#moonshadow elf

Isn't she lovely, Callisto?

The sun had already risen behind the mountains when the trail finally reached the river.

Callisto knelt by the water’s edge, resting one hand against a smooth river stone as he submerged the leather canteen into the current. The freezing water rushed into the vessel, reflecting the sky's lingering purple hues.

Behind him, Fiona walked a few paces above the riverbank, far too occupied trying to keep the pack from sliding off her shoulder to pay close attention to him.

And then, a sudden, agonizing throb erupted in Callisto’s left wrist.

The leather canteen nearly slipped from his numb fingers. The air was violently sucked from his lungs, and the elf gritted his teeth so hard he tasted the sharp copper of his own gums.

The blood-binding ribbon…

‘What? But how…?’

The ribbon was no longer merely tight. It was sinking into raw flesh like white-hot wire.

The knuckles of Callisto’s left hand swelled, turning a sickly purplish shade in a matter of seconds as his circulation was mercilessly choked off. Blackened veins bulged in sharp relief against his pale skin, pulsing with a venomous ache that snaked straight up his forearm.

‘Damn it! This was supposed to have started hours ago! Why now?!’

Without hesitation, Callisto plunged his entire left arm into the icy depths of the river, using the thermal shock to suppress the violent muscle spasms. The freezing water bit into the wound, but it helped numb the searing slice of the magic. He shut his eyes tightly, jaw locked, veins pulsing at his temple as he swallowed hard against the roar of agony clawing at his throat.

Behind him, the scuffle of boots over loose shale and Fiona’s tired grumble drew near the bank.

“Callisto? Is everything alright down there?” Fiona knitted her brow, stopping mid-step while holding the satchel containing the egg.

Callisto nodded, but his posture lacked its usual sharp arrogance. He was far too stiff. She caught the rigid line of his shoulders, the unnatural stillness, and the shallow, ragged breaths he was fighting desperately to conceal.

“Callisto?” Fiona took two quick steps toward the river’s edge, her blue eyes scanning him with clinical scrutiny. “What happened? Did the wound along your ribs reopen?”

Before she could take a third step and spot his submerged arm, Callisto shot upright in a sharp, sudden movement.

“I am perfectly fine.” He cut in coldly, though a bead of cold sweat traced his temple and vanished along his jawline.

With his right hand, his only functional one at that moment, he extended the full canteen firmly toward her chest, putting a physical barrier between them. At the same time, he tucked his left arm behind his back, concealing the swollen wrist beneath the folds of his travel cloak as his purplish fingertips spasmed with cruelty.

Fiona caught the canteen on pure reflex, her eyes narrowing with suspicion at his sudden evasion.

“You’re pale. Paler than usual. Just let me check if-”

“We have wasted far too much time descending the ridge.” Callisto interrupted flatly, sidestepping to keep the left side of his body angled away from her line of sight. He gestured with his chin toward the rocky path cutting along the gorge ahead. “Runaan’s unit took the secondary route through the valley of crooked pines. They are injured and moving in a defensive march, which means we can overtake them before midday if we maintain our pace.”

“...Understood.” She answered quietly, giving a slow nod.

She stowed the canteen into the side of the pack with measured movements, drawing a breath to swallow the questions burning at the tip of her tongue.

Adjusting the straps over her shoulders, Fiona took a step forward, deliberately pretending not to notice how he kept his left arm glued to his side, tense beneath the dark fabric of his cloak.

“Then we shouldn't waste another minute.” She added, adopting a lighter tone to ease the heavy tension lingering in the air. “If your unit is down in the valley, the sooner we catch up, the sooner you introduce me to your friends... and the sooner we fix that terrible morning temper of yours.”

Callisto let out a brief puff of air through his nose. A quiet semblance of a chuckle choked off by the searing ache radiating up his arm. “I am not entirely convinced introducing you is a wise idea. They would not hesitate to take your head.”

“Oh, what a lovely welcoming committee.” Fiona quipped, rolling her eyes as she lengthened her stride to match the elf’s wide steps.

“It is basic survival instinct in times of war.” Callisto replied curtly, using his right hand to shove aside the low-hanging boughs of a gnarled pine.

The pain in his left wrist was beginning to shoot sharp spikes all the way up to his shoulder joint. The throbbing sensation felt as though his forearm were being crushed beneath a blacksmith's hammer. Callisto ground his molars together, keeping the deadened limb pinned against his ribs beneath the cloak as he regulated his breathing.

‘Her salve must have numbed the nerve endings…’ He reasoned silently, feeling cold sweat pool beneath the collar of his tunic. ‘That is why the binding only struck now… The medicine wore off, and the ribbon awakened with full force. Damn it!’

Fiona walked close behind, her observant eyes locked onto his rigid back.

“Would they really attack even with you standing right there?” She asked, breaking the silence to test his responsiveness. “I mean... you’re their scout, right? Shouldn't they trust your word if you tell them I’m helping you bring the egg back?”

Callisto paused for a split second atop a rocky outcrop overlooking the throat of the valley. The cold morning wind whipped white strands of hair across his face, exposing the sickly, gray pallor creeping over his features.

“Runaan is unyielding when it comes to duty.” The elf murmured, his voice rougher than intended. “And it is not merely him. Every single one of us has lost something, or someone, to humans. But…”

He glanced sideways toward the reinforced pack at Fiona’s back, where the gentle blue pulse beat on, calm and steady.

“...I believe they will keep their hands to themselves if I speak to them first.”

Fiona fell silent, slowing her pace as the weight of those words settled into her chest.

The freezing gale howling through the canyon blew against her blue hair, carrying the endless whispering of the pines. She looked down at the pack, at the soft blue glow pulsing innocent and pure.

“Callisto…” She began hesitantly, her voice nearly stolen by the mountain wind.

The elf did not turn his body so as not to betray his limp arm, but he tilted his head slightly back, signaling he was listening.

“Do you think... there’s any chance of this all ending?” She asked, wavering over each syllable. “I mean... this entire war. Elves and humans finally putting an end to the slaughter?”

Callisto furrowed his brow, genuinely bewildered by the inquiry. He turned his head in profile, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Why are you asking such foolishness now?”

“It’s not foolishness, it’s a genuine question!” Fiona took two quick strides to reach his height on the rock, gesturing with her free hand. “I just keep wondering... how long has this grudge even lasted? What? A hundred years?”

Callisto blinked slowly. A shadow of ancient bitterness and exhaustion washed over his pale face.

“A thousand years, Fiona.”

Fiona froze where she stood, mouth slightly parted.

“...What?”

“Over a millennium.” He corrected with cutting coldness, turning his gaze back to the far horizon. “A thousand years of atrocities, bloodshed, and vengeance fed by entire generations that were born and died knowing nothing but mutual hatred. This is no hundred-year grudge. It is a cycle that has lasted a thousand years.”

Fiona remained quiet.

For some reason, the sudden absence of noise from her rang louder in the clearing than any shout or protest ever had.

Callisto frowned, turning his torso slightly. “Why the sudden silence? Why ask about the war now?”

Fiona blinked slowly, snapping out of her trance and forcing a faint, brief smile, the kind that never quite reached the eyes. She shifted the straps of the pack on her shoulders, shaking her head to dispel the heavy thoughts.

“Nothing…” She murmured, casting her gaze down toward the dark treeline at the valley floor. “Just a silly thought that crossed my mind for a second... Forget it. Let’s keep moving before your friends put another three leagues between us.”

Callisto held her gaze for a second longer, sensing the deeper current beneath her hesitation, but the excruciating agony in his left wrist and the urgency of their march forced him to swallow his curiosity and press down the slope.

[...]

“So, aside from you, how many are in your unit?” Fiona asked.

“Six.” Callisto replied without slowing his pace, his voice tight and controlled as his boots crunched through the scree. “Runaan is our leader. You will know him when you see him. Then there are four other warriors. Skor, Andromeda, Ram, and Rayla.”

“Rayla?” Fiona arched a brow, quickening her steps to keep pace. “That’s a lovely name.”

“She is the youngest. A prodigy with twin blades, but…” He paused, his jaw tightening slightly. “...far too reckless for her own good.”

“I see. Quite a formidable group.” Fiona commented, glancing up at the thick canopy that began blotting out the morning sunlight as they descended deeper into the gorge. “And you always fight together?”

“Always. We trained under the same doctrine, swore the same oaths, and covered one another’s backs.” Callisto leapt over an exposed root, bracing his landing solely with his right arm while keeping his left pinned beneath the cloak. “If they managed to break the castle’s siege, they should have gathered the caches at the rally point and dismantled the forward base long ago.”

Yet, as they pressed deeper into the heart of the crooked pine valley, the air turned suffocatingly heavy.

The usual song of wild birds had vanished entirely. An oppressive, unnatural stillness blanketed the woods, broken only by the eerie rustling of dry needles above.

And then came the smell.

It was not the damp, earthy fragrance of wet soil and pine. It was an acrid, choking stench, heavy with the sharp tang of ozone and scorched ash.

Callisto stopped dead in the middle of the trail.

“What is that?” Fiona wrinkled her nose, taking two quick steps until she drew level with the elf. “It smells... burnt?”

The elf did not answer. He drew his glaive with his right hand on pure instinct and surged forward in swift, soundless strides, rounding a moss-covered boulder that choked the entrance to the main campsite.

The moment he cleared the bend, the sight stopped him dead in his tracks.

The clearing was gone…

What had once been a sheltered woodland refuge had been hollowed into a crater of raw devastation. Dozens of trees were sheared in two or reduced to brittle, blackened stumps, as though a whirlwind of flame had scoured the ground. The earth all around was charred pitch-black, glassy in several patches where the heat had melted the stone.

“Good heavens...” Fiona pressed her hands over her mouth, her blue eyes wide with pure horror.

There were no shelters pitched. There was no resting fire.

In their place lay trunks gouged by the frantic, deep cuts of moon-forged steel; the ground was littered with broken arrow shafts, shredded strips of silver cloaks trampled into the gray dirt, and, embedded deep into the smoldering stump of a ruined oak, the curved, stylized blade of a broken sword, snapped cleanly in two.

There was not a single body. Neither human nor elf. Only a tomb-like void.

The glaive in Callisto’s hand dipped until its point struck the dirt.

The elf took two stumbling steps forward, the strength draining from his legs. He collapsed to his knees before the scene, his amber eyes locked onto the shattered blade in the tree.

The agonizing bite of the binding ribbon on his left wrist flared with vicious cruelty, but Callisto barely felt it.

His eyes swept the clearing.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Nothing.

No bodies.

No signs of an orderly retreat.

“No...” The word tore from his lips.

Fiona remained motionless a few paces behind him.

“Callisto...”

He did not reply.

His right hand squeezed the haft of the glaive.

“No.”

This time, the word came firmer, edged with dread.

He rose abruptly and began pacing across the scorched clearing.

“Callisto?”

“They were here.” He dropped beside the ash, dragging his fingers through the blackened soil. “There are drag marks.”

Callisto swept through the devastation, inspecting every inch of the ruin with frantic, methodical desperation.

“This makes no sense…” He muttered, his breath short and jagged. “If the Crown Guard had ambushed the camp, there would be horse tracks in the mud, heavy boot prints, and containment perimeters. There is none of that here…”

He touched a charred trunk. The wood had not been consumed by ordinary fire, but by concentrated detonations, leaving circular craters and a viscous, yellowish powder clinging to the bark.

The breath froze in his lungs.

Behind him, Fiona tried to keep pace with his erratic movements, holding the egg close against her chest. As she stepped around a tangled pile of scorched branches near a rock ledge, something completely out of place caught her eye.

Perched atop a clean boulder, wholly untouched by the soot, sat a medium-sized box of dark wood.

It was meticulously wrapped like an expensive gift, tied with a perfectly fashioned purple satin bow. Tucked beneath the ribbon rested a stiff card, stamped with the detailed emblem of a skull bearing open vulture wings.

Fiona’s brows furrowed, her stomach twisting with a heavy, sickening dread.

“Callisto... what is this?”

She stepped forward. Driven by a trembling impulse of curiosity, Fiona reached out and pulled the purple ribbon. The moment the knot slipped free, the lid of the box popped open on its own.

The air vanished from her throat. A sharp, strangled shriek ripped through the quiet valley.

Fiona stumbled backward, eyes wide with raw terror as her hands released the box on pure reflex. The wooden parcel struck the earth with a hollow thud, tipping onto its side.

Callisto whirled around at her scream, raising his glaive as he sprinted toward her.

“Fiona?!”

He skidded to a halt two paces away, freezing in place.

The color drained instantly from his face, leaving his skin an ashen mask of horror.

Tumbling out of the box onto the dark ash, nestled amidst blood-soaked strips of velvet, was a folded piece of parchment. But Callisto did not even need to read the mocking script penned across it.

His amber eyes remained glued to the second object resting in the dirt, staring into nothingness with a lifeless, golden slit.

A yellow iris.

Callisto stopped breathing. Aside from himself, there was only one elf in the entire unit with eyes of that color…

A gaze he had known since long before either of them had ever held a blade.

“...Skor.”

The name fell so softly Fiona barely heard it.

Callisto crashed to his knees upon the ash, his glaive slipping from his grip to clatter against the dirt. His right hand hovered trembling in the air for a heartbeat before curling into a fist so tight his knuckles popped. He did not dare touch the severed eye of his own brother, yet he could not tear his gaze away from the spot.

The elf’s breath grew shallow, rapid, and wheezing, as though the forest air had turned to pure poison.

Fiona took a hesitant step forward, her visceral horror giving way to desperate concern at the sight of the assassin in such a catatonic state.

“Callisto…” She whispered, her voice trembling as she reached toward his rigid shoulder. “Callisto, breathe… please, try to breathe.”

He did not answer. His teeth sank into his lower lip with enough force to draw blood, yet the physical pain was nothing compared to the freezing void tearing through his chest.

Slowly, without lifting his eyes from the stained earth, Callisto broke the silence in a low, raspy whisper laden with blind, lethal hatred.

“He… is alive…”

“Who?”

“That filthy bastard!”

In a savage burst, Callisto slammed his right fist into the earth. The impact cracked the soil, sending a dark plume of ash billowing around them.

Fiona jumped back two paces, startled by the sudden violence.

“THAT CUR!” The elf roared, the cry tearing from his throat in a raw scream of fury that echoed through the desolate valley, making the dry canopy shudder.

He lunged to his feet, seizing the glaive from the ground with such force the tendons in his forearm strained like iron cables. With a blind, sweeping strike, Callisto drove the heavy blade into the nearest scorched tree.

The dead timber shattered into black splinters beneath the strike.

“I SHOULD HAVE TAKEN HIS HEART OUT OF HIS CHEST!” He screamed again, unleashing another furious slash that cleaved the stump clean in two, chest heaving violently, neck veins bulging, consumed by unbridled rage. “I should have burned that insect to ash until nothing remained!”

Fiona stood paralyzed, heart hammering against her ribs as she clutched the pack. She only watched, not daring to step between the elf and his grief.

The clearing trembled under the ringing impact of blow after blow.

Callisto battered the scorched wood with relentless fury, splintering timber, tearing bark, sending ash swirling in desperate arcs. Each strike tore a ragged gasp from his chest, his eyes bloodshot and lip bleeding until the heavy blade finally buried itself deep into the petrified root of an ancient oak and stayed fast.

Silence crept back over the valley, heavy and suffocating.

Callisto did not wrench the weapon free. He rested his forehead against the wooden shaft of the glaive, supporting his weight with a trembling right hand. His shoulders rose and fell in jagged spasms of exhaustion and contained fury. Cold sweat mixed with soot and the trickle of blood on his chin. His left arm remained pinned to his side, numb and wracked with a pain he was too far gone to notice.

Fiona drew a slow breath, feeling the knot in her throat loosen.

She made no sudden movements. With quiet footsteps, careful not to snap the dry needles beneath her shoes, she approached.

She stopped a pace away before sinking to her knees behind him, keeping the pack secure in her arms, offering her steady presence without crowding him.

Time seemed to freeze in the ruined clearing. The mountain wind blew faint, stirring small eddies of soot around them as the silence stretched on.

Fiona remained there, still and silent on the packed earth behind him. She did not reach out, asked no questions, and made no empty attempts to break the grief hanging in the air. She simply breathed beside him.

Callisto’s ragged breathing slowly gave way to a deep, shuddering tremor in his shoulders. His forehead remained pressed against the cold wood of the glaive.

“They were all I had…” The whisper escaped, raw and broken.

Fiona felt a painful clench in her chest, but stayed quiet, honoring his grief.

“I was the doctor…” Callisto continued, the words dragging, choked by the crushing guilt consuming him from within. “It was my duty to ensure everyone returned. If I hadn't... If I had been here... it should have been me. I should be the one in Skor’s place.”

“No... please, don't say that.” Fiona urged softly. Her voice cracked, a raw, tight ache seizing her own throat as she leaned slightly closer. Her fingers twitched, desperate to reach out and hold his shoulder, but she held back, honoring his space. “You couldn't have prevented this, Callisto. You were gravely injured, fighting for your own life. You failed no one.”

Callisto shut his eyes tightly, his teeth digging into his wounded lip as a single, silent tear carved a path through the soot on his cheek.

Seeing him, this lethal, smart and proud assassin who had seemed entirely untouchable, shattered in the dirt made Fiona’s chest ache with a crushing, suffocating heaviness. She swallowed the sting behind her own eyes and drew a steady, resolute breath.

“I know what it’s like to feel helpless while everything burns around you,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, fierce murmur. “And I won't lie to you and say everything will be fine. It won't be easy, and this pain isn't going to vanish. It will hurt. It will tear at you.” She paused, fixing her eyes on his bowed back. “But we made a promise. Remember? A pinky promise.” 

Callisto’s head shifted slightly, the breath catching in his throat.

“No matter what kind of psychotic monster is hunting us, no matter the trail of fire he leaves behind, or what hardships we face on this journey.” Fiona continued with warm, unshakable determination, “I am going to stand right beside you. From start to finish. And we are going to make it to Xadia alive and in one piece. Together.”

The elf remained motionless for several seconds. Then, very slowly, Callisto let out the breath trapped in his chest.

He did not turn around immediately, but his right hand, which had gripped the haft of the glaive with white-knuckled fury, finally relaxed its hold.

[...]

“How pathetic.”

A high-pitched male voice drifted from somewhere above the clearing.

“Grown men weeping and throwing tantrums like a little boy... I’ve always found it dreadfully embarrassing.”

A few yards away, hidden within the shadows of a rocky outcropping, stood a small table.

Or, at least, something vaguely resembling one.

The entire structure seemed molded from melted wax, complete with crooked legs, tiny hardened droplets dripping over the edges, and two teacups resting upon the surface.

The man seated on one side was far too gaunt to look healthy. His absurdly elaborate coiffure seemed to defy every known standard of decent taste.

He took another sip of tea.

Beside him, a red-haired girl with braided pigtails calmly chewed on a biscuit.

She watched Callisto from afar with wide, childlike eyes.

“He looks utterly ridiculous.” She noted.

“Extremely.” The man nodded.

“Grief and rage are such a poor match.”

“Agreed.” She took another sip of tea. “Though I think he's putting on quite the performance.”

The girl took another crisp bite of her biscuit, chewing with her cheek puffed out as she gazed down at the clearing below.

Beside the wax table, a tall, imposing silhouette emerged from the shadows of the pines. A dark-skinned man with swept-back dreadlocks stepped heavily forward. Over the empty socket where one eye had once been rested a patch of black leather, secured with crude knots.

“Enough of this circus.” He growled, his lone eye blazing with raw bloodlust as his muscles coiled. “He’s right there. On his knees. Wide open.”

He took another half-step toward the ridge, ready to drop down.

“And just what do you think you’re doing, brute?” The gaunt man asked without even lowering his teacup, lifting a single wax-tipped finger to halt the chest of the fighter.

“I’m going down there to finish the job.” The one-eyed man snapped through gritted teeth, his voice trembling with contained wrath. “I’m going to slit that wretched elf’s throat the exact same way he slit our sister’s. End of story.”

The thin man let out a nasal, affected chuckle, shaking his head in dismay as he adjusted a stiff lock of his bizarre hair.

“Oh, such a tragic lack of refinement... You are so predictable you give me a migraine.” He sighed, taking another theatrical sip of lukewarm tea. “I, too, am heartbroken over the loss of our dear little sister, believe me. But charging in like a blind bull now? What a dreadful waste of dramatic tension.”

“He slaughtered someone of our family!” The man hissed, shoving against the waxy finger.

“Which is precisely why he deserves a proper grand finale!” The gaunt man countered, a manic gleam in his sunken eyes as a mocking grin stretched across his face. “Look at him down there. Broken, disoriented, his pride shattered, drowning in guilt. Our quarry is completely at our mercy... Where is the fun in simply slitting his throat now without playing a little game first? Despair must simmer over a slow flame.”

The red-haired girl with braids paused her chewing for a second.

“Games…” She whispered, her sweet voice laced with an unsettling excitement as she crushed the remainder of the biscuit between her slender fingers. “I love little games. Which piece gets broken first?”

“How about the lovely creature comforting him?” The thin man suggested.

He rested his sharp chin upon interlaced fingers, leaning over the stone ledge as his eyes raked over Fiona with the hunger of a collector appraising a rare gem.

“Just look at that fascinating contrast... That short hair of such vivid blue, like the crest of a wave in a storm-tossed sea... That porcelain skin, flushed by the mountain chill... And those eyes. Good heavens, look at those blue eyes. They look like cut sapphires catching the light with the purest, most exquisite gleam. Such a peculiar creature... Wasting so much grace in the dirt just to comfort a assassin elf.”

The young redhead tilted her head, watching Fiona with disturbing, childlike fascination.

“She’s different... I’ve never seen anyone with that look before.”

“Nor have I, darling. A truly singular piece.”

The girl’s smile widened, her eyes gleaming with macabre delight.

“She’d make such a pretty doll for my collection.”

The man with the eyepatch let out a disgusted snort. “You two are sick. Do whatever you want with the girl... but the elf is mine.”

Fiona’s consciousness returned in slow, dragging waves, accompanied by a throbbing ache at the base of her skull and a bitter residual tang on her tongue.

She rolled onto her side, expecting the familiar touch of linen sheets and the faint fragrance of dried flowers from her bedroom. Instead, her shoulder met an uneven, rough surface, and the soft crackle of dry leaves beneath her weight replaced the plush comfort of her mattress.

Fiona blinked slowly, forcing her heavy eyelids open against the sunlight filtering through the forest canopy.

Open skies, dense foliage, the sharp scent of pine, damp soil, and woodsmoke…

And then, Fiona’s eyes locked onto the figure seated a few paces away.

Callisto was crouched before a small, crackling campfire, stoking the embers with a long stick. His white hair fell across his left eye, and his immaculate, serene posture made it seem as though he were merely resting after a routine morning stroll, and not after kidnapping a girl using her very own sedative…

The memory of the cloth soaked in mandrake extract struck Fiona’s brain like lightning. Fury bubbled up instantly. ‘That... insolent... elf!’

Without making a sound, taking advantage of the steady snapping of the embers to mask her movements, Fiona slid her right hand across the floor. Her fingers curled around a generous handful of damp earth mixed with dry leaves and fine roots.

She sat up slowly, aimed with the precision of someone who had hurled harpoons across pitching ship decks in high seas, and launched the makeshift projectile.

THWACK!

The clump of mud landed dead center on the nape of Callisto’s neck, showering dark dirt and leaf fragments over his silver hair and the clean collar of his tunic.

The stick in the elf’s hands froze mid-air.

The long tips of his ears flicked sharply backward. His spine locked rigid as an iron bar. Slowly, with the terrifying calm of an apex predator who had just been grievously insulted, Callisto turned his face over his shoulder.

His amber eyes narrowed into two glittering slits as he glared at Fiona, who was already on her feet, cheeks flushed red with rage and chin thrust high.

“You knocked me out with my own medicine!” She accused, pointing a trembling finger.

“I made a logical decision.” He replied in the coldest, most measured tone imaginable, brushing the grime off the back of his neck with the back of his hand. “And if you throw anything else in my direction, I assure you that-”

SPLASH!

A second ball of earth, even more compact and thoroughly soaked, exploded square against Callisto’s chest, staining the raw linen of his fresh tunic with a wide, dark brown splatter.

Silence reigned over the clearing for two full seconds.

Callisto lowered his eyes to his ruined clothes. Then he raised his gaze slowly, wearing an expression so utterly shocked and lethal that any sensible soldier would have fled for the mountains.

“...Are you serious?” His voice came as a dangerous whisper.

Fiona said nothing. She simply stuck her tongue out at him.

“Oh! So you want to play dirty?!”

Before Fiona could laugh or turn on her heel to bolt, Callisto moved with the speed of a thunderbolt. In one fluid, dropping motion, the elf’s hands plunged into the soft ground and tore up a massive clump of dirt, tangled roots, and moss the size of a melon.

“Wait, Callisto, that’s a whole block of-”

BOOM!

The colossal projectile sailed through the air and struck Fiona squarely in the chest, sending her stumbling back until she crashed flat on her rear, covered in dirt from head to knees, with strings of moss dangling from her blue hair.

Fiona spat out a fragment of dry leaf that had flown into her mouth, her eyes wide with unadulterated outrage as she stared at the elf, who now wore a victorious, arrogant, thoroughly satisfied smirk upon his lips.

“I play dirtier than you!” Callisto declared, clapping his palms together to dust off the excess soil.

Fiona remained seated on the ground for several seconds, dirt trickling down her cheeks and patches of moss wobbling atop her head.

She stared at Callisto.

It was strange.

Callisto looked... happy.

Not the fearsome Moonshadow assassin. Just Callisto, coated in dust and taking immense pride in a ridiculous victory.

For a second, Fiona’s chest gave a jolt that had nothing to do with the impact of the sod. Her breath caught in her throat for an entirely new, inexplicable reason, warming her cheeks beneath the layer of grime.

She blinked rapidly, shaking her head to banish the thought before it could take shape.

“...You are a complete idiot.” She muttered, her voice wavering slightly before regaining its indignant bite.

His smirk widened, thoroughly smug.

“And you are covered in dirt from head to toe.”

“I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!” Fiona scooped up another handful of gravel to throw, but paused with her arm suspended in mid-air.

Something in her surroundings caught her attention.

Fiona lowered her arm slowly. The gravel slipped through her fingers, pattering back to the ground in soft clicks.

She looked around, blinking several times to ensure her vision was not merely a lingering aftereffect of the sedative.

There were no damp stone walls, nor the low, claustrophobic ceiling of the dungeon beneath her home. The air smelled of fresh pine resin, sun-warmed dry leaves in the late afternoon, and packed earth. The thick forest canopy filtered rays of golden and rose-tinted light across the spacious clearing, revealing the imposing silhouette of the jagged mountain peaks slicing through the sky right behind them.

Fiona furrowed her brow, her mind processing the geography at high speed.

“Wait a minute…” She looked at the campfire, then at the towering trees around them, and finally back at Callisto. “We’re out of the dungeon? How on earth did you manage to find the way out? That sub-level has over four dead-end branches!”

Callisto dusted off his shoulders with the back of his hand, regaining his immaculate, upright posture, though a silver lock of hair remained hopelessly disheveled from the mud fight.

“Let us say the architecture of your subterranean labyrinth is severely lacking in basic navigation markers.” He noted with his usual calculated arrogance, crossing his arms. “I found myself considerably disoriented at the first three forks. However, as the cold drafts flowed downward through the upper fissures, I tracked the current until I located a collapsed stone stair leading out to the external slope.”

Fiona narrowed her eyes, surveying the mountain ridges towering above the treeline. An uncomfortable prickle of familiarity began to settle in her chest.

The jagged rocks coated in dark moss, the steep gradient of the incline, and this secluded clearing cradled by ancient oaks...

“This is... the base of the eastern valley mountains?” She asked, her blue eyes widening slowly.

“Precisely.” Callisto replied in a quieter tone, his voice shedding the lightness of their banter. He glanced toward the edge of the dense woods, where the shadows pooled deep. “The tunnel’s exit opened less than half a league from where my team established our forward encampment prior to the assault on the castle.”

Silence settled over the clearing, broken only by the gentle crackle of the embers.

Fiona swallowed hard. She remembered that fateful night with crystalline clarity.

They were right back at the beginning of everything.

“It was near here that I found you… And you stabbed me.” She murmured, staring down at the earth where she sat.

“It was.” Callisto nodded slowly, his amber eyes fixed on her with a calm, deep intensity. “And this time, Fiona, we are on the same side of the escape.”

The direct mention of that first night seemed to freeze the air between them for a brief moment.

Fiona’s hand moved instinctively to the side of her abdomen, where the old sting of the blade had been replaced by healthy skin and a bitter memory. She looked up at the elf, noting the heavy gravity settling over his features. There was no mockery in his tone. Only the factual acknowledgment of a debt neither of them needed to put into words.

“On the same side of the escape…” Fiona echoed under her breath, letting out a dry, humorless chuckle as she brushed the dirt from her skirt. “It’s comforting to know I went from 'disposable target' to 'international treason accomplice' in under forty-eight hours. Quite the career advancement.”

“You are excessively dramatic. You would have been discovered eventually.” Callisto countered, though the corner of his mouth curved faintly before he turned back to the fire. He reached for a leather canteen beside his gear and held it out to her. “Drink. It is fresh moonberry juice. We have a long march ahead of us.”

Fiona took the canteen, accepting the deep red juice without hesitation. The bitter numbness in her throat gave way at the first generous swallow, clearing the remaining fog from her mind. She had to fight the urge to sigh in relief.

“Wow! Where did you even get this? It’s so good… CALLISTO?!”

Fiona shrieked suddenly, nearly fumbling the canteen as she clamped both hands over her eyes.

“What now?” Callisto grunted as he pulled the hem of his linen tunic over his head in one casual, unbothered motion, tossing the dusty fabric over his shoulder.

He was covered in sweat, soot from the fire, and, most notably, the generous splatters of mud and moss Fiona had hurled at his chest. The elf simply intended to head down to the stream rushing a few paces from the clearing to wash up before the clay baked permanently into his skin.

Fiona, however, kept her fingers firmly pressed over her face, peeking in absolute panic through the narrow gaps between her fingers.

Without the thick bandages that had wrapped his torso over the past few days, Callisto’s frame was completely laid bare before her. Broad shoulders and sharply defined muscles across his back, chest, and abdomen stood out with the rigid precision of years of military conditioning. Right along the side of his ribs, the once-devastating burn had faded into a smooth, pinkish patch of skin, outlining the shape of the newly sealed scar.

“Why are you suddenly stripping right in front of me?!” Fiona squeaked, her voice pitching two octaves higher as heat rushed mercilessly up her neck when her eyes caught the swirling blue line markings tracing his arms and torso.

Callisto knit his brow, looking at her as though the human had entirely lost her mind.

“I carried you in my arms for over a league, established this campsite, built the fire, and took a direct hit from a literal brick of mud,” he explained with logic completely devoid of modesty, gesturing to his stained skin. “There is a stream ten paces away. I intend to wash before we march. What is your problem this time?”

“The problem is the lack of warning! People give advance notice before walking around naked in the woods!” She snapped back, trying to look away, but failing miserably to ignore the line of his shoulders silhouetted against the golden dusk.

“You spent days applying compresses and cleaning my torso while I lay unconscious on your sofa.” Callisto pointed out with the utmost nonchalance, crossing his arms and arching a silver brow. “You have seen every single inch of this injury. Why the scandal now?”

Fiona did not answer.

Her cheeks burned a scarlet so fierce she was certain she could fry an egg on her face.

The memory of that night in the kitchen roared back with full force… Ezran’s shameless remark while eating jelly at the table, pointing his spoon and laughing at her because Fiona could not stop staring at the half-naked, unconscious elf sprawled across her couch…

“...It’s not the same thing when the person is awake and staring right back at me, you idiot!” She yelled, whirling her entire body away from him and burying her burning face into the canteen.

“You humans are so terribly uptight…” Callisto muttered as he reached down to unbuckle his belt, instantly setting off blaring alarms in Fiona’s head.

“AAAAHHH!! NO! NO! NO! DON’T TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS!”

“I AM NOT TAKING OFF MY PANTS IN FRONT OF YOU, YOU MANIAC! Stop screaming and relax!”

Fiona stayed facing away, curled up like an armadillo, shoulders tucked to her ears and the canteen clutched to her chest like a holy shield.

“How am I supposed to relax with a giant elf undressing ten feet away from me in the middle of nowhere?!” She barked into the bark of a nearby tree, flatly refusing to turn her head even a millimeter.

“I was merely undoing my dagger sheaths so the leather does not get soaked, you shrieking nuisance.” Callisto’s voice drifted back, dripping with dry exasperation, punctuated by the metallic clatter of weapons being set carefully atop a flat stone. “And if you continue wailing like that, the mage will not need to track us down. Anyone passing by will hear your tantrum.”

The elf’s steady footfalls crunched over the dry leaves as he moved away, heading down the slight incline toward the clear water burbling over the smooth river stones.

Fiona let out a long, trembling, overdue breath, feeling the heat in her face finally cool from "volcanic eruption" down to merely "mortifying embarrassment." She cautiously cracked one eye open, glancing over her shoulder just to confirm his silhouette was safely down by the water’s edge.

Down below, Callisto stood with his back to the camp, crouching at the riverbank. He plunged his hands into the icy water and splashed it over his neck and shoulders, washing away the dirt and grime accumulated during their flight. The rose-tinted twilight gleamed against the droplets trailing down his skin, highlighting the elegant sweep of the horns curving back from his head.

Fiona swallowed hard, quickly snapping her gaze back toward the fire and taking another generous gulp of moonberry juice to drown her fluster.

“Good grief... I have completely lost my mind!” she muttered to herself, resting her chin on her knees as she stared at the pack where the egg glowed softly. “If my mother ever catches wind of this, she’ll kick me straight back into the Navy…”

From the riverbed, the splashing paused for a beat, followed by Callisto’s deep, echoing voice.

“If you have concluded your existential crisis, human, you had best prepare to wash as well once I step out. You do not smell particularly fresh yourself. Unless you prefer that I return dripping wet so you can find another excuse to scream.”

Fiona’s scowl returned instantly, embarrassment melting back into that comfortable, familiar irritation.

“Coming, Your Spoiled Highness of Xadia!”

Fiona rose in a huff, dusting off her skirts and marching toward the supply pack.

“'Do not smell particularly fresh' says the man who spent all morning in a dungeon!” She grumbled under her breath, rummaging through the bundles until she pulled out two linen towels and sets of clean clothes.

She marched down the slope with heavy footsteps, holding out one of the dry cloths toward the elf at full arm’s length, keeping her head pointed determinedly toward the treetops.

“Take it before I change my mind and use it to smother you.”

Callisto took the fabric from her grip without rushing. Droplets of crystal-clear water trailed through the white strands of his hair and across the curve of his shoulders. He began drying his chest and the freshly healed scar with calm, measured strokes, keeping a look of sheer amusement fixed on the human’s sullen profile.

“Your aim with mud is considerably better than your morning temper.” He noted, his deep voice carrying that slow, unflappable drawl. “The water is freezing, but the current is clean. I suggest you make it brief. The mountain temperature drops precipitously the moment the first moon rises above the ridge.”

“I don’t instructions on how to bathe, thank you very much.” Fiona shot back, snatching her own towel and jabbing a forefinger toward the upper camp. “Now turn around, head back up to the clearing, and keep watch looking in the opposite direction. If I hear so much as a twig snap in this direction, you’ll find out what it feels like to take a stone between the eyes.”

“What a waste of ammunition.” Callisto countered with an acquiescent sigh, pulling his clean tunic over his shoulders before buckling his daggers back onto his belt. “I will be securing the perimeter and the egg. Try not to be devoured by any freshwater eels over the next ten minutes.”

He ascended the bank with silent, fluid strides, vanishing into the thick brush of the slope.

Fiona exhaled loudly, waiting until his footsteps completely faded into the clearing above. The quiet of the woods returned, broken only by the steady rush of water against the stones and the distant calls of the first nocturnal birds.

She caught her reflection in the glassy surface of the stream. Tangled blue hair speckled with dry moss, cheeks smudged with soot and dirt, and faint dark circles from forty-eight hours of sleepless tension.

“An absolute disaster…” She murmured, undoing the laces of her dress with a mix of relief and exhaustion as the first chill of the night brushed the forest.

Fiona loosened the ties of her bodice with slow, weary fingers. The light fabric gave way, slipping gently off her shoulders and exposing her warm, fair skin to the crisp evening breeze whispering through the pines. She let out a long, quiet sigh, relishing the immediate relief of shedding the dusty layers.

[...]

Callisto sat cross-legged beside the campfire with the blankest, most focused expression in the world, prodding a sharp stick into a dried mushroom to see if it would crackle over the embers.

The elf chewed absentmindedly on a strip of dried meat with the energy of someone contemplating the grandest trivialities of the universe, using the tip of a dagger to flick away a stubborn speck of moss lodged beneath his fingernail after the mud fight.

Beside him, the pack pulsed with faint blue light, rhythmic as a steady breath.

“...Noisy human.” Callisto grunted to the trees, tossing another dry branch onto the fire as exaggerated splashes of freezing water and Fiona’s indignant grumbles echoed up from the stream below.

The dried mushroom finally popped under the heat.

SNAP!

A tiny puff of smoke rose from the embers.

Callisto tilted his head.

“...”

He prodded the mushroom again. Nothing. He poked it a second time.

FLUMP.

The mushroom crumbled, scattering charred flecks across the stones.

Callisto stared at the spot for a few seconds.

“Disappointing.” He tossed the stick into the fire.

The camp’s quiet was broken by brisk footsteps and crunching leaves ascending the slope.

Fiona reappeared in the clearing, vigorously rubbing a towel through her damp hair. She was dressed in a clean, long-sleeved tunic and dark travel trousers, her cheeks still flushed from the thermal shock of the near-freezing spring water.

“If you utter a single word about how long I took.” She began, marching toward the fire and dropping cross-legged before the warmth, “I swear I will throw your dried meat straight into the ash. That water flowed straight out of a glacier, there’s no other explanation!”

Callisto did not even turn his head. He merely slid his amber eyes her way with utter calm, twirling the dagger in his palm.

She caught sight of the charred soot beside him, noticing the blackened remains of the mushroom and the broken stick smoldering in the embers.

“What was that over there?” Fiona arched a brow, gesturing with her chin toward the mess.

Callisto remained silent for a beat, maintaining the most neutral, austere expression in the realm.

“...Ballistic and thermal resistance testing on local flora.”

Fiona blinked slowly. “You were poking a dried mushroom in the fire out of boredom, weren't you?”

“A preliminary tactical evaluation.” He corrected coldly, letting the dagger hover briefly over his palm before allowing it to dissolve into thin air like smoke.

Fiona’s eyes went wide at the display.

“You did it again.”

“Did what?”

Fiona pointed at the elf’s empty hand, forgetting the towel around her neck.

“That wasn't real steel! That’s the exact same trick you pulled back in Viren’s laboratory when you tried to act intimidating and tossed a blade at me! What kind of trick is that?”

Callisto closed his empty hand, leaning back with an expression of total detachment.

“None of your concern, human.”

“What do you mean 'none of my concern'?! We’re traveling together now!” Fiona scrambled forward on her knees, completely invading his personal space, her eyes gleaming with manic, academic obsession. “Is it Moon primal magic? Is it a matter-transmutation spell? Camouflage powder? Or did you eat a Devil Fruit and turn into a smoke-man?!”

Callisto blinked slowly, his brow arching so high it nearly disappeared under his bangs.

“...What in the world is a 'Devil Fruit'?”

“Doesn't matter! Explain the dagger trick!” She leaned in closer, poking his shoulder with her forefinger. “Come on, spill it, mysterious elf! You materialized metal out of thin air and vanished it into mist! How can an illusion have weight, gleam, and make sound?!”

Callisto let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose in clear regret over having shown off. The human was barely eight inches from his face, wearing that wild look of someone dissecting sea monsters in brine barrels.

“It is an illusion.” He explained through gritted teeth, before she could begin forcibly inspecting his fingers. “Much of our primal source’s magic deals with the boundary between truth and deception, light and shadow, life and death. What you witnessed is a construct of pure lunar arcanum shaped into a blade.”

Fiona furrowed her brow, processing the mechanics at breakneck speed. “But it had an edge! When you threw it at me that first day, I felt the cold, heavy hilt before it dissolved!”

“Because a Moon illusion only acquires physical density if the caster wills it to.” Callisto answered in a clinical, instructional tone. “It can be as solid and lethal as forged iron to open an enemy’s throat... or disperse into harmless vapor the exact microsecond it touches the hands of an intrusive human.”

Fiona fell silent for three seconds, staring at his palm with such shameless awe that her cheeks warmed faintly.

“...That is ridiculously overpowered.” She murmured, jaw slack. “Can you chop vegetables with it?”

Callisto shut his eyes tightly, drawing a slow breath to preserve his remaining sanity.

“We are marching toward the most magical land, carrying precious cargo in our pack... and your tactical priority is dicing onions with ancient assassination magic?”

“Sometimes things built for one purpose can be adapted for others.”

“Such as?”

“There are folks in foreign lands who use clay golems as vegetable patches. After all, pests can’t infest them, they generate their own water, and they scare off crop thieves just by standing there with their arms crossed in the middle of the garden!”

Callisto opened one eye, staring at Fiona with a priceless mix of quiet shock and genuine theoretical bewilderment.

“Are you telling me... in all seriousness... that humans craft territorial defense constructs merely to grow radishes on their backs?”

“And lettuce!” Fiona lifted her chin, defending the practice with the pride of an unappreciated scholar. “Carrots too! Do you have any idea how much labor watering crops takes in midsummer? The golem walks to the well, absorbs the moisture, and keeps wild boars away just by looming in the field! It’s pure agricultural efficiency!”

“It is arcane desecration.” Callisto muttered, shaking his head in resignation. “A magical construct programmed for war, reduced to an irrigating scarecrow. You humans are a disturbingly pragmatic species.”

“It’s called resource optimization, Your Arrogance.” She shot back, settling comfortably onto her travel blanket beside the fire. The warmth of the embers was drying the tips of her blue hair, bringing a pleasant wave of exhaustion after endless hours of stress. “Changing the subject... if we’re going to be traveling together all the way to Xadia, you need to stop calling me 'human'.”

Callisto arched an eyebrow. “Oh, do I?”

“Yes, you do!” Fiona crossed her arms, pouting stubbornly. “It makes it sound like you're talking to some exotic beetle. My name is Fiona. Fee-oh-nah. It’s not that hard for an elite assassin to pronounce three syllables, is it?”

The elf held her gaze for a few seconds, the orange flames reflecting within the golden slits of his eyes. The corner of his mouth curved into a faint, barely perceptible smirk.

“I will take your request into consideration, Fiona.” He said, letting the name roll off his tongue with his usual sharp calm. “Provided you cease referring to me as 'horned menace' whenever you panic.”

“And what about 'four-fingers'?” Fiona asked, snorting at the instant grimace of irritation that flashed across Callisto’s face.

“My hands are entirely normal! You are the aberration with five fingers!”

Fiona blinked, staring at him as if she had just heard the greatest mathematical heresy in history.

Without asking permission, she held up her right hand at eye level, spreading her fingers wide.

“One, two, three, four, five.” She counted, tapping each one with her other index finger.

Before Callisto could pull away, Fiona reached out, seized the elf’s wrist firmly, and began counting his fingers one by one.

“One, two, three, four...” She tilted her head, inspecting his hand with clinical seriousness. “Yup. You’re definitely missing one.”

“I am not missing anything!” Callisto yanked his hand back with a sharp tug, thoroughly affronted by her cheek.

“You are literally missing a functional pinky on each hand!” She argued, gesturing in the air.

“You are the one with an extraneous deformity grafted onto your palm!” The elf raised his voice, pointing at her hand as though it were a contagious affliction. “What purpose does that spare stump on the end even serve?!”

He grumbled as he caught hold of Fiona’s little finger.

“It is not a 'spare stump', it’s the pinky finger!” Fiona shot back, trying to tug her hand free, but Callisto kept a firm hold on the joint, inspecting it with the scrutiny of a scholar examining a rare parasite. “It balances your grip, lets you hold tea cups with elegance, and, most importantly, seals promises!”

“Seals promises? What sort of nonsense is that?”

“It’s not nonsense, it’s a sacred human tradition!” Fiona pulled her hand back firmly, but didn't retreat. Instead, she held her pinky upright before his eyes like a holy relic. “When two people swear an oath by hooking their pinkies, it becomes an unbreakable pact. It is the purest form of trust. If you break it, tradition says you lose the finger!”

Callisto blinked slowly.

“You possess no connection to the primal sources, yet you entrust your word of honor to a fragile, miniature joint? Moonshadow elves bind oaths with runes and silver binding ribbons that bite into flesh if the mission fails... and humans use their spare finger?”

“Blood ribbons are for dramatic people who enjoy unnecessary suffering,” She retorted without missing a beat. “Our method operates on mutual respect and personal honor. It’s far more elegant.”

“It is childish and inefficient.”

“Is that so? Then let’s test your courage, Master Assassin.”

Before Callisto could step back or formulate a sarcastic rejoinder, Fiona leaned in. With a swift, deliberate motion, she hooked her human pinky around the last digit of his left hand, locking them together tightly.

Fiona’s warm, soft skin wrapped around the elf’s fingers.

Callisto froze.

His pointed ears flicked back by a fraction of a millimeter. The breath caught in his throat, and his entire arsenal of sharp retorts evaporated into thin air. His amber eyes dropped slowly to their joined hands above the dying embers, taking in the stark contrast of skin tones and the small, improvised knot she had just forged between them.

Silence claimed the clearing for three endless seconds, broken only by the faint pop of dying wood.

Fiona held his gaze, a daring smile playing on her lips while a faint flush dusted her cheeks.

“A pinky promise.” She said, her voice dropping to a surprisingly soft register. “We deliver this egg to Xadia in one piece. Both of us. No more drugging each other from behind, no more threats, and no more trying to die alone playing the martyr. Deal?”

Callisto remained motionless for a moment longer, feeling the steady warmth of her grip against his skin. He swallowed, drew a quiet breath through his nose, and shifted his gaze toward the dark horizon beyond the canopy, fighting to reassemble his composure.

Finally, he looked back down at their locked fingers.

For a few quiet heartbeats, he said nothing.

Then, very slowly, he curled his own finger firmly around hers.

“Deal.”

Fiona blinked.

“...Really?”

“You claimed it was an unbreakable pact.” His voice regained its smooth, collected tone. “I do not intend to break it.”

Fiona felt a sudden heat surge into her cheeks.

“Oh.”

She pulled her hand away with a clumsy, hurried jerk, tucking her fingers into the long sleeve of her tunic as though his skin had delivered a mild electric shock.

“R-Right... good. You’d better take it seriously.” She stammered, clearing her throat to mask the sudden loss of composure as she quickly turned her back to the elf.

Callisto’s hand lingered in the air for a second, his amber eyes tracking the hasty retreat of her fingers. His palm closed slowly, feeling the phantom warmth lingering against his cool skin, before letting his arm drop and shifting his weight back.

The elf broke the silence, rising with his customary silent grace. He walked to the edge of the pit and, with the toe of his boot, buried the remaining embers under loose earth until the last wisp of smoke vanished into the night air.

Darkness enveloped the clearing, leaving only the cool, silver glow of the full moon bathing them both.

The travel pack resting against the oak roots pulsed with a vivid, electric blue hue. Callisto stepped over, easily hoisting the reinforced straps over his shoulders. He secured the haft of his glaive into the back sheath, adjusted the daggers at his hips, and turned to Fiona, cut against the night like the living silhouette of a blade.

“Rest is over.” His voice came low and focused, cutting through the mountain draft. “From this point forward, we tread the cliff ridges. No torches, no needless stops, and no stumbling. Keep your eyes on my footsteps.”

Fiona adjusted her satchel of tools and dried herbs, taking a deep breath of the freezing air tumbling off the peaks. The flush on her cheeks finally gave way to that steady, practical resolve born of weathering high-sea gales.

“I’ve sailed the Southern Seas through storms that tore warships apart, Callisto.” She said, stepping forward with sure footing and a sharp, challenging smirk. “A mountain ridge won't bring me down. Lead the way.”

Callisto held her gaze for a heartbeat in the shadows, a fleeting spark of approval gleaming in his golden eyes, before pivoting on his heel and melting like a specter into the mountain pines.

The silence across the threshold stretched for five, ten, fifteen agonizing seconds.

The morning breeze blew gently, rustling the heavy hem of the mage’s dark travel cloak. He kept his chin raised, his posture immaculate, and his eyes locked onto Fiona with that icy severity that historically made the ministers of the High Council break into a cold sweat. It was the suffocating presence of one of the most feared and influential figures in the Five Kingdoms.

Fiona, on the other hand, remained frozen in the doorway.

She looked at the dark cloak. Then at the meticulously trimmed goatee. Then at the purple dark gem crowning the staff. And, finally, into the man's deep, calculating eyes.

The gears in Fiona’s head were spinning at terrifying speed, yet not a single piece seemed to fit together.

‘Who on earth is this elderly man standing on my porch at seven in the morning speaking in such a dramatic tone?’ She thought, keeping her strained smile perfectly plastered across her face. ‘Is he the village tax collector? A distant relative of old Augusto? Or some traveling apothecary trying to peddle counterfeit lotus root?’

The man continued to stare at her, clearly awaiting the customary bow, the sudden panic, or the trembling stammer that any ordinary citizen of Katolis would exhibit before the King's High Mage.

None of that came.

Only Fiona, blinking with an expression of pure, unadulterated mental bewilderment.

The mage’s brow twitched by a fraction of a millimeter. The polished, paternal smile began to crack around the edges. He drew a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes for a split second to preserve his temper, and let out an audible, heavy sigh.

“...It is I, Fiona. Lord Viren.”

An invisible lightning bolt struck the girl’s brain.

Fiona’s multicolored eyes widened to cosmic proportions. Her breath seized in her throat, and the realization didn't just hit her… IT PLUMMETED OFF A CLIFF WITH THE FORCE OF AN ANVIL!

LORD VIREN. The High Mage. King Harrow’s supreme advisor. The man who had drugged her less forty-eight hours ago!

“A-AH!” Fiona let out a sharp, awkward squeak, stumbling a step backward as her hands flew to her mouth. “L-Lord Viren! Of course! Lord Viren in the flesh! On my... on my humble porch!”

Her cheeks flared a fiery scarlet of sheer humiliation as she bent her spine into a bow so frantic and clumsy her forehead nearly slammed against the doorframe.

“Forgive me, My Lord! It’s just… you look different… I know! Did you get a haircut?”

Viren stood entirely motionless, his jaw tightening as he processed her deduction.

“...No.” He pronounced the word with razor-sharp slowness, resting the full weight of both hands upon his staff.

“Ah.” Fiona fell silent for a beat. “Pardon me, My Lord. It’s just... it has been quite a long time since we last spoke in person. Ever since I was discharged from the Navy and became a civilian, I only ever run into Soren on patrols or Claudia when she needs rare herbs... You I only ever saw from afar, up on the palace balconies!”

Viren did not blink. His silence was heavy, dense enough to crush any fragile attempt at small talk.

His dark eyes slowly tracked down Fiona’s flushed face, past her unruly blue bangs, and settled on the narrow opening of the half-ajar door behind her.

The steam from the cave-scorpion broth still rose from the kitchen, carrying a peculiar aroma that caused the High Mage’s nostrils to flare faintly.

“Indeed. Our duties to the Crown rarely afford us time for pleasantries.” Viren replied in that velvety cadence, his polished tone concealing sharp edges beneath the fabric. He took half a step forward, closing the distance between them. “However, the events of last night demanded my personal presence beyond the castle walls.”

Fiona swallowed hard, bracing her frame firmly against the doorframe to keep his line of sight from penetrating an inch further into the room.

“L-last night...?” She repeated, striving to steady her voice while her stomach churned in sheer panic.

“Yes.” Viren’s gaze locked squarely onto hers, cold as morning frost. “The Moonshadow elf assault. The regicide. And... the inexplicable disappearance of certain artifacts and individuals under the castle’s protection.”

“Re… Regicide?” Fiona whispered.

He tilted his head slightly, resting one hand against the exterior doorframe, directly beside Fiona’s head.

“Soren informed me that you returned home early... and that you declined the escort to the Banther Lodge. Furthermore, you failed to attend our king’s funeral rites... I would like to understand why.”

The air felt as though it were being vacuumed right off the porch in a single instant.

Fiona blinked slowly, her mind stalling out on that single word. Her defensive posture and surging adrenaline collapsed into a sudden, staggering emptiness in her chest.

“King... King Harrow...?” She stammered, her blue eyes widening in raw, unvarnished shock. “The King is... dead?”

Viren narrowed his dark eyes, analyzing every involuntary micro-expression across the girl's face. Decades of dealing with traitors, diplomats, and court manipulators had granted him the ability to sniff out deceit with effortless ease. Here, however, he found only the genuine, devastating blow of someone who had just received catastrophic news.

“A tragedy that has shaken Katolis to its very foundation.” Viren answered in a solemn, meticulously rehearsed tone, refusing to break eye contact. “The Moonshadow assassins breached the highest towers under cover of night. Our monarch fell defending his own crown, exactly as the warrior he always was.”

He paused with calculated precision, letting the weight of manufactured grief settle over the silence.

“The funeral rites and the pyre took place at first light. Every noble, retainer, and loyal citizen paid their final respects at the citadel gates. Except you.”

The High Mage’s grip on the wooden frame tightened slightly, the timber groaning under the subtle pressure.

“Soren reported that he came here in person last night to verify your safety. And you dismissed him on your doorstep with evasive excuses regarding... nocturnal insects.” Viren’s gaze dipped an inch, probing the dim interior behind her. “While your sovereign drew his final breath and the realm plunged into mourning, you remained shuttered inside your home, brewing medicinal tonics and ignoring royal summons.”

Fiona felt a suffocating knot tighten around her throat.

King Harrow’s death was a crushing blow she had no space to process, but Viren’s trap was closing around her with every second. Telling the truth, that she had spent the entire night saving the life of the very assassin who had breached the palace, meant the gallows for her and an immediate manhunt for Callisto and the egg.

“I... I did not know, Lord Viren.” Fiona’s voice emerged low and trembling, yet laced with desperate resolve as she met the mage's gaze. “Had I known of His Majesty’s passing, I would have rushed to the castle at once. I simply... suffered a sudden turn of illness on the road to the lodge. I was forced to return home to administer my medicines before I collapsed in the street…”

Viren remained motionless for three long seconds, his face an unreadable mask carved from granite.

“A remarkably convenient illness.” He murmured coldly, his velvety tone dripping with veiled venom. “And I presume this same 'illness' also prevented you from noting the disappearance of the young princes, Callum and Ezran, who ought to have been under the safety of that very same carriage.”

So that was it…

Viren was attempting to corner her.

He likely expected her to panic upon learning Callum and Ezran were gone. Perhaps he aimed to make her believe she had failed her duty, hoping that, in her distress, she would let something slip.

But Fiona had not lost the princes. She knew precisely where they were.

Fiona drew a measured breath, pitching her voice to sound impeccably respectful, yet firm enough to dismantle the rhetorical trap.

“With due respect, My Lord, the princes were never left defenseless. The moment I realized my physical condition would compromise the convoy’s security, I transferred immediate custody and the travel route directly to Guard Charlotte.” Fiona raised her chin slightly, keeping her composure intact. “She possesses an exemplary record with naval convoys and was thoroughly briefed on the evasion routes to the lodge. If Callum and Ezran are not where they ought to be, I assure you Charlotte was the first to act to keep them out of harm's way against any threat.”

Viren did not withdraw his hand from the frame. His severe expression did not budge, yet the mention of a standard infantry soldier with a naval background narrowed his lips into a thinner line.

“A common infantry guard entrusted with the safety of the heirs to the crown during an elven siege.” Viren’s tone cut like frozen steel. “A rather reckless exercise in judgment for someone of your background.”

“A practical judgment, Lord Viren.” Fiona countered with calculated calm, refusing to yield an inch of ground at the threshold. “In times of crisis, low-ranking soldiers draw far less attention along the roads than full detachments of the Crown Guard.”

The silence descended heavily once more across the porch. Viren’s dark eyes pulled away from the girl’s face, gliding slowly into the dim interior of the cottage, searching for any detail out of place.

Fiona felt her stomach clench.

Don't look inside.

For a terrifying second, she was certain he had caught onto something.

Callisto’s bowl still rested on the tabletop. The second bench remained slightly pushed back. And, worst of all, the scent of cave-scorpion broth continued to hang thick in the air.

Viren tilted his head ever so slightly.

“Curious.”

Fiona froze.

“Pardon?”

“You stated that you fell ill during the journey.” His eyes snapped back to hers. “And yet, you appear to have prepared a remarkably elaborate meal this morning.”

Fiona blinked. Then offered a small, disarming smile.

“I recover quickly.”

“So I see.” The response landed so flatly her smile nearly withered.

Viren’s gaze drifted back inside.

“And for someone who supposedly spent the night in solitude, there is a considerable amount of food prepared.”

A cold shiver raced up Fiona’s spine.

“I... had company.”

Viren kept his gaze fixed upon her, one brow arching by a fraction of a millimeter. The admission, delivered without hesitation, broke his previous line of attack, but opened a far more dangerous avenue.

“Company?” His voice slid low, heavy as molten lead. “And who might this remarkably attentive company be?”

“A friend.” Fiona answered firmly, keeping her chin up and her posture polite. “Someone who assisted me with my illness and helped gather the herbs I needed to brew. He departed shortly before Your Lordship knocked.”

Viren did not budge. His silence was an iron vise, calculating every variable. The confirmation that another person had been present matched Soren’s report of men’s boots in the living room, but Fiona’s unshakable poise was beginning to grate on the High Mage’s patience.

“A friend of exceptionally discreet habits.” Viren murmured, his gaze tracing the floorboards before locking back onto her multicolored eyes. “And one who lacked the courtesy to take the main road when departing, as I observed no such traveler upon my arrival.”

“He knows the hill paths, My Lord. Hunters rarely take the public roads.” Fiona countered without missing a beat, using the local terrain as her shield.

Viren’s long fingers tightened over the head of his staff. He knew there were far too many loose threads in this tale, but Fiona’s unyielding composure offered no legal pretext to force an entry without causing an unwelcome scene in the village.

“And what is the name of this exceptionally helpful hunter?” Viren pressed half a step forward, his voice silky yet razor-sharp. “The Crown requires the registry of any traveler operating outside regular patrol routes during these dark times.”

Fiona did not bat an eye. Her mind worked at lightning speed, pulling from the truth and reshaping it to sound entirely human.

“Callisto.” She answered readily, her posture immaculate.

“Callisto…” Viren rolled the name across his tongue, as though searching his mental archives for any noble, mercenary, or registered huntsman by that title. “An unusual name... What does he look like?”

Fiona folded her arms naturally, painting an exact portrait of the elf, surgically omitting the horns, the bluish skin, and the pointed ears.

“Tall. Broad-shouldered. Very pale hair, nearly white, and striking amber-brown eyes.” She offered a slight, dismissive shrug. “Wears simple linen garments and a plain travel cloak. Always armed with a long-handled blade, standard for tracking large beasts in the peaks.”

Viren narrowed his dark eyes, cataloging the visual description.

“And his demeanor?”

“A man of few words, My Lord. Terribly serious, bordering on arrogant because of how focused he is.” Fiona let out a soft, exasperated chuckle, as though gossiping about a tedious neighbor. “Has irritating habits, thinks he knows better than everyone else. Always correcting the way others handle tasks, and has the dreadful habit of appearing and vanishing without making a sound. If you want my honest opinion, he's a grumpy nuisance, but an exceptional field medic.”

Viren held the silence for a moment, testing for inconsistencies. The description was vivid, peppered with spontaneous details and mundane grievances that a fabricated lie rarely contained.

“I believe I have taken up enough of your morning.” Viren apologized with a measured nod, adjusting his cloak over his shoulders. “Thank you for the information, Fiona. I expect to see you at the castle shortly, fully recovered.”

He turned on his heel with composed strides and began walking along the wooden porch toward the dirt path.

Fiona exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her shoulders dropped several inches, and she leaned a trembling hand against the doorframe, feeling a tidal wave of relief wash through her chest.

‘It worked. He bought it.’

She began easing the door shut, eager to drop the iron latch, head down the hatch with Callisto, and vanish from the kingdom before another patrol could arrive.

Yet, just two steps from the stairs, the sound of Viren’s boots abruptly halted.

“Ah... forgive me.” The High Mage’s velvety voice drifted back, carrying a sudden, unsettling calm. “I nearly overlooked a detail of paramount importance.”

Fiona’s stomach dropped.

He pivoted on his heels and strode back to the entrance, stopping inches from Fiona before she could shut the door. The polite veneer had vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, analytical, piercing stare.

“During the inspection of your belongings back at the castle prior to your hasty departure, Claudia and I discovered something peculiar in your luggage.” Viren began, his voice dropping to a dangerously measured murmur. “A spherical artifact, with a dense shell and a unique structure, emanating an arcane resonance that decidedly does not belong to Katolis. My daughter and I intended to question you regarding the origin of such a relic before your sudden 'illness' carried you away.”

The blood drained from Fiona’s face, but she forced her jaw to hold firm.

“My... belongings?” She attempted to maintain the facade, her throat dry. “Your Lordship must be mistaken. My pack contained only typical supplies. If Claudia saw anything else, she must have mistaken it for petrified field fossils.”

Her grip on the edge of the door tightened, fighting to mask the mounting dread.

“If you will excuse me, My Lord, I truly must prepare to depart for the lodge.”

Fiona moved to shut the door in a swift motion, but the metal tip of Viren’s staff drove forward like a spear, wedging the gap against the frame with a sharp crack of splintering wood.

Before she could step back, the High Mage shoved the door open with deliberate force, breaching the home without the slightest hesitation.

Fiona was forced into an awkward retreat, tripping over her own feet until her back struck the edge of the dining table. The front door slammed shut behind Viren with a dull thud, cutting off the morning sunlight and plunging the room into suffocating shadow.

“Do not insult me with your lies, girl.” Viren advanced in slow, measured steps, cornering her in the center of the cottage. The facade of the patient councilor had shattered entirely, leaving only ruthless, uncompromising authority. “There is no fossil on earth with an active biological pulse. That egg was in your possession. And if it is no longer in the tower laboratory, the only logical conclusion is that you took it.”

Fiona felt the wood of the table pressing hard against her spine. Her palms sweated cold, but she kept her fists clenched at her sides, offering no physical resistance. Viren was still the High Mage and the de facto regent of Katolis.

As a former soldier, she knew striking him meant an irreversible death sentence and absolute condemnation for high treason in the eyes of the entire realm. Not to mention putting Callisto’s life in immediate jeopardy.

“Lord Viren, entering my home without an express Crown mandate violates military protocol, and you risk a direct conflict with the Vice-Admiral-”

“I am the authority of the Crown until a successor is crowned.” Viren cut in with freezing finality, leveling the tip of his staff inches from Fiona’s chest. The dark gem at the crest began to crackle with an unstable, violet mist. “You will surrender the egg of Xadia to me this instant, Fiona. Or I assure you, your naval record will not prevent you from spending the remainder of your days in a subterranean dungeon, condemned for aiding and abetting the assassins of King Harrow.”

Fiona held her breath, her eyes locked onto the gem drinking in the faint ambient light. She had nowhere left to run.

Viren closed the remaining distance, stepping so close Fiona could smell the heavy scent of ash and dark incense rolling off his robes.

The tip of the staff rose, hovering a breath from Fiona’s chin. A chilling purple luminescence flared within the stone.

“Your silence is a confession, girl.” Viren’s voice dropped to a lethal whisper. “Hand over the egg now. If I am forced to search this house with my own hands, I assure you your end will not be upon the gallows... but as ash across the floor of my laboratory.”

Fiona swallowed hard, pinned against the table. She searched his eyes, desperately hunting for an opening, a bluff, anything!

Viren parted his lips to utter the first word of an archaic incantation-

He never got the chance.

There was no warning cry. No rustle of wind.

Only a silent, silver blur plunging from the ceiling rafters like a guillotine blade dropping through a vacuum.

CRACK!

Before the first magical syllable could leave the mage’s throat, Callisto’s boot came down with crushing force across the shaft of the staff, driving the metal and Viren’s arm into the floorboards with a violent snap that nearly sheared the artifact in two.

In the exact microsecond the spell was shattered, the elf pivoted on his heel with the fluid speed of liquid shadow.

A biting, metallic chill pressed flush against the skin of Viren’s throat.

The razor-sharp edge of the glaive was glued to the High Mage’s neck, biting just hard enough for a single crimson bead to well under the steel’s pressure. Callisto’s amber eyes burned inches from his face, feral with lethal intent.

The elf pinned the mage’s arm to the floorboards beneath his heel, held the blade locked against his jugular, and anchored the long shaft with an iron grip. A flawless execution stance. Zero room for error.

Viren froze. His eyes flared wide in unadulterated shock and paralysis at finding himself cornered by a Moonshadow elf in less than half a second.

“Speak a single word, mage.” Callisto’s voice vibrated in a low, vicious growl that seemed to freeze the blood in Viren’s veins. “And this blade passes clean through the back of your neck before the breath can leave your lungs.”

“Callisto, wait!” Fiona grabbed his arm.

Callisto did not pull his gaze from Viren for a fraction of a second. His forearm was rigid beneath Fiona’s frantic touch, unyielding as solid rock. The tip of the blade remained anchored against the High Mage’s throat, keeping the drop of blood poised upon the gleam of the steel.

“He is an active threat.” The elf stated, his voice flat, sharp, and stripped of hesitation. “If this man utters a single incantation or reaches for that staff, neither of us walks out of this room alive.”

“We cannot murder the High Mage of Katolis in my living room, Callisto!” Fiona whispered in feverish panic, tugging down on his forearm with both hands, though the warrior scarcely budged under her weight.

Viren, pinned flat against the floorboards under the crushing weight of Callisto’s heel, kept his dark eyes wide. The initial shock of confronting a living, undisguised Moonshadow elf inside the home of an ex-Pentarchy sailor was rapidly hardening into cold fury.

The mage felt the blade burning directly over his carotid artery. He knew the slightest misstep would send the steel slicing clean through his throat.

“An... assassin of Xadia.” Viren’s voice emerged as a hoarse, strangled rasp, carefully keeping his throat from moving against the edge. His eyes slid toward Fiona, dripping with cold disdain. “Treason... of the highest order. Sheltering the enemy... under your own roof. Why am I not surprised, Fiona?”

“Silence!” Callisto pressed his heel down harder onto Viren’s forearm, drawing a muffled crunch from the leather of his glove. “You are in no position to dictate terms, human.”

“Callisto, let him go and grab the pack!” Fiona insisted, her tone rising in sheer practical panic. “You have to leave now!”

“If I release him, he will retaliate.” The elf countered through gritted teeth. “He must be neutralized.”

“Neutralized does not mean executed!” Fiona let go of his arm and darted toward the kitchen counter.

In a desperate blur of motion, she snatched a small frosted glass vial with a cork stopper and a thick linen cloth from the table. She rushed back, tearing the cork free with her teeth and splashing a thick, translucent fluid over the fabric. The heavy, sweet scent of concentrated mandrake extract filled the air between them.

“What is that?” Callisto asked out of the corner of his eye, without loosening his blade.

“Pure nerve sedative.” Fiona answered, dropping to her knees beside Viren. The High Mage’s eyes widened in sheer terror as he recognized the alchemical compound. “Three hours of dreamless sleep and a hellish migraine upon waking.”

Before Viren could attempt any defensive motion with his free arm, Fiona clamped the soaked cloth firmly over the mage’s nose and mouth.

Viren thrashed for two desperate seconds, but the potency of the extract took effect almost immediately upon inhalation. The tension in his muscles dissolved like hot wax, his eyes rolled back beneath heavy lids, and his head slumped limp against the wooden floor.

Silence reclaimed the room, heavy and absolute, broken only by the steady snoring that followed.

Callisto retrieved his glaive in one fluid motion, twirling the blade before locking it back into the scabbard on his back. He stared down at the unconscious ruler of Katolis, then at the empty vial in Fiona’s hand.

“...You used a dangerously high dosage.” He remarked, an eyebrow arched.

Fiona remained entirely still for several seconds.

One. Two. Three.

The silence of the house felt deafening now.

She looked at Callisto. Then at the staff on the floor. Then at Viren. Then back at Callisto.

Every trace of color slowly drained from her face.

Four. Five.

Fiona scrambled to her feet in an awkward leap, stumbling backward as if Viren’s body had just burst into spontaneous flames.

“I JUST DRUGGED THE HIGH MAGE OF KATOLIS!” The scream tore from her throat, rattling the wooden rafters. She seized her blue hair with both hands, yanking at the strands in sheer, unbridled hysteria as she began pacing in frantic circles around the room. “I just committed high treason in my own living room! My life is over! My career is over! The Navy is going to deploy entire strike teams to my front garden!”

She skidded to a halt in front of Callisto, flailing her arms wildly.

“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO TELL MY MOTHER, CALLISTO?! 'Hi Mom, I won't make it to Sunday dinner because I knocked out the kingdom's regent with monster chloroform and became an international fugitive'?! She’ll kill me before the guards even arrive! WHAT A BRAINLESS IDEA!”

Callisto simply stood in place, arms folded across his chest, observing the human’s total nervous breakdown with clinical detachment. He looked at the unconscious body on the floor, then out the window, and finally back at the girl who looked ready to rip her own hair out.

“If your concern lies with your matriarch’s judgment or the integrity of your civil registry…” Callisto began, his voice calm and smooth as he tilted his head toward the outdoor tool shed, “I can fetch a shovel.”

Fiona froze mid-step, her breath catching in her throat.

“...A shovel?”

“A shovel.” He confirmed with deadpan practicality. “We dig a deep trench beneath the roots of the eastern woods, dispose of the individual, conceal the site with thick undergrowth, and no one will ever know what transpired within this dwelling. No body, no regicide pinned to your name.”

“NO!” Fiona shrieked, throwing her hands into the air in renewed panic. “YOU ARE NOT BURYING LORD VIREN IN MY BACKYARD! WE ARE NOT KILLING HIM!”

“You just stated that your civilian life is ruined. I am merely proposing a definitive field solution.” The elf countered with relentless logic, not shifting an inch of his austere expression.

“Your 'field solution' carries a life sentence of death in five different kingdoms!” Fiona gestured wildly toward the sleeping mage. “You could have handled this entirely differently!”

“In what manner?”

“How else?! Simple! Take advantage of me distracting him, grab the egg, and run!”

Callisto blinked slowly. He looked at Fiona as though she had just suggested treating a hemorrhage with tickling.

“Abandon you defenseless, before a hostile dark magic practitioner, just to flee on my own?”

“YES!” Fiona stomped her foot on the floorboards, her frustration reaching stratospheric heights. “That was your mission! You are an elite assassin, not a fairy-tale knight! You should have grabbed the egg, hopped out the window, dashed for the hills, and let me make up whatever flimsy excuse I wanted for Viren! Now I'm an accomplice to a wanted elf. And a kidnapper of the regent!”

“First of all…” Callisto stepped forward, folding his arms and holding his icy composure directly in front of her face. “Moonshadow warriors do not flee from behind while the person who saved our lives is torn to shreds. That is tactical cowardice and military dishonor.”

“Oh, how lovely! How noble!” She buried her face in her hands, letting out a muffled groan of absolute agony. “I just love knowing we’re going to be hanged because of your immaculate honor code! Wonderful!”

“I am not finished!” He continued, unfazed, ignoring the hysterical sarcasm. “Your capacity for concocting excuses is deplorable. You practically provoked the new regent and described me as a grumpy huntsman with irritating habits. He would have disintegrated you in thirty seconds!”

Fiona opened her mouth to snap back, but no words came out. She merely jabbed a trembling finger toward his chest, completely outraged by the fact that he had caught every single word of the conversation from up in the rafters.

“He wasn't going to disintegrate me…” She muttered, her voice dropping into a defeated pout. “...He would have locked me in the royal dungeon at worst…”

“Which renders my intervention correct.” Callisto concluded with clinical finality. “Now, unless you wish for me to reconsider the shovel, I suggest you cease debating military doctrine and move your feet. I already secured the egg while you were distracting the mage.”

Fiona blinked, staring at him in complete and utter bewilderment.

“Move my feet where?”

Callisto looked at the girl as if she had lost the very last scrap of sense she possessed.

“What do you mean 'where'? We are going to Xadia!” He gestured with his chin toward the open hatch in the floor. “And we had best move before this cranky mage wakes up!”

“Who's 'we', you horned menace?!” Fiona stumbled two steps back, waving her hands in frantic denial. “I am not going to Xadia! First of all, you have three hours before this dosage wears off! That's plenty of time for you to gear up, grab rations, pack supplies, and vanish through the tunnel! Second, Xadia is the land of elves and fire-breathing dragons! It's no place for me! And third...” Her shoulders slumped, her gaze dropping to the corner of the room in sudden defeat. “...You saw how I handled Viren. I am not a warrior. I'm a civilian, a monster cook, and a retired sailor. I'd just be dead weight holding your entire mission back. You have to go alone.”

Callisto did not answer.

He simply stood there, jaw set and an expression so cold and irritated that the temperature in the kitchen seemed to drop below freezing. His amber eyes trailed slowly toward the counter beside him.

Without breaking eye contact with her, the elf took two slow steps forward and extended his hand.

With calm, deliberate, terrifying precision, Callisto’s long fingers closed around the frosted glass vial of concentrated mandrake extract.

He picked up the damp linen cloth from the table.

Fiona locked up. Her eyes went impossibly wide as her brain processed the scene unfolding before her.

“...Callisto?” Her voice pitched two octaves higher. “What... what are you doing with that?”

The elf popped the cork with his thumb, tipping the vial to soak another generous dose of the translucent fluid into the fabric. The thick, sweet aroma of the nerve sedative rose into the air once more.

He looked at the cloth. Then raised his amber eyes back to Fiona, with ruthless determination and not a single shred of patience remaining.

“Callisto, no.” Fiona began backing toward the sink, hands raised in absolute panic. “CALLISTO, DON'T YOU DARE! YOU WOULD NOT DARE DO THIS TO ME!”

“You can come willingly through the tunnel...” Callisto took his first step toward her, raising the soaked cloth to chest height, his voice smooth, steady, and chillingly calm: “...Or you can come unconscious, strapped across the top of my pack. The choice is yours.”

“You wouldn't dare!”

“You have no idea what I am capable of, doll-face!” Callisto smirked maliciously.

Fiona cringed, her gaze glued to the cloth in his grip.

“I HATE THAT YOU HAVE AN ANSWER FOR EVERYTHING!”

Fiona spun around on pure, desperate instinct, digging her heels into the floorboards to sprint for the back door.

She didn't even get to finish her second step.

Callisto moved like a blast of midnight wind. Effortlessly, the elf cleared the distance between them in a fraction of a second, rounding the table and cutting off her escape route with supernatural speed.

“Don't even try it!” He murmured, his tone laced with amusement.

Before Fiona could draw enough breath to scream or dodge aside, a strong arm locked securely around her shoulders, pinning her movements, while his other hand pressed the soaked cloth firmly over her nose and mouth.

Fiona’s eyes flared in sheer shock and outrage. She thrashed against him, shoving at the linen across the elf's chest with both hands, but his strength was an unyielding fortress.

The dense, sweet scent of mandrake extract flooded her airways instantly.

One.

The strength in Fiona’s arms began to evaporate like morning mist under the sun.

Two.

Her legs gave out completely, turning to lead. The panic dissolved into a soft, velvety numbness that dragged heavily over her eyelids.

Three.

Fiona’s head slumped back against Callisto’s shoulder, her eyes rolling upward as her consciousness faded into a quiet, peaceful blur.

Silence settled over the room once more, broken only by the steady, rhythmic breathing of the sleeping girl.

Callisto drew the cloth back, securing the vial with the remaining sedative onto his belt with absolute composure. He adjusted Fiona’s limp form effortlessly, scooping her up into his arms as though she weighed no more than a bundle of linen.

Casting a final, frigid glance at Viren’s unconscious body sprawled across the floorboards, the elf strode to the table. He grabbed the reinforced pack with his free hand, ensuring the Dragon Prince's egg was secure within, and stepped toward the open trapdoor in the floor.

When the sun rose that morning, Callisto was already awake.

He stood before the small mirror in the guest room, unraveling the bandages wrapped around his torso. Since his body no longer ached as it had before, he could manage the task almost entirely on his own.

However, the moment he saw the current state of the wound, he froze.

The skin remained faintly pink where the burn had been, but the injury itself had sealed completely.

Callisto ran his fingers carefully over the area. There was no open tear, no bleeding, not even a trace of discharge. The skin was slightly more sensitive across that patch, but the tissue had closed evenly, without a single sign of infection or necrosis.

He furrowed his brow. That should not be possible. Not at such a speed.

Callisto knew his own body better than most people knew theirs. A burn of that magnitude should have left far deeper scars.

He touched the area again, this time pressing a little harder.

Nothing.

He then pressed along the edges of the scar tissue, testing the sensitivity.

Nothing beyond a slight tension.

“...Impossible.” The word slipped out as barely a whisper.

Incredulous, he tore his gaze away from the reflection and let his breath out slowly. For a few seconds, the room sank into absolute silence while he remained motionless, processing what he was seeing.

Then, he began testing the limits of his restored condition. He raised his right arm in a wide arc above his head, bracing for the familiar pang that never came. He rotated his shoulder backward and forward in smooth circular motions, feeling only the natural fluidity of muscle beneath the healed skin. He flexed his elbow, extended his arm with force, and finally registered the obvious. There was no pain, only the strange, revitalizing sensation of being whole once more.

Lowering his arm, he stared at the pile of folded clothes resting on the wooden dresser. The raw linen tunic with the wide neckline, the dark trousers, and the simple leather belt. Men’s human clothes, bought by a human girl…

They were simple. Practical. Nothing a Moonshadow elf would ever choose for himself during a mission, yet Fiona had thought through every single detail. The lightweight fabric, the collar wide enough to accommodate his horns, the sleeves that would not hinder shoulder movement, even if he personally preferred to go without them.

She had chosen those clothes for him.

The realization kept Callisto rooted to the spot for several seconds.

For obvious reasons, he was not accustomed to receiving gifts from any human…

In truth, he was not accustomed to receiving anything from anyone outside of Skor or his squad mates… For some reason, that bothered him more than it should have. Not because it was unpleasant. Precisely because it wasn't.

Callisto picked up the tunic, feeling the texture of the weave between his fingers before slipping it on. The linen draped without friction against his newly healed skin, settling with tailored precision across his broad shoulders. He adjusted the trousers and fastened the leather belt around his waist, noticing a strange lack of weight without the tight bandages squeezing his midsection.

Dressed at last, Callisto cast a final glance at the small mirror.

The tunic fit his frame naturally. The trousers allowed ample room for swift movements, and the belt could easily hold a few of his utility pouches. Though he had no intention of admitting it, Fiona had chosen everything with surprising functionality.

He retrieved his glaive and secured it across his back.

He was ready.

[...]

Callisto stepped out of the bedroom and began making his way down the stairs. The familiar creak of the floorboards accompanied his descent toward the ground floor.

The house was silent.

Far too silent.

He paused on the final step.

No sounds coming from the kitchen.

No clattering of pots and pans.

Not even a trace of Fiona’s voice.

Callisto narrowed his eyes. He took another step forward, stopping dead in the center of the living room.

THUMP.

He froze immediately, casting his eyes downward.

Nothing.

He took another step.

THUMP. THUMP.

Callisto’s brow furrowed.

That hadn't been the floorboards groaning. It was a knock. Coming from… below?

He remained motionless for a few seconds, tracking the exact origin of the sound.

THUMP.

Stronger this time.

Callisto tilted his head slightly.

“...”

Then a muffled female voice, filtered through the thick wood, echoed directly beneath his feet:

“GET OFF OF IT!”

Callisto blinked, glancing down at his boots in sheer confusion.

“...Fiona?”

“MOVE!”

Callisto stepped aside on pure instinct. In that very instant, a hidden section of the floor shifted.

CLACK.

A concealed trapdoor swung upward.

Callisto stepped back on reflex, his hand instantly darting toward the hilt of his glaive.

First came one hand. Then the other. And then Fiona hauled herself up through the opening, climbing out from beneath the floorboards as if it were the most ordinary doorway in the world.

Her hair was completely disheveled. Streaks of dirt stained her forehead, stray leaves clung to her dress, and an expression of absolute tranquility rested on her face.

In one hand, she held the corpse of a massive scorpion dangling by its tail.

Callisto went rigid.

Fiona looked up.

“Good morning!” She chimed, offering a radiant smile that contrasted bizarrely with the dead monster in her grip.

Callisto stood in dead silence for three full seconds, his hand still lingering on the weapon strapped to his back. His amber eyes slowly trailed down from the smudge of dirt on her brow to the glistening black carcass suspended between her fingers.

The creature’s stinger was nearly the size of his own combat dagger…

“...What is that?” The question came out dry, underscored by a genuine shock he failed to mask. And that was merely one among the dozens of questions flooding his mind!

“Breakfast!” Fiona answered with complete nonchalance, resting an elbow against the wooden rim to hoist the rest of her body out of the opening. “Well... part of it, anyway. The meat in a cave-scorpion's tail is surprisingly awful. It'll give you terrible stomach cramps, and the pincers taste just as bad as the internal organs. But the rest of the body is just as good as lobster!”

She tossed the creature down, dusting off her dirt-covered palms against her skirt as she stepped out of the cellar entirely.

The scorpion hit the floorboards at the elf's feet with a heavy thud. One of its spindly legs was still twitching faintly.

Callisto took a step back, shuddering slightly at the sight. He looked at the twitching leg, then at the girl’s soot-streaked face, and finally up at the ceiling, as if silently pleading for patience from whichever deity might still be listening.

“You keep living monsters beneath the floor of your house.” It was not a question. It was a cold, flat statement, steeped in a weariness that no amount of martial training in Silvergrove could have prepared him to endure.

“Hm? No. I just ran into it by accident in the tunnel.” Fiona merely shrugged as she kicked the hatch shut.

“Wait. Tunnel?”

“I found it while doing maintenance on the golems. It almost got me with that stinger while they were sedated, but I managed to handle it-”

“Hold on! Stop right there, I am not following you!”

Fiona paused.

“Did you say tunnel?” Callisto pointed to the trapdoor behind her.

“Yes.”

“There is a tunnel beneath this house?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you known about this?”

Fiona pondered for a few seconds. “About... six years?”

Callisto’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Six years?”

“Give or take.”

“And you never mentioned this...”

“You never asked.”

Callisto went silent. The retort was, technically speaking, irrefutable. Even so, he could feel a fundamental flaw somewhere in the logic of this conversation.

“And the golems?”

“Oh, they stay at the entrance.”

“The entrance to the tunnel?”

Fiona pointed down at the floorboards. “To the dungeon.”

Callisto remained entirely motionless. “...Dungeon?”

“That's the one.”

“You have a... dungeon?”

“Technically, it’s not mine.”

Callisto closed his eyes for a moment, drawing a deep, measured breath.

“Explain.”

Fiona blinked. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

[...]

“Let me see if I understand this correctly.” Callisto massaged his temples. “Your routine consists of venturing into an underground labyrinth beneath your house to hunt the creatures that inhabit its ecosystem... simply to cook them afterward?!”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Fiona nodded casually as she added chunks of walking mushroom to the simmering broth, assembling a hot pot with the giant scorpion, harvested seaweeds, and strips of dried slime.

Callisto stared at the steaming pot as if the meal itself might sprout claws and strike at any second. The scent rising from the broth was an unbelievable blend of fresh seafood, damp earth, and a sharp, savory aroma that, against all his biological instincts, smelled absurdly appetizing.

“And you call that a routine?” He muttered, watching the wooden spoon she used to stir the bubbling mixture.

“I call it sustainability, darling.” Fiona replied with a playful wink, taking the pot off the heat and ladling generous portions into two ceramic bowls. “In every kingdom, nobles squander fortunes on bland southern meats and overpriced spices. Meanwhile, I have lean protein, rare minerals, and medicinal fungi just ten steps away from my pantry. It’s a dream come true for any independent scholar of monster cuisine!”

She slid one of the bowls across the table toward him, along with a pair of hand-carved wooden utensils, before seating herself cross-legged on the bench opposite him.

Callisto did not so much as touch the dish. He simply stared at the bowl, only now registering that the portion was meant for him.

There was something fundamentally wrong with this entire picture.

That was a scorpion. A colossal scorpion that, merely hours prior, had attempted to impale Fiona with a stinger larger than a dagger, and now it sat butchered into neat pieces, submerged in a steaming broth and served right in front of him.

Callisto slowly raised his eyes.

“You expect me to eat this?”

Fiona was already settling in on her side of the table. “No.”

Callisto arched a brow.

“No?”

“I expect you to try it.” She beamed widely.

“I...” He stammered, his gaze locked onto the broth before him. “I do not believe that is a wise idea…”

Fiona’s smile vanished in an instant.

“Oh.”

Callisto looked up.

She was staring at him, but there was no anger in her face. Only... disappointment.

Fiona slowly slumped her shoulders, resting her chin on one palm. “I spent three whole days trying to get this recipe right.”

She gestured toward the bowl. “The first batch was way too salty. The second tasted like dirt. On the third, I realized I couldn't throw the whole tail into the broth because...” She winced. “Well. You don't want to know.”

Callisto looked back at the meal. “And this is the fourth?”

“The fifth.”

“...”

“It's the first time I've ever cooked it for someone other than myself.” Fiona lowered her head even further.

Callisto remained quiet.

Then, she raised her eyes. Wide, blue, and extraordinarily sorrowful.

Callisto froze. That expression had no business being this effective…

He had endured brutal interrogations, death threats, near-fatal wounds, and sleepless nights on frozen march lines. And yet... he was completely defenseless against this?!

“Do not make that face.”

Fiona blinked.

“What face?” She tilted her head, keeping those enormous eyes locked onto him.

Callisto looked away.

“...One bite.”

“Really?!” Fiona’s face lit up instantly.

“One...”

“YAY!”

Callisto picked up the wooden utensils with the grim resignation of a soldier knowingly making a fatal tactical blunder. He eyed the tip of his spoon as though disarming a volatile explosive. With millimeter precision, he scooped a microscopic morsel of white meat submerged in the dark broth and brought it to his lips, bracing himself for the worst possible outcome.

He chewed once.

Then again.

Until...

Callisto’s amber eyes widened by a nearly imperceptible fraction.

The meat didn't taste like mud, nor did it carry the rubbery texture of an overgrown bug. It melted across his palate with a delicate, sweet richness reminiscent of crab, while the broth provided a sharp, woody undertone that cut cleanly through the richness.

Callisto swallowed slowly.

Across the table, Fiona was practically leaning over the wood, palms flat against the surface and breath held captive, awaiting the verdict with eyes sparkling in sheer anticipation.

“Well?” She whispered, unable to contain the suspense. “Paralyzing poison or approved?”

Callisto maintained an impassive expression, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his index finger before resting the spoon on the edge of the bowl. He stared at the ceiling beams for two long seconds, gathered every shred of his martial dignity, and cleared his throat.

“...It is palatable.”

“'Palatable'?!” Fiona snorted with indignant laughter, throwing her head back against the bench. “I saw your eyebrow twitch, Callisto! Just admit it’s the best thing you’ve eaten since crossing the Border!”

“I admit it did not kill me on the spot.” He retorted in the flattest tone he could muster, though without another word, he picked up the spoon again and scooped a portion considerably larger than the first. “However, there is one more detail I must know…”

“What?”

“WHY DID YOU GO DOWN THERE TO FIGHT THAT THING JUST TO FIND OUT WHAT IT TASTED LIKE?!”

Fiona laughed sheepishly. “Well... that started because of my father.”

Callisto lowered his spoon. “Your father?”

“He loved monsters. Ever since I was little, he’d take me out to observe creatures whenever he had the chance. He taught me how to read tracks, study their habits, understand their behavior, what made them dangerous and what didn't...”

Her expression softened with nostalgia.

“I found it all utterly fascinating.”

Callisto remained quiet, listening intently.

“So I started researching on my own. I wanted to know where they nested, what they hunted, how they bred, where their blind spots were...” She paused. “And, eventually, one question kept nagging at me.”

Callisto narrowed his eyes. “What question?”

Fiona grinned. “What they tasted like.”

The spoon halted mid-air. Callisto slowly lowered his gaze to the bowl. Then back to Fiona.

“...I see.”

He did not see. Not in the slightest!

For a fleeting second, the most logical deduction in his mind was simple: She is insane. No. Perhaps something worse!!

Fiona caught the look. “It’s not that weird!”

“You just told me you spent years researching monsters solely to discover their flavor profiles.”

“When you phrase it like that...”

“How else am I supposed to phrase it?”

Fiona made a face. “I study plants too, you know.”

Callisto went still. “Plants?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of plants?”

“All kinds.” She began counting on her fingers. “Carnivorous flora, mandrakes, venomous fungi, hallucination-inducing blooms...”

“Wait.” Callisto set his spoon down.

Fiona blinked. “What?”

“Did you say mandrakes?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever handled one?”

“A few.”

Callisto’s amber eyes narrowed sharply. “And are you aware they possess potent medicinal properties?”

Fiona’s casual enthusiasm faltered for a second. “...You... know about them?”

Callisto leaned forward slightly. “It depends on the species.” He continued, his focus narrowing with clinical precision. “Certain roots can be processed in minute quantities to treat acute muscular spasms. Others yield neurotoxins that strike directly at the central nervous system. Toxins that are violently purged through the screams they emit when wrenched forcibly from the earth. It is an exceedingly rare ingredient precisely because it refuses to grow in ordinary soil, not to mention the severe risk of brain damage from acoustic exposure.”

Now it was Fiona’s turn to sit frozen. “You know an awful lot about this.”

“I am a doctor.” Callisto stated with absolute matter-of-factness, crossing his arms over the table. “And I am well aware that harvesting a mandrake requires an intricate protocol to prevent auditory exposure. For that reason, civilians are strictly advised never to handle them without trained oversight. But you…” Callisto trailed off, his gaze pinning her down. “How are you not dead?”

“Well…” Fiona scratched the back of her neck. “I usually grab them by the foliage and, before pulling, I chop their heads clean off.”

Callisto blinked slowly, looking as though his mind were struggling to compute the sheer magnitude of such practical recklessness.

“You... decapitate the root prior to harvest?”

“It works!” Fiona shrugged, gesturing with her spoon. “No head, no mouth. No mouth, no scream. No scream, no brains liquefying out of my ears. Practical, fast, and safe.”

Callisto let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief and professional horror.

“Practical, perhaps. Biologically disastrous.” He began, leaning further across the table, his amber eyes sharpening with field-medic precision. “Mandrake anatomy does not operate like an ordinary root vegetable. The scream is not merely an acoustic deterrent against predators. It is a physiological purge. The very instant the creature is torn from the soil and hits that pitch, the violent contraction of its inner fibers expels every drop of toxic, acidic sap stored within its glandular pockets.”

He illustrated the motion with his hands, tracing the fluid dynamics through the air.

“Without the purge, the toxin oxidizes and diffuses throughout the entire tuber. That is precisely why the roots you harvest turn an opaque, dull gray instead of their characteristic vibrant orange. You neutralize the poison through the severance, yes, but you obliterate over half of the regenerative alkaloids and healing agents in the process. The proper method requires acoustic dampening via resonance or applying specialized numbing balms to the surrounding soil, allowing the purge to occur without rupturing the harvester's eardrums.”

While he spoke, effortlessly breaking down sap density, vascular contractions, and the advanced apothecary techniques of Silvergrove, something entirely different was happening on the other side of the table.

Fiona did not move a muscle.

Her elbows remained anchored to the wood, her chin resting in the cups of her open hands. Her multicolored eyes seemed to draw in every stray beam of morning light, wide and gleaming like polished gemstones.

The truth was, halfway through the explanation, her mind had completely lost track of the refined Xadian medical jargon. But that didn't matter in the least.

A warm, vibrant glow swelled in Fiona’s chest. She was utterly enchanted, locked in a sweet, hypnotic trance, listening to that deep, velvety voice speak with such reverence, gravity, and brilliance about something everyone she knew had dismissed as "bizarre," "repulsive," or a "waste of time."

No one had ever spoken to her like this. No one had ever shared that same academic obsession.

Callisto concluded his breakdown, crossing his arms and waiting for a technical rebuttal.

“...And that is why your technique reduces the root’s medicinal yield to a third of its potential.” He finished firmly.

Silence.

Fiona remained motionless, her head tilted slightly, blinking slowly with that starry sparkle in her eyes and a faint, wonderfully goofy smile playing on her lips as she let out a dreamy sigh.

Callisto furrowed his brow, completely thrown off. He glanced down at his tunic, looked to either side, and then locked eyes with the girl once more.

“...Did you hear a single word of what I just explained?”

The spell shattered instantly.

Fiona’s eyes went wide in panic, as if an icy bucket of water had been dumped over her head. She jerked her chin off her hands so fast she nearly upended her bowl, her dreamy expression twisting into a stiff grimace of mortification.

“I- I did! Of course I did!” She stammered, heat rushing up her neck until her cheeks burned a fiery crimson. Her hands flailed awkwardly through the air, drawing meaningless shapes. “I was... paying attention to every single detail! The thing with the... the screaming glands... and the root turning... a lovely color... and the regenerative alcoholics!”

Callisto did not move a single muscle in his face. He simply sat there, arms folded over his chest and one silver brow arched, pinning her with a deadpan, icy stare that made the human's fluster ten times more excruciating.

“'Regenerative alcoholics'?” He repeated slowly, his tone flat and monotone.

“Alkaloids! Alkaloids, I meant alkaloids!” Fiona corrected herself in a panicked rush, letting out a laugh so high-pitched and forced it strained her throat. She dragged a hand to the back of her neck, tugging a strand of blue hair over her cheek in a desperate bid to hide her flaming face. “It’s just that... the way you explain things is... intensely technical, you know? Big words... and I might have drifted off a tiny bit... just a fraction... right after the resonance part…”

Callisto held the silence for five agonizing seconds, unblinking.

“You understood absolutely nothing past the third minute.”

Fiona squeezed her eyes shut, utterly defeated.

“I understood nothing past the second minute.” She confessed in a muffled groan, hunching her shoulders until she practically vanished into her dress. Then, cautiously peeking through one eye, she offered a timid, sheepish grin. “But your voice sounded extremely intelligent. Does that count for half credit?”

Callisto exhaled heavily through his nose, uncrossing his arms to retrieve his wooden spoon, shaking his head in a blend of exhaustion and surrender.

“No. It does not.” Callisto turned his attention back to his bowl, clearly resolved to let the matter rest.

Fiona let out a defeated sigh of her own and returned to stirring her broth.

For a few fleeting seconds, peaceful quiet settled over the room.

Until Callisto froze. His spoon stopped dead in mid-air.

The elongated tips of his ears swiveled backward in a sharp, minute twitch, catching a disturbance beyond the wooden walls of the house. His entire demeanor transformed in a heartbeat. The relaxed slouch of his shoulders locked into rigid tension, and one hand slid discreetly toward the glaive leaning against the corner.

“Callisto? What is it?” Fiona asked, frowning at the abrupt shift.

“Are you expecting anyone?” His voice dropped to a low, taut whisper, stripped of all the levity from moments ago.

Fiona blinked, confused.

“No. Charlotte and the boys should be miles away by now, and no one from the village comes out here at this hour unless-”

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Three heavy, measured, authoritative raps struck the front door, rattling the wooden frame on its hinges.

Fiona’s heart slammed violently against her ribs. The air was ripped from her lungs, and the terror of the previous night surged back in full force.

“Damn it…” She whispered, slipping off the bench in one fluid, silent motion.

Moving on light feet with her heart hammering in her throat, Fiona crept to the side window. She parted the linen curtain just enough to peer through a sliver of glass, scanning the front porch.

Outside, the silhouette waiting on the threshold wore no gleaming armor like Soren, but the rigid poise and suffocating presence left no doubt that this was no friendly neighborly call.

“Callisto, quick! Get upstairs or down into the tunnel and don't make a…”

Turning toward the kitchen, the words died in her throat.

The chair where the elf had been sitting three seconds prior was completely empty. The bowl of soup sat steaming on the tabletop, but the assassin had vanished into thin air as though he had never existed.

Fiona blinked twice at the vacant space, utterly bewildered. ‘...How does he do that so fast?!’

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

The second set of knocks came with sharp impatience.

Fiona drew a trembling breath, smoothed down her skirt to brush away imaginary dust, tucked a loose blue strand behind her ear, and forced her facial muscles into the most casual, unbothered expression she could muster.

Stepping firmly to the entryway, she pulled the iron latch back and opened the door with a practiced, pleasant smile.

“May I help you...?”

The man standing before her did not answer immediately.

He was tall, lean, and carried a severe, immaculate posture that made even standing still look like an exercise in military discipline. He wore garments of fine dark fabric, draped beneath a heavy travel cloak that fell rigidly over his shoulders.

His face was sharp and angular, etched with austere lines and an expression permanently suspended between razor-sharp focus and cold disdain.

And his eyes...

They were freezing.

Calculating.

The eyes of someone who never needed to raise his voice to command absolute silence across an entire court.

Fiona swallowed hard.

“Good morning, Fiona.” His voice was smooth, deep, and commanding, carrying that quiet, unshakable authority of a man accustomed to unconditional obedience. “Forgive the unannounced intrusion... but I believe we have certain unresolved matters that could not be concluded back at the castle.”

Fiona remained frozen on the threshold.

The smile remained fixed upon her lips.

You Look Lonely, Callisto...

The little girl rested upon the soft grass beneath the vast canopy of an ancient wisteria. Her long blue hair spread across the ground, framing a serene face, while her eyes, reflecting different shades of blue, green, and pink all at once, gazed at the starry sky, blinking slowly. She wore a black coat far too large for her own body and, not far from her, a large bird with white feathers, slender legs, and a red-tipped head walked elegantly.

Above, as small birds flew between the branches, singing to one another, clusters of violet flowers swayed in the breeze, releasing fragrant petals that descended in a silent, ethereal shower, decorating the ground, her hair, and floating through the wind, almost like tiny stars slowly falling from the sky.

The little girl smiled, raising her small, delicate hands to catch the petals dancing toward her face, becoming tangled in her blue strands like a natural adornment.

She closed her eyes, humming a soft melody as she absorbed the coolness of the breeze.

However, when she opened them again...

Where were the birds? Why had the rustling of the wisteria leaves simply stopped?

Confused, the girl became aware of the emptiness. She could no longer hear her own humming, nor the sound of her own breathing. She sat up and instinctively searched for the large white-feathered bird.

The place where it had been walking was empty...

And yet, the petals continued falling from the tree.

The world was immersed in an absolute, dense silence, as though the air itself had simply disappeared.

An icy shiver ran down the back of her neck. Slowly and fearfully, she raised her gaze toward the sky. At first, she searched for the shining stars, but found only unfamiliar curves and titanic shadows staining the night-blue sky.

She blinked, forcing her eyes to pierce the growing darkness.

They definitely weren't clouds...

The curves remained motionless for a long moment, suspended in agonizing silence.

Then… They moved… Slowly.

The darkness seemed to slide over itself, as though two enormous layers of the sky were pulling apart from one another.

The movement was so slow that, for a brief moment, the girl believed her eyes were deceiving her.

They weren't.

The shadows continued to part, gradually revealing a smooth, black, wet surface crossed by delicate veins that glimmered beneath the starlight.

Then, at the center of that surface, a golden glow slowly began to emerge. As the shadows moved farther apart, an enormous iris revealed its contours, and within it, a dark circle began to take shape.

It wasn't a circle... It was a pupil.

A living abyss that watched her.

The little girl's chest constricted with pure anguish.

It was immeasurable. It wasn't hovering in the sky. The sky... was the eye itself! The iris devoured entire constellations, and the pupil dilated like an abyss. And no matter where she looked away. Wherever there was sky, there was that eye.

The little girl's body, driven by a primitive instinct, reacted before her mind could. She leapt backward, retreating until her back struck the trunk of the wisteria, her tiny heart hammering against her ribs. She spun on her heels, ready to run, only to realize, with the blood freezing in her veins, that direction didn't matter. That presence was everywhere.

Meanwhile, the wisteria flowers continued falling one after another until not a single violet cluster remained attached to the branches.

The girl felt tears gathering before she even realized she was crying.

The eye did not chase her. It simply... contemplated her. Studied her.

And it was having fun with it…

[…]

Fiona woke with a start, gasping loudly.

Air rushed into her lungs all at once, as though she had gone too long without breathing. She pressed a hand against her chest, feeling her heart beating so hard it seemed determined to escape through her ribs.

For several seconds, she remained motionless, unable to distinguish the dream from reality.

The room was dark, the window closed, and the walls exactly where they were supposed to be.

Still... she avoided looking at the ceiling for as long as she could, even covering her face with her hands.

“It was only a nightmare. Another one…”

She repeated it to herself mentally. And yet, even so, the tightness in her chest refused to lessen no matter how hard she tried.

Fiona took a deep breath, forcing herself to slowly lower her hands from her face.

Instead of immediately looking up at the ceiling, she let her eyes wander around the room, searching for anything that could anchor her to reality.

That was when a soft blue glow broke through the gloom, catching her attention.

On the nightstand, nestled among carefully folded blankets, the large egg rested in silence. The faint light pulsing beneath its shell cast a delicate glow across the room, warm and steady, like the peaceful breathing of someone asleep.

Fiona stared at it for a few moments. Then, without realizing it, her shoulders began to relax.

Over the past four months, she had developed the habit of always checking whether the egg was healthy before gently pressing her ear against its shell to listen to the little heart growing inside.

.

.

.

That night, more than ever, she needed to hear them...

[...]

Downstairs, sleep had abandoned Callisto as well.

The house remained submerged in absolute silence. The embers in the fireplace had dwindled to tiny reddish points, almost extinguished, while the silver light of the moon passed through the windowpane and painted pale streaks across the wooden walls.

Callisto stood before the window, arms crossed, his gaze lost in the night. He had learned from a very young age to make use of these rare moments of tranquility. Using the silence to finally breathe in peace, just as the world did during the night.

That human house, however, possessed a different kind of silence. There was warmth within it. A quiet sense of shelter that he still found difficult to accept.

It was... strange to realize that he was beginning to associate that house with tranquility...

‘Humans…’

The word surfaced out of habit, but Callisto dismissed it almost immediately.

‘No. Her.’

He remembered the first time he had opened his eyes in that makeshift bed. A human living alone, hiding a Moonshadow Elf inside her own home, feeding him, and even lying to a Crown Guard without asking for anything in return.

And, finally… The blood.

The memory remained vivid. Three tiny red drops falling onto the green ointment. He was absolutely certain of what he had seen. And yet, it made no sense whatsoever.

The only plausible explanation was that she could use dark magic to accelerate his healing process. However, even though Callisto was not the greatest expert on dark magic, he knew that, most of the time, mages of that kind used life energy or some part of some creature. Whether Xadian or otherwise.

But... she had used her own blood...

Why?

The more he tried to understand Fiona, the more his head began to ache as she slipped beyond every rational explanation. And, for the first time in a very long while, that bothered him less than his own curiosity.

Then, an almost imperceptible sound crossed the silence of the house. The soft brush of bare feet against the wooden floor made his ears swivel.

Callisto did not move abruptly. He merely turned his head slowly, his heightened hearing and amber eyes following the source of the noise.

For a moment, Callisto imagined she was going downstairs to the kitchen. But Fiona stopped halfway down the stairs, sitting on one of the steps.

She remained there, in the space between the second floor and the living room, hugging the Dragon Prince's egg against her chest, completely unaware that he was watching her. The bluish light and gentle pulsing of the shell subtly illuminated her face.

The staircase remained between them. Fiona, several steps above, held the egg in her lap while its bluish light and gentle pulse softly illuminated her face. Callisto, near the window, was merely a silhouette bathed in moonlight.

Neither of them seemed inclined to break that late-night silence immediately. She hadn't even seemed to notice that he was there, watching her calmly hold Avizandum's only heir in her lap.

Honestly, he had no interest whatsoever in starting a conversation at that moment. Especially not with her. However, when he looked at the egg again, he couldn't suppress the slight curiosity that arose.

“You can't sleep?”

Callisto's deep voice echoed through the gloom, cutting through the darkness.

Fiona gave a small start, her blue eyes widening slightly when she realized he was down there.

“Oh... you were there.” She murmured, relaxing a little.

“I've been here for some time. Have you forgotten?”

“Err... kind of... I could've sworn you were a ghost.”

Confused, Callisto raised an eyebrow, his gaze fixed upon her.

Fiona shrank back, her cheeks taking on a faint rosy hue. “Sorry... it's just... I'm still not very used to having someone else in the house. It's been a while.”

“I understand.” Callisto said without changing his tone.

Fiona adjusted her coat around her shoulders, trying to disguise her surprise as she looked away, but the elf's gaze remained fixed on her. And honestly, it wasn't difficult for him to notice that she was a little more cautious than usual. The way she pulled her coat around herself and the egg, the subtle stiffness in her posture, and the strange way her eyes occasionally glanced at the ceiling of the house, as though expecting something to happen.

“You had a nightmare.” He stated it with absolute certainty.

“How did you know?” Fiona looked up, surprised by the precision of his guess.

Callisto merely shrugged as he took half a step toward the staircase, subtly pointing with his chin. “Your posture gave everything away. You keep hunching in on yourself, as though you're expecting something to appear behind you.”

Instinctively, Fiona looked over her shoulder, staring into the darkness of the second floor with wide eyes.

“There's nothing there.” The elf added calmly.

“I know that!” She snapped, turning toward him before letting out a defeated sigh. “I just... never mind.”

A brief silence settled between them. Fiona lowered her face, gently running her fingers over the glowing pattern of the egg’s shell.

“It was just a bad dream.”

“Recurring?” Callisto asked.

Fiona hesitated. The question hung in the air for several seconds. She did not look at the elf, merely continued stroking the warm surface of the egg.

Callisto immediately noticed her hesitation. This was not an ordinary nightmare, but she clearly wasn't ready to explain whatever it was that haunted her mind. He did not press, knowing very well that, whatever it was, it was none of his business anyway.

Instead, Callisto's gaze shifted toward the egg in her lap. Fiona noticed the change in focus and gave a small smile, attempting to lighten the mood.

“He can't sleep either.” She commented lightly.

Callisto looked at her, his expression completely impassive.

“He's inside an egg.”

“I know.”

“Then he's not sleeping.”

Fiona made a playful face at him from the step. “You're very literal.”

“No, I'm simply stating facts. After all, babies are practically vegetables during gestation.” Callisto retorted, his voice utterly devoid of irony, which made the scene even more comical.

“Are you... an expert on babies?” Fiona tilted her head, curious.

“I'm a doctor.”

Callisto crossed his arms, holding her gaze with the same imperturbable calm.

Fiona blinked, stunned. She looked at his clothes, his scarred body, and finally the elf's serious face before letting out a short, incredulous laugh.

“A doctor?!” she repeated, wrinkling her nose. “A doctor who goes around carrying a silver glaive and chopping the heads off royal guards in the middle of the night?”

“Knowing exactly where the vital organs are is useful for healing... and equally effective for the opposite.” Callisto replied without moving a single muscle in his face.

Fiona blinked. “Okay... But that didn't answer my question.”

“It did.”

Fiona huffed. “Amazing. You have the ability to turn the simplest answer into the most annoying thing in the world.” She grumbled, shaking her head while slightly furrowing her brow. “Ink face.”

Callisto huffed. Then, when Fiona looked at him again, her eyes widened when she noticed his subtle smile.

“Well, I suppose that's just my way, doll face.” He teased.

Fiona said nothing, merely staring at him with those large eyes.

Callisto held her gaze, confused. Then he noticed something strange.

Her pupils began to dilate.

A little.

Then a little more.

And more...

Callisto subtly furrowed his brow.

Fiona remained motionless. Even her pupils seemed to occupy an increasingly larger portion of her multicolored irises until her eyes took on an almost supernatural appearance.

Callisto remained silent.

So did Fiona.

.

.

.

“What are you doing?”

“What?”

Callisto was about to speak, but as soon as Fiona blinked, her pupils slowly returned to their normal size.

“Never mind.” He immediately looked away, shuddering slightly.

Fiona giggled softly, clearly amused that she had managed to throw the elf's impeccable composure off balance for an entire second.

“‘Doll face’ was the best you could come up with, Doctor?” She teased, adjusting her coat around her shoulders and lightly patting the top of the egg. “I'll consider it progress. At least it's better than ‘insolent human.’”

Callisto chose to keep his attention on the darkness of the room, refusing to admit that the strange effect in her eyes had caught him completely off guard.

Fiona turned her eyes back to the glowing shell in her lap, smoothing over the pattern that reflected the moonlight.

“Do you do this every night?” He asked, breaking the pause and bringing the focus back to the egg.

“Do what?”

“Get this intimate with the egg.”

“...Almost every night...” She replied, her voice falling into a soft, almost nostalgic tone.

“Why?”

“To be honest, I don't even know.” Fiona lowered her eyes to the egg. Her fingers continued slowly tracing the glowing designs on its shell. “I think it started because I wanted to make sure it was okay.”

Callisto remained silent.

“When I found the egg, I didn't know what it was. Or even if it was alive.” She gave a small smile. “So I started putting my hand on it every now and then, just to feel whether it was warm.” Her fingertips slid across the warm surface. “Then I discovered I could hear its heart.”

Callisto looked at the egg again. “And you started doing this every night?”

“More or less.” Fiona tilted her head slightly, thinking. “At first I did it because I was worried. Then...”

She stopped.

“Then it became something good.”

Callisto narrowed his eyes slightly. “Good?”

Fiona nodded.

“It's strange to explain.” She gave a little laugh. “But when I hear its heart, I know everything is okay.”

Callisto's gaze lingered on the egg a little longer.

“You worry too much.”

“Maybe.” Fiona shrugged without losing her peaceful smile. “But if I don't worry, who will?”

The question lingered between them for several moments. Callisto did not answer. He knew the most logical answer would be “his parents” but the tragic irony of the situation weighed heavily in his throat. The Dragon Prince's mother was hundreds of leagues away, on the other side of a fiery border, while his father had been turned to stone by King Harrow himself. The only person watching over that life, incredibly enough, was literally a blue-haired HUMAN who didn't even know the importance of the royalty she carried in her arms.

“If it is what I believe it to be...” Callisto began, breaking the silence and choosing each word with a surgeon's precision. “The birth will not happen anytime soon.”

Fiona raised her head, her eyes shining with a sudden spark of anticipation. “How long?”

The elf hesitated. His prolonged silence was the coldest and clearest answer she could have received.

“You know.” Fiona murmured, her excitement slowly wilting like the flame of a candle.

“This creature belongs to Xadia.” Callisto explained, maintaining his sober, distant tone. “And the birth of certain species does not happen simply because time has passed. It requires circumstances... and specific elements.”

Fiona froze for a second. The gears in her mind turned far too quickly, connecting the dots she herself had been trying to shove beneath the rug.

“So... when you're healed and return to Xadia...” Her voice faltered. She couldn't finish the sentence.

“The egg will need to go with me.” Callisto concluded for her.

Fiona lowered her eyes. For several seconds, she said nothing.

Her fingers continued moving across the surface of the shell, repeating the same slow motion as before, but now there was something different about it. As though, all of a sudden, she were trying to memorize every detail.

“Oh.”

It was all she could manage to say.

Callisto carefully watched her face. “You knew this would happen.”

“I knew he wasn't mine.” Fiona replied quietly. “I just...”

She stopped.

Callisto waited.

“I think part of me pretended there was still plenty of time.” Fiona let out a weak, humorless laugh, slowly shaking her head. “Four months taking care of an egg, and I never stopped to think about what would happen when his mother finally appeared... or when someone like you came to take him back.”

Callisto remained silent. There was no comfort he could offer, and any attempt to soften the situation would sound false.

Fiona took a deep breath. And then, almost automatically, she tilted her head and pressed her ear directly against the smooth, shining surface of the shell.

Callisto watched the gesture for several seconds in the gloom, frowning almost imperceptibly.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Listening.” She replied without lifting her face from the shell.

Callisto frowned. “Listening to what?”

“His heart.” Fiona raised her eyes toward him over the top of the egg, as though the answer were the most obvious thing in the world.

The elf looked at the glowing egg. Then at Fiona. Then back at the egg.

“You can hear it?”

“I can.”

“Even through the shell?”

She nodded.

“And does that help?”

Fiona took a moment to answer. Her fingers slid gently across the surface before she met the elf's amber eyes.

“A lot.”

Callisto continued looking at her in the gloom. The temptation of doubt and his respect for the small life warred in his mind for a full second.

“May I?” He asked quietly.

Fiona blinked, caught off guard. “May you what?”

He subtly pointed with his chin toward her lap.

“Listen.”

Fiona blinked, then brought a finger to her lips thoughtfully. “I... suppose so. It's not like I have any reason to say ‘no.’”

Callisto nodded.

Then Fiona carefully adjusted the egg in her lap, holding it with both hands. “You need to come closer.”

Callisto looked at her. “I know.”

“Oh.”

Fiona fell silent. Only then did she realize just how close he would need to get. Her eyes widened slightly. And, as though her own body had decided to betray her, her pupils began to dilate.

Callisto furrowed his brow, but, preferring to end the moment as quickly as possible, decided to ignore the strange gesture.

Then, when he approached, he did not climb up to her level. Instead, he settled onto the step immediately below hers. He sat sideways, bending one knee so as not to put pressure on the bandage protecting his abdomen. The position allowed him to remain at the necessary distance from the human, but close enough to the egg.

“Is this good?” His voice came out in a deep murmur, almost muffled.

Fiona swallowed. From where he was, she could clearly see the details of the blue markings on his face and neck.

“Y-yes... it's perfect.” Fiona stammered slightly, clearing her throat afterward to disguise it before raising the egg a little.

Callisto lowered his eyes to the glowing shell. He rested one forearm on his bent knee and slowly began leaning toward her lap.

Fiona followed the movement with her eyes.

Closer. And closer.

The faint scent of herbs still lingering in his hair mingled with the delicate fragrance of her own soap. When Callisto finally leaned over the egg, Fiona realized she was holding her breath.

The position was strangely intimate.

She held the egg with both hands in her lap while Callisto leaned over it, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.

Thump.

The dry, rhythmic sound resonated from inside the shell at the exact second Callisto's ear touched its slightly warm surface. A slow, steady, surprisingly strong heartbeat echoed from within.

Thump...

Thump...

All of the elf's defenses vanished completely. So much so that, for several seconds, he seemed to have forgotten that human was even there.

Meanwhile, the tiny heart continued beating against the shell. It was small. But it was alive.

Callisto had treated injured younglings, cared for newborn creatures, and spent countless hours studying anatomy and first aid. He knew the signs of a healthy life, knew how to recognize a strong heart, and knew exactly what that rhythm meant. And yet, hearing it like this was different.

For the first time since finding that egg, he did not think about the mission. He simply listened.

Fiona didn't even dare move a muscle for fear of breaking the moment. She merely released the breath she had been holding in her lungs slowly and silently, watching the elf's expression relax for the first time since they had met. A small, warm, genuine smile formed at the corner of her lips.

It was the first time she had shared this moment with someone...

When Callisto finally pulled away, he did so slowly. He cleared his throat with a discreet cough, adjusting his posture on the step in an attempt to recover his usual seriousness, but the light in his eyes had changed.

“It is... comforting.” He admitted in a low tone, almost a whisper.

“I told you.” Fiona gave a light, victorious giggle, carefully settling the egg back into her lap.

The atmosphere on the staircase became incredibly light and peaceful. For a few minutes, the silence they shared held no trace of tension. It was simply the bluish light of the egg pulsing through the gloom, perfectly in tune with the night outside.

“Your wounds are almost healed.” Fiona commented, naturally breaking the pause without any drama. “If you keep going like this, you'll probably be able to travel to Xadia in a day or two. So tomorrow I'll help you prepare for the journey.”

Callisto looked at her in silence, processing the simplicity with which she treated the matter. But he merely nodded slowly.

Fiona used the banister for support as she stood, adjusting the weight of the egg in her arms. “I'm going to try to get some more sleep. Good night, Callisto.”

“Fiona.”

His voice made her stop after she had climbed two steps. She turned around on the staircase, looking down.

Callisto remained on the same step, his head raised as he looked at her through the darkness. “Why do you do this?”

Fiona furrowed her brow, confused. “Do what?”

“All of this.” He tried to articulate the doubt eating away at him. “You know what I am, and now you know where the egg comes from. Aren't you afraid of suffering the consequences because of it?”

“I... wouldn't want to have to fight you again.”

“I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about other humans.”

Fiona swallowed, looking down at her bare feet on the step for a second before meeting the elf's gaze again. His question touched upon the most painful and real point of the entire situation.

“Oh... them.” She murmured, her voice quiet but without hesitation. “If there's one thing I've learned, it's that people's laws and fears don't always align with what is right. If Viren or anyone else in the castle finds out... I know my life as a hunter and citizen of Katolis is over.”

She adjusted the egg in her arms, holding it a little more firmly against her chest.

“I'm afraid, Callisto. Very afraid. Of the consequences, of being hunted, of losing the little peace I've built here... But fear has never stopped me from doing what needs to be done. This little one didn't ask to be caught in the middle of a war. He just needs to go home… And so do you.”

Fiona took another step upward, but stopped and glanced at him over her shoulder. The corner of her mouth curved into a small, teasing smile, breaking the weight of the conversation that had come before. “Besides... now that you're not trying to stab me or chop my head off anymore, I've discovered that you're actually a pretty nice guy.”

Callisto froze in place. His silence was absolute just as his mind was completely short-circuiting in the face of that absurd declaration.

“Good night, ‘Doctor.’” She finished with a wink and a light giggle, disappearing into the dark hallway of the second floor before he could even formulate a response.

In the silent room, Callisto remained standing motionless on the empty staircase for a long while. He blinked once, twice, his amber eyes staring into the gloom where she had been only seconds before.

“A pretty nice guy…”

He frowned.