The forest held its breath.

  Rain clung to the air, heavy and unmoving, carrying the copper sting of blood. Tlas knelt in the churned mud, breath tearing from his chest in ragged pulls. Every muscle screamed. Bruised. Battered. Cornered.

  Around him, rogue yokai circled—shadows with claws and teeth. Their snarls rippled through the stillness, low and hungry, like thunder trapped in a tomb.

  “Son of Athan,” one hissed, its voice splintered and cruel. “Your father’s legacy dies with you.”

  Tlas spat blood into the dirt. His eyes burned green, bright with stubborn fire. “If you think I’m dying to the likes of you,” he growled, “you’re dumber than you look.”

  The largest yokai stepped forward, claws slick with fresh gore. “Then bleed for your pride.”

  It lunged.

  And the sky answered.

  A sharp whistle split the air. An arrow struck the rogue mid-leap, detonating into ash with a shriek that never finished forming.

  Another arrow followed. Then another.

  Golden light tore through the canopy. A storm of celestial fire rained down, each shaft of magic-blessed wood finding flesh with impossible precision. Yokai screamed. Burned. Vanished—reduced to drifting ash and silence.

  When it ended, only scorched leaves whispered in the aftermath.

  Tlas lowered his arm from his face, blinking through the haze. Residual heat shimmered in the clearing, magic lingering like breath on glass.

  Then he saw her.

  She stood at the tree line, bow still raised, its string glowing faintly with the last echo of power. She was small—barely five feet—but the forest leaned toward her, as though recognizing something ancient. Her hair shimmered like starlight caught and unwilling to let go. Her eyes held the quiet luminescence of forgotten constellations.

  “Auduna…?” Tlas croaked, the name slipping out unbidden.

  She tilted her head, lowering the bow. Amusement touched her voice, soft and puzzled. “No. My name is Bella.”

  His vision swam. “You’re not—?” He stopped himself, wiping blood from his chin. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. I didn’t ask for help.”

  Bella stepped closer, unhurried. The forest barely stirred beneath her feet. “You didn’t need to,” she said calmly. “You were going to die.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  He forced himself upright with a grunt, brushing mud from his torn clothes as though pride alone might clean them. “I had it under control.”

  Her gaze flicked to the gashes across his chest and arms. “You were decorating the mud.”

  His jaw tightened. “I don’t owe you anything.”

  “I never said you did.”

  Her bow dissolved in a shimmer, absorbed back into the ether. She turned away as if the moment meant nothing at all.

  Something in him shifted.

  “Wait.”

  The word escaped before he understood why.

  She stopped, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Why?” he demanded. Suspicion sharpened his voice. “Why save me?”

  Her eyes softened—but behind them flickered something older. Watchful. Unreadable.

  “Because I could,” she said simply.

  Then she vanished, folding into the trees like smoke.

  Tlas stood alone in the ruined clearing. Ghost-light lingered where her arrows had fallen, and her scent—wildflowers and ozone—hung faintly in the air.

  He scowled.

  His heart ignored him, pounding too hard.

  He didn’t thank her.

  And he never intended to.

  The forest pulsed with ancient breath. Shadows clung thickly beneath towering trees, every leaf whispering of old things—grudges, memories, bloodlines too tangled to name.

  Ath’tal moved without sound, his presence barely more than suggestion. The scent of his half-brother lingered like smoke—sharp, feral, familiar.

  Their bond was a knot of duty and resentment. But Tlas’s choice of a mate—however strange—demanded acknowledgment.

  And perhaps a warning.

  He found him pacing a clearing, like a beast hunted by ghosts only it could see. Black hair clung damply to Tlas’s brow, green eyes sharp with barely contained fury.

  “Tlas,” Ath’tal called, his voice calm, commanding.

  Tlas froze. Then he turned, ears twitching, lips curling into a sneer sharp as broken glass. “You’ve come,” he spat. “To laugh? To remind me I’m not one of you?”

  Ath’tal frowned. “I came to offer my respects. Clearly, now is not—”

  “Respect?” Tlas barked a laugh, bitter and raw. “You don’t respect me. You pity me. The bastard son. The mistake. Your favorite cautionary tale.”

  Power surged from him—green and black, unstable and wrong. His claws extended. His form shimmered, yokai energy tearing at its own restraints.

  He lunged.

  Ath’tal dodged with effortless precision. “You shame yourself,” he said evenly.

  Tlas attacked again—fast, furious, careless. His claws raked Ath’tal’s shoulder, shredding fabric but stopping short of skin. A warning. Or a plea.

  Ath’tal exhaled once.

  Enough.

  He struck—flat-handed, exact—into the back of Tlas’s neck. The younger yokai collapsed instantly, unconscious, breath shallow but steady.

  Ath’tal stood over him, silent.

  “You’ve lost yourself,” he murmured. “For that, I blame no one but you.”

  The breeze shifted.

  He stiffened.

  Her presence brushed the veil of the forest—sweet, wild, touched with starlight.

  Too close.

  He could not let her see. Could not let her ask.

  Ath’tal vanished into shadow.

  Moments later, Bella stepped into the clearing. Her golden aura hummed softly as it touched the chaos left behind. She knelt beside Tlas, fingers brushing his cheek. Cool skin. Strong pulse.

  Tlas groaned, eyes fluttering open—pain-clouded, but sharp with something darker.

  “Ath’tal,” he rasped. “He did this… because he hates me.”

  Bella’s expression tightened. Doubt flickered there—brief, dangerous. She glanced toward the trees, unsettled by their silence.

  She said nothing.

  Instead, she turned back to Tlas, her hands steady even as her thoughts unraveled.

  She would learn the truth.

  But not from either of them.