Weeping Phantom sat on the ground, legs crossed, one elbow propped on her knee, her chin resting in her palm. Her gaze was fixed on the battlefield ahead, where Winter had gone serious the moment they'd reached the portal. It was a small one—nothing catastrophic—but still spewing a respectable number of demons.
Winter moved like a storm through them, his porcelain-white spear tearing through the horde with practiced, merciless precision. His expression was unreadable, calm and composed in the chaos. Phantom wasn't bored, exactly—more apathetic. These demons didn't stand a chance, not against him. Still, her eyes occasionally flicked to their new, hopefully temporary companion.
Grace.
The so-called demon hunter was… impressive. More than she wanted to admit. She weaved between the demons like she'd danced this fight a hundred times, slipping past claws and fangs like she already knew what they were going to do. No weapon, just her fists and feet—but somehow, that made her more dangerous.
*She's definitely hiding her real strength,* Phantom thought, watching as Grace slammed her foot into a drakorath's chest hard enough to cave it in. Ribs shattered like glass beneath the blow.
*No way that's just martial arts.*
The fight barely lasted a minute. Then it was over.
Grace shook blood from her hands and turned to Winter, expression cool. "There. The demons are dead. Now show me how you close portals."
Winter yanked his spear from a corpse, gave it a flick to clean the blood, then slung it back over his shoulder. He reached for the axe across his back and approached the portal. One clean, effortless swing—and just like that, the swirling mass of demonic energy split and vanished, cut clean from reality.
"That's it?" Grace asked, arms folded. Her tone hovered between disbelief and annoyance. "You just swing an axe at it?"
She eyed the weapon. "I'm assuming it's enchanted or something. Not just for the aesthetic."
Winter turned, the weight of battle already sliding from his face. A familiar grin tugged at his lips. "Oh yeah, it's special alright. Magical weapon. Used to belong to someone very important," he said with a casual shrug. "Let's just say there's some history behind it."
Weeping Phantom finally stood, brushing dust from her clothes. "Good. You two are finally done. Can we move on now?" she muttered, shooting a glance at Grace. "And sorry this isn't something you can learn, demon hunter."
Grace barely spared her a glance. She was thinking—plotting. Her eyes returned to Winter. "So if you just swing that axe at any portal, it just closes? That's it? No incantation, no ritual?"
"Pretty much," Winter replied, glancing over his shoulder at the weapon. "It's supposed to do more, but I haven't exactly figured that part out yet."
He turned back toward her, smile easy again. "By the way, great work out there. You handled those demons like it was nothing. If the rest of the demon hunters are like you, Aetheria probably doesn't have much to worry about—even if you guys can't close the portals."
Grace gave a slow nod. "Thanks for the compliment," she said, walking up to him and extending her hand.
Winter shook it without hesitation, flashing that familiar grin.
Grace smirked.
"By the way," she said lightly as she marked him, "have you ever been kicked in the back of the head at the speed of light?"
Winter blinked. "Uh, what?"
Grace snapped the fingers of her left hand.
In an instant, her body shimmered with light as she blinked—vanished—from sight. She reappeared midair behind Winter, legs coiled back, her form aglow like a shooting star. Then she struck.
Her foot whipped forward, aimed squarely at the back of his head.
But Winter's instincts flared. At the very last moment, he raised his forearm and caught the kick with a grunt. The impact still launched him, his boots skidding across the ground before he was airborne, flipping through the air like a thrown spear.
Grace didn't wait. A beam of concentrated light burst from her hand, aimed straight at the axe strapped to his back.
Still spinning, Winter twisted midair. The beam cut past him, missing its mark by inches. He landed in a crouch, boots cracking the earth beneath him, but he didn't draw his weapons.
He just stared at her.
"What... are you doing right now?" he asked, not angry—just genuinely confused.
Weeping Phantom, while undeniably entertained by watching Winter get punted across a field, tilted her head with a frown. *What in the Michael's name is going on?*
Grace clicked her tongue. "Tch. So you did block it." Her glow faded as she drifted lightly to the ground. "Didn't even manage to grab the axe. What a pain."
She shook out her hand with a sigh. "Whatever. If that didn't work, nothing else I've got will."
Without another word, she turned around and raised her hand toward a distant rocky cliff. Another beam of light lanced from her palm, striking a loose rock.
"'Til we meet again... Chosen One," she said with a smirk, then snapped her fingers.
She blinked away—gone.
There was a long beat of silence.
"What just happened?" Weeping Phantom muttered, finally stepping forward.
Winter stood there, scratching the back of his head, blinking as if trying to make sense of it himself. "I don't know. I thought I left the weird cryptic 'Chosen One' stuff behind five hundred years ago."
He glanced down at his right hand—the one he used to block her kick. It trembled faintly. He clenched it into a tight fist, the shake stopping.
*That girl is really strong.*
Letting his arm fall back to his side, he exhaled. "We should get moving."
He turned without another word and started walking.
Weeping Phantom followed, but not before glancing back. Her eyes narrowed on the cliff Grace had blasted.
She couldn't see her—but Grace was there. Standing at the edge of the rock, half-shadowed, watching them walk away. Silent. Still.
Then, just as suddenly as she'd come into their lives, she turned and disappeared into the distance.
A chance encounter.
A strange encounter.
Brief. Abrupt.
It was over just as quickly as it began.