Revan didn't answer immediately.
His fingers remained curled around the kunai hidden in his sleeve, muscles coiled tight despite the screaming protest of his wounds. Fifteen years of survival had taught him one fundamental truth: when something seemed too convenient, it usually was.
'This is either the luckiest coincidence in my entire miserable existence, or it's the most obvious trap ever laid.'
"You're not jumping at my offer," the woman observed, her violet eyes glittering with something that looked almost like approval. "Most people in your position would be desperate for answers."
"Most people in my position would be dead. I didn't survive this long by trusting strangers who appear from shadows."
The woman laughed—that same melodic, unsettling sound.
"Fair enough. What would convince you that I'm not here to slit your throat?"
"Nothing. But you can start by telling me why you're helping me instead of just watching."
Revan's eyes narrowed.
"You knew about tonight's attack. You could have warned me. You didn't."
The amusement in her expression flickered into something colder.
"Would you have believed a warning from a stranger?"
"No."
"Then you've answered your own question.
She tilted her head, studying him with renewed interest.
"I needed to see how you'd handle yourself. Whether you were worth approaching at all. Many people talk about strength. Few actually possess it when death comes knocking."
'So I was a test subject. Wonderful.'
"Fine," Revan said through gritted teeth. "Talk. But if I smell even a hint of bullshit, this conversation ends."
"Straight to business. I really do like that about you."
The woman leaned against the pillar, crossing her arms.
"The Garden of Eternal Bloom. That's their full name. Poetic, isn't it? Flowers, growth, beauty..."
Her lips curled into a sardonic smile.
"All hiding the rot underneath."
"What do they want?"
"Tell me, little servant... have you ever wondered where that beautiful crimson crystal came from?"
Revan's expression didn't change.
'She knows about [Crimson Tears]. Interesting.'
"I see that look," the woman continued. "You recognize what I'm talking about. Good."
"What does The Garden have to do with [Crimson Tears]?"
"Everything. The Garden is a distribution network. They move [Crimson Tears] across kingdoms—to noble houses, criminal organizations, cults. But distribution requires supply."
She paused, turning to face him.
"Someone has to manufacture those crystals. Someone with resources, connections, and the ability to operate in shadows while maintaining a respectable facade."
A cold knot formed in Revan's stomach.
"The Vespera family."
The woman's smile turned razor-sharp. "You're quicker than most."
FWIP!
A kunai embedded itself in the pillar, inches from her face. She didn't flinch.
"That's the first lie you've told tonight," Revan said coldly.
"Oh? What makes you so certain?"
"I've served as Sylvia von Vespera's right hand for fifteen years. I know their operations—smuggling routes, black market contacts, assassination networks. If they were manufacturing [Crimson Tears], I would know."
The woman's smile didn't waver.
"And yet... you didn't know about the train mission until hours before departure. You didn't know what cargo you were recovering. You didn't even know [Crimson Tears] existed until your Lady showed it to you."
Her violet eyes gleamed.
"For someone who claims to know everything... you seem to know remarkably little about what actually matters."
The words hit harder than any blade.
'...Fuck.'
'She's right.'
For all his posturing about being Sylvia's 'right hand,' the truth was pathetic. He didn't know the train schedule until Sylvia summoned him. He didn't even know the [Crimson Tears] was already in the Vespera family's possession until she revealed it. He didn't know Vargos was a traitor until Sylvia called him one.
Fifteen years of service, and he was nothing more than an attack dog. Point and kill. That was the extent of his value.
"You're right," Revan admitted quietly. The words tasted like ash. "I don't know as much as I claimed."
Something flickered through the woman's eyes. She paused, as if reassessing him.
"Honesty. That's refreshing."
"It's not honesty. It's just reality."
"I'll admit, I don't know the full extent of the Vespera family's involvement either." The woman tilted her head.
"But your Lady's reaction to Vargos proved they're connected. She called him a traitor who 'bit the hand that feeds him.' Those aren't words for a random thief."
'She's right. Vargos was an insider. Someone trusted enough to handle [Crimson Tears], who decided to steal from his own employers.'
"Let's say I believe you," Revan said carefully. "Why would The Garden send assassins after a servant?"
"Because you're not just any servant anymore."
The woman stepped closer, her perfume filling his senses—flowers and decay intertwined.
"You went toe-to-toe with a Master-rank warrior and walked away breathing. That kind of feat doesn't go unnoticed."
Revan let out a bitter laugh.
"Walked away breathing? I was one heartbeat away from becoming a corpse."
The woman raised an eyebrow.
"And yet here you stand."
"Because my Lady decided I was still useful enough to save."
Revan's voice was flat, devoid of any pride.
"I didn't defeat Vargos. Sylvia did. The only reason I'm alive is because she dragged me back from death's door."
'And because I chugged an Elixir that forced my body to regenerate even as it was falling apart. But she doesn't need to know that.'
The woman studied him for a moment, something shifting in her violet eyes.
"Humble. Or perhaps just honest about your own limitations."
"It's called being realistic. I know exactly where I stand on the food chain."
"And yet..."
Her smile returned, sharper than before.
"The Garden doesn't know those details. They only see the result: a servant who challenged a Master and lived. They see you moving independently now, visiting blacksmiths in the Undergallows, gathering information."
"From their perspective, you're an unknown variable. And The Garden doesn't like unknowns."
'Great. So they think I'm some kind of hidden monster instead of a desperate idiot who got lucky.'
'I suppose being overestimated is better than being underestimated. At least until they actually fight me and realize the truth.'
"What do you want from me?"
"Keep your eyes open."
She pulled out a small coin—black as obsidian, marked with a wilting flower wrapped in chains.
"You have access to places I can't reach. When you see something that connects to The Garden, burn this. The smoke will find me."
"Why would I help you?"
"Because they tried to capture you tonight. Not kill—capture."
Her smile vanished.
"They want you for something. And I promise you won't enjoy finding out what."
Before Revan could respond, her head tilted slightly.
"Company."
Footsteps. Multiple sets, moving in the rhythm of a night patrol.
"It seems our time is up."
She stepped backward, and the shadows moved. They reached up like living things, wrapping around her form, pulling her into darkness that shouldn't have been that deep.
It wasn't teleportation. It was something else entirely.
Something that made his skin crawl.
"One more thing, little servant."
Her voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere.
"You seemed surprised that [Crimson Tears] exists at all. As if you expected it to appear... later."
Revan's blood ran cold.
"Perhaps you should ask yourself: if things can change once, what else might be different?"
And then she was gone.
The shadows returned to normal. The moonlight resumed its pale illumination of the passage.
The patrol's footsteps grew louder. Revan slipped into a side passage, pressing himself against the wall until they passed.
Their voices faded into silence, but Revan remained frozen against the cold stone.
'She noticed my reaction. Does she know I have knowledge I shouldn't have? Or is she just fishing?'
He forced himself to move, each step toward his dormitory heavier than the last. Not from his wounds—though those screamed plenty—but from the weight of questions piling onto his shoulders.
The door clicked shut behind him. Revan collapsed onto his bed, the mysterious coin clutched in his fist.
His mind refused to quiet, churning through implications that made his head throb.
He stared at the ceiling, the weight of that thought pressing down on his chest like a boulder.
His grip on the coin tightened until the edges bit into his palm.
Sleep, when it finally came, brought no peace.
Only nightmares of crimson crystals and violet eyes—watching from shadows that whispered secrets he wasn't ready to hear.