Riven collapsed to his knees, both hands pressed against the cold, damp earth.
His entire body trembled violently—not just from exhaustion, but from the lingering tension that hadn't yet faded from his nerves. His breathing was ragged, as if he'd just pulled himself back from the brink of death.
He glanced sideways, at the corpse of the man he'd just killed.
The man's eyes were still open, vacant, staring at the night sky that offered no answers. Blood continued to seep from the wound in his chest, forming a small pool that soaked into the soil.
Riven then lowered his gaze to the sword in his hand.
Crysthalis.
The blade, once glowing with golden light, had now quieted. It radiated a faint, cold gleam—gentle, but powerful.
Only now did Riven realize: this sword had the ability to absorb an opponent's attack—so long as it was physical—and reflect it. A truly extraordinary weapon. Far beyond anything he ever imagined possessing.
Yet, there was no pride in his heart. Only emptiness.
After several deep breaths, he began to stand, though his limbs shook. Then, he dragged the man's body. The flesh was cold and heavy, but Riven forced himself to keep going, step by step, through the dark forest until he found a quiet stream flowing beyond the trees.
Without hesitation, he pushed the corpse into the current. The sound of it splashing into the water was soft, almost insignificant.
Riven stood at the riverbank, watching the body drift away, disappearing slowly into the night fog.
"You made a mistake," he muttered. "You should've killed me this afternoon."
Silence.
The water kept flowing. The world didn't care.
But Riven couldn't rest. There was still something else he had to do.
The blood trail.
Even though the Arkham infiltrators were dead, that didn't mean they were safe. If soldiers from the Kingdom of Belmore—or local villagers—found bloodstains or any signs of battle, both he and Mira could be in serious danger.
With unsteady steps, he returned to the site of the fight, retrieved the weapons he had collected earlier, stuffed them into a sack, and slung it over his shoulder. Heavy. But the weight wasn't what bothered him—it was the thoughts pressing down on his mind.
He walked home in silence.
The night was so still that every step he took seemed to echo.
When he reached the front of the house, the door swung open wide.
Mira stood in the doorway, her face contorted with worry and anger.
"You said five minutes!" she snapped, eyes red.
Riven didn't answer.
"I almost went out looking for you!"
Still silent, he lowered his head. He had no defense to give.
Mira glared at him, her breath shaking with emotion. But when she took in his condition—clothes stained with mud and blood, body barely upright—her anger slowly faded.
"…What happened?" she asked softly.
Riven looked away. "I'll explain later. But right now… I need to go out again."
"What?!"
"The blood trail," he said curtly. "If anyone finds it, we're in danger. I have to clean it up."
Mira bit her lip. Her face was torn with fear and doubt.
"But… look at you! You can barely stand!"
Riven looked at her calmly this time. "I'll be fine. This is for us."
After a few seconds of silence, Mira finally gave a reluctant nod. "Then hurry back…"
Riven nodded and stepped inside briefly to grab a shovel and a bucket. Mira watched him anxiously, not knowing what exactly those tools were for. She wanted to ask—but feared the answer.
Without another word, Riven left again.
As his footsteps faded, Mira went back to the room where the mysterious woman lay unconscious.
Her face was pale, her breathing weak—but steadier than before. The wounds on her body had not yet healed, but at least she wouldn't die from blood loss.
Mira sat at the bedside, studying the woman's face.
She looked so peaceful in sleep—almost like a child.
It was hard to believe this was the person the man had called "the reincarnation of destruction."
"Who are you really…" Mira whispered, her voice barely audible.
No answer came.
The night grew deeper. A breeze drifted in through the slightly open window. Moonlight slipped into the room, casting its glow on the faces of two sleeping women—one from injury, the other from exhaustion.
And out there, in the darkness and cold of the night, Riven walked once more—along a path stained with blood, with a shovel in one hand and his sword on his back, ready to erase every trace of death that could bring danger to their door.
.
.
.
---
The sky hung low with storm clouds as her footsteps echoed across the courtyard of the nearly-fallen fortress. Had she arrived even a moment too late, the stronghold would've crumbled.
The surviving soldiers, who'd held out until her arrival, stood along the stone path. Some still clutched their wounds. Others sat slumped against the walls, bodies shaking, eyes hollow… but above all else, they looked at their queen with one shared expression—fear.
She walked slowly. Tall, regal, shrouded in silence.
She still wore her black armor—lightweight, sleek, marked with dull golden patterns curling over the collar and shoulders. The metal didn't rattle with her steps, as if it had fused with her form. A dark crimson cloak billowed behind her, wrinkled by wind and dust, colored like dried blood on a winter's night.
But the most striking feature was her helmet—a twisted masterpiece resembling the work of a mad god.
A golden mask stretched upward and outward in spiked, thorn-like shapes, covering her entire face except for her pale, unsmiling lips.
Her crimson hair spilled freely from beneath the helm, cascading in wild waves that danced with the evening breeze.
She looked like a war goddess torn from a nightmare.
Victory was hers—earned alone.
This fortress—the last bastion of Belmore's western line—still stood because of her. She had led the charge herself, holding off Arkham's forces for a day and a night without rest.
Yet not a single soul looked at her with admiration.
What they saw… was horror.
The whispers began to spread—slowly at first, like a disease creeping through cracked walls and weary spirits.
"I saw her… slice through three men in one swing…"
"The Arkham troops couldn't even touch her. They just… burned."
"She killed a little girl once, last year. Just because she didn't bow deep enough…"
"They say her face is ruined. That's why she never removes the helmet.
Monstrous. A mirror would crack if it reflected her."
"She tortures war prisoners. Rumor has it she keeps the hands of enemy soldiers in jars. On display."
"Our queen… she's strong, yes. But strength like that… belongs to demons."
"Our queen… isn't human."
They all spoke of the same woman—the masked figure.
The queen who had saved them… yet terrified them.
They said her name in trembling tones:
Ashtoria Belmore.