"I accept your offer."
The words escaped my lips with barely a shred of conviction. My throat felt like dry ash.
I reached out, my trembling left hand closing around hers. Without a word, she turned and began walking back down the frost-stiffened path we had just marched up.
The remaining five soldiers watched in stunned, heavy silence. I couldn't tell if their pale, blood-splattered faces held gratitude for sparing their lives, or sickening shame.
"Stop, Simon! Why are you going with that evil witch?!" Kilen screamed out, clutching his bloodied ribs.
"I... I did it to save you guys," I said softly, my eyes fixed on the dirt.
"You idiot! She's using you!" Kilen roared, his voice cracking with desperation and rage. "Use that goddamn power! The gold runes—kill her like you killed those cultists!"
"I... I can't." My right arm hung limp at my side, black and charred, the golden light completely burned out.
"You coward!"
Driven past the point of sanity, Kilen lunged at the witch. He reared back his iron sword with both hands, swinging it with everything he had straight for her neck.
It stopped.
With fluid, terrifying ease, the witch lifted a single pale finger, catching the flat of the heavy iron blade in midair.
"There is nothing a mere human can do to stop a witch," she cooled.
Before I could even process what was happening, her movement turned into a blur of deadly grace. With her free hand, she snatched Kilen's wrist, pivoted her foot, and leveraged his weight in a sweeping arc over her head, slamming him violently into the frozen earth.
CRACK.
"Do any of you other humans wish to test my patience?" she asked, not even winded.
This woman was a monster. I watched in absolute horror as Kilen wheezed, spitting blood onto the frost, struggling to push himself back to his feet. I prayed he would stay down, terrified he was going to try again.
He didn't attack. Instead, he stumbled back a few paces, gripping his sword with trembling hands.
"You better not join her, Simon," Kilen hissed, glaring at me with dark, hollow eyes filled with pure malice and distrust. "Because if I ever see you again... I'll kill you myself."
His armor was battered, his flesh gouged by cultist spears, but his rage burned hotter than his pain.
The witch leaned close to Kilen, whispering just loud enough for both of us to hear, "A shame they had such a weak commander. Maybe if you were stronger, your men would still be breathing."
Kilen snapped. Overcome by humiliation and rage, he wound up and swung his blade straight at her throat once more.
Expecting the blow, the witch ducked beneath the arc, side-stepping him instantly.
"Haven't you..."
She uncinched her fist, straightening her fingers into a razor-sharp hand-blade, and whipped her hand across his neck in a single, lightning-fast strike.
POP.
Kilen's head snapped cleanly off his shoulders like a cap off a bottle. Blood erupted from the severed neck, spraying across the frost. His body remained standing for two agonizing seconds before collapsing backward into the dirt.
What the fuck. What the fuck!
I stumbled back, my knees giving out, my elbows catching me as I hit the ground. He's... she just... his head... WHAT THE FUCK!
The witch casually swiped a line of blood off her knuckles before finishing her sentence. "...learned your lesson yet? Humans cannot play games like this with witches."
She strolled over to Kilen's lifeless head, picking it up by the hair with her left hand. She placed her right thumb under his chin, turning to the four surviving, horrified soldiers.
Opening and closing his dead mouth, she mimicked a mocking voice: "You better run before you end up like me! Blegh!"
The four soldiers, broken by pure shock and absolute terror, scrambled off the ground and fled blindly down the path, disappearing into the dense fog of the forest.
She tossed the head aside and turned her golden eyes back to me. "I apologize for the mess, darling. Shall we be going?"
Panic surged through me. "No! I'm not going anywhere with you!" I screamed, scrambling to my feet.
I turned to run, but my legs wouldn't move. I looked down—heavy, cold iron chains were wrapped around my ankles, pulsing with a dark violet aura.
"Let me go!" I roared, throwing my torso forward in a desperate attempt to break free, but I tripped instantly, slamming face-first into the dirt.
Before I could push myself back up, the violet chains whipped around my wrists, pinning my arms securely behind my back. The dark magic bit into my raw, golden-burnt skin, causing me to scream as the pain forced Vulxan's power to recede entirely.
"A deal's a deal, little lamb," Vespera chuckled, floating down to hover inches above my face. "Now... off to the castle."
Three hooded cultists emerged from the dense treeline. The one in the lead dragged a heavy wooden transport wagon—a cart designed to carry four or five prisoners.
Lying in the dirt, I squinted at the back of the wagon.
Directly across from the empty seat sat a figure draped in a heavy black cloak. His head hung low against his chest, completely motionless. Was he unconscious? Dead?
I watched as the lead cultist walked over, grabbed the violet chains binding my arms with effortless, terrifying strength, and hoisted me off the ground like a sack of grain. He hauled me over to the wagon and shoved me unceremoniously onto the wooden bench opposite the cloaked man.
The chains clattered against the wood. I leaned forward as best as I could, trying to examine my fellow prisoner.
He was bound in the exact same dark violet magic. On the right side of his ribcage, the fabric of his cloak was stiff and stained a dark, crusty crimson—a dried bloodstain. He hadn't put up much of a fight recently, but why were his legs heavily shackled as well? Who was this guy?
Vespera climbed onto the cart, settling onto the bench right beside me with a satisfied sigh.
"We're ready, boys," she sang out softly. "Take us home."
The cultists grabbed the wagon handles and pulled. It wasn't nearly as fast as the high-speed bullet trains back in Lumenale, but the sheer physical strength of these cultists kept the cart moving at a unsettlingly quick pace through the wild terrain.
"What do you want from me, witch...?" I rasped. It was meant to sound fierce, but came out as a pathetic, broken plea.
"Witch is so horribly informal, darling. You may call me Vespera," she said, her eyes fixed on the dark path ahead.
"Fine... Vespera. What do you want with me?"
"Your power. Your soul. Your life." She smiled, a sinister, terrifying grin stretching across her face.
I recoiled at the sight, but forced myself to keep talking. "If you just want me dead, why didn't you finish me off back in the clearing?"
"Because there are preparations that must be made, sweet child."
"What preparations?!"
Her grin widened even further, her sharp teeth gleaming under the dim forest canopy. "Well, first we have to rip out that glorious golden power of yours. Vulxan's fragment. Once we extract the god... I get to eat your soul."
My blood ran cold. Eat my soul? I didn't know what answer I expected, but that wasn't it.
I looked away, sickened, shifting my gaze back to the silent, cloaked man sitting across from me. He hadn't stirred once since I was thrown onto the cart.
Vespera noticed where I was looking and giggled softly. "Oh? Are you curious about your travel companion?"
She stood up, stepping across the small wagon floor, and slid onto the bench right next to the motionless man.
Reaching out with a long, slender finger, she hooked the edge of his black hood and flipped it backward.
My breath caught in my chest.
The pale face, the short black hair, the faint stubble...
It was Brianan.
Present.
"Sacrificing his freedom for five soldiers—one of whom is already dead—seems exceedingly stupid," Arthur said, resting his cheek in his palm, sounding thoroughly bored by the whole display. "I have to agree with you, Endor."
"My poor darling, being dragged around like a common slave..." Lucia whimpered, pressing both hands against her forehead in distress. She stared intensely at the glowing screen, her voice dropping to a barely audible whisper: "Please don't die, Simon..."
Endor glared at the display monitor, his jaw tight as his mind struggled to process what he was watching. "So let me get this straight," he growled, his face flushing a deep, furious crimson. "This idiot—the one chosen to be the next divine vessel—traded his own life for five fake soldiers?!"
Endor snapped his hand open, and a burst of fierce, roaring flame erupted from his palm, scorching the air around him. He cleared his throat harshly, extinguishing the fire with a flick of his wrist before forcing himself back into his seat.
"Apologies," he muttered stiffly, adjusting his collar. "I let my temper get the better of me."
Vanilla burst out laughing from the chair right beside him. "Oh, Endor! You completely crack me up!" she giggled, clapping her hands.
Mizuki finally slid his phone into his suit pocket, his dark, unreadable eyes locking onto the central monitor.
"Interesting," Mizuki noted, his voice flat and clinical. "It appears his friend has re-entered the equation. Now... will the woodcutter finally be saved, or will he and his precious friend be slaughtered like every failed vessel before him?"