The Solmarian market was alive with its usual midday frenzy—the thick smell of spiced meats and roasting vegetables twisting through the air, clashing with the sharp tang of iron and sweat. Merchants barked their wares, children wove between carts, and the steady rumble of hooves and boots made the stone streets tremble.
Veylan cut through the bustle like a shadow, his cloak pristine despite the dust, his chin lifted high in disdainful indifference. In his wake trailed a girl no older than fifteen, thin as brittle glass, skin a pale sickly hue with the ghostly imprint of old bruises fading to sick yellow. She struggled beneath the weight of bulging baskets filled with bread, fruits, and parcels of dried meat. Her arms trembled, knees buckling with every step.
The girl stumbled. An orange tumbled from the heap, rolling toward a storm drain. Her breath hitched in a terrified gasp.
Veylan turned, his gaze like cold steel, and the girl's body twitched before she hurled herself to the ground, scrabbling to collect the fallen food. Tears sprang unbidden to her wide, hollow eyes.
He chuckled. A low, mocking sound.
"Crying already? And I haven't even laid a hand on you, girl. Pitiful."
She choked out a shaky apology, voice cracking as she gathered the last of the food and hurried to his side, head bowed so low her hair veiled her face.
"Good," he murmured, voice smooth as silk over a blade. "Once we're done, you'll be punished. Wouldn't want you thinking you could embarrass me in public without consequence."
She nodded frantically, shoulders trembling.
They made their way to a stately manor on the edge of the merchant quarter, its stone facade immaculate and cold. The girl struggled to open the door while keeping hold of the goods, nearly spilling them again in her haste.
Veylan stepped inside, expecting to be greeted by servants, the rush of boots and bows, the practiced symphony of his household. But silence greeted him instead. Thick, suffocating.
His brow furrowed. A prickle of unease wormed its way down his spine.
He strode to the dining room—and stopped dead.
There, lounging in his chair as though it belonged to her, was a woman. She wore violet and black armor, gauntlets forged in a hue too dark to be mere metal. A long, violet-handled scythe leaned against the chair, its crescent blade glinting in the gloom. Her hair, dark as midnight ink, fell in waves around sharp, elegant features. A devil's smile curled her lips.
For a moment, Veylan's mind failed him. Then recognition struck like a hammer to the ribs.
"Ca—Cassandra?"
The woman's grin widened, her violet eyes gleaming.
"Hello, master," she purred. "Long time no see."
The words slithered through the room like smoke.
The room's torchlight splintered against Veylan's pale face, tremors in his jaw betraying how deeply fear had taken root. Candle wax dripped from an iron chandelier, each silent drop echoing the slow passage of time. Envy stood in the center, violet-tinged scythe resting against her back like a crown of intent.
Veylan blinked again, as if trying to convince himself this dark vision was nothing but his own guilt. His voice quivered.
"Cassandra…You're dead. You died months ago."
She tilted her head, lips curving into that gentle, dreadful smile. "You poor fool. I died. And yet, here I stand."
He swallowed against the dry lump in his throat.
"You…How is this possible?"
"I was reborn. A gift."
Envy's voice drifted between amusement and menace. "Your coins paid for a war-slave—but the price of a rebirth is more…intimate."
The fear in his eyes darkened the room.
"You—you were just to be armour for the frontline."
"You sold me."
Her words floated as surely as smoke. "Not once did you consider my worth. You offered me like meat to a butcher. Funny, isn't it?"
Veylan staggered backward, knocking against a table.
"Shut up!" he hissed. "You're…a demon apparition. Nothing more."
Envy laughed, gentle and low, and stepped forward, scythe shifting on her back.
"You wonder about your family. Your guards. If they know what you did, if they judge you now. Don't lie."
His shoulders sagged as though she'd bludgeoned him.
"They don't know. They can't know…"
"Ah." She cocked her head, breathing slow and mocking. "They will."
He closed his eyes, pale tears gathering.
"Please—"
Envy's blade gleamed. "You begged for profit instead of mercy. You'll see how someone you thought worthless finds power enough to end you."
He backed away from the scythe's silent gravity, trembling.
"What do you want?"
"Your broken apology isn't enough." Her voice softened to silky poison. "I want to see how it feels for you to be helpless. Let me enjoy this."
His chest rose and fell as panic warred with his self-preserving pride.
Before he could stammer a reply, the chamber doors opened.
A tall woman clad in matte-black armor entered, features ageless, her gaze bowed in deference. She carried folded scrolls marked with commands.
"Mistress Envy," she said, voice low and respectful. "Preparations have been made. We await your orders."
Envy's smile widened, cold and triumphant. She sheathed the scythe's blade with calm deliberation.
"Good," she purred, glancing at Veylan as though he were nothing more than a shadow beneath her scarlet gaze. "Now we begin."
* * * * *
The air in the lavish dining hall was suffocating. Velvet drapes hung like funeral shrouds, muffling the light of dusk filtering through stained glass. The fire in the hearth burned low, its embers a sullen crimson glow. It should have felt warm. Instead, it felt like a mausoleum.
Veylan's pulse thundered in his ears as another demon—a pale thing with eyes like pits of tar and a mouth far too wide—ushered his family into the room. His wife, pale as death itself. His two daughters, trembling, clutching each other's hands. His son, stiff-jawed but his eyes wide, betraying the terror buried just beneath a fragile mask of defiance. The household servants hovered like ghosts along the walls, their faces blank, and the pitiful slave girl clung to the shadows, her frail frame shaking.
Envy was already seated at the head of the table. No one had to tell her where she belonged now. Her posture was languid, legs crossed, one arm slung over the chair's armrest like a monarch surveying lesser creatures. Her scythe leaned casually against the back of her seat, its edge gleaming wetly in the firelight.
She smiled as the new arrivals entered, a slow, satisfied grin that made the skin at the nape of Veylan's neck crawl.
"Well now," Envy purred. "A proper family reunion."
The demons now flanking her, one with obsidian horns curling low over his brow and the other a demoness with skin marked in searing crimson runes, inclined their heads as Envy addressed them by name — Morthan and Azrah . They took up positions behind her like twin shadows.
"Sit," Azrah said simply, gesturing to the table.
Veylan sat, his legs moving before his mind gave them permission. The rest of the family followed, lowering themselves onto the chairs with the shivering obedience of animals awaiting slaughter.
For a long, terrible moment, no one spoke.
Then Envy gestured lazily at them, her fingers tipped in violet-painted claws. "Let's not be rude. Introductions."
The words carried no force, no malice — just an amusement that somehow made it worse.
One by one, they spoke. The wife, her voice cracking. The daughters in brittle, broken murmurs. The son, staring hard at the table as if it might save him.
When it came to Veylan, he opened his mouth.
And Envy raised a finger. "Ah, ah. No need, master. You've already made your impression."
His jaw snapped shut.
She let the silence hang a moment longer, as thick and oppressive as smoke, then tilted her head. "Now, master… you've seen how this works. I'm terribly curious. What do you think I should do now?"
Veylan swallowed hard. "You… you can leave," he rasped, voice rough with terror. "I—I won't tell anyone. No one. I swear it."
A sharp, delighted laugh burst from Envy's lips. It was light and airy, a sound that didn't belong in that place. "Oh, master… you really are funny. A riot."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on her interlaced fingers. The room seemed to tighten around them.
"I came here tonight," she began softly, "with a head full of plans. Revenge, you know? That old, predictable song. Kill you. Kill them. Burn your house. Salt the earth. The usual." She grinned again. "I wanted it so, so badly."
Her voice was calm, almost fond, and it chilled them more than any screamed threat could have.
Veylan's son, a boy too young to have learned true terror before now, spoke without thinking. "So… you don't want revenge anymore?"
Everyone at the table flinched. His mother grabbed his arm, as if that might stop what was coming.
But nothing came.
Envy regarded him with a strange look. A little amusement, a little something else. "You're brave," she said. "Or stupid."
He tensed.
"Funny thing is," she continued, "I did have a change of heart. Virion, and our dear Demon Lord, have such a knack for putting things into perspective. And I realized… revenge is so narrow. It leaves you hollow. What do you do after you burn the world?"
The boy, emboldened by still being alive, hesitated. "So… you'll let us go?"
Clap. Clap. Clap
A slow clap.
From Envy.
"Well said," she murmured, eyes gleaming.
Azrah and Morthan stiffened subtly. Even the slave girl flinched.
"Yes," Envy said at last. "There's no need for revenge… right now."
The boy's hand twitched in relief.
And then — thud.
A severed hand hit the table.
It took everyone a breath to register it. A dismembered hand, fingers still twitching faintly, palm down on the polished wood.
The boy stared at the bleeding stump of his wrist. His mouth opened, a high, wet scream tearing loose.
Blood gushed in hot, rhythmic spurts across the tablecloth.
The family lurched to their feet, panic breaking at last — until Envy's scythe hit the table with a sharp clang.
"I don't remember giving anyone permission to stand," she said, voice light as a lover's whisper.
Silence, save for the boy's gasping sobs and the steady patter of blood.
The family sat, trembling.
Envy's smile widened.
"Good," she purred, leaning back. "Now, let's all get back to our seats, shall we? We have so much catching up to do."
And the darkness swallowed their protests whole.