Flames swayed quietly, painting the night in gold and shadow. The warmth felt hollow now, like a dying heartbeat forcing a corpse to pretend it still lived. The air was heavy, thick with grief and smoke, as if the forest itself mourned in silence. Even the insects had stopped chirping, their rhythm drowned beneath the weight of something far greater... an unseen stillness, ancient and cruel.

The moon hung above, pale and watchful, spilling its cold light across the ground where blood had already dried. It was a scene where life and death coexisted, neither winning nor surrendering.

Veythor swung slowly on the chain that bound him, his figure half-shadowed by the dying fire. The chain creaked with every faint movement, echoing through the clearing like a ghost's breath. Around them, the tribe lay shrouded in silence. The entire camp felt like a graveyard that still breathed... the kind that had forgotten whether it belonged to the living or the dead.

Only one thing seemed to move still: the faint scent of burnt wood, the smoke curling upward, and the memory of crimson eyes that glowed faintly beneath the moon.

"Why does the Narzanian army want to exterminate the tribes of this forest?"

Veythor's voice broke through the silence, calm yet piercing. His eyes were half-lidded under the pale moonlight, his tone neither curious nor accusatory it was simply… deliberate.

Dasha turned away, breaking their eye contact. "Narzan is a large empire," she began softly, her voice carrying exhaustion and resentment. "Many people live within its walls, and their needs are endless. This forest holds what they desire.... wood, resources, land. But to us tribespeople, this forest is our home. Sure, we have privileges here. We can take anything from it. But no outsider has that right."

Her tone hardened. "Every time they send men to collect what they want, we fight back and bleed for this soil. For years this war has continued. Even now, they still launch raids upon us."

Veythor's expression didn't shift. He looked at her as if gazing through her rather than at her. His eyes were calm, but cold the kind of cold that measured everything, weighed every word and emotion, and stored it for later use.

"In a sense," he murmured, "Narzan's authority isn't wrong. The forest belongs to Narzan. they can do whatever they wish with it. But from the tribespeople's perspective, they are right as well. This has been their home for countless years. They've lived, loved, and suffered here. This soil carries their joy, despair, and grief. It has become the grave of their loved ones killed by Narzanian soldiers, taken by illness, or lost to wild beasts."

His voice softened, like a blade being sheathed. "The memories buried here have grown roots, deep and unyielding… yet in the grand scheme of things, they stand on the wrong side of history."

The flames of bonefire hissed softly. Dasha said nothing, her fists tightening. Her loyalty burned bright—but her faith, unseen, flickered.

Veythor lowered his head slightly. I just thought of a great plan, he mused inwardly, a faint curve at his lips unseen beneath his disheveled hair.

He laughed quietly inside a sound that never reached the air.

"Dasha," he said aloud, tone smooth and uncertain, "to be honest, I didn't want to tell you anything about it till tomorrow, but—"

His voice carried that deliberate hesitation, that carefully measured uncertainty that could stir a thousand thoughts in another's mind. Dasha's heartbeat quickened. Her eyes widened. Her fingers trembled slightly, gripping her clothes.

"But what? Why did you stop? Tell me."

Her throat tightened, panic seeping into her voice like poison through a wound.

"Umm…" Veythor's voice was low, thoughtful, almost hesitant. "I'm not sure if I should tell you about it or not. But if I don't… it may be too late by tomorrow. And if that happens, this tribe might be harmed. Seeing your affection toward this tribe, I feel bad about it."

The words struck her heart like stones cast into a pond ripples of fear spread through her chest.

Harm to the tribe? No, no, no… I can't let that happen. I won't let that happen.

Her body shivered... panic crawled up her spine, coiling around her thoughts until reason itself began to slip away.

"Just tell me already! What is it? What could harm our tribe?"

Veythor's crimson eyes glimmered faintly. It's working, he thought, joy rising in his chest like a tide. The spark has caught fire.

He exhaled slowly, feigning reluctance. "But I shouldn't tell you like this. This matter… it's not simple. If I speak, the tribe may learn a lesson. The sacrificing ritual might even be stopped. But…" He paused, his tone deepening. "…it might destroy Nagarono entirely."

Dasha froze her breath stopped. Her whole world flipped. The words shattered the fragile calm she had built around herself. Her chest tightened as if invisible chains wrapped around her lungs. She gasped for breath, her eyes wide, trembling. It felt as though she were being pulled into a black abyss... weightless, helpless, terrified.

Veythor watched quietly. His eyes gleamed faintly with devilish light.

Yes, he thought coldly. This is the best way. Fear.... the seed that flowers into despair. Insert it deep within her heart, let it grow. In fear, reason dies. In terror, one cannot think clearly. The fear of the unknown, the fear of losing what one loves—these are the two greatest shackles upon mankind. Just a bit more silence, and she will break.

A wolf howled in the distance, its cry sharp and lonely. But Dasha didn't even flinch. Her entire world had narrowed down to one thing: Veythor's words.

Her mind swirled with endless visions imaginary calamities, fires, corpses, children screaming every thought painted in dread.

"Tell me!" she shouted, voice cracking.

"But—"

Veythor continued his act, dragging out the silence like a blade scraping bone.

"Enough!" she roared.

Her fury burst. Her hair fell over her face as she bent and snatched up the silver sword Darius had left behind. The blade shimmered faintly in the moonlight, cold and sacred. Without hesitation, she pressed the sword against his wound. Blood welled instantly, running down his skin in dark streams.

"Spit the information," she hissed, "or I'll send you to hell."

Veythor remained silent, eyes half-closed.

Not yet. It's not the right time, he thought.

Her grip tightened. She pressed harder. Blood trickled down his chin, dripping onto the dirt below.

"I'm asking you one last time. Either you talk or you die."

"Die," she whispered, trembling.

Veythor smirked. The curve of his lips sent a chill through her body. For a moment, her rage faltered fear returning sharper than before.

Now is the time. Heavens… fate… you won't stop me. For my own sake I will destroy the world. But for now… I'll destroy this tribe.

Her breath grew erratic. Her thoughts blurred between loyalty and terror. Fear blinded her reason; rage fueled her arms.

"If he dies," she thought, "maybe the problem will end. Maybe… the tribe will be safe."

She lifted the sword high. Her heart burned; her blood boiled; her tears never fell. The night held its breath. The moon stared down like a god that had long stopped caring. And in that silence, the boundary between savior and sinner vanished just as the blade began to fall.

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