Ronnie

You stared out the window, but everything blurred together: the glass reflection, the sliding landscape, and memories. Fragments of what can never be returned.

Sapphire-3 a new order and a new point. Not a choice, but a necessity. You didn’t think you’d get into the cabin again. Didn’t think you’d be part of a team again. Everything inside rebelled, but your mind repeated: if you want to live move. If you want to remember do what you didn’t finish together.

Loss still pulsed in your chest, like a splinter under the skin. But you held on, because at the last base you weren’t taught to be soft. You were taught to be alive.

When the car turned onto a dirt road, you saw for the first time the place where you would live for the next few years. The base looked like a gray spot on the hills, like a burnt wound on the earth. No extra fires, no flags, no greetings. Only cold wind, concrete, and the dull ringing of grates.

Moving to a new point meant a lot. Reinforcing personnel, some command-line necessity. Though you knew the truth they pulled you from the previous base, where his name still echoed in briefings as memory and reproach. Maybe that’s why command decided to transfer you. To keep you from drowning in the past, or rather because you were a living reminder to others of what had happened.

Exiting the car, you barely felt the weight of your bag; your body operated on autopilot, saving resources. Underfoot was rough concrete, worn shiny in places by machine tires, cracked in others like old skin. The air smelled of rain moisture and heated metal. This place smelled of weapons and heavy decisions.

Sapphire-3 base had neither shine nor grandeur. It did not rise proudly above the land like the headquarters buildings of the capital sectors. It rather grew into the landscape, as if they wanted to hide it far from strangers’ eyes. The entire complex was located far beyond the city limits, in rocky terrain where sparse bushes seemed dry even after rain, and the wind howled between the rocks like a warning.

Outside, the base resembled the skeleton of a mechanical beast. Long buildings connected by passages, sunken concrete blocks like bunkers, and massive gates whose leaves opened slowly with a rumble. Around the perimeter rows of antennas, spotlights, guard towers. Barbed wire, doubled in two layers. Everything looked built not for comfort, but for survival.

The main building had no windows. A gray, flat facade covered with rain streaks. Its dimensions faded into the fog, especially in the mornings, when the sky hung low and everything around seemed to freeze under its weight. To the left of the main hangar were smaller hangars semicircular, soot-stained, with tails of fighters and armored vehicles sticking out. The communications center was deeper, underground, fortified, with backup airlocks. No windows led there.

They led you to the residential complex, pointing out a modest room with one bed, a desk, and a couple of shelves. This was unusual considering that on your home base everyone slept in huge barracks with bunk beds. There was always snoring, rustling of blankets, footsteps on metal, and muffled conversations through sleep. Here there was only silence and the distant hum of machinery behind the walls.

The room looked as if no one had lived there yet. The mattress was thin but neatly made, on the table lay a standard tablet with basic instructions, your personal tag in an envelope, and an empty cup.

You put your bag in the corner and scanned the walls. Bare, with rare traces of old paint. No window, only a lamp under the ceiling burning with a steady cold light, like surgical. There was no room for comfort here, no smell of home soap, no photos, no things hinting at personal history. There was too much space for one and too little for two. Moving here was not salvation, but a delay. You knew that. Too much was lost to call this a new start. It was just the next waypoint, the next concrete shell you had to fit yourself into.

Today you were granted permission to rest. Not to “rest” in the literal sense. No one here expected you to sprawl on the bed with a book and a cup of something hot. It was more a technical verb meaning that you weren’t needed by anyone yet, but you shouldn’t relax. Your initial task was to settle in and figure out where what was. So that’s what you did.

You found the medical station first. Instinctively, since it was white, sterile, with a window closed from the inside and metal beds screwed to the floor.

Next, the gym. Empty, only a lit screen with frozen time on the timer reminded you that someone had been here recently. A jacket was left on the bench. Someone else’s scent, someone else’s sweat, and the feeling you were in a strange nest.

You wandered the base, trying to memorize the layout. Technical block, analysis rooms, meeting halls with thick doors and frosted glass. Everything was utilitarian and impenetrable, like the people you glimpsed in the corridors. This day changed nothing. It gave no peace. It just reminded you that you were here now, and that the past was a burden you had to carry on.

The call came the next day after lunch. You barely crossed your room’s threshold when interference sounded over your private channel, then a voice: Sector C-2. Command briefing. Urgent.

You glanced around your room. At the neatly made bed, at the not fully unpacked bag, and at the cold wall where you wished there was a window. All of it suddenly seemed toy-like, temporary.

One step and you were back in the corridor.

Boots tapped rhythmically on the smooth floor, echoing in the empty, cold corridors of the base. The door to sector C-2 opened with a mechanical creak. Inside was cold twilight and a soft hum of working computers. Screens with maps flashed red threat markers on the walls. Two figures stood in the center of the room like an out-of-place carved piece.

One had short hair, the color glowing fluorescent pink as if someone splashed paint on a shadow. The hair was unevenly cut and slightly shiny in the half-light. Her posture was free, slightly relaxed, with hands casually crossed behind her back, as if she was used to being herself here, with a slight smirk on her lips, as if a joke just told still rang in the air.

Next to her stood another, with thick blue hair tied in a ponytail, falling neatly down. Her figure was slightly tense, shoulders straight but without excess strictness. More restraint in movement, in voice, and in how she tried to hide anxiety. Her gaze kept catching the first woman, as if checking how she’d react to each word, and her lips twitched in a nearly invisible smile not too open, but not completely hidden.

You recognized them before they spoke. Vi and Caitlyn, outstanding close-combat pilots, aces in their category. Behind them were too many victories and breaches of regulations.

These were names that, in your past life, echoed in your training recordings more often than your own.

They were not surprised by your appearance. As if you had long been on their personal lists, just your turn came a bit later. Vi spoke first, not quite turning her face to you.

"Finally. We thought the elevator ate you," she said lazily, without pressure, but also as if testing your limits.

Caitlyn glanced briefly at Vi but said nothing. Just nodded slightly, either condemning the jab or silently agreeing. You felt the air in the room thicken a little, like before a storm.

You stepped closer, clenching your fists at your sides.

"The door was open," you said simply. Your words were even, with a hint of uncertainty.

Vi smirked, the corner of her lips twitching more sharply.

"This is a base, lieutenant. Open doors rarely mean welcome here."

Caitlyn stepped back from the holographic projector and turned to you. There was no distrust in her gaze, but no warmth either. Pure function and assessment.

"We were told you came from the Frontier. Eastern front?"

You nodded.

"Red Ust. Last six months. Before that, a metropolitan military base."

She lowered her chin slightly. That was enough.

"Losses?" Caitlyn asked quietly.

You met her gaze, not looking away.

"All."

The room seemed to hold its breath for a second with them. Even the holograms on the screens froze in the half-darkness. Then Vi exhaled quietly, almost silently.

"Then it’s clear why they dumped you on us. Command likes to patch holes with torn pieces."

Caitlyn silently nodded. She looked back at the screen as if checking something, then just adjusted her uniform sleeve.

"You’ll go through basic adaptation. Tomorrow will be technical briefing, then simulator," she said reservedly, not lifting her gaze.

You nodded. You expected nothing else. There was even relief in not being pitied. No one here cared who you were before this moment.

"You’ll live permanently in sector D," Vi added, stepping toward the exit. It’s quieter there. Though if you snore, we’ll move you to the repair drones. They don’t complain.

Your lips twisted, neither a smile nor a grimace. Vi noticed this from the corner of her eye and smiled even wider.

"Look at that, a sense of humor too."

The whole time before the main procedure, you lay still, as if you had already lost the right to move. Your eyelids were heavy, your gaze wandering across the ceiling where the light shone too brightly into your eyes. The doctor was saying something about perfect implantation, stability, success rates. Everything sounded muffled, as if underwater. But you clearly felt Caitlyn squeeze your hand a little tighter, almost impatiently. She wasn’t looking at you only at the monitor where numbers floated.

That’s when you realized it wasn’t you who was waiting for the child. It was her.

When it was over, you were allowed to sit up. The cold in your lower abdomen burned, as if you had been cleaned out from the inside. But Caitlyn was right there, wrapping her arms around your shoulders so gently, as if you were something fragile. You tried to lean into her—not for comfort, but to feel safe somewhere. But all you could feel was her scent: soap, skin, and gunpowder.

The pregnancy didn’t feel like a miracle. It felt more like an illness. The nausea drained you until midday, and by evening, your legs ached so much you couldn’t get out of bed. Caitlyn brought you tea with honey, kissed your forehead, sat beside you. And yet, even in her tenderness, there was something suffocating. As if she expected gratitude. You couldn’t tell her how scared you were. You couldn’t say that you woke up at night clutching your belly in panic. That in your dreams, you saw something twitching inside you unnaturally, unhumanly. As if it wasn’t a child, but a crystal mechanism assembled by someone else’s hands.

“You’ll make it,” she said, leaning closer, and there was so much love in her voice that you wanted to disappear into it. “I believe in you, my love.”

Sometimes you sat in front of the mirror and watched your body change. Your belly grew, your skin became thinner, your breasts filled with heaviness. Everything happened slowly, almost imperceptibly, but with each passing week you felt something alive building inside you, with a beating heart. It seemed like everything was going as it should, but the feeling that you were becoming a vessel never left you for a moment.

Caitlyn, on the other hand, got up earlier than you. Sometimes an hour, sometimes two. She sat by the window with a cup of strong coffee, a folded sheet of paper with a plan in the pocket of her robe. A schedule of check-ups, a list of vitamins, notes from doctors, recommendations she had memorized. Everything had to be under control especially you.

When you started complaining about nausea or sleeplessness, Caitlyn didn’t get angry, though there was a flicker of irritation deep in her eyes. But it wasn’t because she didn’t care it was because you were suffering the wrong way. She stroked your hair, soothed you with gentle words, held her hand on your belly as if she could keep the calm inside by sheer force of will.

She believed she was doing it all out of love. That it was all care. That the child would be the anchor to bind you forever. That the pain, the anxiety, the sleepless nights were temporary. You just didn’t understand it fully yet.

Sometimes she wanted to say something soft to you, but the words inside burst forward with sharp edges: “You agreed to this yourself.”

She hated her helplessness. There was no room for chaos in her life, and now it lived in you: restless and elusive, pulling you further away from who you used to be with each passing day. Caitlyn saw it, always saw it. With every glance in the mirror, you became a stranger. And that scared her more than any enemy on the city streets.

She wanted you to believe her, like before. Wanted you to look at her and feel not pressure, but support. But more and more often, fear appeared in your eyes. And Caitlyn convinced herself it wasn’t because of her, but just because of hormones, fatigue, and your weak body that still wasn’t used to being needed.

At night, she lay beside you, eyes closed but awake. Listening to you flinch from nightmares, quietly crying into your pillow, pretending not to notice. Because if she admitted your fear, it meant admitting her guilt. And she couldn’t be guilty after all, she was doing everything right. For the family you couldn’t hold together without her.

The first days after giving birth passed in a feverish haze. You didn’t remember what time it was, what day it was, or how much you had slept. Sometimes it felt like you weren’t really giving birth at all, but lying somewhere in between worlds: between pain and helplessness, between your body and what was left of it. The baby came out crying, wrinkled and clenching her fists, as if she would have to protect something in this life. You looked at her and felt nothing. Neither tenderness nor horror. The girl was just there as a fact.

But Caitlyn was crying. She squeezed your hand, kissed your forehead, and repeated, “You did it, you’re amazing.” She held the baby, pressed her to her chest, smiled in a way you had never seen before. She moved with confidence, as if she had rehearsed it all beforehand. She turned the baby skillfully, changed the diaper with a single motion, whispered in her ear when she cried, as if she knew secret words you didn’t have. And it broke your heart. Because you were a mother but didn’t feel like one.

After that, there was white. White linen, white walls, white noise like static on a TV with no signal. Days passed one after another, and you couldn’t remember where they began. Feedings, restless sleep, sharp pain in your breasts, someone else’s skin against yours, someone else’s cries all merged together. The baby cried at night, and sometimes you cried with her.

You were too tired to be angry. Too exhausted to speak aloud. You didn’t have the strength not to love Caitlyn, but you didn’t have the strength to love either. Just existing nearby felt heavy, like a wet blanket you couldn’t throw off. Sometimes you watched her rocking the baby and thought you envied her. That smoothness of movement, that knowing that everything would be alright.

Caitlyn did almost everything herself. She went to the kitchen and brought you water not asking if you needed it, just placing it nearby. Sometimes she straightened your blanket. Sometimes she held the baby at her breast so long that the baby fell asleep right there, sprawled out, warm, with a damp temple. But one night, when the baby couldn’t fall asleep and wailed as if something inside her was biting, Caitlyn called you not for a diaper or a blanket.

“Come to me. I can’t handle this.”

Her voice was panicked. Too soft, as if it came not from her chest but from her throat. For the first time, she wasn’t yelling or commanding. She just sat holding the baby, her shoulders trembling. You came over, sat down beside her, and took the baby into your arms. She was warm, light, and sweet with the smell of milk. And at that moment, you felt something inside you change. As if part of the hatred that had weighed on you was gone.

From that day, Caitlyn slowed down a little. She no longer whispered with certainty but asked. Worried she might do something wrong.

“Do you think she’s too hot?” “How did you hold her when she fell asleep faster?” “I think she’s hungry. Can you try feeding her?”

These were simple things. Almost unnoticed. But they became cracks in Caitlyn’s former concrete her armor that had only charts, instructions, and checklists before. You noticed how she started sitting beside you more often, not over you. How her touches became lighter, how she more often left you silence instead of words. Sometimes you just lay there, the three of you, and nothing needed fixing, rushing, or saving. The baby fell asleep as if she knew no one was in a hurry.

One morning, you woke up earlier than her. A rare thing, really. It was still dark outside, but you got up without waking anyone and went to the kitchen. You just wanted to drink some water and go back to sleep but froze by the window. Outside, beyond the glass, dawn was slowly breaking. The sky shimmered with gentle shades: first a barely noticeable lavender, like a light haze, then pale pink, like the first kisses of light. The horizon was faintly lit with golden glow, as if the sun was timidly lifting the curtain on a new day. The silence was thick, as if the air held its breath, and only rare bird songs pierced the calm. The cold morning air still held drops of dew that sparkled in the dim light like tiny crystal stars. In that quiet moment of dawn, as the world around just began to wake, you allowed yourself to wonder for the first time. Maybe life isn’t such a burden, maybe it’s not as broken and hopeless as it seemed in the darkest nights.

You placed your palm on your belly. It was almost flat but still yours. In that small, barely noticeable curve, there was something amazing and incomprehensible. As if the body that had seemed foreign for so long was finally starting to come home.

Suddenly, behind you, there was a cautious rustle. It was Caitlyn. Disheveled, with half-closed eyes. At first, she said nothing, just came closer, hugged you from behind, and buried her nose in your neck. And for the first time in all this time, you didn’t pull away.

“Sorry I didn’t notice,” she whispered. “That I wanted to be strong too much.”

You didn’t answer right away. There were too many words you wanted to say, but even more that you were afraid to say aloud. Instead, you just squeezed your hands tighter around your belly, feeling Caitlyn’s warmth spreading over your skin, as if dissolving the heaviness on your heart.

She was a woman of action: bold, stubborn, angry at the world so much that her fists became words. You caught her when you were returning to your holey, creaky kennel, and she was hammering someone's bitter wheeze into the brick wall, pinning someone else's jaw with her elbow, tearing off threats as calmly as if she were cutting them out of someone else's throat with a knife. You stared at her fists, at the wet strands of hair on her forehead, at how she spat blood without flinching. And in that moment, she became your love at first sight, or something even worse that doesn't need a name. From that night on, you stopped living your own life.

You lived hers.

You learned to memorize her footsteps on the wet asphalt. You climbed onto rooftops, listening to her laughter and curses, sneaked after her through the alleys, caught glimpses of her silhouette in the murky windows of cheap bars. You collected her in pieces: her voice, torn in dark corners, the smell of cheap tobacco mixed with rusty metal; the color of purple spots under her cheekbones, which she never hid.

Your "maybe this is wrong?" stuck inside and rotted between your ribs, intertwining with your breath. You no longer tried to get rid of it. Let it rot there, inside you. Let it sprout in your lungs, wrap around your heart, tear it apart from the inside, just so you can't breathe out, can't forget her taste.

Vi didn't notice you right away. At first, you were just another shadow in her alleys. She was used to them, used to the glances from the doorways, to the empty windows staring at her back. But one day, that glance lingered too long and too insistently, like a knife that someone couldn't bring themselves to plunge into her. At first, she dismissed it as paranoia. On the streets of Zaun, every other person tries to pretend to be invisible while sharpening their teeth in the dark.

But you didn't disappear. She saw you again and again: somewhere behind the trash cans, on the roof of an old shop, or even by the fence of an abandoned warehouse. She noticed how your wet hair glistened in the light of the rare streetlamps, how you breathed down her neck, but never came closer. You didn't understand that she could see you, believing that you were hiding better than rats under rusty pipes, that you were dissolving into the damp air as if you weren't there.

But Vi had lived here too long not to sense those who walked behind her. And at first, she thought she would chase you away. To grab you by the collar and pin you against the wall, just like those who really deserved her fists. But something in your gaze caught her attention. Something sick, greedy, and familiar at the same time.

You wanted her so badly that this desire poured out of you like steam in the cold air. And Vi let you be. Step by step, glance by glance. She let you pick her up piece by piece, like sharp shards of glass that cut your palms, but you still put them in your pockets.You thought you were the hunter, but you just forgot that the beast might want you in return.

The city loved you both equally with its damp cold, rusty pipes, and streets that always lead to dead ends. You followed her so many nights that you stopped counting, and she followed you almost longer, but she was just better at hiding. Two shadows stealing each other's warmth and leaving wet footprints on the cracked asphalt. That night was the same: the streetlights breathed yellow, the rain curled like smoke off the rooftops. You stood in the shadows by the old substation, thinking you would see her first again. She had to pass by, you knew that for sure, because she wasn't at the bar today, which meant that her path would definitely take her down this street.

You had seen this scene dozens of times before: her footsteps, her black jacket, her gaze passing you by, even though in reality it always slid over you like a blade over skin. You stood in your shadow for so long that your legs went numb and your fingers froze in your pockets, but inside you were tense with impatience: any moment now, she would appear.

But the footsteps behind you came sooner. Not her silhouette in the distance, not her familiar figure in the orange glow of the street lamp, but the rustle and heaviness of breathing right behind you. You didn't have time to turn around before a warm hand rested on your neck, not squeezing, but holding you so that it clicked in your head: it was already too late.

She didn't say, "Gotcha." She didn't whisper stupid questions like "Why?" She just stood behind your shoulder, studying you as you studied her. Her warm breath touched your ear. Did you hear her heart beating, or was it yours pounding so loudly in your chest?

Arcane

Vi

one shots:

The Place Where Waiting Ends

Where we won't be

series:

Dried Blood - The Renaissance Project ;; pt 1 - pt 2

Don't be afraid, I don't pray ;; pt 1 - pt 2

long fics:

Blood on Marble

Caitlyn Kiramman

series:

Eternity to taste ;; pt 1 - pt 2 - pt 3

CaitVi

series:

Point below zero ;; pt 1 - ?

Signalis

one shots:

Shaken memory

She was everywhere where the slaughter began. She came as a sign. But not a single authentic testimony has survived, not a single voice that saw her up close. Only rhythmic lines repeated in different corners of the world and scratched engravings in which her appearance could only be guessed at by her wings stretched toward the sky and the crimson stripes around her. People kept in their memory a face that none of them seemed to have seen, but everyone knew. And yet none of them wanted to believe that the myth was closer than it seemed.

The half-people, descendants of lost unions, lived far away in the mountains, where the trails were overgrown with moss and snow lay nine months of the year. Their houses clung to the rocks like nests, hidden from the wind and human gaze. Smoke rose in thin wisps from the chimneys, mingling with the fog. No one knew for sure where their lineage came from: some said they were descended from witches who had slept with ancient gods, others that they were descended from people in whom the devil had planted signs. There was too much that was strange about them to call them human, and too much that was human to call them monsters.

They wove amulets from branches, dried roots on ropes by the windows, and counted the days not by the calendar, but by the changing scents in the air. Children were taught to remain silent in front of strangers and to look down, even if they saw death.

But one night, this thin line crumbled like a house of cards in the wind.

You didn't want to kill. But that night, in the darkness of the forest, you met the one whom the half-humans called Lepers — an outcast whose appearance was a reflection of his crimes and defiance. Lepers were those who were ruled by instinct, who broke the ancient rules and were expelled from their communities. Although for the sake of public order, the Marked were killed without further ado, this time something went wrong. He had eyes that changed color in the sun and a spine covered with scales. He would have been a fine fellow if not for the madness in his eyes. You tried to negotiate, to come to a mutual decision, because you didn't want any trouble either, but it all happened too fast: sharp teeth sank into your wing, tearing not only flesh but also common sense. Tearing apart peace and common sense. Your heart was beating like crazy, blood was pulsing through your veins, and your instincts spoke louder than your mind.

In the morning, people found him. A couple of woodcutters stumbled upon the body, which had been torn apart and was bleeding among the roots of an old spruce tree at the edge of the forest. The bones were broken, the joints twisted in the opposite direction, but there was only silence around, scarlet feathers, and a bloody trail disappearing into the depths of the forest. On the same day, the Council summoned the hunters, those who had once been soldiers and were now called upon to fight the creatures from the ancient writings. Among them was Vi.

Vi did not respond immediately, because she remembers what it is like to be a soldier. She stood at the border three times, twice returning without a medal, but with a stitched shoulder and lost relatives. Her father died in the first war, her mother in the second, and her sister burned to death in the third. After her discharge, she disappeared and settled in a small town among the hills, opening a shop where she sold books, dusty figurines, cracked teapots, and words that no one needed. She loved it when silence slowly filled the rooms, like water filling an old jug. She loved dawns without the sound of bugles and tea with honey, bitter to the taste but warm like a forgotten memory. But there are cracks in peaceful life. Rumors of a torn body, of feathers left on the ground, of how the forest suddenly began to seem closer and darker than before. At first, it all seemed to her to be just another village fairy tale. Until one evening, a letter landed on the table in her shop. Yellow parchment, wax seal with the Council's coat of arms, and a line written by the hand of the man who once commanded her platoon: "We need you."

Others were already there. Those who fought for gold, those who hoped to atone for old sins, and even those who could not do otherwise, because war had long since become their breath. And Vi went because she remembered the woman who once stood in the doorway of her shop. She said nothing, only held a bloodstained pendant in her trembling fingers, and on her child's chest was a rough, hastily stitched scar. Vi asked no questions. She just closed the shutters, took a knife from the shelf, and for the first time in many years felt the fire returning to her veins. Now she was the one whose name was mentioned in reports, and whose face was seen by those who were unlucky enough to survive.

The morning was cold and clear, as if woven from frost and fine mist. The light had not yet fully touched the ground, only barely penetrating through the intertwined fir branches, leaving shimmering patterns on the ground. The forest was silent, holding its breath, and it seemed that even the birds had forgotten how to sing. Only somewhere in the distance, bark crackled softly, as if someone were carefully following behind.

Vi moved slowly, almost silently, deftly stepping over roots and crooked boulders. Before her, like a thread leading through a silent mystery, stretched a trail of blood. It was as if someone had fled in panic, carrying their pain deeper and deeper into the thicket.

The blood had seeped into the moss and foliage, darkened by the night's cold, but it was still alive. Vi looked at it with particular attention, with the same intensity with which she had once tracked enemies on the borders, back when she still believed that every step had meaning and every decision could reveal the truth.

The trees closed over her head, dimming the light. It smelled of old resin, damp stone, and snow that still lay in the shade. The space seemed to narrow, turning the forest into a corridor leading not so much to a destination as to a revelation. A heavy feeling grew in her chest, a viscous and inexplicable premonition. She couldn't name it, but she felt that around the next bend there would be something she wasn't ready for.

An oak tree appeared through the branches ahead. Lonely, old, and almost out of place here. At its foot, in the semi-dry grass, lay a figure.

You seemed to blend in with the ground. The morning light slid across your wing, revealing torn flesh, twisted feathers, and a strange metallic sheen in the curves. Blood had already caked in the folds of your clothing, on your fingers, on the grass around you, turning into rusty evidence of what had happened to you. Vi saw the face. Human. Too young to be a monster and too tired to be an enemy. The skin was pale, like frostbitten petals. There was dried blood in the corner of the mouth. One wing was spread out on the ground, the other bent under itself like a broken bird. Vi noticed how you slowly, almost shyly, looked away like a person who had nothing to say in their defence.

She crouched down beside you and reached out her hand, as if wanting to carefully examine your wounds. You were not as you were portrayed in the legends, not a beast or a monster, but something else entirely. There was no malice in your eyes, no flashes of aggression, only weakness and fear. This contradicted everything Vi had learned and believed. On the one hand, duty demanded a ruthless end, to stop your suffering by plunging a knife into your heart. But on the other hand, she was not one to kill based on rumours and fear alone. Not every frightening shadow brings pain, not every distorted legend gives birth to evil.

When she gently touched your wing, you whimpered in pain, and tears filled your eyes. Vi's heart ached with pity, but she did not stop.

"Shh, quiet… it will hurt, but it will be over soon."

You remained silent, your gaze fixed on the ground, while Vi carefully bandaged your torn wing, her eyes involuntarily lingering on the scarlet feathers that shimmered in the morning light like little tongues of flame.

Vi felt an inner conflict flare up within her with renewed force. Memories of her mother, who taught her to be kind even when the world around her seemed cruel and merciless, like a quiet voice in her soul, forced her to restrain herself. She remembered her mother saying,

«Strength is not about breaking others, but about giving hope even to those who seem lost.»

Her heart beat loudly, as if arguing with the cold of the morning forest, each breath bringing the weight of pain and doubt. This vague burden pressed on her chest, reminding her how fragile faith in the light that could break through the darkness was.

In the silence of that moment, it was not the fate of one creature that was being decided, but her own faith in humanity, in the belief that light was still capable of breaking through the darkness. Vi gently pressed her palm against your wing, trying to ease the throbbing pain, her gaze fixed on your face. Cold fear gripped your chest like an icy hand, and your whole body tensed, preparing to defend itself, even though you barely had the strength to breathe. But despite everything, you allowed Vi to heal your wounds, not quite understanding why, but trusting her only this once because of your desperate situation.

"I killed him," you finally say, when the sharp pain subsides, giving way to a throbbing but tolerable discomfort.

There is a moment of silence before Vi asks:

"Why?"

"He wasn't an enemy, but he became one. Madness drove him into a corner, and I couldn't let him destroy others and himself first.

Vi looked at you, and gradually the pieces of the mosaic that had previously seemed scattered and meaningless began to fall into place in her mind. Each fragment: your wound, your voice, your fatigue, and your words took shape, and the picture became clearer. Before her was not a mindless creature from terrifying tales, but a living, complex personality filled with pain and struggle. Legends are born not from truth, but from fear and misunderstanding, turning those who differed from the masses into monsters and enemies.

Vi stepped inside, looking back. Everything around her was sculpted from memory. Here, the walls remembered the creation of the world, the stairs led to eras that no longer existed. There, in the hall, the queen awaited her. A tall figure, like a reflection in black water. Her face was hidden by a veil woven from the night, but even behind the veil, her eyes could be felt. She was the fabric of existence, the thing that held names, blood, birth, and disappearance together. And anything that dared to go against her met not with anger, but with Eternity.

The queen did not kill Vi, she tore apart her time, stretched the end of her path into infinity, and cast a curse more severe than any punishment. It was not spoken in words, but it spread through her bones like ice, cracked under her skin, and settled in her heart.

''Did you want freedom, child of fire? You will get an eternal path to it.''

From that day on, Vi became a shadow of anger, a step outside of time, a blade without a sheath. Her curse was not pain, but meaning. The only goal that kept her in this cold, detached existence: to destroy everything that gave birth to the throne. To destroy the last trace of divine blood. And while the goddess's lineage slowly died out, somewhere far away, in the darkness of the borders of the worlds, an heiress was born. The one who would become her last enemy. And, perhaps, her last salvation.

The order needed to be continued, in a vessel capable of bearing the burden of power if the Queen herself disappeared. That is how you were born. Not born, but assembled from the core of a dead star, the ashes of fallen empires, the tears of the last titan, and the silence of death itself. You knew no lullabies. From a young age, you learned to wield a hammer heavier than your own body, to speak clearly, to command without pleading, to be a support rather than a shield. Soldiers bowed their heads as you approached, for you possessed a power like that of the ancient beings before whom they fell to their knees in recognition of their own fragility.

Your face was rarely seen. A bandage hid your eyes the same eyes as the Queen's: black as primordial emptiness, reflecting not stars, but their destruction. No one knew if you were really blind. But when you turned your head, it seemed that you saw everything.

You wore heavy armor as a reminder. Your hammer, carved from the fused bones of the fallen and bound with iron gathered from battlefields where the air was heavier than blood, never missed its mark. It was an extension of your will. Precise, ruthless. There was not a drop of mercy in it, only necessity. You did not just have to protect the throne. You were one with it. A symbol of immutability. The last line, blacker than which there is only emptiness. You swore that no one would destroy the order established by your mother. Not a mortal. Not the damned. Not fire, not chaos. Not even the one who returned, time and time again, to blood and silence.

You loved the throne not because you wanted to rule, but because you no longer knew how to be anything else.

So when Vi came to you for the first time, dirty, stubborn, with a curse on her shoulders and burning determination in her eyes, you felt for the first time that perhaps in this battle you would not only have to defend the throne, but also understand why someone so desperately wanted to destroy it.

The throne room was serene. Its darkness was familiar, breathing slowly like the chest of a sleeping mountain. However, the fleeting moment of something resembling rest was brutally interrupted. A servant stumbled into the hall like a discarded fragment of war. His skin was gray-green, with slits and seams instead of veins. His skin was cracked and oozed ink-black blood. His claws dug into the floor, tearing it apart, as if the stone itself could help stop death.

One eye was slashed, the other filled with horror.

He crawled, leaving behind a sticky trail stretching from the very edges of the hall, as if his entire inner essence was dripping onto the cold marble. You didn't move. When he reached the foot of the throne, his chest was barely moving. His mouth was wide open, like a crack in the ground. Words burned with fear poured out of it. They were barely audible, but fragments of truth could be discerned in their distorted music.

A mortal broke into the estate. They are no more.

Blood dripped from his lips down his chin and onto the stone. He twitched in a final convulsive breath and froze. His body went limp, as if it had finally found peace.

The peace of the throne room was absolute. And the corpse at its foot did not disturb it, but rather complemented it. As if death had always been part of the ornamentation here. You straightened up for a split second and turned your head toward the panoramic window.

The blood smelled too vivid.

You could detect a hint of iron. Hot and insistent, it pierced the aromas of incense, ancient times, and bones ground to dust at the threshold. The blood brought back memories of someone who should have disappeared long ago under the weight of fate. At that very moment, the atmosphere in the throne room shifted as Vai entered. Although "entered" is not the right word; she burst in like a crack in the glass.

"Your reign of terror is over," her voice cut through the silence between you, ringing out with obvious fury. She raised her blade, pointing it at you.

"My power is absolute," you replied, without raising your voice. "You cannot destroy what is carved into the bones of the universe."

"And yet I am here to do just that."

You did not move.

"No. You are here to be crushed by my heel."

That day, she did not achieve her goal. Her burning determination was shattered against the granite of eternal power. Her body, contorted in a final spasm, clutching the hilt of her sword even in death, lay on the marble floor like a fragment of will covered in oaths. Beneath it, a dark scarlet pool of blood slowly spread. It soaked into the stone, as if the ancient hall were greedily drinking the remnants of her audacity.

You did not move. No anger, no triumph. Just a snap of your fingers, and the blood, flesh, and traces of defeat disappeared as if she had never been there.

But she returned the very next day with the same blade as before and the same determination burning in her eyes like a cursed sun over dead land.

Her footsteps rang out on the marble like a challenge. The dust had not yet settled from her previous defeat.

"Your reign of terror will end today."

You raised your head without rising from your throne. A slight shadow of a smile flitted across your lips.

"Another contender for the night? Flattering."

"It's still me," said Vi, clutching her blade. "Did you really think I wouldn't try again?"

"Those who burn to ashes don't usually do that," came the lazy reply, almost with weary tenderness. "However, a second chance is just a repetition of death from a different angle."

"We'll see."

"Yes," you bowed your head. "We will read the truth from your broken bones."

After her second defeat, Vi returned again the next day, as if death itself had not been her decree. Like a loyal, stubborn dog, crawling again and again to the feet of the one who had pushed her away. This time she did not scream.

"Okay, you're not a weakling."

"Are you seriously going to come back? You've had enough chances."

"I can be better."

"Better at gutting? You're already perfect at that."

"Regardless of whether I'm perfect or not, I'd like to be a little more than your target mannequin."

On that day, you didn't kill her right away.

You met again, only this time Vi came unarmed, as if just to talk. In fact, she felt almost at home here. She stood at the foot of the hall with a lazy smile and a fur cloak, from which she had not yet shaken off the snow.

"What do you think of the bow I brought last time?" she asked, lightly, almost cheerfully. "I took it from the chest in the guardhouse."

Her voice broke the sacred silence like a raindrop in a dead well. You turned your head.

"In the guardhouse? What are you talking about?"

Vi raised her eyebrows for a moment, as if surprised.

"The one in the southern fortress. Don't you know what's in your own castle?"

"If it's below my throne, then it's below me. My subordinates take care of the little things."

She leaned against the wall, staring at the ceiling, where an old cloth with a faded coat of arms hung.

"So you never leave the fortress?"

"Why would I?"

Silence hung between them like a curtain before the fall of the acts.

Vi smiled a tired, almost sad smile.

"You know… that was a sad question."

The day began, like all the others, without dawn and without birds. The damp silence of the throne room was once again broken by footsteps. Vi walked across the marble, leaving only a light trail of dust behind her. No wounds, no blood today, only unwavering determination and a sly grin that even death could not wipe from her face.

You sat on the throne, as usual, as if you had grown into it. You were used to her visiting you almost every damn day, but you still clenched your fingers on the armrests in irritation.

She came closer, looking up, her head slightly bowed, as if preparing herself for another inevitable defeat.

"Let's go. Another round, another chance at a new tactic."

You sighed. Slowly, with the same weary contempt.

"It's starting to annoy me. Your… fidgeting."

Vi raised an eyebrow, as if you had paid her a compliment.

"Oh? A crack in the throne of masculinity?"

You snapped your fingers, causing the familiar ringing of steel. The floor shook in response.

"Dream on. Remember, you stained my floor with blood."

"I won't judge you for your disappointment if you don't judge me for my profuse bleeding."

You rose from the throne.

"I'm not upset. I'm just tired of repeating the same fight over and over again."

She shook her head, brushing her hair away from her face.

"So you didn't miss me?"

"The bonfire of your corpse brings warmth to these halls."

The lights in the throne room flickered, as if sensing the approach of something beyond the permissible. The stone beneath his feet still bore traces of old blood, but it no longer oozed with fear; it had grown accustomed to it. He accepted Vi just as he had once accepted the hammer.

You could sense her even before she stepped into the hall. Her presence defied logic; it was a violation of the eternal structure of this estate.

She stopped at the foot of the steps, silent. And only after a moment, without raising her sword or issuing a challenge, she said:

"I had the idea of leaving. I thought I had figured you out. That the new sword would kill you.

You didn't move. Not a single shadow on your face changed.

"Then why are you coming back?"

"What do you think?"

You exhaled slowly, letting the words sink in.

"I think it's because you like it here. Your soul longs for something that only I can give you."

"Maybe," she agreed. "It was fun. Our dance. You really are as ruthless as they say."

"And you're as assertive as they say."

"A perfect pair, an immovable object and an irresistible force."

You tilted your head slightly to one side, as if listening to her voice.

"I'm afraid that in such an encounter, force is doomed to self-destruction."

"And I thought the object would break."

You stood facing each other in the middle of the empty hall. Only the dust swirling in the pillars of light reminded you that time still existed. After the final battle, there was no anger or tension left, only silence, stretched out like a breath before sleep.

Vi's sword was stuck in the ground, both hands resting on the hilt. You leaned your hand on your hammer, not in the pose of a victor, but in the pose of a weary guardian whose vigil had become a burden. There was too much blood between you to be mere enemies.

Vi looked up. Her voice was quieter than usual.

"Can I ask you something?"

You nodded almost imperceptibly:

"You've earned it. Ask."

"Will you give me an honest answer?"

"Perhaps."

She waited, weighing her words as if it were not a question but a key to the lock in the very essence:

"What are you afraid of?"

You didn't answer right away. You just bowed your head, as if considering whether she was worthy of an answer.

"Losing who I am," you finally said. "A deposed queen is no longer a queen. But I have always been a queen."

"Is there nothing left for you to hold on to?"

"What else could I hold on to but this hammer?"

"I'm sorry. If it matters," said Vi.

The silence thickened, but you cleared your throat and broke it:

"Now you owe me a question."

She nodded.

"What am I to you?"

Vi smiled, as if she had been waiting for this question all along.

"You are my immovable object," she replied, "doomed never to move, always here for me to return to. Whatever role you saw for yourself, you fulfilled it, just as I fulfilled mine. That is why I consider us equals."

The flames in the bowls burned dimly, as if tired of the endless night. The throne room was silent, too deep to be natural. It had always been quiet here, but now it had taken on a sense of impending finality.

You sat without touching the back of the throne. Your posture was rigid, your gaze behind the black cloth bandage lowered to the floor, as if there, in the stone mosaic, you could read the answer to a question that no one dared to ask anymore. With each passing night, your silhouette seemed more a part of the stone than of flesh. And yet, inside, something was cracking, giving way.

Vi emerged from behind the columns. Wounded, tired, but still standing straight. She no longer raised her sword unnecessarily. This time, there was no anger in her gait, only a shadow of regret. She stopped at the foot of the steps, and for the first time in many days, you did not rise to meet her.

"There's no point in pretending," you said, your voice closer to a breath than a sound. "I'm going to die, aren't I?"

Vi sighed. There was no malice in her gaze.

"We all do it sooner or later. There's no shame in it."

You turned your head toward her.

"You must be satisfied."

"I'm curious," she said. "Now you face the inevitable. What will you do?"

You didn't answer right away. Your hand slid along the armrest of the throne as if that touch could tap into the power you had carried for centuries. Then you rose.

"I will do everything in my power to prevent it," you said. "You will not see me surrender without a fight."

Vi nodded slowly. Her face softened.