The silence Veylar left behind stretched long and heavy, settling over the ruined chapel like a second shadow.
No one spoke.
The breeze had died. The scent of spring rain had faded. Only the soft crackle of distant fire and the occasional groan of settling stone reminded them that the world hadn’t stopped.
Mira glanced once more toward the doorway where Veylar had vanished, but there was no trace of him.
Gone. Just like that.
She didn’t know if she felt grateful… or unnerved.
A quiet cough broke the stillness.
Rook, half-slouched against a splintered pew, scratched at the back of his neck. “Erm... so... do we, uh, decide what to do next? Or...?”
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“I say we get out of here—fast,” Grey muttered, rotating his shoulder. “In case more Crows show up.”
Cassian, still breathing heavily, pushed himself upright with a grimace. “You're right. We should go now. We can't risk it.”
“We should,” Mira murmured, stepping back toward the group. Her voice was quiet—far away, as if her thoughts still lingered on Veylar's warning.
She knelt by the unconscious captain again, checking the seal Veylar had left behind. It was still glowing faintly—cool to the touch, like frost on stone.
Lucien moved to her side. “How long do we have?”
“I don’t know,” Mira admitted. “But we need to get them both back to town. Fast.”
“We’ll need a wagon,” Kael said. “These three—” he nodded toward the assassins “—won’t carry themselves.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Mira replied. Then, after a pause: “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to stay in this place any longer than we have to.”
Leila stood, loading a bolt into her crossbow with a sharp click. “I’ll scout ahead. Make sure the road’s clear.”
Grey nodded. “I’ll help.”
Rook let out a breath and pushed himself up with a wince. “I’ll check the stables. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a cart or a horse still breathing.”
Despite everything, a faint smile tugged at Mira’s lips. It didn’t last, but for a second, it felt like the weight pressing on her chest had lifted—just a little.
She glanced down at her father.
“Let’s go home, Father,” she whispered. “Everything will be all right now…”
Meanwhile—
Veylar was walking alone down the dirt road.
The chapel was far behind him now, hidden by trees and smoke.
The air was cooler here. The scent of blood still lingered faintly, but he didn’t look back.
Let Mira cling to her kindness. It wasn’t his problem.
As he walked around a bend, the trees opened up slightly, and sunlight spilled across the path.
That’s when he saw someone coming toward him.
Tall. Calm. Silver-haired. Moving swiftly with the wind.
It was Alwen.
Veylar raised an eyebrow. “Well, look who finally decided to show up.”
Alwen stopped a few steps away, his lips curled faintly. “Well, forgive me for being unable to fly like you, my lord.”
“You can’t indeed,” Veylar returned a small smirk. “But neither can she—and she still arrived just minutes after me.”
“Minutes?” Alwen paused, his brows furrowing. “That’s... very impressive. If she’s a potential enemy, my lord... then she’s a serious threat.”
Veylar’s crimson eyes lingered on the treetops as they rustled in the passing wind.72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMiLfSFaZZY
“She’s definitely stronger than I expected,” he said at last. “And I don’t think she’s shown her full strength yet.”
He let out a soft, dry chuckle.72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7gJBYY3I79
“But she won’t become our enemy—as long as we stay out of Mermaid’s Cove.”
Alwen glanced at him. “Do you regret helping her?”
“Regret?” Veylar raised an eyebrow, his voice cool. “No. I’ve had regrets in my life, but this is not one of them.”
They continued walking—boots crunching softly against the gravel path, the forest around them hushed, as if it too were listening.
Alwen folded his arms. “So… where do we go now, my lord? I doubt our lair survived the fire.”
Veylar didn’t answer right away. His gaze remained fixed ahead, expression unreadable.
At last, he spoke, voice laced with mischief.72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡe72CqaKZWk
“I’m sure the Elmhursts own more than one abandoned estate… don’t you think?”
Alwen walked a step behind, his silver hair catching the light between the trees. “Indeed they do.”
Veylar gave a faint smile. “Then let’s head to the next town.”
“Very well, my lord,” Alwen said quietly. “Shall we leave a farewell message for the Saintess?”
Veylar’s smile faded. “No.”
A moment of silence passed as the wind stirred the leaves.
“That won’t be necessary,” he added. “I don’t expect to see her again.”
Alwen nodded. “That’s a pity. She actually reminds me of someone.”
Veylar stopped walking for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the distant horizon.
“You’re referring to the Saintess of the Holy Sword, I presume? Yes… they do bear a resemblance in some ways. And I hope they won’t share the same fate.”
He resumed walking.
They said nothing more for a while, until they reached a small fork in the path.
Two narrow trails stretched before them—one winding uphill beneath a canopy of firs, the other sloping gently down toward a stream that shimmered faintly in the sunlight.
Veylar paused, eyes narrowing.
“The left road leads toward Hollowmere, if memory serves,” he murmured.
Alwen nodded. “And the right, toward Blackbarrow.”
Veylar glanced skyward, as if weighing something only he could see. Then he turned toward the right.
“Blackbarrow, then,” he said. “It’s farther from here.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Alwen replied, following closely.
For a time, only the whisper of wind and the crunch of their steps accompanied them.
The trees here were older, their bark gnarled and roots tangled, as if the forest itself had lived through too many secrets.
Alwen spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “How long has it been—since she died?”
Veylar didn’t turn. “Roughly two and a half centuries, more or less.”
“Two hundred and fifty years?” Alwen repeated, a trace of disbelief in his tone. “So she died not long after the Great Demon War? What happened?”
Veylar came to a stop and let out a long, quiet sigh.
“Her own king accused her of consorting with the demonkin,” he said, his voice touched with sorrow. “And the Temple of Light drove the final nail into her coffin. They declared she had betrayed the Light.”
He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes distant and difficult to read.
“Ironic, isn’t it? Considering she was the one who led humanity to victory.”
Alwen walked in silence for a moment as the path narrowed, framed by twisted roots and moss-covered stones.
“I never fought her,” he said softly. “Only saw her from afar. But even then… she was the strongest human I’d ever laid eyes on. How could someone like that be killed?”
Veylar didn’t answer right away. His gaze turned skyward, lost in thought, something flickering briefly across his face—too brief to name.
“She surrendered willingly,” he said at last, voice low. “But she never admitted to the charges. She believed in their so-called justice.”
He fell silent again, the weight of memory hanging in the air like fog between trees.
His expression darkened.
“But she was eventually executed. Burned alive,” he said, his voice quiet—but sharpened with fury. “Publicly. In the capital’s square.”
Alwen’s brows furrowed. “Burned… by her own people?”
Veylar nodded slowly.
“The king signed the order. The Temple of Light performed the rites. The very people she bled for gathered in droves to watch.”
He clenched his fist at his side. “They cheered.”
Alwen’s steps faltered. “Cheered…?”
Veylar’s voice dropped lower, tighter. “They threw flowers. Praised the Light for cleansing a ‘traitor.’ They celebrated her execution as if it were some divine chorus. Children clapped. Priests preached.”
He turned slightly, jaw set, crimson eyes glowing faintly in the shadows between trees.
A pause.
Then, softer—almost bitterly:
“They lit the pyre with torches blessed by the very god she served. Her name became taboo across the human nations soon after.”
His voice caught, but he pressed on.
“Elena Seraphine—The Saintess of the Holy Sword…” He laughed, quiet and cold. “She was erased from temples. Torn from books.”
His gaze darkened.
“Forgotten. Abandoned by the very people she gave everything to protect.”
He shook his head slowly, as if the weight of it still baffled him.
“What kind of absurdity is that, Alwen? Tell me.”
The forest grew quiet, as if nature itself mourned in solemn sympathy.
Above, the clouds drifted across the sun, softening the light and dimming the world around them.
At last, Alwen spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “You were there when it happened? Why, my lord?”
Veylar drew in a slow breath, burdened with memory. “Because I was the reason she burned.”
Silence returned—deeper, heavier than before.
They continued walking, wordless shadows along a forgotten road, haunted by grief too old to name.
Two figures beneath the canopy of time, moving forward through the echoes of what had been.
And inside their hearts, buried in soot and silence, the last embers of her memory still smoldered—refusing to die.
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