The village came into view just as the last light of the sun bled out behind the mountains. Warm lanterns lit the narrow streets, casting flickers of orange and gold across the cobblestone. Compared to the forest, it felt like another world—peaceful. Too peaceful. The kind of peace that didn't know what lurked beyond the trees.
They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing off stone. Every step grew heavier for Vergil, but he never asked for help.
He didn't need to.
Eleanor stayed beside him the whole time—arms crossed, eyes sharp, watching everything.
The innkeeper gave them a concerned glance as they entered but said nothing. Just handed over a key and nodded them upstairs.
The door clicked open, releasing the scent of clean linen and old wood. A simple room. Two beds. A small table. A basin in the corner.
Vergil didn't make it to the bed on his own.
Eleanor caught him by the arm, steadying him with surprising gentleness. She helped ease him down onto the mattress.
"Lie still," she said, already pulling the blanket aside.
"I'm fine," he muttered through clenched teeth.
"You're not."
He didn't argue.
The moment his back hit the mattress, everything caught up to him. The ache. The exhaustion. The slow-burning fury curling behind his ribs. His jaw locked tight. He hated feeling this weak.
Eleanor stood, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "We need food. And bandages. Maybe a potion, if there's a decent one left in the shop."
Vergil reached into his inventory and pulled out a pouch of coin, handing it to her.
"Use this. Get something hot—meat, bread. Stew if they've got it. And check for binding cloth. Even a cheap elixir'll do."
She raised a brow. "You're actually letting me shop for once?"
"I'm not dying over a bruised ego."
A faint smile tugged at her lips—barely there, but real. She took the pouch. "Alright. Don't move. Don't do anything stupid. I'll be back in ten."
"Make it five."
"You're in no position to argue."
He didn't respond.
The door shut behind her with a soft thud.
Silence settled in.
Vergil stared at the ceiling, muscles aching, pain needling his spine—but his mind refused to rest.
That monster hadn't just attacked.
It had sent a message.
And Vergil?
He planned to send one back.
-------
The wooden door of the inn groaned as she pushed it open.
Warmth greeted her—dim lanternlight, muffled laughter from the far corner, the faint clinking of mugs—but none of it touched her.
Her eyes swept the room once, calculating, before she turned and headed up the creaking stairs. The innkeeper gave her a glance as she passed, but didn't say anything. She preferred it that way.
Their room was small. Cracked wooden walls, a single bed with thin sheets, and the faint scent of mold that clung to old timber. She shut the door behind her with a soft click.
Vergil was still lying where she'd left him—half on his side, propped up by a pillow he refused to admit he needed. His shirt was blood-stained, dried to his back in ugly patches. His face was pale, but his eyes were still sharp—watching her as she entered.
"Food," she said flatly, setting the bowl and bread down on the rickety table. "Bandages, too."
"Thanks," he muttered, voice low.
She didn't respond. Instead, she walked to him, dropping the bundle of cloth onto the bed before kneeling beside him. Her fingers were cold against his skin as she peeled the ruined shirt away. He winced, but didn't complain.
"You shouldn't have tanked that hit," she said.
"I didn't exactly have a choice."
"There's always a choice."
Her tone was sharper than she meant it to be, but she didn't apologize.
She began wrapping the bandages with clinical precision. No wasted motion. No softness.
Eleanor wasn't a healer. She didn't pretend to be. But she knew how to stop a man from dying. That was enough.
As she worked, her mind drifted. Not to pity or concern—but to calculation.
He was reckless. Ambitious. He fought with a fire that didn't match his current strength.
And yet… he lived.
She tied the final knot, pressing the wrap down with a firm hand. "That'll hold."
Vergil exhaled, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.
She didn't move away immediately. Instead, she stayed beside the bed, staring down at him.
"You're going back there, aren't you?" she asked quietly.
He didn't deny it.
Eleanor's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then you better not die next time. I'm not dragging your corpse back."
It wasn't kindness. It was practicality.
But a part of her—small, buried deep—felt the faintest flicker of something else.
Not sympathy.
Not worry.
Just... interest.
She stood, turned toward the table, and broke the bread in half, tossing one piece toward him.
"Eat. Heal. If you're going to be reckless, at least do it standing."
She sat in the chair, her back to the door, eyes scanning the wall like it might offer answers she didn't have yet.
Something in the forest had shaken even her. And that alone made it dangerous.
She would stay—for now.
Not for him—but for the unknown.
For the monster that watched from the trees.
Because deep down, Eleanor hated not knowing.
And if they were walking into hell again—
She'd rather be the one who dragged them out.
The bread was dry, and the soup barely lukewarm, but Eleanor ate in silence, tearing small pieces off with methodical care. Her mind wasn't on the food.
It was on the forest.
On the thing that didn't attack.
On the King's fear.
And on Vergil.
She glanced at him once. He was chewing slowly, exhausted. His body was stiff, and though she'd wrapped the wound tight, the pain hadn't lessened.
He wouldn't admit it—but it was written in every breath he took.
---
She finished eating in a few quiet minutes, setting the bowl down with a soft clink. Then she stood, eyes flicking to the bed.
There was only one.
Her gaze shifted to Vergil, still lying stiffly on his side, careful not to press against the injury carved across his back.
He raised an eyebrow. "You planning to stand there all night?"
"I'm not an idiot," she muttered.
She slipped off her boots, pulled her legs up, and lay beside him—close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. She faced away, calm and still.
A few seconds passed.
Then Vergil spoke, voice dry. "Why are you so close?"
"You're wounded," she replied. "If you stop breathing in the night, I'll notice."
"Tch… touching."
"And," she added after a beat, "it's cold."
He let out a quiet breath—half amusement, half resignation. "...Fair enough."
The silence returned. But it had changed—less sharp. Less distant.
Then her voice, lower now. Steady.
"You're not going back until you're fully recovered. At the very least."
Vergil stared at the ceiling, candlelight flickering across the wood.
There was no judgment in her voice. No concern.
Just certainty.
And that made it land harder.
"…Alright," he murmured. "I won't."
She didn't respond. But she didn't need to.
The quiet settled again. Not cold. Not hostile. Just… real.
Vergil closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. "Thanks."
"I didn't do it for you," she said—but her voice lacked its usual frost. Just a little.
And she didn't move away.
They stayed like that.
Close, but not touching.
As sleep settled in, soft and slow, like a blanket drawn over them both.
---
Morning crept into the room slowly, soft light filtering through the cracked shutters of the inn. Outside, the village began to stir—vendors setting up stalls, the distant cry of birds, the murmur of life slowly returning.
Inside, all was still.
Eleanor was already awake.
Sleep had never truly come. Her eyes had closed, her body still beside his, but her thoughts never stopped. The warmth next to her was steady, his breathing calm—but her mind wandered elsewhere.
Her violet eyes stared at the ceiling, then slowly drifted to the man lying beside her.
Vergil.
She didn't move. Just watched him in silence.
But her thoughts weren't on him. Not at first.
They were on the name that had haunted her since the night of the betrayal.
Kaelen.
Her uncle. Her parents' killer.
He wore kindness like a mask—smiling too easily, speaking too gently. But beneath it, he was a serpent. He'd led the coup under cover of darkness, cutting down her mother and father—Duke and Duchess of House Valtier—before dawn ever broke. The loyalists who had served her house for generations were slaughtered like animals.
She had barely escaped.
A few loyal retainers had smuggled her out in the chaos. Since that night, she had lived in the shadows. The last surviving daughter of Valtier. A duchess without a domain. A noble without power.
She clenched the sheet in her hand.
He still sits on their throne. Wearing their title like it was always his.
Her gaze returned to Vergil.
He didn't understand revenge the way she did. His pursuit of power wasn't fueled by grief or hatred, but by something else. A hunger to rise beyond what he was—to become something greater. But even with that ambition, he had lines he wouldn't cross.
Especially with the people beside him.
She'd noticed that.
He never asked her to bleed for him. Never demanded her loyalty. They used each other, yes—but he didn't lie to her. He never forced her hand.
That counted for something.
His back was turned to her. The bandages across his wound were slightly loose. The injury had swollen overnight, but not dangerously so. Pale skin met the morning light, tracing faint lines of lean muscle—not the kind earned in war, but shaped by endurance.
His body wasn't built for combat. His frame was slight. His hands, smooth. His face—unremarkable. Black hair always slightly messy. Brown eyes warm, but ordinary. He could disappear into a crowd, unnoticed. A man not made for battle or command.
And yet… he endured.
He moved like someone who carried something heavy inside.
Just like her.
Her own hands flexed on her lap. Smooth. Barely calloused. No swordswoman. No soldier. She had never been trained for war—why would she? A noble daughter like her was meant to be betrothed, to smile, to curtsy, to host.
But there was one exception.
The rapier.
A weapon of elegance and grace. It had been gifted to her as a formality—an accessory to her noble upbringing. She had taken to it in secret, training when no one watched, dancing with steel in empty courtyards under the moon.
It was the only weapon she truly knew how to wield.
Now, it was all she had.
She rose quietly, brushing a loose strand of white-blonde hair behind her ear, and stepped toward the washbasin. Cold water met her face, drawing a breath sharp enough to cut through the haze of memory.
Today was another step.
Toward vengeance.
Toward reclaiming what was hers.
And maybe… just maybe… not every step would be taken alone.
A low groan broke the silence behind her.
Eleanor turned slightly, wiping her face with the rough cloth by the basin as she glanced over her shoulder.
Vergil stirred beneath the covers, brow furrowing as his eyes fluttered open. He blinked against the morning light filtering through the shutters, expression dazed with that familiar grogginess of pain-heavy sleep.
"…Ugh. What time is it…?" he mumbled, voice hoarse and dry.
"Early," Eleanor replied, her tone flat as always. She crossed the room with quiet steps, violet eyes scanning the bandages across his torso. "You didn't tear the wound open in your sleep. That's something."
Vergil tried to sit up, but a sharp breath hissed through his teeth. He slumped back with a pained grunt. "Still hurts like shit…"
"You're lucky it wasn't worse." She knelt beside the bed, adjusting the bandage with gentle fingers. "If the blade had gone any deeper, I wouldn't have been able to close it."
His gaze drifted to her face—calm, composed, still unreadable.
"…You stayed," he said quietly.
She paused, then looked up at him. "I said you weren't going back until you've recovered."
"I remember," he murmured, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. "Didn't think you meant literally sleeping next to me."
Eleanor didn't smile, but her voice softened just slightly. "If you stopped breathing in the night, someone had to be close enough to notice."
Vergil gave a low chuckle—then winced as pain lanced through his ribs. "That's morbidly considerate."
She stood, brushing off her tunic. "You can joke when you're walking again. Until then, don't be stupid."
He watched her as she moved across the room, eyes lingering.
"…You're different, you know."
She paused near the window. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You act cold. Detached. Like you're only here because it's convenient. But you haven't asked to leave. You don't ask questions when I do something. You joined me not because you had to—but because you wanted something from me."
"You're the same," she replied. "Ambitious. Always ten steps ahead. But you never asked me to bleed for you. And you treat me like an equal. But yes—I want something."
A quiet passed between them.
"I know we're using each other," she said, violet eyes locked to his. "I'm fine with that. But if you die before I'm ready to let you go…"
She trailed off, then looked away.
Vergil watched her for a long moment, something softer flickering in his expression.
"…I'll try not to die then," he said gently.
The corner of her lip twitched.
But she didn't respond.
They understood each other in silence.
And for now, that was enough.
Eleanor turned toward the door, five silver pieces resting in her palm—then stopped as Vergil's eyes suddenly narrowed.
His breath caught.
A sharp pulse rang in the back of his skull—not pain, but instinct.
[Primal Awareness Activated]
—You are being watched.
The message echoed across his mind.
Immediately, his senses sharpened.
His gaze flicked to the window, narrowing on the world beyond the cracked shutters. Morning light spilled lazily into the room—but something in the air had shifted.
Too quiet.
Too still.
"Wait," he said suddenly.
Eleanor glanced back. "What is it?"
Vergil moved slowly, ignoring the ache in his back as he sat up straighter. "Something's watching us."
Her brows furrowed. "From where?"
He didn't answer immediately—just stared toward the trees at the village's edge. For a moment, nothing moved. Then—just barely—a flicker. A silhouette slipped back into the forest brush.
Gone in less than a heartbeat.
But he'd seen it.
Not a villager. Not a scout. Not an animal.
Something else.
Vergil clenched his jaw. "That damn monster."
Eleanor's eyes darkened. "You think it followed us?"
"I think it's been watching since the fight." His voice was low. "It has more than regeneration. When we fought, I felt like it knew what I was going to do next… now I'm sure."
He stood carefully, turning from the window. 'It has a puppet-type ability. Something it can send to spy—projection, clone, maybe both. Doesn't matter. The point is, it's not just hiding.'
"It's learning," Eleanor finished, voice like frost.
"Exactly." He sighed. "Let's head back in a week."
She nodded.
"Go to Elvira," Vergil said. "Tell her I sent you. Focus on what fits your affinities—healing, support magic, maybe a few offensive lightning spells. Cover our weaknesses."
"And the rapier?"
He held out the five silver. "That'll cover it for now."
Eleanor took the coins without hesitation, slipping them into her pouch. "And you?"
"I'll handle supply runs. Take on some simple missions, build up money, grab a few potions if I can."
She watched him a moment longer, then turned to leave. "Stay alive."
"You too."
She opened the door—but paused.
"We're not strong yet," she said without looking back. "But we're not the same as yesterday."
Vergil gave a tired smile. "No… we're not."
And with that, she stepped into the morning light—while he turned back to the window, where shadows lingered at the forest's edge.
[Primal Awareness Deactivated]
—Target is no longer within range.
But Vergil knew.
It would be back.
And next time, it wouldn't be watching.
It would be hunting.
---
In the thicket beyond the village, something watched.
It stood unnaturally still, a silhouette half-hidden among the trees. At first glance, it might've passed for a traveler—dark-haired, cloaked, just another soul pausing by the woods.
But it wasn't human.
Not really.
The puppet wore a face—a crude, rotting mimicry of Vergil's. The features were almost right, but not quite. The skin was too pale, too taut, as if stretched over a frame it didn't belong to. One eye hung lower than the other, the jaw crooked, twisted into a stitched half-smile.
Its chest rose and fell in a parody of breath, though no air moved. The arms dangled awkwardly, fingers twitching every few seconds, spasming like they were searching for something to hold. It wore a tattered cloak like Vergil's, though soaked dark at the edges—old blood, or something worse.
And still, it watched.
The inn sat quietly at the village's edge. Smoke rose from the chimney. Light filtered through the shutters.
Inside, it knew, the real one was waking.
The real Vergil.
The source.
It didn't yet understand what he was. But during their brief encounter, it had felt something in him.
Not raw power. Not dominance.
Hunger.
The kind that simmers, quiet and patient.
Waiting.
-