Warning: Blood and gore

Pyra admired the work, her fingers hovering over the gold, too afraid to touch. "This belongs in Ezterra, not in the claws of Carpathian Dagan."

Silas stepped forward. He didn't care about her political views. Ezterra was his home, birthright, and the place Silas was raised, yet he never felt attached to it. But he did take notice of the golden frame designed by Carpathian artisans. 

Silas read the gold engraving as Ravsha, denoting 'freedom' in the Old Ezterrian dialect. Or, he assumed that was the intention. What was actually engraved read Ravshaan, one character too many, and translated to 'cheese.'

He turned away from it, took the short blade from his waist, and pushed it into the canvas. Threads resisted as he moved down, careful not to damage the antique painting. He freed it from the gold and gently rolled it up for the tube around his back. 

Silas gestured them to move, creeping along the ground towards the window. 

Aged wood framed the stained glass. Easy to pick, the lock was archaic. It made him hesitate.

Pyra nearly walked into him. "What?" Now that they had the painting, she was itching to leave. "Just pick it. Come on."

"Wait." Silas scrutinized it, his hand a reasonable distance from its metal. Magic's light didn't radiate from it, but he felt off. Dread consumed him like a current in a storm. "Let's go a different way."

"Why?" She shoved him to the side, grabbing the lock picks. "Fine. I'll do it."

Before he could stop her, the minute her fingers brushed the cold metal, it cracked. An aurora of reds and greens seeped from every notch of the aged lock. Winds danced a death waltz with loose papers, forcing Silas and Pyra into the large wooden desk. The air turned stale. Then everything stopped. Even his insides felt as though time had just discontinued.

When it resumed, papers fluttered to the rotten floor, and across from them stood General Marx Duke. 

Silas sat there, eyes wide, body paralyzed.

But as soon as Marx Duke held his hands up, magic's light radiating from his palms and fingertips, blood poured from his eyes. 

Standing between them, Pyra held her hand out to him. "You!" She seethed. 

The man choked, and blood splattered the carpet as the glow of his hands flickered. Struggling to keep himself upright, he snapped back towards the floor as if his spine had just folded in half. 

Tears stained her face as her victim gasped for air. It was then that Silas noticed the small onyx stone in her hand. Peculiar as it didn't glow, her brown eyes had turned a bright, burning amber.

Lips parted to speak, to beg; the Carpathian could only spill his blood. Iron and flesh filled the room. His skin smoked, and his light faded. His torture felt like it would continue for an eternity before the General finally stopped convulsing.

Silent. 

Pyra's hand dropped to her side, her legs shaking as she nearly fell. "Sazven ses Klietos." forgive me, god. Pyra sighed and relaxed at her shoulders.

Blood dripped from her tear-stained face, every memory, and trauma still fresh in her mind; she looked at Silas. Eyes still burning amber. "Give me the painting," her voice hoarse.

Silas froze. His gaze ran past her to the dead demon on the floor—a dead person. Silas was a thief, sure, but everyone had their moral compass. Choking back his fear, he asked, "You… You're Carpathian?"

She grunted, the briefest flash of a smile. "I am no damned demon!" With her hand outstretched, she repeated her request.

"What the hell did you do!" 

She reminded him of the onyx stone still in her hand. "I can kill you too! Give me the damn painting already!"

Silas held his hands up, removing the strap around his shoulder. His eyes locked on the stone. A foreign, familiar threat. As if he'd seen it before. Pyra reached for the tube. 

Her voice was small as she whispered, "He deserved to die." 

Before Silas could say a word, he collapsed forward, her amber eyes burning bright.

His shoulders went numb first, followed by his arms as they trembled, desperate to keep him upright, his strength failing. A bitter taste of iron crawled its way up to his throat, dripping from the corners of his mouth. His lungs constricted as his vision swayed and turned black; he could barely breathe. Before his body could shut down completely, he witnessed a pale, silver light crawling along the rotted floor. The tendrils of light embraced her as Pyra stepped into it, disappearing into its shadows.