Hearing his proposal, Dasha burst into laughter. It wasn't light or mocking it was loud, piercing, splitting through the eerie silence of the night. To her, it sounded like the most absurd thing she had ever heard; it tore the air like a cracked bell and left ringing questions in its wake.

Veythor's face turned blank, expressionless, unreadable. He didn't move, didn't flinch. He simply stared at her, the crimson in his eyes steady, waiting for her laughter to burn out as if it were a small, predictable flare. The bonfire threw loose sparks and the night drank them down. Around them, the embers sighed and the trees listened.

"Don't like the offer?" he finally asked, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, deliberate too soft for the danger beneath it.

Dasha's laughter died at once. Her gaze locked with his. They sat close—too close. The breath between them thinned; the heat of the fire mixed with the cold of the chain's shadow. Their faces were only a breath apart, almost like that infamous scene from Spiderman's kiss. But this was a twisted reflection of it, warped by tension and firelight—no romance, only a sick parody of intimacy.

Suddenly, Dasha's hand shot up, clamping around Veythor's neck. Her expression hardened, grim and unyielding. The motion was sharp, born of raw surprise and a fury that had nowhere proper to go.

"How dare you," she hissed, "even think that I would betray my tribe?"

She fussed with fury, pressing her hand harder against his neck. The pressure grew, enough to sting, but Veythor remained calm. His chin did not tremble; his eyes did not widen. His crimson gaze gleamed faintly, but his body hung still in the chain's swing.

"I never said that," he said quietly. "You merely assumed. I just wanted to hear what you would say."

His calm, confident tone felt false to Dasha. It sounded shaped and polished designed to unsettle. Her instincts screamed at her to crush his throat, to end him right there. The pressure on his neck grew, her fingers tightening, the bones and sinew of her hand hard against his skin, but the logic in his words made her grip falter, if only a fraction. In that fraction, something like doubt seeped in.

"But you—"

Before she could finish, Veythor cut her off.

"This tribe is very dear to you, huh?"

Her eyes lit up. She released his neck at once as if burned by the question. The sudden loosening of her fingers left a hollow silence between them where intent had been.

"More than I can form into words. This tribe is dearer to me than my life. I love everything and everyone here. We are a family. But I hate this sacrificing tradition." Her voice shook, the confession pushed out like a blade. Anger flared behind every syllable now, raw and open. "Why should innocent children give up their lives for a goddamn statue? A legend! There's no proof Dogundra is even real. But still, no one dares resist the tradition. They all fear that cursed statue."

When she finished, her breaths came uneven and harsh. Her chest rose and fell like a bellows. Veythor stared at her silently, the firelight carving slow lines into his face.

Well, well… objective completed.

I only wanted to see how deeply she loved this tribe. That proposal bait worked perfectly. She let her inner rage spill out. Now it'll be easier to exploit.

Veythor laughed inwardly. Outwardly, his face stayed calm—expressionless, unreadable. Truly an old fox inside a child's body.

She began speaking again, her voice unclear and trembling, almost breaking. The story came out in small, splintered pieces that caught on the night and sank like stones.

"This tribe… it's my whole world," she whispered, as if the words might vanish if said too loud.

"When I was little, my mother died. I have no idea who my father is. Ever since then, Lady Emata took me in. She adopted me. At first, I was so happy… I thought I could finally live a normal life, a happy life. Back then, I hadn't yet learned the harsh reality.

The same old friends who used to play with me, laugh with me, who cared for me so freely… they started to ignore me. One by one, every year, they were taken away as sacrifices. But not me.

Originally, I too was meant to be one of the sacrificed. But because I was adopted by Lady Emata… I was spared."

Her hands curled into fists as her voice thinned into anger, raw cords pulled tight. The fire threw their shadows long across the ground, and in that light her confession seemed both small and immense.

"That's when I finally understood. Those with power, the upper class, will always thrive over the lower. They will always have special privileges. And those below…" She bit down on her lip until it whitened. "Those below will always be left to die."

Her eyes darkened, a sheen of hatred glinting there. The admission was both mourning and rage. It sounded like a verdict.

"That's when I started to hate this reality."

Veythor listened in silence, his crimson eyes faintly glowing against the dim firelight. Each of her words seemed to echo somewhere far away, as if her grief couldn't quite reach him. But he was listening... carefully, methodically. Every sentence, every tremor in her voice, was another piece of the puzzle he collected and numbered in his head.

So that's it, he thought. The little cracks beneath the brave façade. A heart bound to this tribe by love and chained to it by pain.

A faint smile tugged at his lips... not of amusement, but of understanding. It was a small, hungry thing, and it did nothing to hide the calculation behind it.

Humans are truly simple creatures. All it takes is pain… and a reason to believe it means something.

He tilted his head slightly, studying her like prey wrapped in its own web. Her hands still trembled; the words had stripped some layer away. She had shown him where the tribe's soft place lay.

She's the type who clings to the very thing that destroys her. Perfect... now all I have to do is show her that the tribe she loves is already on a path of destruction. Then… she'll start to walk my path without even realizing it.

The fire cracked between them, casting shifting shadows across their faces. Veythor's expression remained unreadable calm, patient, and cold—like something waiting for the right hour to move.

Isn't it always the same? The weak are crushed beneath the weight of the higher class, stepped on like dirt. Not even their own kind can stand to see them rise. The moment a frail one begins to grow in strength tries to climb toward the light... his own people will claw him back down. That is the brutal truth.

Humans are selfish and envious creatures. They cannot even bear the sight of their own kind doing better. Even among family, they poison the roots that dare to outgrow them.

His thoughts burned inside, though the gears of his mind were already turning. He watched Dasha's face, the small shifts in her eyes, the way her jaw worked. Everything was data; everything a lever.

One more step, he thought. Just one more push… and she'll start to crumble.

He sighed, long and slow, the sound nearly lost under the whisper of leaves. The chain sighed with him. The night seemed to hold its breath waiting for whatever small revolution would be born from that hush.

"Snows turned red as I cried out for help; heavens stayed silent as I became mere ashes, who flew away to the abyss."

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