The storm hadn't passed.
Rain still came down in sheets—thick, cold, merciless. It battered the world with the fury of some ancient god, drenching the forest until everything stank of wet bark and rotting leaves.
Thunder cracked now and then, a jagged reminder that the sky was just as hostile as the earth.
Inside the hollowed-out trunk of a colossal dead tree, Samuel stirred at last.
His limbs ached. His bones felt heavier than usual.
Blinking away the fog in his head, he crawled closer to the tree's opening. A gust of rain-laced wind kissed his skin, cold enough to make him flinch.
Outside, visibility was poor—just a haze of gray and green, wind bending the trees like dancers caught mid-collapse.
But then he saw them.
The pink fruits.
Dozens of them, swaying in the storm, clinging stubbornly to the soaked branches like drops of color in a world gone mad.
He squinted. "Lyra… can we eat those?"
She didn't move. Just answered, her voice low and dull from where she sat curled, arms around her knees.
"Yes."
No warning. No "might be poison." That was as close to a green light as he was going to get.
Samuel sighed, then stepped into the rain.
It was like walking into a waterfall. Each drop hit like a slap, his clothes soaked through in seconds. The mud clung to his boots, sucking at his feet with every step. His fingers trembled as he reached up and plucked one of the fruits. Then another. Then another. They were soft, heavier than they looked. Faintly warm to the touch.
He managed to gather about ten before his arm muscles screamed at him to stop.
Then—
BOOM.
A deep, hollow thunder—no, not thunder.
His head snapped toward the sound.
Somewhere to the east, beyond the twisted tree line, the air flashed white. Then red. Then white again. Flashes. Like lightning, but wrong. Rhythmic. Controlled.
Explosions.
Combat.
Someone was fighting.
Samuel ducked low, heart hammering in his chest.
He held still, listening. The storm helped mask any movement, but he could feel it now—something massive was tearing through the forest.
A predator. The kind that didn't walk. The kind that soared.
Then, through the curtain of rain, he saw it.
A winged abomination rose into the sky.
Its wingspan was colossal, blotting out the clouds as it ascended. Golden-yellow skin shimmered faintly in the lightning—sleek and alien, too smooth for a natural beast.
Its head turned slowly, as if searching for something. Its eyes glowed a dim, hateful orange. The thing hovered for a second, then let out a guttural shriek that made Samuel's blood freeze.
He dove back into the tree without a sound.
His breath came in short, shallow gasps.
Rainwater dripped down his forehead, mixing with the cold sweat that had already begun to gather.
No mistaking it.
Rank 2.
It wasn't just stronger. It wasn't just smarter.
It wasn't supposed to be here.
He pressed his back to the wooden wall, feeling the pulse in his throat beat like war drums. Every instinct in his body screamed to run, to vanish, to disappear.
But he didn't move.
He couldn't.
Because he knew—it would see him.
His hands were still wet. Not from the rain, but from the cold sweat that hadn't stopped since that winged nightmare rose into the stormy sky. He kept glancing toward the tree's opening, half-expecting to see glowing orange eyes peering back at him.
He swallowed and turned toward Lyra, who had been watching him from the shadows.
"…It wasn't just big," he said at last, his voice low. "It was flying. Yellow. Fast. Strong enough to level trees if it wanted to."
Lyra's expression didn't change much—but he saw her shoulders stiffen. A subtle tightening at the jaw. Her burnt skin looked even paler in the stormlight.
She didn't blink. "There are two possibilities," she said slowly. "Either it's fighting other abyssal monsters… or it's fighting disciples."
Samuel exhaled, long and shaky. "That's what I thought."
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The wind howled through the branches outside, as if Pendora itself was whispering warnings neither of them wanted to hear.
Then Lyra's face hardened. Her eyes glinted with something grim and resolute.
"We need to check that area tomorrow."
Samuel flinched like she'd slapped him.
"Are you insane?" he snapped. "That thing could still be there! Just circling above like a bloody vulture!"
Lyra didn't flinch.
"If there are survivors," she said evenly, "they might know a way out. Or have supplies. Allies increase survival rates. You know that."
Samuel grimaced.
She was right. He hated that she was right. Even more, he hated that he was actually considering walking back toward that thing. But deep down, some part of him knew the truth—this forest trial wasn't something he could conquer alone.
Not with that cathedral still missing.
Not with days ticking by like a fuse on a bomb.
He needed more than luck. He needed numbers. Information. Tools. Even if it meant dragging himself through danger to get it.
"…Fine," he muttered.
Lyra rolled her eyes, but didn't argue.
Then she surprised him with a question. Her voice was casual, too casual—like a knife slipped beneath the ribs without warning.
"That time. When you led the beast to us—me and that girl—you knew its weakness, didn't you?"
Samuel blinked. "What?"
Lyra leaned against the tree trunk, arms crossed, one brow raised.
"You didn't just run. You brought it. Deliberately"
Samuel looked away.
The bark behind him suddenly seemed very interesting.
"I… had a guess," he said, carefully.
"Not a sure thing. When I first saw it, it ate a Rank 1 beast. Big one. But after that, it didn't go straight for me. Just hovered. Watched. Like it was… full. Waiting."
Lyra nodded slowly.
A silence settled between them again.
Samuel knew she would never trust him again.
Not after what he did. Not after that moment—burned into memory—when he threw the girl toward the beast without flinching.
A distraction. A sacrifice. A choice.
He hadn't explained himself. Hadn't tried to justify it. Because deep down, he wasn't sorry.
And Lyra? She had seen it all. Her silence afterward had said enough.
But that was fine. Trust wasn't necessary. Survival didn't demand loyalty—it demanded usefulness. And if there was one thing Samuel had learned, it was how to make himself useful.
He sat under the shelter of the hollowed-out tree, rain still whispering down around them like the gods were murmuring secrets to the soil. In his hand were the pink fruits he'd picked earlier, still wet and glistening with stormwater.
He tossed a few toward Lyra.
"Let's eat."
She caught them midair, casually. Sat down across from him with the same grace she used to sidestep death.
He didn't eat.
She noticed, of course.
"You're too cautious," she said with a sigh, peeling one of the fruits and taking a bite.
"Maybe."
He waited five minutes. Watching. Listening.
No convulsions. No sudden foaming at the mouth. No transformation into a fungal abomination with sixteen limbs and a hatred for logic.
Only then did he eat.
The fruit was soft, the taste strange—like honey and rust. Sweetness soaked in old blood.
They chewed in silence, the flickering light from outside casting long shadows on the bark walls.
Rain drummed against the ancient trunk like a war song from distant gods. Outside, thunder cracked the sky wide open—again and again, as if Pendora itself were grinding its teeth.
Samuel stared at Lyra for a while, the firelight flickering across her tired features.
Finally, he spoke.
"…Let's introduce ourselves."
She turned to him, one brow raised.
He continued, his voice quiet but firm.
"We might not trust each other. But if we know what we're capable of… we have a better chance of surviving."
A pause.
Then she nodded, slowly.
Samuel exhaled, leaning slightly toward the fire, letting its light warm more than just his skin.
"My full name is Samuel Zevrin Morvain," he said, the name tasting strange on his tongue. Old. Heavy. Like something buried that had finally been unearthed.
"I was… a prodigy in ancient languages. And Runic scripts. That's why the Temple captured me."
His eyes darkened as he spoke the last word.
The fire popped.
Outside, the storm raged like a beast in chains.
Lyra's eyes narrowed slightly, voice low but sharp.
"You said your last name is Morvain," Lyra's voice dropped low, her gaze piercing the flickering flames between them.
"That means you're from the Morvain clan of the Central Continent, right?"
Samuel nodded silently, eyes fixed on the fire's restless dance.
Lyra's gaze sharpened, her voice slicing through the quiet like a blade.
"But everyone in the Morvain clan bears the Nyxveil—those piercing blue eyes, the divine blessing of the Night Goddess herself. It's a mark that brings fear and reverence alike.
So… why do you have black eyes?"
Samuel choked down the fruit quickly, gulping water to wash away the sudden dryness in his throat.
Dumbfounded, he managed to croak out,
"What… Nyxveil? Blue eyes? What are you talking about?"
Lyra didn't answer immediately. Then she sighed, as if explaining something that should have been obvious.
"Morvain," she said simply. "Your last name."
He stiffened.
"The Morvain clan is one of the strongest bloodlines on the central continent. Even the Night Goddess's Church bows their head in respect — or fear."
Samuel stayed quiet, listening. The flames crackled louder now, like they too were leaning in.
Lyra's voice lowered, reverent and cold.
"They say the Morvains carry the Nyxveil— blue eyes that shimmer like moonlit water… but aren't just for show. Those eyes can bend a person's mind. Force illusions so vivid they feel real. Make you see your worst fears, your deepest regrets, your own death."
She paused, then added,
"The legends say no one's ever pushed a Morvain far enough to see what that bloodlinetrulylooks like at its peak. Because those who try… don't come back."
Her gaze sharpened, locking with his.
"But you," she said softly, "have black eyes."
Samuel looked away, jaw tight.
He didn't answer.
Lyra leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing.
"You could be a distant branch member," she mused aloud, her tone unreadable.
"One who failed to awaken the Nyxveil… cast out, maybe. Or—"
She tilted her head.
"—you're just messing with me."
Samuel stared into the fire, saying nothing.
He didn't confirm. Didn't deny.
She watched him for another moment, as if weighing something.
Then finally, she sighed and leaned forward, letting her fingers hover above the firelight like she was drawing warmth from the embers of a memory.
"Alright," she said quietly. "My name is Lyra Slyvia."
The name hung in the air, soft as falling leaves… and just as sharp.
"I'm from the Eastern Continent."
Her voice was steady, but something behind it flickered — a buried ache, a shadow too old for her young face.
"I wasn't supposed to be here," she continued. "But… for reasons I don't feel like explaining, I crossed into the Central Continent."
She plucked a stray twig from her damp robe, letting it fall into the fire. The flames hissed, devouring it like a secret.
"As you probably guessed, I have a high affinity with nature. Plants, beasts… things that breathe without speaking."
Her eyes glinted. "The Temple noticed that too."
Samuel felt his jaw tighten.
Captured. Like him.
Taken because they were different.
Used because they were useful.
***