The wind shifted.
It carried the smell of old leaves, cool stone, and faintly—blood. Not fresh or dangerous. Just a trace of something old, soaked deep into the roots of the garden.
Mira sat still. Her hands rested on her lap, not the teacup. Her eyes stayed fixed on Veylar, watching him the way someone watches a wolf that hasn’t shown its teeth—yet.
Veylar wasn’t in a hurry. He looked at her as if she were something rare—like a wild bird that had finally come close enough to touch.
“I must admit,” he said at last, voice calm and measured, “I was not certain you would take the seat.”
“I’m not sure I should’ve,” Mira said.
He gave a small smile. “Yet here you are.”
“I want answers,” she replied. “If you have any.”
He gently set his teacup down. It made a soft clink. “Oh, I have many. But the real question is—which answers do you seek?”
Mira looked up at the trees. Sunlight passed through the leaves in patches. She looked tired—not from fighting, but from carrying too many questions alone.
“Start with this,” she said. “You said those books belong here. You merely put them back in the library. Does that mean the Crimson Crow was connected to the Elmhursts?”
Veylar leaned back. His gloved hands rested in front of him.
“Perhaps,” he said quietly. “Or perhaps not.”
Mira frowned. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only answer I can give you without falsehood,” he said softly. “The Crimson Crow has very ancient roots, Saintess. No house could claim it alone.”
“But they worked for the Elmhursts, didn’t they?” she pressed.
Veylar’s eyes moved over the old garden—the broken statues, the moss-covered stones, the tall ash tree above them.
“Yes,” he said. “As they once served many noble houses across the empire.”
Mira leaned in slightly, hands resting on the stone table. “Then why show the books to my father? What are you really after?”
Veylar looked at her. His expression didn’t change. His eyes held something ancient and unreadable.
“Because of you, Saintess,” he said.
Mira blinked. “Me?”
“Yes. You.” He tilted his head slightly. “And… because I am bored.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Bored?”
He nodded slowly. “Indeed. When one lives as long as I have, the days grow quiet. Still. The world turns, beauty fades, and nothing stirs the soul anymore.”
He glanced at the cup but didn’t reach for it. “Most days feel like still paintings—pretty, but lifeless. Then you appeared. So brave, so strong, yet so righteous. I wonder what you would do when faced with true threat.”
“You think this is just a game?” she asked.
“No,” he said, his voice deeper now. “This is a story, Saintess. And I have merely chosen to turn the page.”
She leaned back slightly. Her grip loosened—not out of trust, but caution. “So you gave us the books just to amuse yourself?”
“You could put it that way,” he said. “After all, watching humans kill each other is rather... entertaining.”
Mira’s gaze sharpened. “You're sick.”
Her words cut through the air like a blade.
But Veylar didn’t flinch. He didn’t argue. He only looked at her, red eyes unblinking.
“Sickness is just a matter of perspective, Saintess,” he said. “History is filled with men far sicker than I, and yet, they were remembered as heroes.”
Mira didn’t look away.
Her voice, though quiet, was firm. “Then tell me this.”
Veylar lifted an eyebrow, mildly amused.
“The night we first met,” Mira said. “In the forest. You told me you wouldn’t mind telling me your purpose… personally.”
“Ah, yes,” he murmured, a faint smile touching his lips—more memory than amusement. “That night.”
“Well?” she pressed. “Are you a man of your word or not?”
“But of course, Saintess,” he replied smoothly. “I was performing a summoning ritual.”
Mira’s expression darkened. She leaned in slightly, voice tightening. “Summoning what?”
Veylar tilted his head, gaze drifting to the sunlit branches above—as if weighing whether the answer was worth the breath.
Then he sighed. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” Mira said sharply. “It does.”
His crimson eyes settled back on hers, and for a moment, the playful mask slipped. What looked back at her was cold, timeless, and utterly serious.
“A name,” he said at last. “A piece of something ancient—forgotten by most, but not by me.”
Mira frowned. “What kind of name?”
Veylar’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “A name that was once sung in blood. Carved into the bones of kings. A name buried under stone, sealed away before the empire was even born.”
“Enough riddles,” she said, barely keeping her voice calm. “What were you trying to do exactly?”
“I wasn’t trying,” he replied quietly. “I succeeded. After our... departure, I performed another summoning ritual—and luck was on my side.”
Mira’s heart skipped as she remembered what she saw that night. If something had truly come out of that evil ritual, it had to be bad news.
She pressed on. “What did you summon? And where is it now?”
Veylar gave a small smile and gestured to his butler—Alwen.
“Why don’t you introduce yourself to the Saintess, my old friend?”
Alwen stepped forward.
The silver trim on his coat caught the sunlight as he moved—precise and fluid, like a blade being drawn.
He came to a halt beside the stone table and bowed deeply—not with servitude, but with the weight of ritual.
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When he straightened, Mira noticed something different.
The air around him shimmered faintly—like heat over scorched earth.
“My name,” he said, his voice no longer quiet, but deep and resonant, “is Alwen Flamereave. Once General of the Black Flame Legion. Summoned from the dead by pact-blood and fire, born of cinders and command.”
He turned slightly, one hand over his chest in solemn gesture, eyes burning faintly with emberlight.
“Now, I serve the one who gave me purpose beyond war. My master—Count Veylar Thorne. One of the Four Generals of the Demon King’s army. Lord of the Crimson Host. Warden of the Forgotten Marches.”
The garden seemed to go still.
Not with silence, but with reverence—as if the trees themselves had paused to listen.
Mira froze.
The name Veylar Thorne rang in her mind like a bell tolling doom. She had seen it before, in the history books of the Great Demon War.
A name tied to the fall of human cities and the slaughter of heroes.
“You’re…” she whispered. “You’re the Hero Slayer.”
Veylar didn’t rise. He only tilted his head, eyes glowing faintly red beneath the ash tree’s shade.
“Is that what humans called me in their history books?”
Mira stood slowly, her chair scraping against the stone. Her hands hovered at her sides—tense, uncertain.
“Why tell me this?” she asked. “Why are you in Mermaid’s Cove?”
“Why not?” Veylar said, lifting his cup again.
“Mermaid’s Cove lies so far south, so tucked between sea and stone, that even the long arm of the Temple of Light cannot reach it. No prayers echo this far. No swords come hunting.”
He glanced at the sky through the leaves.
“It is forgotten. Quiet. A perfect place for retirement, don’t you think?”
He sipped with easy grace, as if they were simply two old friends catching up beneath the shade of an ash tree.
Mira’s voice sharpened. “Then why summon him—an undead—if you’re really here to rest?”
Veylar smiled faintly, but his eyes stayed cold.
“I needed my butler back,” he said.
Mira’s fingers curled slightly. “You make it sound like you were just… calling for tea.”
“And yet,” he said, gesturing to the table, “here we are. Tea has been served.”
She stared at him, thoughts spinning like storm clouds behind her eyes. None of it made sense—yet all the pieces fit together with unsettling precision.
“So what now?” she asked at last, her voice low. “You expect me to believe you meant no harm to Mermaid’s Cove… and just sit here, drinking tea with you like none of this matters?”
Veylar gave a soft chuckle, tilting his head slightly.
“That depends entirely on you, Saintess.”
He set his cup down, the porcelain clicking gently against the stone. His fingers lingered at the rim, as if savoring the pause.
Mira didn’t answer. She couldn’t—not yet.
The wind stirred again. The scent of ash drifted with the breeze, mingled with something sharper—salt, metal, memory.
Then she whispered, “What happens… if I ask you to walk away?”
Veylar’s eyes studied her for a long, still moment. The smile on his lips faded, and something older stirred behind his gaze.
“Then you’ll have to be very persuasive, Saintess,” he said softly.
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A bell began to toll.
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A third time—louder, urgent.
Mira rose to her feet.
Veylar remained seated. Calm. Waiting.
The wind picked up, and this time, it carried something new.
Smoke—rising from the direction of the library.
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