One day, I would destroy this world.
And she was right.
Another memory was triggered, and it wasn't about Cecilia, Kiaran, or Camille, but this time... it was Nyxara.
She was my best friend—the only one who made brothel life bearable.
The cycle of death was nature in the brothels, but for me? A curse.
I remember it like it was yesterday. Nyxara was to be sold to another brothel, but instead, I found her lifeless body outside, discarded, used.
Her body was a grotesque mockery of the girl I had known.
She was crumpled in the corner like a broken doll, her limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Her silver eyes, so full of life and mischief, now stared at nothing—glass and accusatory. 7Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzQ9tjFEPNj
Blood pooled beneath her, thick and dark, seeping into the cracks of the wooden floorboards. The stench of it was overwhelming, mixing with the sickly-sweet rot clinging to the air. It clawed at my throat, making it harder to breathe.
"Nyxara?" My voice cracked, trembling and broken.
She didn't move.
"Nyxara, wake up," I whispered, the words spilling out in a frantic rush as if saying them fast enough would make her open her eyes.
I dropped to my knees, my shaking hands brushing against her shoulder. Her skin was cold. Too cold. My stomach heaved, bile rising in my throat as the metallic smell of her blood swarmed my senses.
Her lifeless eyes seemed to follow me, unblinking and hollow. Accusing. Pleading. Haunting.
The world tilted, the edges of my vision blurring. My chest tightened, leaving me gasping for air that felt too thick to pull into my lungs. My hands curled into fists, my nails biting into my palms until they drew blood. But I didn't feel it.
Something inside me shattered.
The storm came before I could stop it. It tore out of me like a feral thing, wild and unrelenting. The air thickened with static, the scent of ozone burning my throat as the first gust of wind ripped through the market. Stalls splintered, chains snapped, and the sky darkened with an unnatural swirl of clouds.
Nyxara's lifeless body stayed in the corner of my vision, her silver eyes accusing me even as the storm consumed everything around her.
"Princess Mablevi!"
I barely heard Kiaran's voice over the roaring wind. The ground cracked beneath my knees, fissures spreading outward as the storm twisted and coiled, gaining strength.
He came into view, fighting against the storm with every step. His cloak whipped violently around him, torn and frayed at the edges. Blood streaked his face, trickling from his nose and mouth. A jagged piece of debris struck his shoulder, slicing through his armor and leaving a dark stain that spread across the fabric.
Still, he pushed forward.
The Gae Bolga flared in his hand, its divine energy cutting through the chaos. He planted the spear into the ground, creating a faint barrier around him as he staggered through the maelstrom. But it wasn't enough. The storm clawed at him, slashing at his skin and dragging him back with every step.
"Princess Mablevi!" His voice was rough, broken, but it carried enough force to cut through the storm.
"Princess Mablevi," Kiaran's voice called again, sharp and insistent.
I jolted awake, gasping for breath. My chest heaved, my hands trembling as I blinked against the dim light of the room. The storm still raged in my mind, vivid and unrelenting, until Kiaran's hand on my shoulder anchored me to the present.
"It's over," he said, his tone firm but steady. "You're here."
I nodded weakly, swallowing hard as I forced the memory back into the depths of my mind. My hands curled into fists, the faint sting of my nails biting into my palms grounding me further.
"We need to look at the map," I said, my voice rough.
Kiaran hesitated, his ruby-red eyes narrowing. "If this is about Nyxara..." He trailed off, his voice softening. "You don't have to push yourself."
"I have to," I snapped, sharper than I intended. "Look at this." I unrolled the map across the battered wooden table, the flickering candlelight casting shadows along the lines and markings.
"What you need right now is rest Princess......." Kiaran's voice trailed off, heightening a mix of sternness and worry.
Nyxara's lifeless eyes, still hung in the background, and flashed in my mind, hollow and accusing. I had failed her once, and now her ghost followed me, a constant reminder of what I'd let happen. Could I live with myself if I failed again?
No......no matter what it cost me we have to rescue these slaves.
"No we're moving on with the mission....." I looked deep onto his face, which was written with deviance and stubbornness all over it. He could be more of a pragmatic than a bodyguard at times.......
I met Kiaran's ruby-red gaze, searching for any trace of doubt. Did he believe in me—or was he just waiting for the storm to break?
"Okay, what do we have?" he asked, his voice clipped but resigned.
"Three caravans," I said, pointing to the red circles inked onto the map. "The first three are unmarked, but I think they're slave caravans. They're heading west."
Kiaran frowned, his ruby-red eyes narrowing. "You think? Did the traders say anything about them?"
"No," I admitted, shaking my head. "But they're unmarked, Kiaran. That's suspicious enough. What else could they be?"
He didn't look convinced. "And the fourth?" he asked, his gaze shifting to the largest circle.
"Mors Gravis," I said grimly. "The biggest shipment. It'll arrive by 10:00 PM tomorrow."
Kiaran rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his expression darkening. "Mors Gravis..." His voice trailed off, and I saw the tension building in his jaw. "Those aren't slaves, Mablevi. They're fighters."
"They're people," I snapped, my voice rising. "People who don't deserve to die for sport. We have to stop it."
"No." Kiaran's voice was firm, cutting through my urgency like a blade. "We focus on the unmarked caravans. They're carrying slaves—innocent people. The ones going to Mors Gravis can fight for themselves."
"Mors Gravis is a death game, Kiaran," I said sharply, slamming my hand on the table. "You don't just die there. You're torn apart for amusement. We have to prioritize it. Those fighters don't deserve that."
"And what about the slaves?" Kiaran countered, his tone hardening. "You're willing to let them rot in chains because you think warriors deserve our help more? The innocents come first, Mablevi. Always."
I clenched my fists against the table, frustration bubbling up inside me. Nyxara's lifeless eyes flashed in my mind, hollow and accusing. I had failed her. I couldn't fail again.
"And what if you're wrong?" I shot back, my voice rising. "What if those caravans aren't carrying slaves at all? What if we waste time chasing a hunch while the Aranbiya shipment reaches Mors Gravis? Those fighters will be dead before we even get there."
"And what if you're wrong?" Kiaran shot back, his voice low and cutting. "What if we leave slaves behind because you couldn't wait to play hero in the coliseum?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. My hands curled tighter, nails biting into my palms. Neither of us moved.
Kiaran's eyes never faltered from the map. His gaze hardened, and his lips pressed into a thin line, making me uncomfortable. It was as if something on the map was holding his attention longer than usual. Was it the argument we had? Was it the three caravans? Mors Gravis? Or something else entirely?
Finally, Kiaran broke the tension, his finger hovering over another marking—a single caravan, circled in red, heading far east.
"What about this?" he asked, his voice low. "Supplies. That's all it says. But look at the route—it's heading away from everything. Far east, past the borders of Aranbiya."
"It's just a supply caravan," I said, dismissing it with a wave of my hand. "Probably a decoy."
Kiaran didn't look convinced. His finger traced the jagged line leading east. "A supply caravan? That far into the desert? It doesn't make sense."
"It's a diversion," I insisted, though the unease creeping up my spine was harder to ignore now. "They're trying to throw us off."
Kiaran's brow furrowed. His hand moved to another part of the map, tapping a small symbol near one of the unmarked caravans. "This isn't a trade route marker," he muttered. "It's like someone's... keeping tabs."
"What do you mean?" I asked, leaning closer.
"Look at the routes," Kiaran said, his voice darkening. "They're too precise. Slavers don't make maps like this—they don't care about precision. But this..." His finger followed one of the lines, stopping abruptly. "This leads to nowhere. No villages, no trade posts. Just the middle of the desert."
My stomach twisted, but I shook my head. "They're trying to confuse us."
Kiaran's finger moved again, this time to the word Supplies. His gaze sharpened. "The ink here..." He paused, his tone sharpening. "It's fresher than the rest. Whoever made this was... reacting to something. Updating it."
I leaned closer, the faint scent of smoke tickling my nose. It wasn't coming from the candle. The ink near the word Supplies looked rushed, smeared at the edges as if the writer's hand had trembled. The shadows from the flickering light danced across the map, making the lines and symbols seem almost alive. I blinked, shaking my head, but the unease crawling up my spine refused to fade.
"So what?" I shot back, though my voice wavered. "It's just a map."
Kiaran's ruby-red eyes flicked to mine, his expression dark. "It means this isn't just a map," he said, his voice low and steady. "Someone's actively watching."
The air in the room felt heavier suddenly, thick with an oppressive weight I couldn't explain. The candlelight flickered, casting warped shadows across the map. My pulse quickened as I glanced at Kiaran, whose gaze hardened.
Then, the faintest sound broke the silence—a low creak, like wood shifting under a weight.
I froze.
"Did you hear that?" I whispered.
Kiaran nodded, his hand already moving toward the weapon at his side. "Stay calm," he said, his voice barely above a murmur.
The room felt colder, the air pressing against my skin like a vice. My gaze darted to the door, half-expecting someone to burst through it. But nothing came.
Then the scream tore through the air.
It was sharp and raw, cutting through the brothel's usual din like a blade. Both Kiaran and I froze, our heads snapping toward the door. My chest tightened as the sound came again—piercing, desperate, and riddled with something far worse than pain.
It was coming from downstairs.
In a place like this, screams weren't uncommon. Pain, pleasure, and anguish blurred together so often that the sound of someone crying out usually dissolved into the hum of the brothel's nightly routine. But this one was different.
I knew that voice.
"It's Estella," I whispered, my stomach twisting into knots. My pulse quickened as I pushed myself to my feet, the map forgotten on the table.
"Or Mirelle," Kiaran said tersely from behind me.
The twins. Dancers. High performers. Their names were whispered with reverence by clients and with envy by other girls. Fraternal twins with sharp, foxlike smiles and a grace that could hypnotize a room. They were untouchable—or so I'd thought.
I remembered Estella once braiding my hair while Mirelle hummed a soft tune, her voice like a lullaby that made the brothel walls feel less suffocating. Their laughter had been rare in a place like this—light and carefree, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
But that scream... that wasn't the sound of someone untouchable.
The air in the room felt heavier now, thick with a tension I couldn't shake. I glanced at Kiaran, whose ruby-red eyes had darkened with that familiar, stormy look. He was already halfway to the door, his weapon materializing slowly into his hands.
"Stay behind me," he said, his voice low and steady.
"I'm not staying behind," I snapped, already moving toward the stairs.
Another scream echoed through the halls, this one weaker but no less desperate. My hands clenched into fists as I descended the stairs two at a time, Kiaran's heavy footsteps following close behind me.
Whatever was happening, it wasn't just another night in the brothel.
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