Morning was colorless and cold. Mist drowned the fields, chimneys smudged against a blank sky. Frost veined the garden rows, but Reith worked anyway, humming softly through the chill.

“…Nahida?”

Her hands froze over a wilted sprout. She lifted her head.

A village boy appeared with a dust-cloaked stranger at his side, dark hair damp with frost and eyes too hungry to look away.

‘Reith, he was looking for someone beautiful, so I brought him!’ the boy chirped before darting off.

The man stumbled forward, satchel slipping into the mud, his hand trembling as it reached toward her.

‘It’s you,’ he breathed. ‘It’s really you.

Reith knew his name before he spoke another word. She had felt it in the way this body’s heart stumbled at his voice. Ciel. Nahida’s brother.

Her lips parted, but no words came.

The door behind her swung open. Soran stepped onto the porch, ember eyes steady. He froze at the sight of the stranger, recognition flickering; Ciel Valdy, his old friend and advisor, had vanished years ago without a word.

Ciel flinched at Soran’s gaze, confusion cutting into hope. “Who are you?”

“Her husband,” Soran said evenly.

Ciel’s head snapped back to Reith, as if yanked by a wire. “Nahida… You’re married? To a wanderer from the road you scarcely know? How could you trust him?”

Reith’s throat closed. The truth pressed hard against her teeth, but she couldn’t force it out.

“I…”

Her hesitation tore him open. He caught her shoulders, not roughly but with desperate urgency. “You’d rather trust a stranger than your own brother, Nahi…?”

Reith’s fingers shook. The garden blurred, frost and sky dissolving at the edges.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

Ciel’s grip slackened. His face crumpled, hope collapsing into something quieter and sharper: grief.

“No matter what you say, you’re my sister. And I’m not leaving you.” His voice wavered, trying for anger but breaking into something like prayer. “If you’re staying here, then so am I.”

He turned to Soran, raking a hand through his hair, laughter thin and sharp. “I don’t care who you are. If you’re married to my sister, then you’ll have to deal with me.”

He lifted his satchel and strode into the house.

Reith’s knees gave out, hitting the dirt before she realized. She buried her face in her palms, choking on the ache in her chest.

Soran crouched beside her, wrapping her into his arms. “Breathe, Reith,” he murmured. She clung to him, drawing steady on his warmth.

“Come,” he whispered. He guided her to a secluded glade where a small waterfall spilled into a pool, flowers bowing at its edge. They sat together in silence until the storm inside her ebbed.

Back at the house, Ciel looked around the cramped space—a single bed, a fireplace, a rough table, and a fat cat glaring at him from the hearth. So this is her life now… so small.

Later, by the waterfall, Reith rested her head against Soran’s shoulder, their fingers intertwined.

“Tell me… who are you really, Reith?” His voice was calm, as though he’d known the answer for a long time.

Her eyes widened. “When did you find out?”

He looked down at the water. “Since Stillwood. That place devours mana; everyone knows it. But you used magic there as if nothing was wrong. That’s when I knew.”

“But you used magic too!” she shot back.

He sighed. “I was born different. In the Celestine Basilica, my father was a priest. Blessed or cursed, my mana isn’t touched by such places.”

“Oh.” She gazed up at the sky, words spilling like confession. “My name is Reith Resonance. In my world, mana, magic, all of this exists only in fantasy. We had technology, money, power. I had none. I worked myself into exhaustion, died alone in a small apartment… and my soul was dragged here, into this body. I’m tired of carrying burdens, yet this body demands I bear even greater ones.”

Soran tightened his grip on her hand. “You’ve carried enough. Real or not, you’re my wife. And I won’t let you go.”

Behind a tree, unseen, Ciel listened. His chest hollowed as her words struck him—the truth that this was not his sister. Without a word, he turned away, each step heavier than the last.

“Nahida…” he whispered to himself, voice breaking.

Reith lifted her eyes to Soran. “Tell me about yourself, then.”

He was quiet for a long time before speaking. ‘My father died when I was born. My mother soon after. The Basilica raised me as a tool, then cast me out. Since then, I’ve only been running.

Reith stared at him. “So… we’re both refugees.”

“Let them believe you’re Nahida,” he said quietly. “Let them believe what they want. The truth is ours alone.” His eyes softened, his voice steady. “The High Council would hunt me if they knew where I was. But now, I have you. My wife.”

Her breath caught. “You mean—”

“I mean I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you. To stay alive for us.”

The house was too small to hold three hearts at war.

Every meal turned into a ritual of silence. Reith ladled stew into bowls, her hands careful, her smile tentative. Soran ate without complaint. Ciel only stared at the steam curling upward, lips pressed thin. Sometimes he lifted the spoon, sometimes not. More often, the food cooled untouched in front of him.

“Ciel,” Reith murmured one evening, sliding a bowl toward him, “you’ll get sick if you keep—”

“I’m fine,” he cut her off, voice flat. He pushed the bowl back, chair scraping as he stood and turned toward the door.

The hurt in her eyes followed him out into the night.

Soran found him later, standing by the edge of the garden, frost clinging to his cloak. The ember-eyed man folded his arms, watching.

“You can’t keep starving yourself.”

Ciel didn’t turn. “Why do you care?”

“Because she cares.”

That struck deeper than Ciel wanted to admit. His hand tightened at his side. “She isn’t Nahida.”

“No,” Soran said softly, but with iron in his tone. “She isn’t. But she’s here. And she’s breaking herself in half to try and reach you, while you sit drowning in what’s gone.”

Ciel spun, eyes burning. “You think grief can be set aside? You think I can look at her—hear her voice—and not remember the sister I raised? The sister who trusted me? She’s gone, and some stranger is wearing her face. And you expect me to eat stew and smile like it doesn’t matter?”

The words rang sharp in the cold air.

From the doorway, unnoticed, Reith stood frozen. The tray in her hands trembled, bowls rattling. His words slammed into her chest, each one a stone. A stranger wearing her face.

Her breath broke. Without thinking, she set the tray down and fled, boots crunching through frost as she ran into the night.

The temple loomed in the mist like a grave carved into the sky. Its spire disappeared into low clouds, its doors stood tall and unyielding, carved with saints whose faces had been worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. Reith stumbled against those doors, her palms pressed to the cold stone, her nails clawing into grooves cut by hands long dead.

Her chest heaved as if the air itself resisted her. Each breath scraped her throat raw. The world swam with tears until even the holy reliefs melted into shifting shadows.

I do not belong here. Not in this world. Not in her body. Nowhere.

“Praying already?”

The words did not echo. They slid into the chamber like a knife slipped between ribs.

She turned sharply, body flinching, her back pressed against the carved saints.

A figure ascended the steps, his shape rising out of the fog as though the mist had given birth to him. His hair was the color of spilled blood, cropped short, and his eyes glowed green, sharp and polished like gems pulled from fire. His smile was narrow, composed, as if carved there by design.

“How unlike you, Nahida,” he said. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but carried a weight that made the stone walls seem to lean closer. “To kneel before gods you never trusted.”

Her throat ached. She forced words out. “…You have the wrong person.”

“Oh no.” His smile curved faintly, as if amused by her defiance. “I have exactly the right one.”

He raised his hand. Crimson light spilled from his palm and crawled across the temple doors, veins of fire spreading outward, sinking deep into the floor. The glow slithered out through the cracks, crawling into the earth, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Reith’s breath hitched. “What did you do?”

“Insurance.” His tone was casual, a man explaining a rule at a game. “There is a circle beneath every home in this quaint village. One careless spark of mana, and they will vanish. Every mother, every child, turned to ash. Only this temple remains untouched.” His eyes gleamed. “So please, be gentle.”

The air grew heavy, pressing against her chest, choking her lungs.

Then he struck.

The floor cracked beneath his fist, stone splintering with the force of his blow. Fragments sliced her cheek. She stumbled back, hands flying up. Golden mana burst from her palms, a trembling shield conjured in panic.

His next blow shattered it like glass. The force hurled her across the chamber. Pain bloomed through her chest; her ribs screamed as something gave way. A cough tore through her, blood spilling from her lips, hot and bitter. It struck the floor in a bright red arc.

Rook’s eyes glittered. “Not blue. Gold. Brighter. Rarer. Exquisite.”

Reith tried to rise, arms shaking as though they no longer belonged to her. “I told you… I am not—”

The third strike fell.

Her arm snapped. The crack rang like a bell struck in the silence. The scream ripped out of her throat raw and jagged, her body collapsing back to the floor. Golden sparks sputtered weakly around her, fading into nothing like embers lost in the wind.

He bent, seized her by the hair, and yanked her upright. Blood streamed down her temple where strands tore free. Her body sagged in his grip, her feet dragging limply across the stone.

“So fragile,” he murmured, eyes tracing her face with clinical fascination. “Yet so beautiful. I wonder how many pieces you will break into before the vessel ceases to shine.”

Her lips parted. A breath escaped, thin and broken. Blood dripped in slow rhythm, each drop striking the glowing veins beneath her feet. The floor pulsed brighter with every fall, as if drinking sacrifice.

Far away, frost clung to the fields of Merrow’s Rest. The night was silent until Soran staggered mid-step. His body froze as if pierced. His breath caught, his veins burning. The thread that bound him to her pulsed with violent agony. His chest seized with the echo of her suffering. He could feel it as surely as fire feels fuel.

His wife. The woman who pressed trembling hands into his, who whispered his name in the dark, who trusted him with the weight of her fragile heart. She was in pain. She was bleeding.

“Reith.” His jaw tightened until pain shot through his skull. His ember eyes flared, molten heat burning in his gaze. Rage surged through him like a wildfire set loose. He broke into a run, his feet pounding the frozen ground, the world around him blurring.

Beside him, Ciel faltered, almost falling to his knees. His chest convulsed under the weight of it. The pain carved through him, sharp and merciless, as though her injuries had torn his flesh as well. His vision blurred, eyes spilling tears he could not stop. The body he had once carried in his arms as a child, the sister he had sworn to protect, was being desecrated.

The breath caught in his lungs broke into a cry. “Nahida!”

The sound ripped the air apart, jagged, filled with grief and rage entwined.

He ran, boots hammering the frost, one hand pressed hard against the ache in his chest. The village flashed by in streaks of shadow and silver light. Ahead, the temple loomed, black against the mist, already reeking of blood in his imagination.

The closer they came, the worse it grew. Soran’s chest seared with fire clawing to escape, begging to consume. Every step drove him harder, rage tearing away reason. Ciel’s mana flared, blue fire sparking at the edges of his control. His heart screamed her name.

The crimson seal shattered as they forced the doors open.

And they saw her.

Reith hung in Rook’s fist. Her hair twisted tight in his grip, her swollen eye closed, her lips split and red. Her body sagged, breath shallow, her blood running in dark streams down her dress, dripping onto the pulsing sigils.

Rook turned. His smile glimmered in the flickering light, his green eyes glowing with cruel amusement. “Ah. The husband. The grieving brother. Just in time.”

The sight hollowed them both.

Soran’s aura erupted. Flames surged up his arms, the air twisting in the heat. His eyes glowed molten, fixed only on her. Everything else vanished.

Ciel’s grief exploded outward. Blue mana snapped through the air, cracks of lightning leaping across the stone. His body shook with fury, his teeth clenched, his heart tearing itself apart.

The temple groaned, its ancient stones fracturing beneath the pressure of their rage.

Rook chuckled softly, tapping his boot on the floor. The crimson veins pulsed, crawling brighter. “Careful. One uncontrolled strike and your sweet village burns. Every home. Every life. All by your hands.”

Soran’s voice was raw, low, stripped of humanity. “Put her down.”

“Put her down?” Rook twisted his grip. Reith cried out, a sound so faint it was almost silence. Fresh blood ran down her cheek. “But she is perfect like this. So fragile, so close to breaking. One turn and she is gone forever. Tell me, husband, what will you do?”

Soran’s flames surged, stone blackening under his feet.

Rook turned his gaze on Ciel, green eyes flashing. “And you, brother. Always watching. Always failing. How many times must you see her broken before you understand she was never yours to save?”

Ciel’s voice shook, his blade not yet formed but his rage cutting sharper than steel. “If you hurt her again, I will cut you down.”

Rook laughed. “But will you? Will you burn the world to keep her? Or will you love her forgiveness more than her life?”

The temple held its breath.

The crimson veins pulsed like a heart beneath their feet.

Reith moaned faintly, the sound weak, broken, but alive. That was enough to break them.

Soran moved first. His forged blade hissed as it left the sheath, fire rushing along its edge. The chamber glowed molten as embers spun around him, a storm of sparks fed by fury.

Ciel lifted his hands. Blue mana spiraled violently, collapsing into steel. A sword of grief and oath formed in his grip, thrumming with sorrow, heavy with memory. He raised it, his eyes blazing with blue fire.

Two men. Two blades.

Both leveled at Rook.

The crimson-haired man’s smile widened. Blood from Reith’s scalp streaked down his wrist as he held her higher. His green eyes gleamed with delight. “Good. At last, the wolves bare their fangs.”

Soran’s stance lowered, his voice heavy and molten. “I will save her, even if I must walk through ashes.”

Ciel’s blade flared brighter, the grief inside him sharpened into something lethal. “I will carry the weight of the world itself if it means she lives. I will not lose her again.”

The floor split beneath their feet as they advanced.

The storm had arrived.