ready to counter.

Ready to drive the final nail into the elder's carefully crafted argument.

But then—

CRRRRKKK! SHHHHH!

A sound like splitting stone and burning silk tore through the courthouse, swallowing the murmurs of the gathered villagers. The air itself twisted, warped, as though reality was being unwoven at the seams.

Darkness bloomed in the center of the chamber, thick and oppressive, an ink-black void that seemed to drink in the light. And within it—fire.

Roaring. Crackling. Consuming.

Purple and black flames churned in an eerie, mesmerizing dance, their tongues licking at the floorboards but leaving no scorch marks behind. A spectacle. A declaration. A demon's arrival.

Tanya smiled despite herself.

How utterly vain. How expected. How utterly Midea.

Even now, in the midst of a trial, a moment of tension, the satyr had to announce himself with theatricality.

The flames and darkness began to recede, unfurling like a cloak being drawn back to reveal the figures within.

First, the hooves. Massive. Powerful. Obsidian black, sinking just slightly into the wooden floor.

Then, the torso. Broad, muscular, sculpted like a monument to strength and arrogance.

His horns stretched tall, proud and wicked, curling upward like the peaks of a blackened crown. His ebony skin gleamed under the light of the courthouse, his presence commanding as ever. Unbothered. Unshaken. Unapologetic.

And then, beside him—

A shorter figure.

A familiar figure.

But—different.

Luna.

Tanya's breath hitched. She hadn't expected a change this drastic—but it wasn't just drastic. It was unnatural in its seamlessness. Like it was meant to be.

Luna's skin had not changed in shade, but something new had been etched into it.

Purple lines.

Delicate yet bold, they wove across her body like a masterful artist had painted directly onto her flesh. But they weren't decorative. They weren't markings in the way of tattoos.

No—they were alive. Like the veins of some great being coursing with something other. Something ancient. Something forbidden.

And yet, despite it all, it looked right.

It wasn't grotesque. It wasn't eerie. It was simply—Luna.

On the contrary, it was pleasant. It added a mystique to the girl. A sense of inverted sacredness.

Tanya sniffed, crossing her arms. Everyone had horns but her, it seemed. How utterly annoying.

Luna had two.

Curving upward from her forehead, pitch black and ridged, they gleamed under the flickering torches of the courthouse. Not grandiose like Midea's, but sharply defined, a silent assertion of the power she now carried.

And her ears—

Tanya's sharp eyes narrowed.

Wolf ears, still, but different.

The fur at the tips was now crested with black scales, a texture that caught the light with a faint glimmer, giving them an almost armored appearance.

Her silver hair remained, flowing down her back like threads of spun moonlight, though it now seemed even silkier, glossier, a shimmering contrast against the obsidian hues of her horns and markings.

But her eyes—

They were dark the same color as when they first met. But the eyes weren't the same. Not in the way they looked at the world.

And yet, they were still hers.

Tanya didn't know what had changed exactly. But she felt it. And honestly she could guess at it easily.

The face was the same, but something about it was different. Enhanced, sharpened in a way that was almost sinful—the kind of beauty that dared you to stare, dared you to want. She was cute before but her beauty was different now. On par with herself and Tarak. Though it was a beauty of a different type.

It was unnatural in it's allure however. Especially considering she was a child. Tanya herself felt no attraction but she could tell from an objective standpoint.

Tanya had no doubt that even now, at her young age, Luna's presence would only grow stronger as she matured.

A dangerous kind of beauty.

One that would devour, not adorn.

Her wings twitched.

Bat-like. Black. Small.

Tanya scoffed internally. Absolutely useless for flight. But that was probably her instincts talking.

She doubted Luna could even get off the ground with those, but they weren't there for function. No, they were symbolic. A mark. A declaration of her evolution.

And her tail—

Much longer than any wolf-born. Thorough not as long as Tarak's.

It flicked behind her, languid, fluid, yet brimming with a subtle menace.

And the spikes—

Black-edged with glowing purple amiong silver fur.

Like they could shred through steel if she willed it.

A new body. A new existence. A new power.

Luna was no longer simply a village girl. She was a demon of the noble house valefor. Which if Midea was to be believed had earned their clout.

Tanya felt a shift beside her. Tarak moved forward. His slit-pupil crimson eyes gleamed with curiosity. Luna's new form had caught his attention.

Tanya watched his tail sway slightly behind him, a subtle tell of his interest.

Not in attraction. No—not that.

But in what she had become.

He was studying her, just as Tanya was. Taking in every detail. Memorizing.

Luna was dressed simply. A gown. Loose.

It hung from her newly altered frame, yet did not diminish her presence in the slightest.

Midea took a step forward, his hooves thudding softly against the wooden floor. His presence was a storm, yet he moved as if he was the calm within it.

All eyes were on them now.

The courthouse had gone silent.

Tanya smirked.

The game had just changed.

"Hello, village! Chieftain! I, Midea Scelus of House Valefor, am here!"

The demon's voice rang through the courthouse, rich and confident, effortlessly commanding attention. He stood in the center of the room with a flair, his obsidian skin gleaming under the light of the suns. His massive frame, carved with muscle and layered with authority, was adorned with faint glowing sigils that pulsed subtly, like the heartbeat of a sleeping leviathan. His horns, tall and curved with regal menace, framed his face like a crown, casting deep shadows across his chiseled features. The six clawed hands at his sides flexed idly, the sharp tips gleaming like polished obsidian.

Tanya's gaze flicked toward Remus. The chieftain, as expected, remained unmoved. There was no surprise in his expression. No irritation. No curiosity. Just the heavy stillness of a man who had anticipated this moment. Tanya filed that away, making note of what it implied.

Midea, as usual, did not wait for permission to continue.

"We have no negative intent and are not trying to take over the village," he said smoothly, rolling his shoulders back as though shaking off invisible dust. "If we were, don't you think we would have approached it differently?"

His smirk was subtle. Not arrogant. Not humble. Simply a statement of fact.

A ripple of whispers spread through the gathered villagers. Some stiffened, others exchanged uneasy glances. Midea let the moment stretch, allowing the weight of his words to settle before he continued.

"My wards have reinforced your walls," he went on, his voice calm, measured. "And thanks to those wards, the once-frequent Vampyr breaches have been reduced to—" he lifted a hand and clicked his claws together with a sharp, deliberate sound. "—just once."

The murmurs grew louder. Even some of the elders could not dispute that. The protection of the village had undeniably improved since his arrival.

"Not to mention," Midea continued, "they proved vital during the meteor storm."

He paused, then tilted his head slightly.

"And let us not forget—each and every one of you esteemed elders now cultivates the Solgaleo Sutra, do you not?"

A few of the elders visibly shifted in their seats.

"Will anyone here deny," Midea drawled, "that it is a power superior to what you once had?"

Silence.

No one could.

Tanya's lips curled slightly. Good.

Midea's arms spread, his six hands flexing as if embracing the very air around him. "So tell me then," he said, his tone almost playful, "if my intentions were a military takeover…" His hands slowly curled, as though grasping something unseen. "Why would I give you all this?"

His fingers opened again, relaxed. A gift. A favor. A power essentially freely given.

"If conquest was my goal, wouldn't the more intelligent thing be to give you something far weaker? To keep you reliant? To keep you vulnerable? Instead, I have strengthened you." He let that thought settle before continuing, "At most, you could say I am forming a faction within the village." His burning red eyes turned, locking onto Hathor like a blade being unsheathed. "And tell me, is that really a problem?"

A pause. A shift in the air.

"For the village, I mean," Midea said lightly. "Or is it just a problem for you, Hathor?"

The elder flinched.

Tanya caught it. Barely a twitch. But it was real. A flicker of something—hesitation, wariness. Fear.

Hathor was afraid.

As expected.

Midea was the strongest person in this village. At least she thought as much. She would bet on the demon over Remus any day.

"What is that thing?" The voice that cut through the tension came from an elder on the far right. A man with thick, grayed fur and sharp amber eyes had risen from his seat, pointing directly at Luna.

Tanya's eyes narrowed.

Midea's expression did not change. But his presence did.

Slightly. Subtly.

Not heavier. Not suffocating. Just... shifting. Like the air before a storm.

Luna, meanwhile, stood still.

Her darkened eyes blinked slowly, flicking from the elder to the gathered villagers. Her new wings twitched slightly. Her long, spike-edged tail curled at the tip. She did not speak. She did not move. But Tanya saw the tension in her. The way her fingers curled, nails clacking against one another. The stiffness in her stance, as though forcing herself to remain still. She had many emotions bound up in that small form. And Tanya knew not to let the world turn against her. Not now.

"That thing is the victim."

Tanya's voice cut through the murmuring crowd, her tone sharp, unwavering. She did not raise her voice, yet her words carried the weight of a decree, settling heavily over the gathering. She turned her head slightly, casting a glance at Luna, whose gaze remained locked onto Hathor, unblinking, unwavering. The hatred in the girl's eyes was raw, a seething, palpable force that burned like a brand upon her expression.

The elder in question stiffened, his breath hitching in his throat. Tanya could see it, the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his pulse thrummed wildly beneath the loose folds of his tunic. She could smell it, too—the sharp, acrid scent of sweat pouring from his skin, seeping into his robes. Heightened olfactory senses of the Tyrannius and all.

The man was afraid.

Hathor's gaze darted between Luna and Midea, then to Tanya, then back to the villagers—searching, scrambling for an anchor, for anything to grasp onto. He opened his mouth to speak—

But Luna beat him to it.

"That man did not try to help me!"

Her voice cracked through the room, raw, unrestrained.

"That man is the reason my mother is crippled!"

Gasps rippled through the crowd like a shockwave. The elders flinched, their postures stiffening, but Luna did not falter. She refused to falter. Her dark eyes were wide, burning, the purple markings along her skin seeming to pulse with barely restrained fury.

"He wanted to torture me!" Her breath hitched, but she did not let it stop her. "He is a dirty rapist!"

The room froze.

Silence. Utter, suffocating silence.

For a moment, no one breathed. The weight of Luna's accusation hung in the air, thick as smog, suffocating in its intensity. The world itself seemed to still, caught between the moment of revelation and the inevitable reaction that would follow.

Midea was the first to move.

The demon did not flinch. Did not stir. Did not even turn to acknowledge Luna's outburst. Instead, his gaze lifted—slowly, lazily—to Remus.

A grin curled at the edges of his dark lips.

And Remus... closed his eyes.

Tanya narrowed her gaze at the interaction. So, that was it.

Midea had spoken with the chieftain before the trial. He had prepared for this. He had played his game of chess and set his pieces in place long before today. She couldn't tell what they had talked about but still.

As expected of a noble.

"Can that even be called Luna anymore?" Elder Randalk's voice broke the silence, hoarse and uncertain.

Tanya's wings twitched.

Another elder scoffed, arms folding across his chest. "Look at that strange body. Almost as if she has been corrupted by the Satyr. How can we even know she is not under his influence?" His amber eyes flicked toward Midea with a sharp, suspicious glint. "And we all know whose side he would be on."

The words struck like flint against stone, sparking murmurs among the villagers once more. Tanya clenched her jaw, already anticipating what came next.

Hathor latched onto the accusation like a drowning man gasping for air.

"Yes, that's right!" His voice trembled, frantic. "He changed her mind through this strange transformation! Who knows if it's even her anymore?!"

The villagers shifted. Uncertainty slithered through their ranks, their gazes darting between Luna, Midea, and Hathor.

And then—

"Luna would have died if it wasn't for Midea!"

A voice rang out, clear and unwavering.

Sol.

She stood at the entrance of the courthouse, her breath heavy, her dark eyes glistening with emotion. The moment her gaze met Luna's, a silent understanding passed between them. A shared pain. A shared relief. A bond that no argument, no accusation, could sever.

A smile tugged at Luna's lips.

Sol took a step forward, her voice rising. "Midea saved her! If he hadn't, my sister would be dead!"

More murmurs. Some nods. Some hesitation.

"That's right," Lain spoke up next, standing from his seat, his sharp golden eyes scanning the crowd. "I was there. I saw it. Luna was on the verge of death. Midea brought her back."

The whispers swelled.

And then—

"More proof that they have done nothing but help this village."

Hati.

Her voice was strong, commanding, and it silenced the murmurs in an instant.

The red-haired warrior stepped forward, arms crossed, her amber gaze fierce as she turned on the villagers. "What have they done wrong? Anyone? What true harm have they brought to us? How many lives have they saved? How many times have they stepped forward when no one else would?"

A sharp silence fell over the room.

And then—

Hati's amber eyes narrowed.

"All of you know the path we were on," she said, quieter now, yet somehow even sharper. "You all know it. So don't you dare sit there and pretend otherwise. None of you has the right to speak against them unless you can prove you would have done better. Could have done better. Bare your merit proudly if you so claim."

Silence.

No one spoke.

Because they couldn't.

Tanya smiled.

Hati had just put everyone on the defensive.

"However, there is a point to be made," one of the elders spoke, his voice carrying the weight of seasoned authority. His aged, gnarled hands rested atop the polished wooden bench as he leaned forward. His eyes, sharp and scrutinizing, bore into Luna's form with a mixture of suspicion and calculated reasoning. "Are we truly going to ignore the possibility that she has been… altered despite the obvious?" His gaze flicked toward Midea, and though the demon remained impassive, Tanya caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips. "Or will you all claim that such a drastic transformation has had no effect on one's mind?"

There was murmuring among the gathered villagers, a low hum of conversation punctuated by the shifting of feet and creaking of wooden benches. The accusation was an insidious one, threading doubt into the minds of those who had already been teetering between skepticism and belief.

Tanya's expression remained unreadable, though she felt her wings tense at her sides. This was how the old guard functioned—subtly shifting the battlefield, not with outright aggression but with whispers, implications, and half-truths that left no room for solid rebuttal.

"Perhaps," Remus said finally, his voice cutting through the rising noise. His expression remained neutral, betraying no indication of favor or bias. "But her words are not to be dismissed so easily." He turned his sharp gaze toward the elders. "And I knew of this transformation beforehand." A few of the elders stiffened at that revelation, though none interrupted. "Given that fact, I believe we can consider both sides to be equal. There is proof against both, as there is proof for both. And ultimately," he turned toward the villagers, his tone slow, measured, ensuring his words were absorbed, "they are right. The merit of Surya and her sibling is undeniable. They have proven themselves, time and time again, to be an asset to this village—not a risk."

He let those words settle, the weight of his authority pressing into the silence. "At least, without immense speculation."

Tanya watched the elders closely, reading the shifting of expressions, the silent calculations running through their minds. Some nodded, begrudgingly, others looked dissatisfied, but none outright objected.

Then, a scoff cut through the moment.

An elder, one of the oldest among them, tilted his head back with a dry chuckle, shaking his head as if the entire ordeal were exhausting in its absurdity. His thick, greying mane of hair was tied back, and the deep lines etched into his face only sharpened as he spoke.

"In the end," he drawled, his voice rough from age yet still commanding, "he is an elder. And she…" His gaze slid toward Luna, his lips curling. "She's just a little girl. A mere woman." He gestured lazily toward Tanya, dismissing her in the same breath. "Tell me, how long have men—let alone elders—been fighting for this village? How long have our warriors given blood, sweat, and lives to ensure the safety of our people? And now, we're to weigh the word of a child against a man who has spent decades in service?"

Tanya felt something in her burn at his words, but she remained composed, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The traditions of this place seldom affected her but this? This was ridiculous. This was what she should have expected—one last grasp at antiquated authority, one last attempt to delegitimize Luna's plight and her argument by nothing more than the circumstances of their birth.

Before she could respond, Luna's voice shattered the room.

"He did something to my mom too!"

The sheer force of her voice rang through the space like a bell of judgment. Every head snapped toward her.

Tanya felt her wings bristle as she turned, watching the young girl with quiet intensity.

"She contributed to this village! She fought for you! She raised me and my sister here! And you're telling me she doesn't matter?" Luna's voice cracked, but it did not waver. She took a step forward, her dark eyes burning with righteous fury, her nails digging into the flesh of her palms. "You have no right!"

The elder who had spoken scoffed, but his posture had shifted. There was something uneasy in the way his lips pressed together, in the way he averted his gaze. But his pride did not allow him to step down.

"Silence, girl!"

A pulse of numen surged through the air, thick and oppressive, laced with the weight of raw power meant to crush.

Tanya's breath became heightened for just a moment, her body tensing preparing to move—

But it never reached its target.

Before it could so much as graze Luna, Midea flicked his wrist. The demon's own numen rushed forth, meeting the elder's attack in an instant. The force of the collision sent a crackling shockwave through the courthouse, rattling the wooden beams and causing several villagers to stumble back in alarm.

The oppressive weight of the elder's numen was snuffed out as if it were nothing more than a candle before a roaring flame.

Midea's grin was slow, dangerous, as he tilted his head ever so slightly, his horns catching the dim light. His crimson eyes gleamed with amusement, though there was something undeniably lethal beneath the surface.

"You'd do well," the demon murmured, his voice a blade honed to a whisper, "not to speak to her like that again."

The elder, for the first time in the entire trial, looked uncertain.

Baya, who had remained still for most of the proceedings, twitched. Her fingers tapped against the armrest of her chair, her lips parting slightly as if to interject after she heard Luna's words. But in the end she remained silent.

Tanya let out a slow breath. The air in the courthouse had changed. It was subtle, but she could feel it. The energy had shifted—not in their favor entirely, but neither was it against them. The village was now watching carefully, warily.

"Enough," Remus finally spoke, his voice cutting through the tension. "We will go into recess to decide."

A murmur rippled through the gathered villagers, some nodding, others exchanging unreadable glances.

"As always," Remus continued, his tone authoritative, "the opinion of the people will be tallied anonymously and dealt with by the Judicious Ones."

He and the other elders rose in unison, their robes shifting as they turned away from the assembled villagers. With solemn expressions and measured steps, they moved toward the door at the back of the courthouse, their figures disappearing beyond the heavy wooden panels. The room behind them, where all final deliberations took place, was shrouded in secrecy—a place where the decisions that shaped the village's future were made away from prying eyes.

As soon as they vanished, a new set of figures entered the courthouse. Wolfmen, clad in long ceremonial robes, filed in silently. Each robe bore the same image that had been stitched onto the streamers outside—a wolf with a seven-orbed halo, a symbol of judgment and Fenrir's will. These were the Servants of the Law, the ones entrusted with tallying votes in matters of dispute and village-wide decisions. Their arrival marked the official beginning of the tallying process.

Tanya watched as simple ink and squares of papyrus paper were carefully distributed among the seated villagers. The process was meticulous, every step steeped in tradition. The wolfmen moved with disciplined efficiency, ensuring that every hand received its due. The people, young and old alike, took their votes with quiet gravity, each stroke of ink on paper carrying the weight of their judgment.

The air in the courthouse was thick with unspoken tension. There was no idle chatter, no murmur of gossip. Even Hati—who could never seem to hold her tongue for long—was silent, her usual exuberance dimmed by the sheer magnitude of what was unfolding.

Tanya exhaled slowly, her arms crossing as she leaned against the wooden railing. She wasn't too worried—not about herself, not about Tarak. They weren't going to be imprisoned. They weren't going to be cast out. Not after everything they had done. Not with the influence Midea wielded.

But that wasn't enough.

She didn't just want to walk away unscathed. She wanted Hathor to pay.

And for that, the village had to decide.

The wooden baskets—intricately carved, symbols of past verdicts etched into their surfaces—began filling as the completed votes were gathered. One by one, the Servants of the Law collected the papyrus squares, moving without hesitation. Once a basket was full, it was carried away through a different set of doors, where the final tallying would take place.

Tanya's fingers tapped lightly against her arm as she watched.

It was strange how slow time felt now.

Like molasses had been poured over the world, thick and unyielding, dragging every second into an eternity. She mused at the thought. The little girls speech had quite the impact on her.

The weight of the decision, of its consequences, pressed down on everyone in the room. This was not just about her and Tarak. This was about the village itself.

Would they stand by an elder who had served them for decades, despite the growing whispers of his corruption? Or would they side with the outsiders, the new blood, who had only just begun proving their worth?

The people wouldn't dare execute her or Tarak. Not with Midea here. Not after their own efforts in protecting this village. But neither could they make it seem as if they were bowing to them.

That was the real conflict here.

The decision wasn't just about justice—it was about power.

Tanya knew that all too well.

There were forces in this village that had no intention of letting her, Tarak, or Midea take control without a fight.

And yet… she had one final trump card.

She just needed to wait.

And hope that when the time came, it would move.

Around a hour later the elders reemerged, their movements slow, deliberate, as if the weight of the ruling hung heavily upon them. Following close behind, the Judicious Ones, the robed arbiters of the law, filed back into their respective seats. Their presence commanded silence, and with their arrival, the tension in the air thickened like a storm about to break.

Tanya stood motionless beside her brother, her amethyst gaze sharp, unwavering, as she looked up at the men who now held their fate in their hands. Midea remained in the center of the room, still standing beside Luna, his arms folded as his burning gaze flickered between the elders.

The lead servant of the law stepped forward, his robe brushing the polished wood of the floor. He unrolled a scroll with practiced ease, his voice solemn as he spoke, the finality in his words punctuated by the quiet stillness that followed.

"Tallied votes say that Elder Hathor is guilty. That is the majority."

The statement rang through the courthouse like the crack of a whip.

For a moment, there was nothing but stunned silence—an eerie, expectant hush before the inevitable uproar. Then, as if the air had ignited, voices burst into the space at once. Gasps, arguments, disbelief—waves of sound crashed together in a chaotic crescendo.

"Impossible!" someone shouted.

"The people have spoken!" another cried.

Hathor himself visibly tensed, his aged face darkening, his hands clenching at his sides.

Tanya's expression remained neutral, but inwardly, she sneered. So far, everything was going as expected.

Remus, seated upon the raised platform, let out a deep sigh before raising both hands, palms outward. "Silence!" his voice boomed, thick with authority. The hall immediately stilled.

He did not speak immediately. His green eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over the gathered assembly before finally landing on the twins below. Then, his gaze shifted toward the wolf-headed banner hanging high above the chamber.

Finally, he spoke.

"The majority of elders have ruled that Elder Hathor is not guilty, and his service to the village is enough that he should not be held at swordpoint."

Tanya inhaled deeply through her nose. Of course. The elders had always protected their own, no matter how damning the circumstances.

Remus leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the podium as he continued, his voice holding the careful weight of someone trying to maintain balance on the edge of a knife.

"Given these circumstances, we have decided upon a compromise. Hathor will be placed under house arrest. His power within the village will be significantly lessened, and he will no longer hold the same authority he once did."

A wave of reaction passed through the villagers. Some muttered in discontent, others nodded with grim acceptance, but none seemed truly satisfied. It was a half-measure, a ruling made to appease both sides without truly committing to either.

Tanya's fingers twitched at her sides, her feathers ruffling slightly as she forced herself to keep her breathing even. She had anticipated a verdict like this, had known that the elders would never let one of their own fall so easily.

But it didn't matter.

Because she wasn't done yet.

Slowly, she tilted her head upwards, her gaze locking onto the podium where her final piece sat.

High Priestess Baya.

The old woman—despite the vitality she always carried, despite the wisdom and strength in her presence—seemed momentarily burdened. Her shoulders were heavier. Her gaze, lowered. For the briefest of moments, before she masked it, Tanya saw it—regret.

Then, just as quickly as it had come, it vanished.

The High Priestess rose to her feet, the white of her robes shifting like flowing water, the embroidered symbols of Fenrir and the Seven Suns gleaming in the firelight. She moved with deliberate grace, raising her wooden staff high before striking it against the ground. The sound reverberated through the hall, commanding immediate attention.

All eyes turned to her.

Her voice, when she spoke, carried the weight of decades. "I know that I was overruled in the chamber of elders, but I have something to say about this ruling."

There was an instant murmur, voices rising in question. The elders exchanged wary glances.

A sharp scoff came from one of them. A tall, broad-shouldered elder—one of Hathor's more vocal supporters—crossed his arms. "You have no power over judicial matters, High Priestess." His voice dripped with disdain, as if her interference were an insult to the system itself.

Baya did not flinch. She was the oldest of the bunch after all.

The chamber was silent, save for the shifting of robes and the hushed murmurs of disbelief. The flickering torches cast elongated shadows along the wooden beams, their wavering light barely able to contend with the weight of the moment.

Baya's voice rang clear and resolute, slicing through the tension like a blade. "This is not simply a judicial matter. It is a religious one. One that only the people and the Suns can decide. The elders have no voice in it."

The words struck like a gong. Gasps rippled through the crowd, a wave of whispers rising and falling as if the very walls had begun to breathe. Tanya—no, Surya, for that was what they knew her as—narrowed her eyes, scanning the room. She saw Hathor's face twist, his lips curling back as he lurched forward, his composure fraying at the edges.

"What are you playing at!?" he snapped, his voice lined with barely restrained fury.

Baya did not even flinch. The priestess held herself tall, her flowing white robes stark against the darkened room, her staff still firmly in her grasp. "I support Surya as the Reification!"

The silence that followed was absolute. The very air felt thick, like the collective inhalation of the entire room had stolen the oxygen away.

Even Surya herself felt frozen. The Reification? The term rang unfamiliar. She had sought support from the woman, had gambled on the influence of faith to sway the trial, but this? This was beyond anything she had anticipated.

Then, like the first crack of ice beneath weight, a voice broke the quiet.

"I support Surya as the Reification!"

Surya turned just in time to see Hati, her amber eyes burning with fierce determination, standing tall with her hand over her heart.

"I support Surya as the Reification!" Another voice joined.

Then another.

Then another.

The room surged with declarations, a swelling tide of voices rising like a roar. Those she had saved. Those she had fought for. Those who had been in the crowd, watching, hesitant—now shouting their faith in her. The noise crashed against the high ceiling, shaking dust from the wooden beams above.

Even Midea, who had stood impassive through much of the trial, now blinked in open surprise, his crimson eyes flickering with intrigue.

Baya lifted her staff once more, bringing it down upon the floor. "If I, the High Priestess, support her as the Reification, and if the people of Wolvenblade support her, then she will be seen as the vessel of the Suns and the voice of Fenrir. That gives her the power to decide. That gives her the authority."

It was a declaration of war against the elders' authority.

And Hathor knew it.

His face was dark with rage, the veins in his forehead pulsing. "You need more than just blind faith! This is madness!" Another elder stood beside him, slamming his palm against the wood so hard that it splintered beneath his fingers. "Faith is not proof!" he barked, his voice tinged with panic.

Baya turned her head slowly, as if she had been waiting for those words. Her sharp eyes fell upon Surya, studying her in that unnerving way of hers, as if peering through her very being. "You're right, brat."

She lifted a hand, reaching beneath the folds of her robe. A gleam of crystal caught the light as she withdrew it—a pendant of carved crystal, delicate yet ancient. It was translucent, reflecting the dim firelight, yet somehow it held a presence that far outweighed its size. The air around it felt... heavy. Like something old was watching. She has seen the old woman wear it around her neck before.

The hall fell into complete, waiting stillness.

Baya stepped forward, her pace measured, her expression unreadable. She stopped in front of Surya, the pendant cradled in her palm, as she raised it toward her. "Take this."

Surya's fingers twitched slightly at her sides. She wasn't stupid. This was a test of some sort.

Her gaze flicked to the elders. Their expressions varied—some watching with wary curiosity, others with blatant skepticism. Hathor, however, looked tense, his breath slightly uneven.

Damn. Was this one of those "chosen one" tests? Because if it was, she was definitely going to fail. She had no connection to this world, to its Suns, to its faith. She was an outsider, an anomaly.

And yet, backing out wasn't an option. Not now.

Too many eyes were on her.

She inhaled slowly, steadying herself before she reached out. The moment her fingers wrapped around the pendant, it felt cool to the touch, smooth against her skin. It remained clear.

For several agonizing seconds, nothing happened.

She could hear Hathor exhale. Could see the relief washing over some of the elders' faces.

Then—

A warmth, soft and golden, began to pulse beneath her fingertips. A flicker at first, barely there, like the final glow of embers in the dark.

And then—

Light.

A radiant burst of yellow-gold energy bled from the crystal, expanding outward like liquid fire, washing over the hall in waves of warmth. The torches along the walls flickered violently, their orange flames paling beneath the brilliance of the glow.

The pendant itself seemed to come alive in her grasp, the warmth surging through her arm, through her chest, through her very bones. It wasn't painful. It was numen. But more dense and concentrated.

The crowd let out a collective gasp, voices overlapping in startled cries as the light painted the walls in streaks of radiant gold.

And then, as if summoned by something by the scene came the sound of their roars—

"RRRAAAHHH!!!"

Villagers erupted in cries of shock and exhilaration, their voices a tide that surged through the grand hall of judgment. The very air seemed to tremble with their exclamations, reverberating against the wooden walls and echoing beneath the painted streamers bearing the image of Fenrir and the Seven Suns. The light from the crystal in Tanya's grasp had not faded; instead, it radiated brighter, washing over the chamber in hues of warm gold, illuminating the stunned expressions of elders and commoners alike.

Even Tanya, composed as she prided herself on being, felt her breath catch. Her grip on the crystal was steady, but beneath her controlled demeanor, something within her reeled at the sheer weight of the moment. She flicked her gaze toward Midea, who stood apart from the bowing throng, a smirk curling his lips, a single brow raised in wry amusement. But his sharp, crimson eyes were locked onto Remus, the chieftain who now sat back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes closed as though resigned to the inevitable. A faint, knowing expression played across his face, but he said nothing.

Then, movement. A tide of villagers surged forward, stepping past the rows of seats, leaving behind their murmuring neighbors. Even some of the elders, figures once unmoving in their power, now rose from their places and strode forward with measured reverence. Before Tanya's stand, they fell to one knee in unison, a great sea of bodies kneeling before her. Right hands crossed over hearts, left hands outstretched, fingers curled toward her as if grasping at something unseen, something divine.

"Oh honored reification!"

"Oh honored reification!"

"The Seventh Surya! Oh honored reification of the suns! Oh voice of Fenrir! The vessel of the first lights!"

Not one voice, but many, harmonizing in fervent devotion, their chants melding into a powerful, unshakable rhythm. Their belief pressed against her skin like heat from a furnace, an intangible weight she had never borne before. And yet, amidst them, three figures remained unbowed—Midea, who observed it all with entertained satisfaction; Remus, who remained seated, unreadable as ever; and, of course, Hathor, who had collapsed onto the floor, his body slack, his face drained of all color. He gawked at the sight before him, sweat beading on his temple, his breath ragged and uneven.

Tanya inhaled slowly and deliberately. Then, with all the grace befitting a creature of power, she spread her wings wide, the silver feathers catching the golden glow of the crystal. A gust of wind erupted from her outstretched wings, swirling through the hall and rippling through the garments of those kneeling before her. The very air bent to her presence, as though the world itself had acknowledged her ascent. This was bullshit but she would take advantage of it.

"If you will have me," she declared, her voice steady, her tone regal, "then I will act as the reification. If you will help me put this man away in the name of the Suns, then it is only natural that I benefit Wolvenblade."

A presence at her side. Tarak stepped forward, silent but resolute. Without a word, he reached into the bag at his side and passed it to her. The leather was warm beneath her fingers, the weight familiar. Inside, her meticulously compiled notes from the library rested, a treasure trove of knowledge she had extracted regarding the goblins, their movements, their weaknesses, their tactics. And the vampyrs and how they affected village paths. Every scrap of information necessary to reshape the battlefield lay within.

She did not hesitate. She nodded once toward Midea, who responded with a casual flick of his wrist. The demon vanished briefly, and when he returned, he dragged something behind him. The crowd gasped. A shade, bound and writhing within a ward formation, its shadowy form hissing against the constraints of glowing runes. Midea cast a smirk toward the assembled villagers, his demonic eyes glinting with amusement at their reactions.

But their eyes were no longer on him.

Every gaze in the room was fixed solely on her.

Tanya took one step forward and raised her hand.

"Rise," she commanded.

A ripple of movement spread through the hall as the villagers obeyed, their eyes wide with fervent expectation. They stood before her now, no longer bowing, but watching, waiting, hanging onto her next words.

"Now," Tanya continued, her fingers tracing over the leather binding of her notes. "I will explain to you how this village will conquer the goblins. And how we will no longer need to rely on them for shadow cores."

A slow grin spread across her lips, sharp, knowing—a grin that belonged to her, that had belonged to her even in another life. A grin that had emerged time and time again when the thrill of strategy, of war, of domination, coursed through her veins.

"Let me teach you," she said, voice silken, dangerous, intoxicating.

Her wings stretched wide, her amethyst gaze hard as steel.

"Let me teach you how to win a war."