Leon leaned heavily against the gnarled trunk of the ancient tree, his breath catching in ragged gasps. A cruel arrow shaft jutted from the left side of his chest, each shallow inhale sending a fresh wave of searing pain through his body. Strands of his golden hair, now matted with sweat and grime, fell across his brow as his vibrant blue eyes, usually full of life, stared blankly at the endless expanse of the sky.

  Drifts of pure white clouds drifted lazily overhead, their serene passage a stark contrast to the brutal reality that clung to him like a shroud. He desperately sought refuge in their tranquil beauty, a fleeting escape from the crushing weight of his present. All around him lay the silent testament to a battle lost – the still forms of his comrades, their valor extinguished in the dust and blood of the battlefield. The promised reinforcements, their arrival a beacon of hope just hours ago, were nowhere to be seen. A bitter truth settled in his gut, cold and heavy: the Emperor had abandoned them.

  A numbing weariness began to creep through Leon's limbs, a siren song promising oblivion. His thoughts, once sharp and focused, now drifted like the clouds above, blurring at the edges. He teetered on the precipice of consciousness, the world around him fading in and out of focus, a disorienting dance between wakefulness and the sweet embrace of unconsciousness.

  Then, through the hazy veil of his fading senses, a figure began to coalesce. A girl. A Batha, he instinctively knew, with hair as dark and lustrous as a raven's wing. She seemed to shimmer at the edge of his vision, an ethereal presence in the grim tableau of the battlefield. Was this a trick of his dying mind, a final hallucination conjured by pain and despair? Or was there something more to this fleeting vision?

  A jolt of awareness ripped through Leon, dragging him back from the encroaching darkness. His eyes snapped open, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. He lay on a simple cot within a rustic dwelling. A small figure sat hunched beside a crackling hearth, stirring something in a pot suspended over the flames. A cascade of black hair, thick and glossy, flowed down her back, obscuring her face.

  Instinct, honed by years of war, took over. His hand instinctively reached for the sword leaning against the head of the bed. The cold steel felt reassuring in his grasp. He rose slowly, his injured chest protesting with a sharp stab of agony, and moved stealthily towards the figure by the fire. With a swiftness that belied his weakened state, he pressed the blade against the smooth skin of her neck.

  "Who are you?" His voice was rough, a low growl laced with suspicion and pain.

  The figure flinched slightly, her movements ceasing. "My name is Vivian," she replied softly, her voice like the gentle rustle of leaves in a summer breeze.

  Leon pressed the sword a fraction tighter. "Did you tend to my wounds?"

  "Yes," Vivian answered, her tone unwavering despite the cold steel at her throat.

  “What’s a Batha doing here?” Leon ground out, a wave of dizziness washing over him. His grip on the sword remained firm despite the tremble in his limbs.

  The girl turned slowly. Ruby-red eyes met his—calm, unreadable, and wholly unnatural.

  She was breathtaking.

  There was something otherworldly about her, an ethereal stillness that clung to her like mist. Her delicate features, framed by a cascade of raven-dark hair, held a purity that seemed to glow from within. For a fleeting moment, Leon thought he was staring at a goddess, not a girl. The sight hit him like a blow—sudden, sharp, and disarming. He had never seen beauty so profound. Not even the statues of the old temples possessed such grace.

  Vivian didn’t answer his question. Instead, her gaze drifted back to the pot over the fire. She resumed stirring, the soft scrape of the spoon the only sound in the quiet room.

  “You were gravely wounded,” she said, her voice low and melodic. “You shouldn’t move so much.”

  Leon’s hand wavered, then slowly lowered the sword. It fell with a metallic clang, echoing through the small space. His breathing grew heavier, the exertion pressing down on him like a weight. He stumbled back a step before sinking down against the wall, easing into the support it offered.

  His eyes dropped to the blood-soaked bandages wrapped tightly around his chest.

  “Are you a healer?” he asked. The suspicion in his voice had faded, replaced by cautious curiosity.

  Vivian shook her head. She ladled some of the soup into a wooden bowl, took a small sip, then met his gaze—as if to show him it was safe. A moment later, she extended it toward him.

  Leon hesitated, then accepted it.

  The bowl was warm in his hands, and the soup’s pale color and delicate aroma brought an unexpected sense of comfort. He took a tentative sip. A subtle sweetness greeted his tongue, followed by the savory richness of finely shredded dried meat. The warmth spread through him like a balm, easing the gnawing ache in his belly.

  He took another mouthful.

  All the while, his eyes remained fixed on Vivian—quietly studying, silently questioning.

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  There was no mistaking her Batha heritage. The harmony of her features, the soft glow of her skin—it was all there. And yet... something was off.

  Her clothing was unlike anything he’d seen: a simple white tunic and dark blue trousers, layered beneath a long coat made of a strange, shimmering fabric—sturdy, yet fluid, like silk forged for war. And her skin bore no sign of hardship—no sun-darkened hue, no calluses from work or travel.

  But it was her eyes that unsettled him most.

  That impossible red, like polished rubies—he had never seen their like, not in any race. Not even among Hybrids.

  She couldn’t be a common Batha.

  She couldn’t be common anything.

  No, this girl—this Vivian—was something else entirely."You're a long way from your people," Leon said, his voice low, edged with warning. "The Wickhamians don't take kindly to the Batha. Especially not Hybrids."

  Vivian turned to him, a flicker of surprise lighting her ruby-red eyes. "Hybrids?"

  Leon gestured to his own face. "No human alive has eyes like yours."

  A brief crease formed between her brows. Then, without a word, she reached into a pouch at her side—if it could be called that. It was crafted from a smooth, dark material Leon didn’t recognize, flexible like leather but too refined, too alien. She pulled out a small, hand-held mirror.

  Leon’s gaze caught on it instantly. The back of the mirror was a strange, dark metal etched with curling, elegant patterns—symbols he couldn’t read but instinctively felt were ancient. Nobility, he thought. Only those born into power carried things like that.

  Vivian stared at her reflection in silence, her expression unreadable at first. Then her features shifted—bewilderment, disbelief… and something like amusement. A faint, wry smile tugged at her lips.

  "You didn’t know?" Leon asked, watching her closely. "That you were a Hybrid?"

  Vivian’s gaze lingered on the mirror a moment longer before she lowered it to her lap. She tilted her head slightly, thoughtful.

  "We were always told our blood carried echoes of the fae and dragons," she said softly. "Ancient stories passed down through song and fire. I suppose they were more than just stories." Her laugh was quiet and tinged with irony. "Funny, isn’t it? The old truths always find a way to surface."

  "Where’s your home?" Leon asked.

  Vivian’s eyes fell to the mirror again. Her fingers brushed its edge as if it held some distant memory.

  "Very far," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "And maybe forever out of reach."

  Leon finished the last of the soup, letting the warmth settle into his bones. His wounds still throbbed, but the haze of pain had dulled.

  "What do you plan to do now?" he asked. "It’s dangerous out there for anyone, especially someone like you."

  Vivian let out a slow breath, her gaze drifting to the hearth where the fire crackled gently. "I don’t know," she said. "Today was the first time I’ve ever seen a battlefield. The first time I’ve seen so much death." Her voice faltered slightly, the weight of the memory catching in her throat.

  There was a long pause.

  Then, unexpectedly, "And what about you?" she asked, turning her gaze to him. "What will you do?"

  Leon looked away, his expression clouded. "Try to find what’s left of my unit. They were stationed near Valor’s Hold. Maybe link up with them and keep fighting."

  "And your family?"

  His jaw tensed. A shadow passed across his features.

  "They died. Two winters ago. The plague."

  Vivian bowed her head slightly. "I'm sorry."

  Leon gave a tired smile. "Thank you. But it’s alright. We all lose something in war."

  A quiet moment passed between them, filled only by the pop and hiss of the fire.

  Then Leon spoke again. "Come with me to Valor’s Hold."

  Vivian blinked, surprised.

  "I have acquaintances there," he continued. "People I trust. They won’t give you any trouble. It’s safer than wandering alone."

  Vivian was silent for a moment, studying him—not with fear, but with the kind of consideration one gives to a closed door, wondering what lies on the other side.

  After a moment of quiet contemplation, a sigh escaping her lips like a whispered farewell to what might have been, Vivian accepted Leon’s offer. The threads that once tethered her to a place called home had frayed and finally snapped, leaving her adrift. And so, with a hesitant stirring of something akin to hope amidst the lingering ache of loss, she resolved to venture into the unknown, to see what fate awaited her in this new, uncertain chapter.

  "Fiend! The fiend has come!"The cry, shrill with terror, shattered the hallowed stillness of the cathedral—a sacrilege against the solemn hush of evening prayers that clung thick to the incense-laden air. Within the sacred walls, the devout froze mid-devotion, whispered prayers dissolving into a rising tide of panicked murmurs.“Sister Benetta, please, you mustn’t upset yourself so.”A young novice, her voice a soft balm of concern, steadied the elder nun with gentle hands, guiding her toward her chamber.“The demon… eyes like burning coals… it is here!”Sister Benetta’s voice quivered. Her gnarled fingers clutched at the novice’s sleeve, desperation etching every word. “It will strike down the Holy Father—it will reduce Atheria to dust and ash!”The novice’s brow creased, but her tone held steady, a calm buoy in the storm. “The fiend holds no power over the light of Eldoria, Sister. Turn your heart to the Divine. You will find peace in prayer.”“No!”The elder shook her head violently, her eyes wide, glassy with dread. “It rides for Valor’s Hold even now. They must be warned! If it reaches the knights, it will twist their noble hearts, corrupt them—make them part of its legion!”The novice turned quickly, signaling another passing girl. “Lilibet, would you kindly escort Sister Benetta back to her room?”The one called Lilibet stepped forward, her flame-red hair catching what light filtered through the stained glass above. Her face—young, fair—was composed, calm, unsettlingly so.“No! Not her!”Sister Benetta recoiled, her voice rising to a piercing shriek as she pointed a trembling finger. “Do not trust her! She is touched by shadow! Do not let her fool you!”A faint smile—half sorrow, half resignation—curved Lilibet’s lips as she gently disentangled the elder nun’s hand from the novice’s arm.“Come now, Sister,” she said, her voice no louder than a whisper. “Let us return you to your rest.”