Melly's small body was flung from the cliff like a puppet whose strings had been severed. The night air clutched her light frame, carrying her down through the thick layer of mist that hung over the ravine. There was no scream, only the sound of the wind and the echoing silence that wrapped around her fall.
Far below, beyond the reach of light and hope, a wild river rushed—cold, violent, and dark. Jagged rocks hid beneath the surface, ready to shatter the bones of anyone unfortunate enough to fall from such a height. But strangely, as Melly's body touched the water, there was no violent crash. No spray of foam or splash of impact greeted her frail frame.
The river… accepted her fall.
As if the water recognized her. It cradled her body gently, as though the little girl was a part of it. The current, usually wild, slowed—swirling into a calm eddy that kept Melly afloat. Her hair spread like silk across the surface, her eyes closed, her chest barely rising.
The water carried her downstream, not tossed, not dragged. But… guided.
And within the mist that hovered above the river, something stirred.
Deep in the seemingly endless water, a massive figure shifted slowly. The river's current changed direction, circling in rhythm with its movement. Its scales were long and gleaming, a blend of blue and emerald like moonlight submerged in ocean depths. Its form stretched and flowed, elegant like a great serpent born from water and starlight.
An eye opened.
Huge. Deep. Ancient.
This was no ordinary creature.
A dragon.
A water dragon.
It slowly rose from the bottom of the river. Its body coiled through the water, and from the folds of mist, it raised its head—titanic, graceful, and terrifying. Its head leaned toward Melly's still-floating form, circling her once… twice, as if protecting or studying her.
Its gaze settled on her face.
The creature did not roar. It did not growl. It simply… watched.
And somehow, within that gaze, there was a glimmer of sympathy.
Then, slowly, it opened its mouth.
Its teeth, sharp like crystalline water, glinted under the faint light of the moon above the clouds. But it did not bite. It did not harm. It merely opened wide, and Melly's small body slowly drifted inside.
As if the river itself was guiding her in.
Once her body was fully within the dragon's maw, it gently closed its jaws. No blood. No struggle. Only a serene motion, like the earth reclaiming something long lost.
Then, the dragon dove into the river once more.
The current resumed its pace. The water rushed again. The mist swallowed everything.
And the dragon… vanished with the little girl into the nameless depths—carrying her far away from that place, from death… or perhaps from both.
No one knew where it would take her.
But the night kept its secret.
And the river continued to flow.
.
.
.
The distance between Riven and the man was only a few meters. But to Riven, it wasn't distance—it was an empty space waiting to be cut. In his hand, the jagged branch he gripped wasn't just wood—it was intention, fury, and the last flicker of hope he wished to slam into the face of a world that had made his sister suffer.
He ran. Every step felt heavy, but his resolve was heavier. His gaze was like an arrow loosed from a bow, unyielding until it reached its target.
He raised the branch high and swung it.
It wasn't a reckless swing.
In Riven's mind, the attack had already been decided. A clean, perfect line had been drawn across Marquess Briarwood's body, running diagonally from shoulder to hip, like a phantom wound waiting to be carved into flesh. His swing moved through the air with eerie precision. There was no sound. No rush of wind. Just a motion too sharp, too deliberate, to be ordinary.
Briarwood smirked.
A desperate strike, he thought. Wild. Easy to read.
But that thought didn't last.
A scream rose inside his instincts—louder than reason, deeper than memory. It wasn't a voice, but a sudden, primal warning. His body moved before his mind could follow. He hurled himself sideways, heart pounding. Every nerve in his body flared with panic, as though death itself had just grazed his skin.
The branch hadn't touched him. Not even close.
But he still dodged.
Then silence returned.
No damage. No impact. The dirt beneath him was untouched, not a blade of grass out of place. The leaves on the trees did not stir. There was no tremor, no energy in the air.
But something was wrong.
He turned his gaze toward the spot where the strike had passed, searching for a sign that what he felt was real. Yet the world remained still.
Briarwood gave a short, dry laugh. 'Ha... look at yourself, Chaiden... so close to death you're flinching at shadows now.'
He felt foolish. Ashamed of instincts that had grown too sharp. But before the laughter could fade, Riven charged forward, using the momentum from his "failed" swing.
The branch remained in his right hand, his body low like a hunting beast. Briarwood raised his hand and summoned roots from the earth. They slithered through grass and mud, racing to ensnare Riven's feet.
But Riven anticipated it.
He stomped the ground hard and launched himself—his body a spear heading straight for the man. He avoided the roots just as they closed in. His feet touched the ground only once before he was right in front of Marquess Briarwood.
And there, their eyes met.
Briarwood felt it again. That dangerous feeling. A threat he didn't understand. Something in that branch made his skin crawl. He raised his arm, preparing to block the branch.
But he was deceived.
Riven did swing with his right hand. But that was only a distraction. A lure.
Because in the same breath, his left hand moved.
Quickly, Riven reached for the beautiful silver sword that hung from Briarwood's belt. The blade shimmered faintly under the moonlight, as though it were a slumbering soul.
And in a single pull, he drew it.
Time stopped.
Marquess Briarwood realized it. He understood. But too late. His expression shifted, from arrogance to terror.
And in one smooth motion, Riven slashed.
Clean. Angled. Perfect. From the waist to the chest, the cut sliced diagonally, like the precise stroke of a death angel's brush.
The sound of metal cleaving flesh and bone came softly, only the echo of blood splashing against the earth followed.
Briarwood's body staggered. He looked down, seeing his torso split apart. His eyes widened. His breath caught.
He fell.
One half collapsed to the right, the other to the left. Blood soaked the soil, flowing like crimson ink spilled across canvas.
He still looked at Riven. Still saw the young man standing firm before him—his face etched with disgust and unmasked hatred. As if Briarwood's death wasn't justice… but a final act of contempt toward something unworthy of being alive.
And on Riven's torn cheek, blood traced a faint arc—forming a twisted smile. A black smile. A cruel one.
Briarwood saw it… and remembered.
The voices returned. From childhood. The laughter full of scorn. From people who never saw him as human:
"Bastard child!"
"You're nothing!"
"Disgusting! You reek of shame and filth!"
"Born of a whore's womb!"
"Should've died long ago!"
The voices came from nobles, servants, even guards meant to protect him. The world had never welcomed him. He was merely the shadow waste of a noble name that wanted nothing to do with him.
But in all that hatred, he remembered something else.
Someone who didn't laugh.
A little girl.
She held him on cold nights. Tended to his wounds with tiny hands. Greeted him every morning. Never called him bastard. Never looked at him with disgust.
His sister. Not by blood, but the only light he had.
And he had failed to protect her.
Just as he couldn't save himself.
He had buried that little girl… with his own hands.
And now… who would bury him?
His eyes lost their focus. His vision dimmed. Blood kept flowing, warming the cold soil beneath him. His face tilted upward, staring at a sky that offered no answer.
And finally…
Marquess Chaiden Briarwood died.
Eyes wide open.
Mouth silent.
No vengeance in his last breath.
No curse.
Only… emptiness.
And the sky remained quiet.
No one would mourn him.