Ana wiped her blade on her thigh, leaving a dark smear across the worn leather. Her muscles trembled with spent adrenaline as she surveyed the carnage. Five demon corpses. Three dead villagers. Not her worst ratio.

A blur of faces pressed in on her, eyes wide with shock, voices rising in an eager roar. "Thank you!", "You saved us!", "A miracle!" Their words swirled around her like choking smoke. She stepped backward, her palms still slick with blood and sweat, the copper tang of it thick in her nostrils.

The villagers closed ranks, slapping her on the back, patting her shoulders. Each touch made her flinch, though she fought to hide it. Her hand stayed near her dagger.

"Didn't think we'd make it, not for a single second," a man said, grinning at her with a mouth missing three teeth. "A true miracle!"

Ana's gaze drifted to where a woman cradled a child's body at the edge of the square. No miracle there.

The village bore its scars—blackened beams, smoke-stained stones—but the faces turned to her held something more potent than relief. She knew that look: hope teetering on the edge of inevitable disappointment. Her jaw tightened as she stared at the scorched cobbles glowing in the flicker of dying fires. They believed she'd kept them safe. But safety was a lie she'd stopped believing in long ago.

The crowd’s fervent whirl grew louder, an ocean of thanks that threatened to drag her under. Her mind buzzed with the urgent need to escape. None of them understood what it meant to be marked, to know the eyes hunting you. Her hands shook, with the remnants of the battle's blood and sweat still sticking to her skin. She let them drop to her sides, a silent plea to dismiss more than just the grime. “I didn’t do it for you,” she wanted to say, but the words died on her lips.

“Ana!” Caden’s voice cut through the tumult, and suddenly he was before her, earnest and unflinching. The intensity in his gaze struck her like a blow.

Before she could speak, he blurted out, “I want to be strong like you.” His tone was raw, a frantic mix of fear and admiration that threatened to break her resolve.

Ana recoiled as if burned. She hadn’t expected such boldness so soon after the terror. “You almost died—more than once,” she shot back, folding her arms as though to shield herself from his pleading eyes.

Caden stood firm, desperation etched on his youthful face. “I refuse to stay helpless,” he insisted, voice quivering but steady. “Please. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

She fought the urge to turn away, to flee from his sincerity as she had from the villagers’ suffocating praise. His words stirred something long buried—a memory of her own fledgling hope, of stubborn fire that had driven her through the darkest times. But that same hope had cost her everything.

“You saw what it demands,” she said harshly, hiding the crack in her voice. “This isn’t a game, boy.”

He didn’t look away. “I know. But I have to try. I can’t go on like this.”

Ana’s chest tightened, torn between the need to protect him and the bitter knowledge of the price of protection. “Don’t be a fool,” she murmured, the words brittle as dry wood.

Unmoved, Caden nodded as if that warning was all the encouragement he needed. Around them, the villagers’ cheers mingled with the low hiss of dying flames.

Ana took a step back, leaving Caden’s unwavering stance and the clamoring crowd behind. Her heart felt like a battlefield of conflicting instincts—protect him, or push him away. As she slipped into the shadows, her hands still trembled—not with fear or exhaustion, but with the grim understanding that no matter how many times she tried, she could not escape the path she had chosen.

Heavy rain pelted the walls of the cramped chamber, an unending drumbeat echoing Ana’s restless thoughts. She huddled over a chipped jug of sour ale, the sputtering candlelight carving harsh lines across her face. In the shifting gloom, the flickering shadows were her only company as she read Caden’s half-pleading words again and again, each repetition driving a deeper twist of pain through her chest.

Her hand trembled so violently she had to brush it on her salt-stained cloak. Another swig of bitter ale did little to quench the fire of doubt burning inside her. The damp scrap of parchment lay on the rough table, its edges curled and soft from the storm: “I’ll do anything. Please.” Those simple words gnawed at her resolve, refusing to be drowned out by rain or ale.

With a sudden jerk, Ana slammed the jug down, the crash louder than the storm outside—a fleeting comfort against the roar of uncertainty in her mind. Her soaked cloak hung off one shoulder, dripping from her frantic flight through the night. She hadn’t bothered to dry it—or herself—her thoughts consuming every other sensation.

Teeth grinding, she paced the tiny room, each step echoing the tempest within. Memories she’d fought to bury surfaced unbidden: the night Valar reduced her world to ashes, the blood, the betrayal. Could she really drag Caden into that hell? The earnestness in his eyes made her skin crawl—and her heart ache.

She forced another swallow of ale, the liquid burning a bitter path down her throat, mingling past regrets with present dread. A silent curse slipped from her lips. “I won’t let you follow me into that ruin,” she muttered, voice brittle with fear. The rain battered the walls, as if mocking her trapped state.

Abruptly she halted before the rain-streaked window. Beyond the glass, the world was a blur of gray and water, much like the turmoil inside her. Could she bear the cost of another loss? Her breath came fast and shallow; resolve slipped through her fingers like raindrops.

At last, she sank into the wooden chair, exhaustion and inevitability settling over her like a shroud. Caden’s face haunted her still, stubborn hope shining through. She hated that it gave her hope, too.

With a resigned sigh, she reached for a faded sheet of rules—scrawled long ago in a different life. The ink was blurred, the words brittle, but they would have to suffice. Gently, she set them beside Caden’s plea, then picked up her quill.

Her handwriting was brisk, almost curt:

“It’s not a game. Be ready to prove it, kid.”

Gathering her worn gear, Ana stepped into the rain. Its chill bit through her cloak, sharpening her senses. Caden would learn harsh lessons—but first, they both would have to fight.