A/N: Whew, that was a long wait. Damn, technicians... They held my laptop for so long, extending their repair time... Thank you for your patience, we'll be continuing this story as it was... It might take some time to catch the previous pace, but I'll be doing this nonetheless. See you soon in the next chapter, for now, enjoy this....
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In Barol City's Guild Hall, Tucker sat behind his hulking desk, glasses fogged with strain, doing his darndest to keep a lid on the fury bubbling under his skin.
The room smelled of ink and stale coffee, papers strewn like casualties of his endless scheming. Across from him stood Ime Silva, silver hair catching the lamplight, her posture relaxed but her bluish-green eyes sharp as she recounted last night's clash.
"Totally didn't expect Raven to pull that vanishing act," she said, voice smooth, almost playful. "Slipped right through my fingers; poof, gone with the crows.
But I nicked him good. Blood's blood, right? Cornered beast's easier to track now."
Tucker's jaw twitched, fingers drumming the desk. He didn't know what to make of it. Silva's nonchalance, Raven's escape, the whole damn mess.
She was the only adventurer in this portside shitshow who'd taken the Raven job, a fact that gnawed at him like a bad tooth.
Relying on her was a headache he couldn't shake, but what choice did he have? Still, her landing a hit wasn't nothing.
It at least proved that Raven wasn't some untouchable shadow, no matter what the dockside whispers claimed. The guy was a mortal pain in Tucker's ass.
Sure; enough to make him half-believe the "dark spirit of vengeance" crap, but blood meant weakness. It meant he could be caught or killed.
He sighed, leaning back, sizing Silva up. No question she was strong; too strong, maybe. Those personal motives she'd hinted at, the questions she wanted Raven to answer.
How much were they driving her? If he could reel her in, get her loyal to his cause, it'd be a game-changer. But trust? Tucker didn't trust anyone, least of all the powerful ones.
He'd dug into her past; noble family from the west, some highborn daughter who'd spit on a political marriage and picked up a sword instead.
Fine. Loyalty wasn't the play; money was. Pay her enough, and she'd stay leashed. "We've got something tonight," he said, voice clipped.
"Knights sniffed out a human trafficker hideout. They're set to move in, but we're betting Raven will crash the party. You'll be there, backing them up. If he shows, you know what to do."
Silva's neutral expression didn't budge, but inside, she twisted her nose. 'Not arresting the traffickers yourself, huh? Just waiting for Raven to do the dirty work so you can swoop in and grab him.
What, you think my brain's in my knees? She bit back a laugh, keeping her face blank. Alright, Tucker, let's see what your smart-ass brain's cooking.
"Sounds good," she said, voice smooth as silk. "I'll be there."
Southern Ridge-Loran Territory
Miles away, the southern ridge loomed under a bruised sky, its stone cliffs battered by relentless winds. Thunder growled, lightning flickering in the clouds, but the air held a tense quiet; until it didn't.
Marcille and her team stood battered but defiant, the molten remains of the rock monster cooling behind them.
Before them, five elves emerged from their invisibility, black-and-gold coats glinting, blonde hair near-golden in the storm's light.
Their tall frames radiated menace, hands hovering near weapons, eyes locked on the adventurers with cold intent.
Five on five, numbers matched, but Marcille's gut screamed they were outclassed. Her team rallied in front of her, weapons drawn but held low, a fragile line of defense.
The archer, a wiry woman with a steely glare, spoke first. "I'm sure you've been informed, but Marcille's under the guild's protection, tied to the church-"
The lead elf, centered in their pack, cut her off with a sneer. "Yeah, yeah, guild, church, blah, blah, blah. We know the spiel.
Why do you think we haven't snatched her right off Loran's streets?" His voice dripped disdain, gold-flecked eyes flicking to Marcille. "I'm not here to waste my breath on you lot."
Marcille's heart lurched, danger crackling in the air like the storm above. She stepped forward, staff clutched tight, her voice ringing out before the elves could move.
"Wait!" Her green eyes darted to her team; two women, two men, all battered but ready to throw down, then back to the elves.
"You want me, right? Then let's skip the blood. If I go with you, you let them walk. No fight, no mess." She held the leader's gaze, steady despite the fear clawing her chest.
Her teammates stiffened, the greatsword guy muttering a protest, but she shot them a look, 'trust me.'
The greatsword wielder frowned, his knuckles whitening on his blade. 'Yeah, like these pricks would let us walk alive and snitch to the guild.'
It wasn't that they doubted Marcille's heart; they'd seen her pull miracles before, but these elves? Their smirks screamed betrayal.
The team's eyes met, a silent pact forming. They all knew it, bone-deep: without a miracle, Marcille might be the only one breathing when this was over.
The elf tilted his head, a smirk curling his lips, sharp and predatory. Lightning cracked overhead, thunder swallowing the silence, as the ridge held its breath for his answer.
Beyond Barol City's bustling sprawl, where the port's clamor faded into a distant hum, lay an isolated patch of grassland; untamed, forgotten.
Here, a crumbling cemetery festered, its long grasses tangled with wild weeds, tombstones cloaked in darkened moss.
The air hung heavy with neglect, the scent of damp earth and decay clinging to every breath. Crooked slabs jutted from the ground like broken teeth, most too weathered to read, their names lost to time.
In a shadowed corner, beneath the skeletal reach of dead trees, two graves stood apart. The inscriptions were faint, eroded by wind and rain, but traces remained.
Robin on one, Ayre on the other. Beside Ayre's tombstone loomed a hooded figure, motionless, shrouded in a dark veil.
Violet eyes glowed faintly beneath the hood, staring down at the stone as if it could speak. His mind drifted, lost in a tide of memories too raw to bury.
Flashback: Days After the Orphanage Fire
Robin woke to sterile white walls and the sting of antiseptic, his body aching like it'd been dragged through hell.
A hospital bed creaked beneath him, the world swimming into focus days after the orphanage burned. His hands still bore the faint scars of that fire.
Blistered, red, a brutal reminder of what he'd seen. But the pain in his flesh was nothing compared to the confusion clawing his chest.
When he got back to the city. whispers slithered through the halls, venomous and sharp, staining the air. Ayre's name; once spoken with reverence, was now spat like a curse.
'Traitor. Monster. Inhuman.' The words hit him like punches, each one heavier than the last.
Staff from the orphanage, people he'd known, claimed she'd killed herself, dragging Logan and Jake down with her in some twisted suicide pact. They said they'd tried to stop her and paid the price.
He couldn't breathe under the weight of it. Ayre? That Ayre? Reduced to this? He'd seen her that morning, pinned to the wall, butchered beyond recognition, metal spikes tearing through her flesh.
Logan's dying words echoed in his skull; 'They killed her… we couldn't stop; sorry…' It didn't add up. The pity in people's eyes when they looked at him wasn't kindness.
It was contempt, rooted in hatred for her. He refused to swallow their lies. She wasn't some villain who'd snapped; she'd been murdered, and someone was painting her as the devil to cover it up.
Desperate, he tracked down the maids, the gardeners; anyone who'd known her. Their story only deepened the wound.
Jane; the bright-eyed girl adopted days before the fire, had been found mutilated, her new family slaughtered beside her.
And Ayre, they said, had orchestrated it all. A scheme to sell her to some sick bastard, gone wrong. The Guild had been sniffing around her for weeks, they claimed, unmasking a web of horrors.
Human trafficking, experimentation, kids peddled to the highest bidder under the guise of finding them homes.
Robin's blood ran cold. "Bullshit," he snarled, fists clenched. "Fuck that to hell; I won't believe it." Ayre, a monster? The woman who'd built a sanctuary, who'd smiled at him with warmth he could still feel?
No. He'd seen her corpse, her body desecrated. Logan's words weren't a confession; they were a plea.
With nowhere else to turn, he stormed to the Guild Rep's office, heart pounding, rage and grief a tangled mess driving him forward.
Shou Tucker sat behind his desk, calm as ever, glasses glinting as Robin poured out the truth. Ayre's mangled body, Logan's last gasp, the stench of a cover-up.
To his shock, Tucker didn't dismiss him. The man sighed, leaning forward, voice dropping to a near-whisper.
"I've had my doubts about this mess too. Ayre? Come on. A mage that powerful who never harmed a soul in her life, and suddenly she's a mastermind of all this?"
He shook his head, a flicker of something; sympathy, maybe, crossing his face. "People bought it too easy. But you've got something now; not solid evidence, but enough to crack this open again."
Robin's chest loosened, relief washing over him. Tucker steepled his fingers, continuing. "My hands were tied by the law; until this.
I'll help you kill this charade, but we've got to be smart. Meet me tonight, western cemetery. Influential players might be in deep. I want this off the books, private."
Robin frowned, unease prickling his spine. A cemetery? Why not here, behind closed doors? But Tucker's agreement and Ayre's innocence affirmed by at least one more person, drowned the doubt.
He'd failed to save her life; her dignity was all he had left to protect. And now he had an ally, Shou Tucker, Barol's respected Guild Rep, a man who saw through the lies.
For the first time since the fire, hope flickered, fragile but real. He'd do anything; anything to clear her name. Tucker was his lifeline, and he'd cling to it.
That night, Robin stood at the cemetery's edge, the wind cutting through the grassland with a low, mournful howl.
The entrance gaped before him, a shadowed maw framed by gnarled trees, their bare branches clawing at the starless sky.
Unease churned in his gut, a quiet warning he couldn't shake. He scanned the darkness, expecting Tucker's familiar silhouette but nothing.
Turning toward the graves, a sharp crack split his skull, pain exploding behind his eyes. His knees buckled, the world tilting as he hit the ground, half-conscious, blood pooling cold beneath his head.
He lay there, breath shallow, vision swimming. A figure loomed; a woman, her face was masked, hair tied back tight, dressed in assassin's black.
She circled him like a vulture, then grabbed his ankle, dragging him across the damp earth into the cemetery's depths.
He wanted to scream, to fight, but his body betrayed him. Numb, heavy, the pain sapping his strength. His eyes fluttered shut, clinging to a shred of awareness as the grass scraped beneath him.
The dragging stopped. A voice cut through the haze; it was gruff, familiar. "Well, they're here." Tars, Tucker's bison-hybrid assistant, the guy Robin had chatted with a dozen times at the guild.
Another voice followed, one that stabbed ice into his chest. "Had he seen any of you that day?" Shou Tucker. Robin's heart lurched, but his lids wouldn't lift, and betrayal burned hotter than the gash in his head.
"No, just Ayre's body and the two guys there," the assassin replied, her tone clipped. "Didn't think he'd survive that fire. I Should've finished him then. Forgive me."
"Doesn't matter," Tucker said, cold as stone. "He hasn't spilled to anyone yet- huh? You didn't kill him?" Confusion edged his words.
The assassin gestured at Robin's head, the back of his skull split open, blood and bone exposed. He should've been dead, but his chest still rose, faint and stubborn.
"Tenacious," Tars muttered, almost impressed. "Shame, a soul this strong has to die so-"
"Cut the philosophic bullshit," Tucker snapped. "Kill him properly and bury him." Tars grunted, a bead of sweat rolling down his furred brow.
He raised his hoofed foot and brought it down hard. Robin's skull caved with a wet crunch; bone splintering, brains oozing like a grotesque bloom, petals of gore mocking his fight.
The bison-man shoved the body into a shallow grave beside an unmarked stone, dirt clods tumbling over the mess. Tucker glanced at the crushed skull, then the corpse, his face unreadable.
Tars tilted his head. "Last courtesy, burying him by Ayre?" Tucker didn't answer, turning away as the wind swallowed the silence.
At Present:
Raven stood motionless by Ayre's grave; the hooded figure lost in the echo of that night. The cemetery sprawled around him, a wasteland of forgotten dead, the air thick with rot and regret.
His violet eyes glowed faintly beneath the veil, fixed on the weathered tombstones; Robin and Ayre, side by side, a lie and a truth etched in stone.
A voice snapped him from his stupor, smooth and unbothered. "You're neither alive nor dead… tethering between the two, held together by sheer conviction alone."
He didn't flinch, didn't turn, just stared at the graves. Behind him stood Ime Silva, silver hair glinting in the faint moonlight, hands resting casually on the hilt of her sheathed sword.
No tension in her stance; just a predator at ease. "Still holding up after that scratch I gave you last night, Raven," she said, a smirk tugging her lips. "Or should I say, Robin?"
His head lifted, hood shadowing his face, but the surprise was clear in his glitched, gravelly voice. "How?"
Silva shrugged, like it was nothing. "Wasn't hard. Tucker's not as slick as he thinks. Did some digging. The name, Ayre, popped up. A saint turned monster overnight.
Screamed bullshit, so I kept going. And here you are, the dead crawling back from their grave." She nodded at the tombstones, her tone light, as if she hadn't just unraveled a secret the world had buried.
"Don't get me wrong; I'm not here to play hero with the truth. I still want answers from you. Haven't asked my questions yet, though… Where's the fun in ending it quick?"
"Fun?" His voice darkened, a pulse of magic seeping outward, thick and oppressive. The hood slid back, revealing a face stitched together like a nightmare.
Scarred, patchy, segments Frankenstein'd into a bald, grotesque whole. "If you want fun, draw that fucking sword and see if you enjoy it."
Silva chuckled, unfazed by the horror show staring her down. "No interest in brawling over graves, boyo. Heal up; those wounds won't wait.
We'll clash soon enough, you know it." Her calm grated on him, a puzzle he couldn't crack. Who was she? He'd never heard of her before that rooftop fight.
Yet here she was, acting like she had a personal stake in his war. Her goals, her motives; blanks he didn't care to fill.
If she got in his way, he'd cut through her, simple as that. For now, he let the tension hang, then dissolved into a mist of black energy, vanishing into the night.
Silva stayed put, staring at the graves, her expression neutral, posture loose. The wind tugged at her coat; the cemetery silent save for its rustle.
Early evening draped Barol's slums in a gray haze, the air thick with smoke and desperation. Raven slipped into a rundown house, its walls sagging, windows cracked and boarded.
He pulled back his hood, the scarred mess of his face catching the dim light as he sank onto a rickety stool. His mind churned.
'What next?' He thought, when a prickle ran up his spine, sharp and electric. Someone strong was here.
He snapped his gaze forward. A young woman sat in his worn-down chair, shoulder-length red hair framing a face he knew.
Millicent, Loran's Guild Rep. Her simple adventurer's attire clashed with the authority she carried, her golden eyes steady on him. "So, Robin," she said, voice calm but firm. "Shall we talk?"
Back to the Southern Ridge:
Two elves loomed before Marcille's team, silver blades slick with blood, their gold-flecked eyes glinting with cruel amusement.
The archer woman and mace guy braced their teammates. The shield-bearing woman and greatsword wielder, both gravely wounded, blood seeping through torn armor, their breaths shallow but stubborn.
Marcille stood panting before the elf leader, her combat tunic streaked with dirt, staff clutched tight. She was unhurt but drained, her limbs trembling from the fight's toll.
Behind, the other two elves lounged, smirking, savoring the carnage as her four teammates were toyed with like prey.
Marcille's green eyes darted, taking stock. One thing stood out; their strikes, precise and brutal against her team, never touched her.
The elf she was fighting, he parried her spells, dodged her swings, but never countered with lethal force. 'They need me alive,' she realized, chest tightening.
'And well.' But the others? The elves' blades danced through her team with sadistic glee, their lives just a game to prolong.
Rage flared; not at the elves' disregard for life, but at her own weakness, her inability to stop this. Her legs shook, staff heavy in her grip, mind racing.
'What do I do? Our magic level's matched, but he could kill me anytime, if he wanted… What would he do here? Can I even fight like this-' Her thoughts snagged, a memory surfacing, sharp and clear.
Flashback:
Loran Guild Training Ground-
Some time ago, when Satoru was still lost in the Fissure, the Loran guild's training ground lay quiet under a lazy sun, dust motes drifting in the warm air.
Only two figures broke the stillness; Marcille, staff raised, and Vanessa, axe in hand. "Smack!" Vanessa's metallic boot slammed into Marcille's translucent green shield, shattering it like glass.
Marcille flew back, dragging her staff along the ground to halt her skid, her knees wobbling as she stood. Vanessa lowered her leg, sighing, her sharp eyes pinning the trembling half-elf.
"What happened? That shield was solid enough to block me, wasn't it?"
Marcille's breath hitched, frustration twisting her gut. She'd begged Vanessa to train her, desperate to get stronger, but every spar exposed the same truth.
Anyone with real battle experience could drop her like a sack of flour. She clenched her staff, voice small. "Is it… because I doubt myself?"
Vanessa tilted her head, hair swaying, her expression more thoughtful than harsh. "Not quite. Doubt's part of it, sure, but it's deeper.
You've got the will to grow; hell, you're here, aren't you? But you're chasing strength for someone else." Her gaze softened, just a fraction. "To be useful, to not hold them back. We both know who."
Marcille flushed, looking away. Satoru's shadow loomed large; his reckless confidence, his chaos. She wanted to stand beside him, not drag him down.
"Is that… wrong?"
"Not wrong," Vanessa said, planting her axe in the dirt. "It's fuel, but it's flawed. You're measuring your worth by how much you help him.
That restrains you; makes you think you're only as good as your utility. You've got to want it for you." She tapped her chest, voice firm.
"Satoru has been nudging you there, in his own- dumbass way, but you're holding yourself back. Scared to take that leap."
"Leap?" Marcille frowned, wiping sweat from her brow.
Vanessa smirked faintly. "To light that fire in here." She tapped her chest again. "Not for him, not for anyone; just you.
You're afraid of what happens if you stop playing support and start burning for yourself. That's the spark you're missing."
Marcille stared, the words sinking in, heavy and unyielding. Her worth wasn't just in supporting others; it was in claiming her own strength, fearless and whole.
Flashback End:
Marcille faced the elf leader, his towering frame dwarfing her. A subtle smirk curved her lips; not threatening, just enough to catch him off-guard.
For the first time, she silenced the ifs and whatnots clogging her mind. If she wanted to save her team, she had to act, not think.
These elves were experienced, lethal, but they had a weakness; they needed her alive. That was her edge, and she'd damn well use it.
Her smirk widened. The tip of her staff glowed white, frost coiling in the air, and a long dagger of ice materialized in her free hand.
The elf's smug grin faltered, confusion flashing across his face; then shock as he saw her intent. She raised the dagger, aiming it at her own chest, and his eyes widened.
"No-" he barked, lunging forward, grabbing her wrist in a blur. "I knew you were strong, but not dumb."
The two elves behind shouted a warning, but it was too late. Marcille's voice was soft, almost serene. "Set your heart ablaze, huh?"
The frost dagger shattered in her grip, exploding into a spray of razor-sharp shards. They tore into the elf's face, lodging deep in his eyes.
Blood sprayed, a crimson arc against the storm's gray, as he stumbled back, screaming, hands clawing at his ruined sockets.
The two rear elves charged, fury replacing their amusement, but Marcille didn't stop. Mist swirled from her staff, coalescing into another ice spike that rocketed toward the blinded leader's head.
He tilted instinctively, dodging by a hair; exactly as she'd planned. She clenched her fist, and the spike detonated, shards bursting outward.
His head vanished in a frozen blast, brains and bone scattering, blood flash-freezing in the air. His body slumped, a headless ruin on the ridge.
The lone elf fighting her team faltered, distracted by the carnage; enough for the archer to land a glowing arrow in his shoulder.
He snarled, refocusing, but the tide had shifted. The two charging Marcille were all business now, blades flashing with lethal intent.
She darted back, staff humming, conjuring a green barrier just as their swords struck. The shield cracked but held, buying her seconds.
One elf; a woman with a cruel sneer, slashed low, aiming to cripple, while the other, a lean male, went high, testing her guard.
Marcille spun, staff trailing frost, and loosed a wave of icy wind. It slowed them, but not enough; the woman's blade grazed her side, tearing cloth and skin.
Marcille gasped, blood welling, staggering to one knee. The elves paused, blades raised, sensing their chance. The woman smirked. "Careless, little Heart."
They lunged, synchronized, aiming to subdue her; alive, not dead. Marcille's eyes flicked up, pain sharpening her focus.
'Got you.' Her hand glowed, the wound sealing in a pulse of holy magic, faster than they expected. She rolled aside, their blades biting dirt, and slammed her staff down.
"Sanctum de Noir!" Darkness erupted, a debuff wave that sapped their strength, slowing their limbs.
The male elf cursed, shaking off the haze, but Marcille was already moving. She thrust her staff skyward, chanting low.
"Ghost Flames!" Black-and-white fire roared out, narrower this time, a lance of searing heat. The woman dove, dodging; barely, but Marcille twisted her grip, splitting the beam.
It curved, catching the elf mid-leap, engulfing her. Her scream cut off as the flames melted flesh from bone, her torso charring black, intestines spilling as her corpse hit the ground, steaming and split.
The male elf roared, grief and rage driving his swing. His blade bit Marcille's shoulder, shallow but sharp, blood spraying. She gritted her teeth, channeling through the pain, and raised her hand.
Frost coalesced, forming a jagged spear that shot forward. He parried, but the spear shattered on impact, shards peppering his chest and throat.
He gagged, blood bubbling, and Marcille closed the distance, staff glowing. A final spike materialized, driving through his eye, bursting out the back of his skull in a spray of gore and gray matter.
He twitched once and crumpled, a mangled heap.
Marcille's breath rasped, vision blurring, but the fight wasn't done. The last elf, pinned by her team, was losing ground.
The shield woman lay slumped, barely alive, blood pooling beneath her. The mace guy knelt beside her, tying makeshift bandages to stem the bleeding, his hands shaking.
The archer, exhausted, loosed arrows to support the greatsword wielder, who traded blows with the elf. The elf's pride stung, 'backed into a corner by humans.' His anger blinded him, senses dulling, a fatal slip.
Too late, he felt it; a storm of ice and wind screaming toward him. Marcille, bloodied but unbowed, had finished her fight and turned her staff on him.
The spell hit, encasing him in a jagged shell of frost. He thrashed, cracking the ice, but the greatsword guy seized the moment.
With a roar, he spun, his blade cleaving through the frozen prison. The elf split horizontally, torso sliding from legs, guts spilling in a red tide that stained the frost crimson.
The halves thudded to the ground, steaming in the cold.
Marcille staggered to the shield woman, dropping to her knees. Her hands glowed, holy magic pouring into the wounds, knitting flesh and staunching blood.
The woman's breathing steadied, faint but holding. The others collapsed around them; mace guy, archer, greatsword wielder; shoulders slumping, weapons clattering to the dirt.
They'd stared death in the face and walked away, by a hair's breadth. And that miracle? It was Marcille, the Heart who'd pulled them through, her fire blazing at last, proving her worth not to the world but to herself.
The gates of Loran creaked open under a bruised dusk, admitting five weary figures; Marcille and her team, battered, bruised, but breathing.
Their armor was scuffed, cloaks torn, faces etched with exhaustion, yet their eyes held a stubborn spark. Marcille led the way, staff slung across her shoulder, her combat tunic still flecked with dried blood despite the healing magic she'd woven over herself and the others.
The shield woman, now walking steady, owed her life to Marcille's quick hands; the greatsword guy, archer, and mace man followed close, their silence louder than any victory cry.
Word of their return hit the guild like a thunderclap. By the time they reached the hall, whispers had already spread.
Marcille, the Heart, had torn through five elven assassins, saving her team from a slaughter. The story grew wings.
She'd outsmarted their leader, burned through their ranks with fire and frost, left their bodies broken on the cliffs. Adventurers crowded the job boards paused, staring as the team trudged in.
Clerks leaned over counters, murmuring. "Heard she took down three single-handed," one grunted. "Nah, all five, elves heads exploded like fruit," another countered, half-awed, half-disbelieving.
Marcille's name was wildfire, her praise a roar that echoed through Loran's streets.
Vanessa was on the move before the dust settled. As soon as the guild logged the report—elves ambushing an adventurer team.
She'd rallied a crew to the ridge. "Get those bodies," she barked, axe already slung across her back. "Every scrap of evidence. Move!"
Her team returned by dawn, hauling the elves' mangled remains; frozen, charred, split. It was the proof of the bloodbath.
The next day, Satoru and Millicent strode through Loran's gates, their own mission cutting short when the guild's uproar reached them.
Vanessa met them in the hall, debriefing fast; Marcille's fight, the elves, the bodies. Millicent's golden eyes narrowed, cutting to the point. "Your team retrieved them? All of them?"
Vanessa smirked, folding her arms. "Every last chunk. Wrapped and stored; nobody's touching 'em 'til you say."
Millicent nodded, a flicker of satisfaction breaking her stoic mask. Satoru's grin twitched, sharp and knowing.
They'd been hunting a thread to unravel the elves' schemes, a crack to wedge their investigation into Barol's rot. The black diamond vein, Tucker's whispers, the elves' shadow games.
It was all connected, and they'd needed an excuse to move. This? Marcille's blood-soaked stand? It was a fucking gift.
The elves had overplayed their hand, and now Millicent's plan; weeks in the brewing, could roll out full-scale. No more creeping in the dark; it was time to strike, hard and public. Tucker wouldn't know what hit him.
For now, Satoru left the plotting to Millicent, slipping away to the guild's infirmary. Marcille lay deep asleep in a narrow bed, her blonde hair fanned across the pillow, face soft but smudged with faint bruises.
She'd pushed herself to the brink, and it showed; yet she looked stronger, somehow, even in sleep. He pulled a chair close, sinking into it with a sigh.
"What a kid," he muttered, a smile tugging his lips. He'd always known she held back, her heart tangled in doubts, measuring herself against him.
Vanessa had warned him months ago; Marcille's drive to be "useful" was a chain, not a wing. But yesterday, she'd broken it. Lit that fire for herself, not him.
He leaned back, memories flickering. Yuji's reckless grin, Yuta's quiet resolve; kids he'd mentored, fought beside, who'd carved their own paths.
Marcille was growing on him, same way they had. Not just the scared girl he'd sworn to protect, but a force in her own right, stepping into her power.
"Far stronger than you know, kid," he said softly, brushing a stray lock from her face. Satoru was pleasantly surprised with what he was feeling right now.
Pride? Love? Is that how it felt, to deeply care for someone. This time, it should have been no different than how he felt about his friends and students, before.
But why, why seeing that innocent face at peace, 'Heh, hahaha…' A silent chuckle escaped his mouth. Never had he thought he'd be thinking about these thing.
...… To be continued!!!