The mist slithered away, curling through the ancient trunks of Slitherroots Woods like a dying breath. The battlefield lay still at last, save for the whispers of unseen spirits stirring through the trees. Feyn stood over the fallen rogue Virtusian leader, his breath ragged, the weight of the moment pressing down upon him like a great yoke. He cast his gaze upon the alicorn, then exhaled—slow and unsteady, as if he had only now remembered how to breathe.
The Virtusian was not dead. His chest still rose and fell, though his wounds were many, his face slack with unconsciousness. The same fate had claimed his subordinates, scattered like broken marionettes across the clearing. Victory settled over Feyn like a slow dawn, the realization creeping in as he turned toward Velzael.
His limbs felt heavy, his steps uncertain. Twice he swayed, nearly pitching forward, but he willed himself upright. He had come too far to fall now. A weary grin ghosted across his lips, wry and full of something like triumph. "Eh…I got my Soul-weapon after all," he murmured, voice laced with both exhaustion and mischief.
Velzael regarded him with a chuckle, shaking her head. "You truly are full of surprises, Feyn. Even I would have struggled." There was no jest in her voice, only the weight of truth. She had seen power tonight, raw and terrible. She had expected him to fight, but not with such fury—not with the kind of wrath she witnessed.
Feyn's ears twitched, the praise catching him off guard. A flush crept up his face, and he turned away, ears flattening against his skull. That was when he saw them. The mother and child.
Slowly, he approached. She lay still, her breath shallow but steady, her mana's ebb and flow unbroken. She would live. Her child, small and trembling, remained tucked beneath her wing, eyes wide with the echoes of fear. The battle had passed, but the terror lingered still.
Feyn lowered himself onto his paws, making himself smaller, less threatening. His voice was soft when he spoke. "Are you alright? It's safe now." He forced a smile, gentle and reassuring, though his body still ached and his breath still came too fast.
The little one lifted her head, her wide, tear-brimmed eyes locking onto his. She sniffled, her little wings trembling at her sides. "Y-yes…but…but Mommy…Mommy isn't waking up," she whimpered, her voice silent as a whisper and fragile as cracked glass.
"She'll be alright," Feyn assured her, keeping his tone calm, steady. "She just needs rest. She'll wake soon."
"R-really?" The child—so small, so frightened—searched his face for truth. There was something familiar in him, something that reminded her of home, of a cousin she had left behind.
Feyn nodded, his smile growing. "Yes, really," he said. "And we'll make sure the bad ones are locked away, so they can never hurt you or your mother again."
He had begun to ask another question—"What's your na—" but the words died in his throat.
A low, ragged chuckle sounded from behind him, thick with pain but threaded with something darker.
"Heh…You really got me…But I never fail my objectives."
A sharp growl cut through the air, followed by the crash of glass shattering against the forest floor.
Feyn turned, his body tensing, his fur bristling. The child shrank beneath her mother's wing.
The Virtusian leader should not have been standing. But he was.
Veins of molten fire crawled beneath his scales, glowing like fissures in stone. Smoke curled from his flesh, thick and acrid, as if his own body rebelled against what it had become. His form twisted, caught between his draconic nature and his alicorn shape, neither one nor the other, but something monstrous in between. His muscles bulged, his eyes burned with a terrible light, and when he turned his gaze upon them—wild, savage, unnatural—Feyn knew that the battle was not yet won.
Before either could so much as blink, a streak of crimson light tore through the air. A sharp, wet sound followed—a sickening slice, clean and swift.
Feyn barely registered the warmth that splattered his fur. A slow trickle rolled down his cheek, and when he turned his head, his pupils shrank to pinpricks.
The mother and child were gone.
Not gone—slain.
Where they had lain mere heartbeats ago, now lay two bodies, motionless and wrong. Not even a scream had escaped the small one's throat; death had stolen her before fear could give voice to terror. Her small head rested beside her still frame, singed fur curling from the embers that clung to it. The mother's wings, once a shield, now lay heavy and soaked in the lifeblood of her daughter.
Feyn could not move. Could not think. He stared, unblinking, as if his mind refused to comprehend the horror before him.
The Virtusian let out a guttural snarl, molten veins pulsing, eyes burning with something primal. He lunged, closing the distance with terrifying speed, murder in his gaze. But before his strike could land, something silver and serpentine lashed through the air.
A chain, swift and unerring, wrapped around the beast's neck and wrenched him sideways, dragging him from his course. Another followed, snaking around Feyn himself, yanking him back, tearing him from his trance and throwing him to the clearing's edge. He hit the ground hard, gasping, his body trembling as his mind struggled to catch up.
Not Velzael's usual chains. No, hers had been heavy, solid, their power raw and forceful. These were different—faster, sinuous, moving as if alive, as if they carried a will of their own.
Then he saw her.
Velzael had joined the fray, fury burning in her every motion. Her form had shifted, changed—more dragon than alicorn now. Her tail had lengthened, coiling and lashing like a whip. Her scales had grown smaller, more numerous, sleek as polished steel. Wings stretched from her shoulders to her hips, vast and terrible, while delicate fins adorned the length of her tail. She was no longer simply Velzael. She was something greater. Something wrathful.
A low rumble stirred the air as Velzael called upon her magic, and once more the mist rose, thick as a shroud, swallowing the clearing in its ghostly embrace. Shapes vanished within the swirling fog, but the orange glow of the Virtusian still flickered like the embers of a dying fire. He roared in fury as water surged over the earth, hissing and spitting as it met the searing heat of his flesh, turning to steam in great billowing clouds.
Through the mist, a sound cut through the silence.
A hum, soft at first. Then words, sharp and clear.
"Sing of the hunters, the keepers of law, with justice as sharp as the fangs of a maw."
Velzael moved like a phantom, her claws skimming the water, her form no more than a shadow. No sound marked her steps, no breath betrayed her presence—only ripples spread where she passed, vanishing as quickly as they came.
"Raise your horns high, for our duty we keep while the sea is our battleground, vast and deep."
The rogue Virtusian lashed out wildly, his fire flaring, but the silver chains struck before he could find his mark. They wound around his limbs, around his throat, twisting and tightening like the coils of a serpent. He bellowed, struggling, thrashing against their grip, but the song did not falter, nor did the onslaught.
"Heave-ho, the hunters rise, under moonlit waves and starry skies."
Feyn narrowed his eyes, willing himself to pierce the mist. He called upon his magic, his vision shifting, sharpening, and at last, he found her. She was there, wreathed in water and steel, moving with the grace of a dancer and the precision of an executioner.
"For the rogue beware, no mercy's near, when the Protectors' song you hear."
The mist parted in an instant.
And in that moment, the water itself became a blade.
A single, fluid motion—a strike as swift as it was final. The rogue's neck split open, the crimson of his lifeblood vanishing into the depths below. His fire guttered, his body stilled.
Velzael stood over her kill, her gaze lingering only for a breath before she turned, her eyes seeking Feyn where he stood. The battle had ended, but the song of the hunt still hung in the air.
Feyn stared at the corpse of the savage rogue, his mind clouded, his breath unsteady. The mana that had once burned so fiercely within the Virtusian now faded, unraveling like frayed thread. Yet something about it was wrong. Twisted. It carried a signature unlike any he had ever known—bright, saturated red, raw and unnatural. Only once before had he seen something even close to it, but that had been its mirror image—the mana he had glimpsed within the enigmatic spirit.
Slowly, the unnatural energy withered and died, sinking into the stillness of the fallen alicorn's flesh. The battle was over. And yet, as Feyn pulled himself away from the sight, his gaze fell upon the other bodies—the mother and child.
He had not even learned their names.
Rage boiled up within him, sharp and sudden, burning hotter than fire. A cry tore from his throat, raw and broken.
Lightning crackled around his frame as he lunged, hurling himself at the corpse of the Virtusian. His claws sank deep into scorched flesh, and he unleashed his fury in a torrent of electricity, striking again and again, his vision blurred by the force of his grief.
The body still smoldered, heat rising from the lifeless husk, burning his paws, searing into his flesh. He did not care.
He did not stop.
Not until something coiled around him—a tail, sinuous and strong. It wrenched him back, pulling him away from his blind wrath, dragging him into an embrace that was firm yet unyielding.
Velzael.
She held him close, her draconic form towering over him, sapphire eyes piercing through his torment. "Feyn…calm yourself," she murmured, her voice steady, cool as a mountain stream, soothing as a lullaby.
He fought against her grip, twisting, struggling, unwilling to surrender to stillness. But then—her gaze. It held him firm, and in its depths, he saw not command, not chastisement, but understanding.
His breath hitched. His limbs went weak.
"I…I couldn't save them…" His voice cracked, a whisper of anguish, and the dam within him broke.
Tears spilled down his cheeks, hot and unchecked, his body trembling as the weight of failure crashed down upon him.
Velzael said nothing. She did not need to. Gently, she wrapped her wings around him, folding him into her warmth, shielding him from the world as he wept.