After four months of rigorous training, I can feel my skills have grown tremendously, and I honestly believe that today is the day I will finally achieve my certification! My friends and I are so dedicated to putting in the effort together as a team. The exam stretches over two weeks. Please send me your good vibes! Wish me luck!

12:02 AM, Exactly Four Months After

In a forest….

Gunfire snaps through the dense rainforest, warping space between rain and ruin.

I rise above it, breath steady, coat drenched, silver strands whipping against the wind. The black briefcase sits heavy in my grip, leather slick beneath my fingertips.

The hunters hesitate.

Not at the dragon.

Not at the battle.

At me.

What the spirits are saying.

"O Nymeira, O lost duchy, where are your towers now?"

"O princes drowned in moonlight, what did your blood buy?"

"The Demon of Calamity laughed, and the world unmade itself—what did the dying stars whisper in their last breath?"

A pulse of light flares beneath my skin.

Not magic. Not flame.

The birthmark.

It burns.

Something twists deep, tangled beneath ribs, heat rushing through veins, through thought, through memory.

"Bringer of destruction, ruler of the new world, patron of monsters on the other side—do you know their names, cursed one?"

My fingers tighten.

Not shaking. Not weak.

Just tensed, poised at the edge of something unspoken.

I inhale—too sharp, too fast, too wrong—and when I exhale, blood spills past my lips, staining the cuff of my sleeve, flecking the edge of the black briefcase.

Harper’s voice snaps through the comms, tension sharp beneath clipped control. "Vionelle—WHAT WAS THAT?"

I laugh—low, rolling, not my own, not quite right.

For one terrible moment, I feel entirely unfamiliar.

Not tired. Not strained.

But unhinged.

I tilt my head, silver strands catching the fractured glow of the moon, crimson eyes gleaming beneath the pulse of the Pisces mark.

My voice drops—velvet-soft, controlled, alien.

"Wouldn't you like to know, Harper?"

The atmosphere shifts, thickening, pressing inward—as if the world is holding its breath.

Then, it stops.

Just as fast.

I wipe my mouth, straighten my stance, let the briefcase settle against my side like an anchor, like a reminder.

Harper exhales too hard, too sharply, and Joan’s voice crackles through the comms. “Phase two locked. Where the hell are you?”

Patricia’s voice cuts in, accent rolling through clipped frustration. “Vionelle, ma chère, we are waiting. Do not make us come find you.”

Harper mutters something in Japanese—fast, annoyed, absolutely an insult.

Joan groans, voice dry. “You’re bleeding again. Seriously? Did you push too hard?”

I wipe my sleeve, flexing my fingers. "I’m fine."

"That’s what you said last time, and then we had to carry you out of a burning cathedral. So, forgive me if I don’t believe you."

Patricia exhales, switching to French, muttering under her breath. “Bon sang, tu es infernale… (Good grief, you are impossible…)” Then, louder, sharp enough to bite. “Vionelle, get in the car.”

Joan huffs, exasperated. "You know she’s going to make us wait."

Patricia scoffs. "You barely drive on the road without trying to kill us—how on earth will you drive through a forest?"

Joan laughs, unbothered. "I’d find a way."

Harper groans, switching languages with frustration. “この馬鹿 (This idiot…)”

Then, a pause, followed by chewing.

I narrow my eyes, gripping the briefcase tighter.

“What are you doing?”

Joan snorts. "Uh. Eating?"

Patricia hums in delight. "Mmm, this goat stew is incredible. Did you make this?"

I stare......

No.

No, no, no—

I flip the comms channel, hearing the muffled sounds of chewing, the rustle of containers—my containers.

Joan groans blissfully. "I don’t even like spinach, but this? Damn. I’m stealing this recipe."

Patricia sighs, deeply pleased. "Sadza, spinach, and goat stew? Vionelle, ma chère, you did not tell us you could cook."

I clench my jaw, my grip on the briefcase twitching slightly.

"That’s—THAT’S MY DINNER."

Harper chuckles. "We figured that out already."

A car door clicks open over the comms, followed by someone stepping inside. There is a faint scrape of wet boots against the floor.

Anastasia’s voice cuts through the comms, unimpressed. “Why didn’t you idiots leave me any?”

Joan snickers. "Oh, don’t look at me. Patricia ate your portion."

Patricia scoffs, switching fluidly to French. “Menteur! (Liar!)”

Harper sighs. "Vionelle. Get in the car before they start fighting about food."

Joan pauses, thoughtful. "You need anything else, V? Or should we finish your dinner?"

I mute the comms.

I twist my wrist.

The rapier obeys.

I shoot upward, weightless, slicing into the sky, the panther beside me—his silhouette threading through the golden streak of the dragon below.

Gunfire fades behind me.

Scrambling. Screaming.

Not just panic.

Not just fear.

But certainty.

I didn't look back.

The world stretched ahead, uncertain, endless, waiting.

And I am still fuming.

Thirty-eight minutes later…

Whoosh. The emerald-green Mini Cooper’s door swung open, and the scent of stolen dreams and culinary betrayal smacked me in the face.

Goat stew. Hot vegetables. Steaming sadza. My dinner. My joy. My reason for existing.

Or what was left of it.

Sticky fingers. Soup-smeared faces. An empty bowl.

I stood there, wind whipping through my silver hair, strands tangled from battle, a cut on my cheek dripping like an artist’s final brushstroke on a tragic masterpiece.

 This was worse than any wound.

I had fought, bled, endured the jaws of death, only to return to the ultimate betrayal—the destruction of my sacred meal.

Anastasia, Joan, and Patricia sat frozen; their hands coated in the remains of my soul.

And Harper? Harper, effortlessly composed, tapped her nails against an untouched glass of whisky—a quiet display of wealth, detached from the wreckage.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Watching, calculating, waiting for me to explode.

I touched the blood on my cheek, staring at my ruined bowl. Which pain was greater? The wound that dripped down my skin, or the wound these traitors had carved into my spirit.

A muscle in my jaw twitched. Thirty-eight minutes. That was all I had given them. Thirty-eight minutes, and they had devoured everything.

"Vi! Back already?" Anastasia grinned, licking sauce from her thumb—brazen, shameless, revelling in my misery.

"Tch, thought you'd stay longer. Maybe let the hunters keep you entertained."

Entertained? ENTERTAINED?!

I inhaled sharply. Deep. Controlled. The breath of a woman preparing to deliver the closing act of a tragedy.

"Entertained?" My voice dripped with betrayal, low and deliberate. "Anastasia. Joan. Patricia. My trusted companions, my so-called friends. Answer me this—what is entertainment, if not the sacred ritual of consuming a meal so profoundly exquisite it could mend even the most shattered soul?"

Joan choked back a laugh. "Vi, it’s just food—"

"JUST FOOD?" I recoiled, pressing a hand against my injured cheek as though the sheer audacity physically hurt me.

"Would you call the first sunrise just light? Would you call Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 just noise? Would you—" I jabbed a finger at the empty, violated bowl, "call THIS an act of friendship?"

Harper sighed, tapping the glass. "You didn’t put your name on it."

"I believed the people around me had basic human decency."

Anastasia laughed outright, shaking her head. "Pff. Decency? We left you some." She gestured vaguely at a lonely spoon balancing on the edge of the bowl, the last pathetic smear of sauce clinging to it.

Silence.

A slow, deliberate blink.

"Oh wow. A spoonful of sauce. Thank you, Anastasia. Truly, I must say—I have never known generosity so profound."

Patricia tilted her head, feigning innocence. "It was délicieux, Vi. You should be proud."

"Proud?" I whispered, clutching the spoon like it was the final relic of a lost civilisation.

"I would be," I growled, lifting the spoon as though it weighed the burden of my entire existence, "if I had gotten to taste it."

"It really was good," Harper murmured, swirling the whisky in her untouched glass.

"Wouldn’t know," I muttered bitterly.

"You think if she goes back now, Orbit will share his dinner?" Anastasia nudged Patricia, smirking.

Patricia scoffed. "Vi? Starve before she does anything fun."

"Or she’s already considering it," Joan teased, elbowing me lightly.

Then Harper’s phone rang.

The shrill tone cut through my suffering like the final note of a requiem, echoing in a cathedral of grief.

Harper barely reacted, her expression unchanged as she lifted the phone, glancing at the screen.

Anastasia smirked. "Oooh, mysterious. Who is it? Business? A lover?"

Harper clicked her tongue in mild irritation. "None of your concern."

"A secret, then?" Joan grinned, leaning in.

Harper exhaled slowly, then answered, her voice flat, controlled, sharp as a blade.

"Speak."

We all blinked.

Patricia muttered under her breath. "Mon dieu, she answers calls like she’s running a secret agency."

Anastasia elbowed Joan. "I'm telling you—she’s secretly rich and powerful. This is probably a call about her stock portfolio."

Harper gave them both a look but said nothing, continuing the conversation with whoever was on the other end.

I glared at my empty, ruined bowl, sighing the sigh of a queen mourning her lost empire.

"You’re all lucky I’m forgiving."

"Are you?" Patricia challenged, wiping her hands.

I scoffed. "No. But I am hungry."

Harper hung up her call, exhaled, and started the engine. "Let’s go before she starts drafting a formal complaint to the universe."

As the car moved ahead, the conversation took a turn, with laughter easing the earlier tension. My anger dulled into a reluctant acceptance, but a wave of dizziness crashed over me. A sharp, throbbing headache pounded incessantly in my temples, each beat feeling like a hammer striking my skull. I could feel Patricia's worried gaze as she glanced my way, the deepening lines of concern etched into her face. "You should get some sleep; you don't look well," she said softly, her tone laced with worry. I felt as pale as a ghost, on the edge of collapse, as if I were teetering at the brink of a dark abyss.

Taking her advice to heart, I surrendered to the fatigue that enveloped me. My senses began to flicker, my surroundings melting into a gentle blur. A wave of cool energy surrounded me like a comforting cocoon, easing the ache within. The familiar hum of the car’s engine faded into the background, giving way to an inviting stillness. Joan, ever watchful, carefully draped a soft blanket over me, her eyes darting between my sleepy form and the GPS as she guided our path. As sleep's weight tugged at me, I felt myself on the brink of slipping into a dream—one that seemed distant yet warmly inviting.

As she closed her eyes, the distant hum of the city faded, replaced by the whisper of forgotten memories pulling her into the dream...