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Chapter Text

The wet island of Solseim expanded into vast hills of green and windswept cliffs, where ruins of yore stood on the edge of a tireless sea. Desolate, mossy stones replaced the ancient kingdoms that had once made the land prosperous, bringing in merchant boats, luxury goods, and spices from overseas. Now, only the rain caressed these roofless halls—castles ruined by a war and a revolution a decade past. Their broken towers jutted toward the gray sky like the ribs of some long-dead beast. Traces of Solseim’s history remained in recountings of violence and the spiritual entities it had said to awaken. Only a few farm villages kept on surviving inland.

The village of Pine—a handful of small cottages huddled between the western hills of Solseim—counted approximately three hundred local inhabitants: the people, weathered and enduring, shaped by the land that gave little and took much, and a couple of flocks of sheep. No gold lined their pockets, no great lords watched over them—only the wind, the rain, and the endless toil of the earth.

Among them was Viktor, the newly appointed mayor of Pine, awake in the early winter morning, trudging with difficulty along the muddy paths left by yesterday’s tempest, leaving behind the traces of his thick leather boots and walking cane in the dirt. The morning air was fresh and veiled in mist, dampening his beige cloak and waking up the curly nature of his hair. Slowly, he made his way to the welder’s dwelling with a thumping heart, well disguised behind a nonchalant attitude. Still, a creeping shiver snaked down his back, and the horrid feeling that something had come to reverse the order of things left his mouth dry.

As he reached the welder’s dwelling, he pushed onto the door, and it creaked open with ease. The scent struck him first—rancid, wrong. It was not just the lingering smoke of last night’s chimney fire. It was the smell of death.

“Mrs. Dunley?”

His gaze swept across the dim interior; the meager furnishings cast in gray morning light. In the center of the room, slumped over a kitchen chair, sat the welder’s wife, her body wracked with silent sobs. Her hands clutched the fabric of her long nightdress, twisting and untwisting, as if wringing out her grief. She raised her reddened, swollen eyes to Viktor.

“Mayor. My Husband was killed. Please—”

Viktor took a slow step forward, careful not to disturb the heavy stillness in the room. He crouched beside Mrs. Dunley, his voice low, steady.

“May I take a look, Mrs. Dunley?”

She nodded quickly, her breath short and tense.

“You may… A nice man, he’s already gotten here.”

Viktor’s eyebrows furrowed, but before he could press further, the silence of the house was interrupted by the creak of a wooden floorboard. He turned his head sharply. From the shadowed hallway, a young figure emerged—broad-shouldered beneath a long, dark coat, gloved hands relaxed at her sides. Behind her campaign hat, he distinguished a few streaks of dusty pink hair, slightly tousled from the wind. The dim morning light from the living room window caught on the sharp angles of her face, framing her saddened gaze. Viktor stood up and gave a nod.

“Violet. May we speak?”

Mrs. Dunley’s puzzled whisper could be heard amidst the felt tension in the room.

“Violet?”

**

The body smelled unnatural as if it had been dead for a long time. It looked cold, drained of blood. Mr. Dunley’s arms hung limply off the bed, his wide, stunned eyes frozen in fright. Standing in front of the bedroom window, Violet’s silhouette cast a shadow upon the bed where the incident had taken place. Viktor’s breath caught in his throat—first because of the stench and then from the realization of his powerlessness in the situation.

He had spent his life dealing with logic, mechanisms that worked precisely as they were meant to. Steel bent to his will. Even the affairs of Pine—the trade logs, the supply counts—were things he could track and control, numbers arranged neatly in ink. But death was chaos. It did not follow equations. Viktor had not sought leadership, nor had he ever imagined himself becoming the town’s first appointed mayor. Since childhood, he had felt life had been meant for other pursuits—creation rather than governance. An orphan from birth, by the time he was old enough to be of use to anyone, he had begun designing machines to aid the farmers of Pine in hauling grain more efficiently. This had earned him some respect from the crowd that had previously regarded him with contempt, though his endeavors were nourished by his engineering impulses rather than selfless sentiment or a need for companionship.

Still, Pine barely had anyone who could read, let alone manage its trade agreements with the neighboring towns of Solseim. Viktor, self-taught and meticulous, was the only one who could keep count of the town’s resources, the only one who could put their affairs to paper and ensure they were not cheated in negotiations with neighboring towns. And so, when the time had come for someone to take charge, the role had fallen to him—not by desire, but by duty.

Despite the trust the people placed in him, Viktor had never felt a sense of camaraderie with the people of Pine. Perhaps this was due to a wound of abandonment which had never healed properly and kept him from the risks of getting attached to anyone. Mostly, he kept to himself, retreating into his workshop when he was not needed, losing himself in books that no one in Pine cared about. And now, faced with the second death in a month, Viktor found himself standing in the center of something he could not fix.

Violet spoke with a steady tone. “No window was broken. No lock forced.” Her tone was assertive, and respectful. She continued, “no trace of assault on the victim’s body.”

“What—what can be the matter?” Viktor’s voice wavered, then hardened as he turned to Violet. “And still, here you are. Early morning, like on business. Pretending you have some authority in this.”

Violet gazed back at him and didn’t flinch. She remained where she stood, her expression unreadable in the dim morning light. Viktor’s nostrils flared, pain coiling up in his stomach and anger at his ears.

“A little girl, parading around as some self-styled sheriff. Trying to act tough. Being like the man. You have no title, no place in this situation.” He jabbed a finger toward her. “You have no family here.”

The words came out sharper than he intended, and he felt an immediate pan of regret as he saw Violet’s mouth twist with hurt. He knew these words would hurt, and in some place deep in his gut, he knew that a sense of jealousy was driving his non-justified anger.

Violet was brave, and he wasn’t. She had come to Pine with nothing to her name, only a young teen, sleeping in hay piles to survive. She had seen her parents die and had clawed her way forward when most would have crumbled. And still, she fought, unafraid. Viktor had been given a place here, handed a future. What excuse did he have?

Viktor’s jaw clenched as he looked away, his cheeks reddened. He could still see her, years ago, defiantly standing in the market square, begging for scraps yet refusing to look beaten. She wasn’t born of Pine, that much was true, but she had endured its hardships like any other. When the village struggled, she had worked, and she had fought. No blood of this land ran in her veins, yet she had bled for it all the same. He sighed and ran his palm up his hair.

“Perhaps this is... sickness. People fall ill in their sleep all the time.”

Violet stood motionless, arms crossed, her gaze steady and unblinking. If she was angered by his words, she gave no sign of it. The only sign that one could read as irritation was the slow buttoning of her sleeve that had come undone.

“Fear is a symptom of sickness,” Viktor added only half-believing his affirmation. “Fever can turn to madness, make a man see things that aren’t here.” He gestured at the body, voice rising. “And then, the heart gives out.”

Violet waited for the end of his sentence barely listening before walking up to the bedroom door. As she stood in the doorway with her back turned to Viktor, her voice came softly, with a rasp.

“I have to get going.”

Viktor watched her head tilt in her habitual tic, meant to relax the muscles in her neck.

“Try to find some way to compensate the poor lady.” She continued. “I figure it’s your duty, as mayor.”

And she left him to stand alone—face to face with what could be no other than the devilish act of some force none could prepare for.

**

Outside the hitching post, Violet ran her gloved palm down the sleek neck of her black-coated horse. The mare snorted, shifting its weight as its reins lay loosely tied to the wooden rail, just beside the entrance to Pine’s only saloon. The scent of old wood mixed with the sharp bite of whiskey already drifted from the half-open doors despite the day’s early hour.

She gave the horse one last pat before adjusting the brim of her campaign hat, pulling it lower to cast a deeper shadow over her eyes. Beneath it, the dusty pink streaks of her hair were hidden well enough, tucked away with practiced care. A bandana around her neck—worn high—obscured the softer curve of her throat, roughening her appearance just enough.

Inside, the warmth of the saloon wrapped around her. The murmur of voices, the occasional clink of glass, all of it greeted her as she stepped inside. A man behind the counter, broad-chested and with a rough voice, gave her a nod. “Whiskey, young man?” he asked, already reaching for a bottle.
She tapped her fingers against the worn wood of the counter, considering. “That’ll do.”

She reached for her satchel, unfastening the leather flap. Her agile fingers brushed against the few crumpled coins she had, but before she retrieved them, something else caught her eye—the glint of familiar blue at the bottom of the pouch. Her sister’s necklace.
The string had tangled slightly, wrapping around the stone at its center. The sight of it made her breath catch. She hadn’t meant to look at it, and Viktor’s words from earlier still sat heavy in her ribs.

With a shake of her head, she tucked the necklace back into the satchel, pulling out the coins instead. They clinked softly against the counter as she pushed them forward. The barkeep took them without a word, and Violet finally lifted the glass to her lips, letting the burn of the whiskey ground her back in the present.

**

With night having drawn its dark curtain, Pine’s mourning ritual could begin. Already, the women and men, dressed in dark cloaks, stacked the branches that were starting to tower over a circle of mossy stones inside of the hill, far from the town. One by one, they placed the thickest logs at the base of the pyre, stacking smaller branches atop them until the structure was taller than man. The burial fire had to burn strong and long, a light to dispel the darkness. As peoples’ faces came to light in the warmth of the living flames, kissing the starry sky like hungry tongues, the tension amongst the crowd could be felt—a testimony of the fear that had started to spread like ramping sickness, waking tales of spirits, and irrational prophecies. The legend that had formed after the war and revolution said that the mourned found peace in the afterlife, but the forgotten remained trapped between worlds, turning into restless spirits—creatures who had lost their humanity. The crackling of wood filled the quiet, drowning out the sighs of the wind and the distant murmur of the sea.

Violet watched from the edge of the gathering, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The heat licked at her face, but it was the whiskey warming her from within that dulled the chill of the night. Though she wasn’t exactly stumbling nor sick, there was a certain heaviness in her limbs, a slow blunting of her thoughts. She didn’t notice Viktor until she turned to step away and collided straight into him.

“Careful,” he muttered, steadying her by the arm. His gaze flicked over her, taking in the faint flush on her cheeks, the slow blink of her eyes. His brows furrowed. “You’ve been drinking.”

Violet huffed backing away from his touch. “Didn’t know that was a crime.”

“It isn’t,” Viktor said, his voice quieter now, though the edge of irritation remained. He hesitated, glancing at the fire before settling his eyes back on her. “You shouldn’t be leaving the gathering.”

Viktor weighed his words carefully, unwilling to reveal the sheer panic that had gripped him all afternoon. He felt on edge about the empty town, plagued by the sinking worry that this would be the perfect opportunity for the shadow of death to strike again.

Violet simply scoffed. “I’ve been out here plenty of times.”

“Alright, alright.” He answered softly, regretting the condescension in his voice.

The color from the fire licked at a side of Violet’s face from this angle. The red framing her furrowed brow and tensed lips. On the other side of her, Viktor stood, tinted by the blue of night.

“Why were you at the Dunleys’ this morning?” He solicited.

She huffed, “I wasn’t trying to cause trouble. I heard her screaming. Was out horse-riding to gather wood.”

Viktor nodded hastily and shut his mouth. Both of their eyes turned on the burning pyre as they stood in silence, lingering in the moment. “I shouldn’t have said what I did earlier,” he admitted at last, though it came out stiff, reluctant. “About your family.”

Violet didn’t answer right away. Her fingers twitched at her sides, a muscle in her jaw flexing. “I don’t need your apology,” she said finally, her voice quieter than before.

“I know.” He murmured. “And yet, I am still giving it to you.”

Violet shifted, rolling her shoulders and re-adjusting the satchel at her hip. She turned to look at him, and he could catch her look in his peripheral vision—a look of acknowledgment and endless firm determination.

“I’ll see you around.” She nodded as she turned away from the light and walked into the empty valley. Decidedly, all their interactions seemed to end this way.

**

Violet’s home stood atop a nearby hill, a modest wooden structure she had built herself. It stood alone, with a view over the town without being a part of it. It was neither grand nor particularly sturdy, but it was enough. A small porch overlooked the valley, and next to it, her horse stood, lazily tugging at patches of grass. The animal lifted its head briefly at her approach, exhaling a breath of warm air before returning to its meal.

Violet’s feet struggled against the mud, her boots gripping with difficulty on the steep valley’s soil where her home was perched. Finally, she let out a sigh as she stepped onto the porch, rubbing her temples. The winter wind had picked up, carrying the distant scent of the dying fire from below, but up here, she was alone. Just as she always was.

She shrugged off her long coat, the heavy fabric sliding from her shoulders like a second skin. Without it, she felt exposed, the rough bandages binding her chest suddenly noticeable against her ribs. She unfastened her belt and satchel, setting them down beside the door, and tugged off her boots, feeling the night air nip at her socks. The person she built for the world was peeling away layer by layer, revealing the truth beneath. And the truth was… she was tired. Tired of proving herself. Tired of fighting for a place in a town that had ignored or only ever half-accepted her.

She rubbed her face, pushing away the frustration curling in her chest. Her fingers brushed against the bandana still knotted around her throat. She pulled it loose, letting it slip from her neck, baring the soft skin she rarely let anyone see.

Violet sank onto the porch steps, exhaling slowly as she reached into her pocket. Her fingers brushed against the small bundle of incense sticks she always carried, worn smooth from habit. She selected one, rolling it between her fingertips before striking a match. The tiny flame flickered against the wind before settling, and she lifted it to the tip of the incense, watching as it caught fire, glowed, and then dimmed. Her mother’s eyes, her father’s hands, her sister’s laugh.

Thin smoke curled upward, weaving ghostly shapes against the night. She held the stick loosely, resting her elbows on her knees, staring into the darkness as the scent filled the air. She had no certainty about spirits or afterlives. Maybe the sayings were true, that the forgotten never found peace. Maybe it wasn’t. But this was her own way of making sure her family wasn’t lost.

She watched the last ember fade, then tapped the stick against the ground, letting the ashes scatter into the wind. Her movements were steady as she stood, brushing off her trousers, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders.

She reached for the door, ready to disappear inside, when a prickling sensation ran down her spine. Her fingers tensed over the handle. The night was silent, save for the rustling of leaves in the distance, but something was wrong. Her breath slowed. Instinct sharpened her senses, cutting through the haze of liquor.

Then—a flicker of movement. A shadow against the tree line.

Violet spun, eyes narrowing. Someone was there. Watching.

Without hesitation, she moved, her intuition guiding her direction, her socks getting dirty in the grass as she chased the fleeting figure. It moved fast, impossibly so, barely making a sound. She pushed herself harder, but the alcohol dulled her reflexes, making the ground feel uneven beneath her feet. A sudden dip in the terrain caught her off guard, and she stumbled, cursing under her breath as she hit the cold earth.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed her torso up, wiping dirt from her palms. When she looked ahead, her breath caught. The figure had stopped. Barely hovering above ground, in the moonlight—a woman standing.

Tall, poised, unnaturally still. Her presence was striking, her beauty unreasonable. Dark waves of cobalt hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her salient eyes seemed to pin Violet to the spot. The dark blue of her gaze signaled something like hunger.

Violet’s heart thumped in her chest. Out of fear, certainly.

This is how I die. She thought.

Yet, her own eyes were glued to the spectral body in front of her, forgetting all survival instincts in this seemingly infinite moment. She simply could not get up from her knees, remaining in the posture of a devout believer in front of the awe-striking presence of the shade.

Chapter Text

Ten years earlier.

The caravan rocked gently beneath the linen canopy, the clinking of metal and rustle of fabric filling the space where Violet and Powder lay. They whispered to each other in the shadows, their voices soft with drowsy amusement. Powder's tiny fingers traced idle patterns on the wooden floorboards as she yawned, blinking up at her sister.

Outside, the uneven road shook the loose goods packed tightly in the back—spices, wood, metal screws—items that had become so familiar in Violet’s life. At the front, their parents sat in silence, guiding the horses through the dense stretch of trees.

Violet pushed herself up onto her elbows just as the horses slowed. A castle. But not the kind that stood grand and visible, its banners waving in defiance of war. This one was discreet, half-swallowed by the woods. Its dark stone blended into the landscape, short towers hunched under thick ivy. The wooden gate loomed ahead, unmarked by the usual crests of noble houses. The caravan lurched to a stop.

Violet tried stretching her neck to see better. Their mother shifted at the reins, but instead of calling for them to gather the usual trade goods, she turned, her voice low.

“Stay in the caravan.”

Violet frowned. That wasn’t how it usually worked. “What do you—”

But she was already stepping down, gripping something large between her hands—a heavy sack that had been at her feet the entire journey. Her father followed, both of them striding toward the gate.

Powder rubbed at her eyes, yawning again. “What house name is this one?”

Violet swung her legs over the bench at the front, Powder clambering up beside her. “I’m not sure,” she admitted, though she thought she knew the woods of the Eastern provinces by heart. “We’ve never been here before.”

The door groaned open. A man emerged, dressed plainly. He carried himself like nobility but wore none of its extravagance. He stood in simple linen clothing. Lines of weariness framed his mouth as he greeted their parents in hushed tones.

Powder, now awake, squinted curiously. “What are they giving him?”

Violet didn’t answer.

She watched as her father handed over the heavy sack, the stranger’s fingers curling around it with practiced ease. A quiet exchange—no unnecessary words, no grand gestures. The man stepped further into the light, revealing the thick coat draped over his arm. A blazon marked the shoulder, but from this distance, Violet couldn’t make it out.

A slow handshake. A heavy pouch slipped into her father’s palm. She caught a glimpse of its weight before he tucked it into his coat. That was more money than she had ever seen exchanged in their trades.

“That’s a lot of money,” she whispered to herself.

“We’ll be eating well,” Powder grinned.

But Violet wasn’t smiling. Nothing about this felt right. Money had been scarce during the war, and she had never seen her father’s hand linger so tensely on a payment.

Powder’s small voice cut through her thoughts. “Violet, look.” She was pointing toward one of the short towers.

Violet followed her gaze and spotted the young girl. A small pale figure stood pressed to the windowpane with her hands flat against the glass. She wasn’t dressed like a princess—no embroidered silk, no shimmering jewelry. Just a simple beige cotton dress.

“A princess,” Powder whispered.

Violet squinted. “That’s no princess.”

Powder frowned. “But she’s in the tower.”

Violet didn’t answer. Since the start of the war, all castles of Solseim had all flaunted riches they barely had left. Grasping at images of power and luxury. Yet here stood a small castle in hiding, its wealth cloaked in modesty. Something about it gnawed at her.

She turned back to the girl in the window. The girl’s gaze flicked to them. Her eyes of frightening intensity cut the air out of Violet’s stomach, as if she had become entrapped by them. 

Then, almost instantly, the girl’s face changed—her features tensed, her lips parted slightly, her hands pressing harder to the glass. Upon noticing the sisters, the face of the young girl in beige had decomposed.

Before Violet could dwell on it, their parents climbed back onto the caravan, nudging them toward the back. The caravan jerked forward, the castle and the pale face retreating behind them, slipping away between the trees.

**

The first thing Violet noticed upon waking was the cold. It clung to her skin, deep in her bones, a damp chill from sleeping on the open ground of the valley. Yet some surprising warmth caressed her back, which she understood was facing the morning sky. The valley was empty, endless green, which seemed lighter in this rare, clear winter day. Still, her head ached. Her throat felt raw. She pushed herself up with difficulty and exhaled with a wheeze.   She ran a hand down her face, grimacing. Brilliant. Caught a cold like a fool.

At least, her coat and boots were still intact on the wooden porch, not soaking from any passing storm. In her deep sleep, she had been lucky not to have been robbed either, or worse. The thought sent a shiver down her spine as she reached her small dwelling. Her home door swayed in the wind, unlocked since yesterday’s pursuit. She stepped inside, taking in the state of the room. Though nothing was lost, Violet’s coins and papers lay scattered along the floor, along with scraps of food likely eaten by opportunist mice.

A wooden worktable lined one wall, cluttered with tools and half-assembled weaponry—projects she had started but never quite finished. Against the opposite wall lay her bed, a simple mattress set atop stacked hay.

She moved toward the small washroom she had built in the corner of the cabin. It was rudimentary—essentially, a barrel collecting rainwater fed into a bucket system. She reached for the bindings around her chest. The cotton strips were dark with dirt, stained from her collapse in the valley. With practiced fingers, she unraveled them, exhaling as the tightness around her ribs released. Finally, she stepped beneath the trickling water, emerging back to life as the droplets ran down her back.

The inked lines of her tattoo appeared beneath the water’s path, spanning from one shoulder blade to the other, outlining the sculpted muscles that were tokens of her fighting nature. The mark of traders’ routes, etched into her skin after her parents’ death and her sister’s disappearance. It had been one of the ways she knew to keep them close, to carry them with her wherever she went.

Violet braced her hands against the wooden wall, closing her eyes as the water ran down her spine. She wanted to believe last night had been a fever dream. A drunken nightmare. A trick of exhaustion. But she could still see those pulling, unsettling, somehow familiar eyes. She felt in a strange in-between state, and it seemed nothing would come to answer her questions. She wasn’t sure which of these feelings provoked her blushing shame: the fear of the unknown or the strange pull toward it.

She let the last of the water trickle over her skin before stepping back, shaking out her damp hair. The cold still clung to her, but the weight of exhaustion had lessened, if only slightly. With a sigh, she reached for a ragged cloth and wiped herself down.

She pulled on a fresh shirt, then her coat, the familiar weight settling over her shoulders. She strapped her belt into place, checked the small knife tucked at her side, and slung her bag over one shoulder.

**

The burn settled comfortably in Violet’s stomach. Her fingers smudged dark over the page, charcoal scratching hurried lines onto rough paper. The outline of a figure was beginning to take shape—its legs elongated, its posture straight. And then the eyes, how could she even start to draw them out? So striking and intense. Pupils unnaturally enlarged. She darkened them, pressing the charcoal deeper onto the white, as if that would make them make more sense.

Around her, voices swelled—muffled laughter, boots scuffing against floorboards, the occasional scrape of a chair. Someone slammed a mug down at the far end of the counter, a burst of conversation rising and fading again. The air was thick with liquor and damp wood, the lanternlight catching the old stains on the counter.

Violet took another sip and stared at the page. What had she seen last night?

It had felt real. More real than the usual visions that came when she drank too much and let herself slip too far into sleep. She knew what those were like—the war and revolution had left her with too many of them. In the worst of them, she’d wake in a cold sweat, the smell of blood and burning wood so strong she swore she could taste it. But last night had been different. Hadn’t it? Had she seen those eyes before?

She sighed, running a hand down her face, smearing charcoal against her cheek.

The “Skelton man” Jo—whose nickname signified his old age, a veteran of the war, and his thin silhouette—slid onto the stool beside her, leaning in with a smirk. “So, Violet?” His tone was light, teasing, but there was an edge to it.

Violet didn't look up. She smudged another line on her notebook, trying to ignore him, but the words hung in the air.

“Guess that’s your name, huh?” Jo continued, not one to take the hint. He leaned a little closer, his breath stale with ale. “You come here often I see. Dressed like you could take on a hundred warriors.” He tilted his head as if considering her carefully

Violet felt her patience wearing thin. Jo didn’t take the silence as a warning. He gestured vaguely at her rough clothing, the faded tunic, the boots that had clearly seen better days. “If you don’t mind me saying, you’re actually very pretty.” And with a low purr, “If you only tried a little…”

That was it.

Violet’s fist flew fast, crashing into his jaw before he could blink. He barely had time to react as he went tumbling backward, landing hard on the floor with a thud. The saloon went silent for a split second, the sharpness of the action catching everyone off guard.

She stood over him for a moment, chest rising and falling with each sharp breath, her hand still clenched in a fist. Jo was groaning on the floor, dazed and hurt.

Someone from the crowd chuckled, but the laughter quickly faded as Violet knelt down beside him, ready to go further. Before she could act, a strong hand gripped her shoulder, pulling her away from Jo with surprising ease. A low voice cut through the tension, calm but firm. “That’s enough.”

Violet didn’t fight against the grip, but she still fumed, turning to face the man who had stopped her. He was tall, his presence easy to read—someone who wasn’t fazed by a bit of brawling. “Let it go,” he said, his voice more reassuring than commanding, “don’t let the drink get to your head.”

Violet huffed, but the heat in her veins began to cool. It was more than the drink, it was her not being taken seriously, it was the men of Pine so quick to humiliate. She glared at Jo for a moment, watching him clutch his jaw and mutter under his breath. Her pulse was still racing, but there was a sharp edge of regret. The thought that she had let her anger get the best of her so easily, once again.

She turned away, giving the man a condescending nod before walking briskly toward the door. Better get out of here before I get any complaints.

**

Violet lay sprawled on her back on the front porch, head dipping over the edge of the steps so that the valley stretched before her in an upside-down blur. The late afternoon sun hung low, bathing the hills in warm gold, and she could hear the distant bleating of sheep as they were herded back into their enclosures. The world spun lazily, her limbs warm and numb.

She let out a slow breath, staring into the sky. She was trying to see those eyes again, obsessing over them. To pin them down, to capture them like a still image in her mind. But just like when she had tried to draw them, they refused to be contained. They could only be experienced, flickering at the edges of her memory just out of reach.

A silhouette interrupted her vision. It stood at the crest of the hill, backlit by the dying sun, nothing but a dark figure against orange light. Violet squinted against the brightness, and then— Oh, fuck.

Even upside down, she recognized Viktor immediately. She groaned inwardly as he made his way toward her, his movements slow but steady, cane digging into the dirt with every step. He was always walking with that careful determination.

She let her head loll to the side, preparing herself for the inevitable lecture. With great effort, she sat up, the movement making her stomach lurch. Her head spun as the world righted itself.

“Hey,” she muttered, voice rough with embarrassment.

“Hi.” Viktor’s tone was distant. Annoyed, maybe.

He regarded her for a moment, his gaze flicking over her disheveled state. “A strange way to lie down,” he remarked.

“Yeah…” she croaked, rubbing her face.

He didn’t sit, didn’t shift his weight. Just stood there, waiting. The silence was getting quite unbearable.

She cleared her throat. “How are you dealing with the general commotion?” she asked, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere by bringing in Viktor’s anxieties.

“It’s under control,” he replied simply. Then, after a beat, “Do you know what I came here for?”

She sighed. “Jo?” she guessed, squinting at the setting sun.

Viktor’s expression barely shifted, but the disappointment was clear. “Violet, you cannot keep getting into fights.”

She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Listen… I was really keeping to myself. I’m not trying to get into trouble.”

“I know how Jo can be.” There was an unspoken understanding to his words. But then, more firmly, “I also know you were drinking again.”

Violet tensed. Something simmered beneath her skin, a familiar heat of irritation. “What, so you’re keeping tabs on me?”

Viktor didn’t react. “Can you afford all you’ve been getting over there?”

That caught her off guard. She turned to him fully now, her expression shifting from defensive to something more raw. Of course, money was a sensitive subject, and he knew it.

“I have some saved up,” she shot back, forcing a casual shrug. “I’ll get a new gig next week. Chill out.”

Viktor studied her for a long moment, then gave a slight nod. “I calmed Jo down when he came to me.” A pause. “He’s not going to make you pay.”

Violet nodded in return, absorbing the words. A flicker of something like guilt passed through her. But she didn’t let it settle, nor did she let it show.

Viktor gave a small, almost imperceptible half-smile. “He got a pretty rough beating.”

Violet scoffed, shaking her head. “Fucking Jo. I hope he learns.”

Viktor stayed where he was, his presence still lingering in front of the porch.

She frowned up at him. “Something else? D’you want to sit down, or—?”

To her surprise, he did. She huffed, slightly annoyed. “Oh, well, I didn’t think you’d actually take me up on that offer.”

Viktor settled beside her, ignoring the comment. His voice was quieter now, more thoughtful. “Do you remember when we were kids, right after the war, when the revolution had started? When you had just arrived in Pine?”

Violet stiffened slightly. She didn’t necessarily want to think about it, so she kept her voice guarded. “Kay.”

Viktor continued. “How no one could trust anymore?”

She swallowed. Where is he going with this?

“There should never be anything to divide us again,” he said. “We would not survive it.”

Violet ran a hand down her face. “Viktor, I’m pretty hungover right now. Can you get to the point please?”

Viktor didn’t waver. “What I mean to say is—it’s not true that everything is under control. I hear the whispers. People are afraid since the revolution.” He hesitated, then: “Yet another unexplainable death to feed the tales. I don’t know for how long I can keep talking about illness while I myself am not sure that it is.”

His words lingered, heavy between them. Then, quieter, “Do you believe that we are doomed? That something is after us? Some spirit like they talk about?”

For the first time, Violet felt her pulse quicken. Her mind flashed to those eyes. To the unease curling in her stomach. But she forced herself to stay steady. She wasn’t that person and she wouldn’t let herself be.

“It would make it easier,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “To have something explain the cause of all this pain.” Her expression darkened. “But there’s no use believing in all these children’s stories.”

Viktor nodded. “Conspiracies will always divide.”

They sat in silence, watching as the sun bled into the horizon. Viktor exhaled. “The other reason I came here is to tell you that I can lend you money if you need it.”

Violet’s head snapped toward him. “Viktor, I don’t—”

“I know how you feel about it,” he interrupted, holding up a hand. “I just mean to say—you weren’t as lucky as I was. And it’s unfair in that way.”

Violet knew what he meant. Knew that as a woman, as a past trader, and as someone not native from Pine, earning trust and respect had been a constant battle. One she was always fighting, whether she wanted to or not.

Viktor’s voice softened. “I see you trying.”

Violet shifted uncomfortably, raising her shoulders in a half-shrug. She disliked having the attention on her like this. She exhaled sharply, ready to dismiss him now. “Have fun going down the hill in the dark.”

Viktor smiled just slightly. “It’s easier when you’re sober.”

Violet gave him a dry, sarcastic smile as he grabbed his cane and stood.

She watched as he made his way down the hill, his figure disappearing into the twilight. And when he was gone, she was left alone again.

Chapter Text

The dawn was sharp and cold, biting at the edges of Violet’s fingers as she adjusted her hat. It was the beginning of the week, and though she had no great conviction in it, she’d once again decided to attempt to get her life together. That meant finding work where she could, taking on whatever task came her way. This morning, it was gathering firewood.

She rode out towards the tree line, her horse moving swiftly beneath her. She didn’t even hold the reins. She never needed to. The beast knew her movements, knew where she wanted to go. Her leather coat kept the worst of the cold out, though the morning chill still pressed against her skin.

Dismounting, she swung the axe from her back with ease. She set to work quickly, the blade crashing into the wood with every clean, steady stroke. It didn’t take long before her bag was full of chopped logs. When the work was done, she wiped the sweat from her brow, shouldered her load, and whistled. Her horse, having wandered off to chew at a patch of dead grass, lifted its head and trotted back to her side.

The farmer was waiting when she arrived, wrapped in a heavy wool cardigan. Without a word, he handed her a bag of coins and a piece of bread still warm from the oven. She tucked the money into her satchel and leaned against the wall of the cottage, tearing into the bread. The warmth spread through her, filling the emptiness in her stomach. The work had left her tired and sweaty, and now, for a moment, she simply enjoyed the food.

“You still hungry?” The farmer’s voice cut through the quiet.

She lifted her eyes from under the brim of her hat, chewing the last of the bread.

“I can offer grilled pork sausages for one more task.”

“And money?” she asked, unwilling to take on an unfair trade.

“A jug of milk in addition,” the farmer said. “Times are difficult.”

She hesitated, weighing the offer. Her stomach growled, and she sympathized. These were hard times, and a full meal was nothing to turn down.

“What’s the job?” she asked at last.

Reaching into his cardigan, he pulled out four buttons, dark and polished, made of semi-precious opals. They shone dark blue, catching the weak light. He pressed them into her palm, his fingers cold and rough.

“Thread these into the scarecrows’ heads out back,” he said quickly, as if he were giving away an urgent secret.

Violet turned the buttons in her hand, feeling their weight. Something about the way he spoke, the speed of it, made her wary.

“You fear crows in the dead of winter?” she asked.

The farmer inhaled sharply, then spat to the floor. His expression hardened. “It’s to keep these witches out.”

His tone was thick with something ugly—distrust, hatred, the kind that had turned into superstition over years of whispers. These tales were always about women twisted into things that men could fear.

She glanced past him. In the field beyond the cottage, the scarecrows stood tall and silent, their ragged forms shifting in the wind, waiting for their eyes.

**

The sky was burning. Violet’s young feet pounded the dirt as she sprinted up the hill, her breath ragged, her heart hammering in her chest. The wind howled past her ears, pushing against her but she fought through it. Her eyes were fixed on the thick column of smoke rising on the horizon.

The caravan was burning up, flames licking greedily at the wooden frame, swallowing fabric, devouring the home that once carried them from place to place. The scent of burning oil, wood, and flesh, turned her stomach. She stumbled forward, crying out, her voice breaking apart in the hot wind.

“Powder!”

Nothing.

“Powder!”

Her sister wasn’t answering. On the side her parents lay motionless near the wreckage. Face-down and unmoving. Their bodies were just shapes, ruined and unnatural in the dirt. She couldn’t look at them. A scream clawed at her throat, but nothing came out. She felt weightless, detached. As if she had been yanked out of herself, looking at the scene from somewhere else.

She thought of the rabbits she was out hunting, of their limp little bodies, of the ease with which she had taken their lives. It had felt so insignificant then. And now her heart was tearing itself open at the confrontation of death.

A choked sob wrenched from her lips.

“Please,” she begged, to no one, to the sky, to anything that would listen. “Please be alive.”

She heard a humming at a distance. It cut through the crackling fire, the single tune of a lullaby. Her breath caught.

She turned to find the origin of the voice. Standing just beyond the flames, was her sister. Powder’s small figure stood frozen like a puppet, her head slightly tilted. Her short blue hair stirred in the wind, untouched by the embers floating through the air. And her eyes were two cold blue shining opals.

Violet stumbled backward. Her lips parted to speak—but before she could make a sound, Powder’s body jerked. Her arms hung limp, her body swaying slightly, like a scarecrow in the wind.

Violet woke up.

A sharp gasp tore from her throat as she bolted upright, her body still tangled in the hay of her makeshift bed. Her chest heaved, her hands clutched at the air as if she could claw her way out of the dream, back into something solid.

She pressed her palm against her forehead. Her skin was damp with sweat. She felt hollowed out. Through the cracks of the wooden walls, sunlight leaked into the dim space—weak and pale. She had barely napped this morning after the wood cutting. With a slow, shaky breath, she pushed herself up and sat still for a long moment. Her heartbeat was still thudding in her ears, the humming still lingering in her head.

She needed to move, to act, to get out of this hazy state. Her eyes caught the box of now cold grilled pork sausages resting on a table. She had one more thing on her list for the day, and perhaps this was the right moment to take it on.

She grabbed her coat, pulled on her boots, and pushed open the door. The midday sun hit her face and painted the waking town underneath.

**

Jo sat hunched at his table, long, wiry fingers weaving baskets with lazy movements, a toothpick balanced between his teeth. The atelier smelled of damp reeds and varnished wood. His jaw still carried the deep purple bruising from the saloon fight a few nights prior. His long legs sprawled awkwardly beneath the small workbench, one knee jutting at an odd angle as he tried to find space in the cramped room for his slender legs.

A shadow stretched over the basket he was working on. His eyes darted up.

“Oh, fuck no,” he muttered.

Violet grinned subtly. “Hi, Jo. Miss me?”

He let out a long-suffering groan. “I think you got what you wanted. Why are you here?”

She slid a box under his nose. The rich scent of grilled pork and spices filled the room, cutting through the dampness. Jo’s eyes flickered to the food, suspicion giving way to hunger.

“Peace offering?” She asked.

With a sigh, he plucked the toothpick from his mouth and used it to skewer a sausage from the box, shoving it into his mouth with a grunt. Violet grabbed a chair from the corner, dragging it to the table. She sat across from him as he chewed, his expression sour but his hands still reaching for more.

“You’re lucky I dissuaded Viktor from fining you,” Jo muttered, still chewing, giving her a pointed look.

Violet contained her smile. She knew it was the other way around—that Viktor had talked Jo down, had stopped the old drunk. But she let him have his pride and played along.

“Thanks for that,” she said smoothly, picking up a sausage of her own.

They ate in silence for a moment, the tension between them fading, softened by the food. “I wanted to apologize,” she said finally. “I had stuff going on. Shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Jo muttered something under his breath, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “There’s always stuff with you,” he said, shaking his head. “You were always an angry stray cat.”

He chuckled, more to himself than anything. “Wandering around like a little justice warrior. Picking fights with losers like me. Serving the old ladies.”

His tone was dry, but something in it softened. “Well, I was a prick the other night. Always have been,” he admitted, scratching at his cheek. “Got to say, it just caught me off guard.” His chuckle was rough.

Violet listened, chewing slowly, letting him talk. A quiet settled between them, but Jo was the first to break it.

“You’ve been coming to the saloon a lot,” he said, his tone shifting, the amusement replaced by something more serious. “Don’t think that’s good for you.”

Her jaw tensed. “Well, everyone seems to know what’s good for me.”

Jo snickered. “Ah, don’t get all angsty on me, c’mon. I just don’t think you want to wind up like me.”

She scoffed, but there was no heat behind it. “So inspirational, Jo.”

He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, rubbing his hands together. “You just need food to tame an old wolf like me.”

Violet watched him, her gaze tracing the old scars along his knuckles, the deep lines on his weathered face. The war had left its mark on him, the same way it had left its mark on this place. The Kingdom of the West had been the last to fall, and Pine was its legacy—a poor, dying village, clinging to what little remained.

“So, we’re good?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jo waved her off. “I think I learned my lesson.”

But Violet didn’t move. She lingered, eyes dragging over the faint scars that crossed his cheek, the places where knives and fists had left their history. Jo didn’t seem to mind—half dozing now, his unfinished basket abandoned.

“You never joined the revolution, did you?” she asked.

Jo let out a low grunt, his response immediate. “God, no.” His voice dropped into a whisper, thick with something unspoken. “The war was enough.”

His eyes stayed closed for a moment, but when he opened them, they were dark, shadowed. “Don’t be mistaken, I was angry too,” he admitted. “But during the revolution, everyone could be called a traitor. It was just an excuse to kill your neighbor.” He clicked his tongue, making a sharp pssht sound, as if mimicking a blade through air.

Violet studied him, quiet. Then he glanced at her sideways. “But your parents didn’t join either, did they?”

Her muscles tensed. “What do you know about my parents?”

He lifted his hands lazily, palms open, a gesture of peace. “The trader community is small.” He shrugged, then added, “And I get it. They had no business in the war or the revolution. Nothing to really fight for.”

She let out a slow breath, forcing herself to calm. Her temper had flared, unbidden. “My parents wanted to protect my sister and me,” she said, her voice tight.

Jo smiled, biting the inside of his cheek. “Mmm. Yes, indeed. Though the shimmer drugs were in high demand.” He tilted his head slightly. “I’m sure they profited off it.”

The chair scraped sharply against the floor as Violet stood. “We didn’t deal in drugs,” she said, her voice hard.

Jo raised his hands again, his eyes flickering with something uneasy—fear, maybe, remembering how her fist had felt against his jaw. “I’m not judging.” He held her gaze. “Everyone had to get by somehow.”

Her breath was shallow, fists curled at her sides. Then she stepped back. The chair behind her tipped, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

“Fuck off,” she muttered, then more quietly, “I don’t even know why I came.”

She turned sharply on her heel, boots clicking against the floor as she pushed open the door. It slammed shut behind her, leaving Jo alone with his unfinished basket, his bruises, and whatever thoughts still lingered in his old head.

But as Violet walked, the words still echoed in her mind. She wondered if her voice had betrayed her doubts.

**

After the morning’s work, after the dream, after Jo—she had promised herself that this week would be different. No distractions, no slipping. And yet, here she was, nursing a drink.  

Behind her, a group of men were tangled in a rowdy card game, their laughter sharp and slurred. One of them, a younger man, threw his cards down with an exaggerated sigh.

“Ah, piss on this game Eli,” he grumbled, slouching back in his chair.

His opponent, grinning through a mouthful of crooked teeth, scooped up his winnings with glee. “Shoulda known better.”

The young man, still sore, waved a lazy hand in the air. “Yeah, yeah—mother midnight’ll get ya, you keep that up.”

The words were spoken in jest, lost in the noise of the saloon. The men cackled, moving on to the next round, their voices blending into the hum of the room.

Violet took another sip, lazily following the card game from afar, letting the warmth settle in her gut. Some time passed—long enough for her drink to empty.

The bathroom was dimly lit, a small washroom tucked in the back of the saloon. She braced herself against the sink, twisting the rusted faucet until water trickled over her hands. It was freezing against her skin. She let it run for a moment.

When she lifted her head, she saw the mirror. And she wasn’t alone.

A face loomed just over her shoulder—eerily pale, framed in a dark veil of shadows. Eyes deep and so piercing, glinting like something not entirely of this world. The same eyes she had seen in the valley, cutting through the night like twin stars in the dark.

Violet’s breath hitched. She spun around, heart lurching in her chest. The bathroom was empty. Just the flickering candlelight and the sound of dripping water.

Slowly, she turned back to the mirror. The shade was gone.

A sharp curse left her lips. She placed a hand on the edge of the sink to steady herself, the cold porcelain grounding her. Then, hesitantly, she lifted her fingers to the glass, tracing its edges, pressing her palm flat against its surface as if it might reveal a secret. The mirror was solid beneath her touch, smooth and unyielding.

Chapter Text

Pine was wide awake. In fact, an unnaturally large and noisy commotion was assembling in the village’s town square. Violet had already started to hear the wailing of despair emanating from the nearing villagers as her boots rushed down the hill in the early morning.

Drawing closer, she caught a glimpse of the subject of the impromptu reunion—a dead man laid out on the dirt. Eli, the man with missing teeth. His body was still, splayed as if he had simply collapsed where he stood. He wasn’t as stiff as Mr. Dunley had been, but his lips had the same strange bluish tint, his eyes dull and frozen in some unknown terror. Violet had just seen him last night, laughing heartily with his friends. Seeing him suddenly so lifeless woke up a feeling of nausea.

At this moment she noticed Viktor wasn’t here. She frowned. If he hadn’t seen this yet, he’d be in for a miserable morning. She pushed forward, trying to get a better look, but the crowd jostled around her, a mess of shifting shoulders and frantic gestures.

“Lady midnight,” an old woman muttered nearby, voice brittle with age and conviction. “She’s here to avenge.”

“There is no end to the violence.” Other voices joined in. The cries of women all formed an unintelligible whine. “A curse to damn us!”

Violet turned sharply, trying to locate the first speaker. A hunched figure stood near the fringes of the gathering, wrapped in layers of wool. Betsy.

“Don’t start with that nonsense ma,” a younger man beside her grumbled, gripping her elbow. “He was a drunkard. If you ask me, it serves him right.”

The old woman shook her head, lips pressing together, but she said no more. Instead, she turned and started shuffling away from the square, her son leading her toward the narrow path that wound between the cottages.

The vision—if that’s what it was—had been clawing at the edges of Violet’s mind ever since last night. And something else, a lingering pull, a whisper she couldn’t quite shake. Mother midnight’ll get ya. Violet had always been careful not to let herself fall into all of these myths about spirits, thinking of it as delusion, but this time, she felt the need for answers. And besides, what Viktor didn’t know about her prying wouldn’t give him another reason to roll his eyes.

She hesitated. Then, without another glance at the corpse, she slipped through the murmuring crowd and followed.

**

Violet lingered outside the small house of clay, leaning against the shadowed side where she couldn’t be spotted.

She knew Betsy’s mind wasn’t all there, but her words had struck an instinctual lever inside of her, and like a hunting dog tracking its prey, she would get to the end of this trail. Still, she knew to make the operation discrete because if her son was anything like the rest of Pine’s men, he’d be eager to dismiss whatever nonsense she spouted before she had a chance to explain herself.

It wasn’t long before the door creaked open. A man stepped out, shoulders hunched with quiet exasperation as he pulled his coat tighter around himself. He mumbled something under his breath, likely about his mother’s ramblings, before making his way back toward the square.

Violet didn’t wait. As soon as his footsteps faded, she moved. The door swung inward with ease. Inside, the cabin smelled of spices and dried herbs. Betsy was a village cook. A low-burning hearth crackled in the corner, casting flickering light onto the worn furniture and kitchen utensils. The old woman sat in a rocking chair, her plump hands folded neatly in her lap, watching the fire with unfocused eyes.

She didn’t flinch at Violet’s entrance. Instead, her lips curled into something like recognition.

“Mayor?” she asked, her voice brittle as dry leaves and her eyes squinting.

Violet exhaled through her nose. “No, ma’am,” she said, stepping forward and hesitated a moment, trying out what she had previously practiced in front of her bathroom glass. “I’m the sheriff of Pine.”

The woman’s pale eyes blinked slowly, as if processing this. “We have a sheriff?”

Violet wasn’t about to argue. She took another step closer, lowering her voice. “I saw you at the town square earlier. You mentioned having an idea of the…erm cause of death of the gentleman.”

The woman made a humming sound, her gaze drifting toward the hearth.

“Does my son know you are here?” She yawned.

“Yes.” Violet tried steadily.

Betsy laughed, her whole stomach bouncing under her woolen blanket. “You are a bad liar, young man.” She stopped a moment; her breath tired out from the frantic giggle and gave a content sigh. “But I will speak now.”

Her finger started drawing imaginary maps up into the air, seemingly bringing back her memory of the past decade. Her palms traveled from Solseim’s western coast, the land on which stood Pine, over to the east’s wild forests, the northern beaches of grey stone, and the dense mountains of the southern province.

“When the four kingdoms of Solseim fell during the revolution,” she murmured, “as you know, so did their bloodlines. The lords, the ladies. The children.” Her fingers twitched against her lap. “They were hunted down with such violence. There was no peace for them. No mercy.”

Violet was fourteen years old when the war, followed by a revolution, ended; up until then, she had known exile all her life. Daughter of traders, she had never belonged to a single town, nor spoken in the tongue of one land alone. The war had turned all roads dangerous. When the conflict between Solseim’s four kingdoms erupted, trade became a perilous game. Violet’s people learned to move unseen, navigating secret paths between battle lines, always weary that appearing before the wrong lord’s gate could mean death. She was just a child, yet even she could sense the anger brewing—not just between lords and kings, but among the common folk, those who buried their sons, forced to fight battles that weren’t theirs. In time, that anger exploded. The people, weary of hunger and bloodshed, turned their blades against their rulers.

Violet’s parents had never fought in the war, nor joined the revolution. They had spent years escaping battlefields, slipping past armies and raging crowds. And yet, in the end, it had taken nothing more than two desperate men on the road to strike them down. They had been killed for scraps, for the supplies in their wagons. An absurd and quick death.

Violet could see the images moving behind her eyes, her breath caught in the old lady’s magical hand movements. Betsy paused, weighing a grave silence, before continuing. “Some spirits were not granted peaceful sleep. Not mourned. They are restless and so they come back.” Her eyes saddened and her shoulders had slumped down in defeat.

Violet stepped closer. “What are these spirits? What do they look like?”

The old woman shook her head, her amusement fading. “It’s better not to listen to my stories, sheriff,” she murmured. “My son will be cross with you for entertaining them.”

Violet wasn’t going to let her slip away so easily. “Then tell me this,” she pressed. “Who is Mother Midnight?”

Betsy exhaled through her nose, glancing past Violet. “A cursed name from the war,” she finally said. “From the days when men made a devil out of the newly appointed Queen of the East.”

Violet frowned. “What does that mean?”

“She was a violent woman. A soldier, but not in the way men are soldiers. She was a weapon, a creature almost.”

Violet’s skin prickled.

Betsy nodded. “Her touch could steal the warmth from a body. No blade, no gun—just her. A life-sucking machine.”

Something cold slithered through Violet’s spine. “And what happened to her?”

Betsy smiled. Not unkindly, but with the weariness of someone who had seen her stories take on a life of their own too often.

“It’s just an expression, sheriff,” she said lightly, as if waving off the chill in the room. “She did exist but was nothing more than a rough ruler. Mother Midnights is another name for throwing knives. Sharp blades that left bodies drained of blood.”

Violet let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“But one should always keep an eye out. Stories are seldomly born from thin air.” Betsy shifted in her chair, eyes already heavy with sleep. “I need my rest now. You should go.”

**

Viktor sat hunched over his worktable, fingers darkened with charcoal and ink. The dim light of the oil lamp cast flickering shadows over the mess of parchment before him—diagrams, notes scrawled in his meticulous hand, maps pinned beside myths stored in books.

He hadn't heard the door open, not until the hinges creaked. Violet stood in the threshold, her figure stiff against the glow. Viktor inhaled sharply but masked his surprise by running a hand over his tired face. She was alive.

He had told himself it wasn’t his concern, where she disappeared to at night. It had never been his place to care. And yet, he had spent the better part of the morning trying not to think about her.

“You're here,” he said, stating the evidence.

Violet stepped inside without invitation, eyes flicking across the cluttered space. Viktor moved instinctively, hands gathering papers into a loose pile, flipping some over before she could get a good look. But she had already seen enough to know that he had been busy. That he had been looking into something.

Her gaze was sharp when it landed on him. “You've seen it. Eli.”

Viktor looked up at her. “Yes.”

“Are you hiding something?” She pressed, stepping closer. “I can tell. You’re hiding something.”

Viktor remained mute, his hands sweating unto the parchments under his hands. But Violet was not one to be patient and she quickly gave up. Her eyes wandered up to the small window, taking in the last hours of daylight.

“I saw something strange last night Viktor.”

He went very still. “Someone?”

“Someone? Something? I don’t know anymore.”

She didn’t know why she was telling him, why the words were pushing past her lips. Maybe it was the way he looked—like someone desperate for any answers, any relief. Maybe she wanted him to confirm something. Or deny it.

Viktor’s gaze sharpened. “What did you see?”

Violet hesitated. She hadn't said this out loud yet. “A woman,” she said. “Or something shaped like one.”

Viktor frowned. “Shaped like one?”

“Her eyes were not like ours.” The words felt heavier spoken aloud, tinged with some ridicule. Still, this was the best way she could describe her.

Viktor shrugged with a hint of annoyance in his voice. “I’m dealing with the aftermath of a death over here. Why are you telling me all this?”

“I’m not fooling you Viktor!” Her fingers played nervously with the strap of her satchel bag, her eyes squinting at him. “I don’t think this is unrelated to the scary things that have been happening here.”

Viktor paused a second and then decided it would be best to at least hear her out. “Where did you see her?”

Violet hesitated. “Once in the valley a couple days ago, once in the saloon.”

Viktor didn’t speak right away. His hand hovered over his notes, fingers brushing a loose sketch. “Go on,” he said, voice quieter now.

Violet shifted her weight, rolling her shoulders like she could shake off the memory. “I saw her in a mirror. She disappeared from it. And she was watching me, really looking at me.” She swallowed. “Her eyes were…” She hesitated. “I don’t know.”

Viktor stared at her. “And this was last night?” he asked.

She nodded.

He exhaled, rubbing at his jaw. “Was she clothed?”

Violet’s eyes opened with a blush. “Of course.”

Viktor was quick to reply. “Sorry if the question seemed intrusive. I only want to know if you saw her skin.”

Violet cursed herself for feeling embarrassed, but Viktor did not take note of it. He seemed to be thinking deeply. “Was her skin any peculiar tint?”

“Pale?” Violet replied unsure. She then watched him, narrowing her eyes. “You know something.”

“I don't know anything,” he said quickly, shaking his head.

“But you suspect something.”

Viktor didn’t answer immediately. He was asking himself something. Calculating.

“The way you describe her,” he said finally, voice carefully measured, “is imprecise.”

“No shit. I told you she wasn’t like…human. She was almost floating a little above the ground.”

He glanced up at her. Then, quickly, his gaze darkened. “You said her eyes were strange. How?”

Violet shifted. “I don’t know. Big. Like they weren’t real. Like…” She struggled to put it into words, frustration creasing her brow. Like she could see through me and had seen me before.

Viktor's fingers drummed against the table. “And she just… appeared? And then disappeared?”

Violet nodded. “I wouldn’t make this up, you know that.”

He exhaled through his nose, pushing back from the desk. He crossed the room, turning his back to her as he reached for a book—one among many piled on a chair. But when his hand hovered over it, he hesitated. Changed his mind.

Violet didn’t miss it. “What is it?” she asked.

Viktor shook his head. “Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

He let out a quiet groan. “You always think I'm lying.”

“You usually are.” Violet took a step forward. “Is this connected to the bodies? You think it means something, don’t you?”

He turned to face her fully now, exhaling sharply. “I think people are afraid. They make connections that aren’t there.”

She shook her head. “Bullshit. This is different.”

He did not answer.

She scoffed. “You think I'm imagining things? Me out of all people?”

His expression was unreadable. “I think you're looking for something to fight.”

Something about that struck too close, cutting into something deeper than she wanted to admit. Her hands curled into fists. Viktor saw it.

He sighed again, softer this time, running his fingers along the edge of the desk. “Let me know if you see something again.”

**

Violet knew this body—its softness, the curve of this warm back beneath her fingertips, the weight of it against her own. She traced the smooth lines of her tan skin, her fingers slipping under the fabric of her shirt, peeling away the layers between them. She could feel the quick rise and fall of her chest against hers, the heat between them.

Dark, thick curls brushed against her cheek as lips found her jaw, her neck. The sensation sent a shiver through her. Violet sighed the name before she even realized it had formed on her lips. “Amara.” She felt a gentle hum of acknowledgment against her skin as Amara started biting her neck tenderly. A rush ran through Violet, as she felt herself becoming desperate. She reached up, threading her fingers into the curls, roughly pulling Amara’s face to hers. Their mouths met, slow and deep, as her hands roamed, pressing their waists together in the dimly lit room.

She pulled away just enough to look at her—to see the brown honey eyes she knew so well, the freckles on her cheeks. But the face looking back at her wasn’t Amara’s.

It was pale. Almost luminous. Cheeks flushed with vibrant contrasting red, mouth parted as if still catching her breath, but those eyes—those piercing, unnatural blue orbs—held Violet captive in a way that turned the warmth in her gut to ice. Her heart slammed into her ribs.

Violet jolted awake, breath ripping from her chest, fingers clawing at the sheets. Her room was dark, silent apart from the rapid beat of her own heart. She pressed a hand over her mouth, willing herself to steady.

The dream still clung to her eager skin. The sensation of warmth, of hands, of breath, of teeth. And those eyes. How could she have dreamt of this? Had the discussion with Viktor placed the idea in her mind?

Violet shivered violently, running a hand over her face. She looked up at the wooden ceiling, noticing the irregular shape of the rings on the logs, heard the night air gushing against the window, and smelled the hay from her improvised mattress. Her senses were grounding her back to the present. In slow exhales, she felt her body release the tension that was gripping at her muscles. Yet, she was still agitated by the vision.

The image of the shade, the woman’s sharply angled face, disheveled in sweat and desire, made her heart thump in a way she was ashamed to admit. Amara. Think about Amara.

Violet sighed, letting her fingers run back down from her face, touching her stomach lightly. Amara. She held her breath as her fingers slipped down to her inner thighs. The woman’s face still clung to her. Violet tried resisting it. Amara’s legs, Amara’s lips. She slipped a hand under the waistband of her underwear and closed her eyes, taking in the needed touch. Amara’s piercing eyes. Opal blue eyes. The long, straight hair of the shade.  

Chapter Text

A knock came from the distance. Suddenly louder, hurried, relentless.

Violet barely stirred at first, tangled in the grip of sleep. But the pounding on her door refused to relent. It was early—too early for anyone to be calling on her unless there was work.

She groaned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The cold floor shocked her feet awake. Pulling pants on clumsily, she dragged herself toward the door, throwing it open without thinking. Straight into someone’s face.

A groan was heard from the body recoiling. Viktor was hunched over, gripping his nose, his face twisted in pain.

Violet winced. “I’m so sorry.”

Viktor sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, eyes squinting up at her with a mixture of exhaustion and urgency. His face was pale, lines carved deep beneath his tired eyes.

“You look terrible,” she said, blinking at him.

“Don’t start now,” Viktor muttered.

She stepped aside, letting him in. He hesitated for half a second before limping inside. That in itself was unusual—Viktor was not the type to invite himself anywhere, and he had certainly never been in her room before. And now that he was here, Violet could look at the state of the room through his eyes. Messy, with clutter stacked along the sides of the bed, discarded clothes in the corners, and the remnants of last night’s meal still sitting on the table. Chicken bones, an empty bottle.

Viktor took it all in with one sweeping glance but said nothing, only leaning against the side of her table with a heavy exhale.

“My leg hurts terribly,” he muttered. “I didn’t sleep.”

Violet frowned. “Are you ok?” She reached a hesitant hand toward him, to help him find a more comfortable position, but he brushed it off with a quiet shake of his head, adjusting himself on his own.

 “What’s wrong, Viktor? It’s too early for surprises.”

Viktor exhaled sharply, looking at her in that way he did when he was working through something in his head. Finally, he spoke. “Why weren’t you at the mourning pyre yesterday?”

Violet blinked. “What?”

“The pyre.” His voice was measured, though something urgent flickered underneath it. “You weren’t there.”

She stared at him, still caught in the fog of sleep, trying to figure out where he was going with this. The mourning pyres weren’t mandatory. People came if they wanted to. When they had the energy to grieve.

“I—” she started, but Viktor cut her off.

“I know we had an ‘argument’ but…I looked for you.” His tone sharpened. “It was too dark for me to climb up the hill to your place.”

Violet narrowed her eyes, something uneasy curling in her stomach. Viktor was always composed, always methodical. But now there was an edge to him.

“Why were you looking for me?” she asked, her voice quieter now, laced with wariness.

“Tell me more about the woman.”

Violet stiffened. The dream came back to her in a flash—the warmth of Amara’s skin, the soft pressure of lips against hers, the slow pull of clothing until—until—

Violet swallowed. “Uh… yeah. Yes. What do you want to know?”

Viktor tilted his head, watching her closely. He was thinking, the gears in his mind turning fast.

“You didn’t believe me before,” Violet added, a small edge creeping into her voice. “What changed?”

“I had a hunch something was wrong. But I didn’t, I couldn’t truly believe it until…” His jaw tensed. “It seems there is… perhaps… something after us.”

Violet felt the room tilt slightly. The air inside suddenly felt too thick. Viktor’s gaze flickered around her room, scanning everything with sharp, restless eyes. His shoulders were rigid, his posture tense like a man on high alert.

“What do you know, Viktor?” Violet’s voice dropped lower, her pulse picking up speed. “Tell me. Right now.”

Viktor lifted a hand, a slow, measured movement meant to quiet her down. “I will.”

She crossed her arms but nodded, her shoulders tensed up from the anxiety.

“I went into the archives.”

Violet blinked. “We have archives?”

Viktor let out a short, exasperated laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Yes. People used to care.” He steadied, and continued. “Other descriptions of her.” He met her gaze. “And every single one mentioned the eyes.”

A shiver crawled up Violet’s spine.

“The deaths by blood draining,” Viktor continued, voice quiet now, almost like he didn’t want to say it out loud. “The manner of death is documented more.” He looked away then, almost embarrassed. “I might have… gone a little crazy putting two and two together.”

Violet tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

Viktor huffed, shaking his head at himself. “I was panicked,” he admitted. “I stayed up all night going through the records. I—” He stopped himself, rubbing his temples again. “I need you to see it for yourself.”

Violet’s hand reached for her satchel, her eyes still on Viktor. The thrill of something unknown, something bigger than them, crept into her bones. Viktor was not an easily rattled man, nor did he usually believe in anything supernatural, and yet here he was, in her room at dawn, looking completely helpless.

He met her gaze once more. “Come to the atelier,” he said. “Let’s look at it together.”

Together. The word struck something inside her. Viktor’s trust which she had fought for longer than she could remember was tentatively being offered. She knew how fragile it was and how she needed to seize the opportunity before it escaped from her grasp.

Already she hurried to grab a coat from a pile of clothes and flicked her messy pink hair back in place. Finally, she grabbed her hat. And this time, she meant it.

The pair left her small house, stepping out into the pale morning light, descending into the valley below.

**

The door creaked open.

Violet stepped inside slowly, eyes scanning the cluttered atelier. It was chaos. A madman’s mind laid bare. Papers blanketed the tables, curling at the edges from old moisture, pages torn from books and stitched back together with wax seals, and bent pins. The walls were worse: a lattice of maps, charcoal drawings, diagrams, scribbled notes, and pinned letters, most of them barely legible under Viktor’s jagged handwriting.

“This is insane,” Violet murmured under her breath, not quite sure if it was admiration or horror in her voice.

Viktor didn’t respond. He was already across the room, shoulders hunched and hands twitchy at his sides like he was holding back from grabbing something. He stood before the largest patch of wall. Dozens of names were scrawled across papers with circles and arrows connecting them to dates.

He gestured, vaguely. “These are the people who died drained,” he said, voice low. “Only the recorded deaths. Who knows how much more there is.”

Violet took a step forward, the floorboards creaking under her boot heels.

“The cases happen over the span of twenty years more or less,” Viktor continued. “During the kingdom reign. The war. The revolution. Everything! No one has done or said anything about it.”

His tone held some outrage. Rightfully so. But then again, solidarity was a resource made rare by the times, individual survival being at the forefront of everyone’s mind. He shifted, reaching for another portion of the wall, where more neatly rendered portraits were pinned. Some of nobleman and ladies were drawn with a careful hand; others were merely old criminal search posters.

“I tried to associate portraits to names when I could,” he said. “But it hasn’t proven to be helpful. The killings are all done at random. Both the rich and the poor are victims. No pattern I was able to trace.” His mouth tightened as he said it, as if the admission of failure physically hurt him.

He moved quickly. Violet followed, careful not to trip on books laid on the hardwood floor, trying to keep up. He stopped in front of a strange and awfully meticulous diagram. An anatomical figure, crudely drawn, lay stretched out on parchment. Violet’s eyes widened as she took it in: a naked dead man, tubes inserted into his neck, the incisions delicately marked as if done with surgical precision. A pump was drawn beside it, with arrows indicating the flow of blood.

“This is from a science revue. Fifteen years ago,” Viktor said, his voice suddenly taut with frustration. “From the Kingdom of the North. Far away from here, but same pattern. It seems people tried to explain this phenomenon with the hypothesis of a sort of torture machine. Can you believe this? How could anyone believe this?”

Violet tilted her head, pointing at the pump with a fingertip. “This wouldn’t work?”

Viktor turned his head slowly toward her. His brows knit together, his mouth a tight line. He stared at her for a moment longer than necessary. Then he looked away. Not everyone was a science nerd. “Nevermind,” he muttered.

Violet’s face stiffened slightly. She bit the inside of her cheek and said nothing.

He shifted again, almost talking to himself now as he shuffled through a pile of papers. “Testimonies,” he said, motioning vaguely to a cluster of aged letters, torn journal pages, and printed articles glued to a corkboard. “Paranormal encounters. So many are flukes. It was torturous to read through them all.” He exhaled harshly, gesturing to a small selection. “But these.”

His finger tapped a faded letter as he passed it to Violet. Taking it into careful palms, she looked back at Viktor. He must’ve had forgotten.

“Could you um, read it please?” Her voice tinged with embarrassment as the paper was given back.

Viktor nodded immediately, his eyes apologizing for the ignorance with which he had demonstrated his privilege. He took the letter in his left hand, his right already balancing the other records he wanted to share with her.

Viktor read the dozens of accounts of the shade’s appearances. Personal letters mostly. Her elegant dressing, the cobalt hair, the pale skin, the opal eyes.

He finally turned to Violet. “There is much more. But let’s move on.”

He pivoted again, heading to the far corner of the wall where a map covered nearly the entire space. Red thread zigzagged through it like veins, spreading. Violet followed slowly, her brow furrowed, taking everything in silently.

“You will ask me,” Viktor said, voice lower now, almost more to himself than her, “how I paired these deaths with the woman-like spirit.”

He pointed. “By putting together the death logs and testimonies. Dating them. Placing them on the map. All happen at the same time. In the same region. People see the shade and speak of it and then someone dies.” He paused. “The spirit—if that is what it is—travels from place to place. Killing only in certain zones at a time.”

Then, a beat.

“And now, as you have let me know… she has come here.”

Violet stared at the map, at the chaotic swirls of names and towns. It was madness. And yet. There was a terrifying logic to it. The red thread began in the East, then stretched North, curling through small villages like illness.

A chill prickled the back of her neck.

“Viktor…” she started slowly, voice uncertain. “You’re basing yourself off what I saw. But what if I was wrong?”

She chewed her bottom lip, suddenly aware of the weight of being believed. Her chest tightened with guilt.

“You’re right,” Viktor replied plainly, voice clipped as always. “I could not solely trust you unless I had a second testimony to echo yours.”

She blinked. A flicker of hurt crossed her face. But Viktor, caught in his practical ways, had not caught it. “Who?”

“Betsy Kold.”

Violet’s breath caught. She’d seen Betsy just yesterday. Had she come here after?

“When?”

“Yesterday night. Came here in a fright. Would have believed her son, saying she needed rest, if the figure she described wasn’t familiar.”

He turned to look at her. “She thinks it’s after her son next. Told me I should warn the ‘sheriff.’ I get that you paid her a visit.”

Was he angry? Not really. Perhaps he would’ve been exasperated under other circumstances.

“I did,” Violet said, voice held back as she bore a protective stance, her shoulders leaning back. “She took me as a sheriff.” Her jaw tensed ever so slightly. “Poor lady can’t see well.”

“What did you see her for?” Viktor asked with a softer expression, noticing her expectation of mockery, which churned his heart with regret.

Violet relaxed immediately, reading his body language. “I wanted to know more about a myth called ‘Mother Midnight.’ Thought perhaps she was what I had been seeing.”

“Mother Midnight is a dead queen of the East,” Viktor replied hastily. “I made this hypothesis as well. But it is not plausible.”

Violet raised a brow. “Betsy said it was also a metaphor for weaponry.”

“Both can be true.” He was already crouching, pulling loose papers from a mess on the floor. “Mother Midnight is not her actual name. She was a peasant woman who tricked the last King of the East to marry her. So they say.”

He unfolded a tattered sheet and tapped it. Violet leaned closer but said nothing. She couldn’t read the words despite her intense desire to know more. She could only see the thick rows of scribbled names, meaningless to her. How strange it was to hold knowledge so close and yet so far from her.

“This is the catalog of deaths by murder. Blood drain. Referenced from the start of her short reign in the Kingdom of the East. They multiplied in neighboring towns.”

Another flyer was drawn from the pile. Viktor held it up.

“Calls to resistance from the villagers. The name ‘Mother Midnight’ appears for the first time here. Fight Back Censorship. Fight Back Mother Midnight. The place was not known for its freedom of opinion.”

Violet tilted her head. “Were these people killed by her? For that reason?”

He shook his head. “The King and her could’ve ordered public deaths. And they did. So no reason to do killings under the shadows.” He threw the flyer to the floor. “Anyhow. This is irrelevant. She died by the revolution. Was mourned enough. So there’d be no way of her returning as spirit. And still the murders continue afterwards.”

“Gruesome,” Violet whispered.

“With all I’ve read,” Viktor muttered, his eyes drifting back to the map, “nothing affects me anymore.”

They stood in silence for a moment, gazing at the sprawling madness of it all. The quiet exposed their ragged breath. They had pieces coming together, but it only bed more questions if anything.

“Why does Betsy think she’s after her son?” Violet asked.

“She saw her in his room.”

Violet imagined the scene. Betsy pushing open the door. The sudden fear. The prophecies she’d whispered for years staring her right back in the face.

“I want to see her,” Viktor said suddenly, turning toward her. His eyes locked on hers. “She appeared for you twice. You’re alive. Why? There must be a pattern there.”

“A pattern…” Violet murmured. She had enough haunting memories plaguing her mind. Hopefully, this wouldn’t be an additional trouble looming over her dreams like it had last night. Why would the spirit appear for her? Why had she come out of these two encounters alive? Part of her wanted to never see her again. Part of her was looking for a reason. A long-awaited purpose.

“Can I give you a task, Sheriff?” Viktor asked, and there was a trace of soft mockery in his voice.

“Keep an eye out?” she said, quirking a brow.

“Yes.”

Violet nodded.

“And give no word of this to anyone.” He warned carefully. The town was already quite on edge, and knowing that Betsy was not one to be quiet, he had to double down on the secrecy.

“I will report anything I see to you. If I see her again.” Violet had straightened up, looking strong and lively in front of Viktor. Her determined tone shook another weary comment from him.

“And don’t attack. Please. I have to do more research before we attempt anything.” He added.

She signaled a promise but wasn’t entirely sure she’d keep it.

“You can go now. I need a few hours of sleep.”

She was already halfway gone, her thoughts moving faster than her feet. She felt the pull of it again—the need to act, to be useful. She turned toward the door, heart racing now. Her hand was already on the door handle when something tugged at her. She turned.

“Viktor?”

He looked up from the map, his eyes heavy with fatigue.

“You said the archives go up twenty years?”

“Yes.”

“Would there be logs of trade deals? From traders? The amount of money they gained and what they sold?” Her tone tried to dismiss her anxiety as best as she could.

“There should be, yes.”

“Check my family’s record for me, if you can. Please. The name is Wheel Company.”

He hesitated, then nodded, slow and weary. “I will.”

A shiver passed down her spine. The fear of Jo’s words coming to life. The shimmer drugs were in high demand, I’m sure they profited off it. The need to innocent her family, to prove that her origins were not half as twisted as what people made it to be.

She stepped out into the fading light gripping onto a singular thought anchoring her. Find the shade. Fight the shade. Fight. Fight.

Chapter Text

The fire in the hearth crackled gently, its orange light flickering against the low wooden ceiling. Aaron Kold was crouched at the foot of his mother’s bed, carefully lifting her frail legs and guiding them onto the mattress.

“There we go, Ma,” he whispered, his voice soft but steady. He tucked the blanket around Betsy’s feet and adjusted the pillow under her head. Betsy murmured something he couldn’t quite catch, her breath slow, her eyelids heavy. He sat there for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall, then leaned in to kiss her forehead. “Goodnight.”

He stood and tiptoed across the creaking floorboards, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft click.

Outside the bedroom, his smile vanished like a mask slipping from a stage performer’s face. His mouth set into a tight line. His jaw clenched. He crossed the dimly lit living room, knelt by the hearth, and extinguished the fire with a cast iron lid. Ash and soot puffed into the air. In silence, he moved to a small wooden chest and retrieved a thick coat, pulling it over his shoulders. Then came sturdy boots, gloves, and a scarf. Layer by layer, he braced himself for the night air.

He paused by the front door. A long, slow breath. Then he stepped out into the chill, closing the door behind him. The town of Pine slept, its houses like crouching beasts in the dark. The moon cast its silver gaze over the frost-bitten rooftops, and Aaron kept to the edges, his figure melting into shadow as he skirted fences and slid between sheds. There was no hesitation in his steps. Each movement was deliberate, measured. His shoulders were hunched against the cold, but he moved with the intent of a man who’d done this before.

Unseen, another figure moved in his wake.

From behind walls, Violet crouched low, eyes narrowed. Her breath was shallow and visible in the night air, a quickening puff with each exhale. She wore a dark cloak bundled tightly at her throat, with a scarf pulled over her nose. Rebel pink strands of hair, despite her efforts to tuck them in, glimmered faintly under the moonlight.

She had told herself she’d only have to stay near the house. Just a precaution. But here she was, several paces behind him, crouching in dead grass and trying not to shiver. Viktor would call it foolish, reckless. But if what he said was true—if the shade really was after Aaron—then what was she supposed to do? Sleep? She scoffed silently at the thought.

Where is he going?

The man ahead of her did not walk like someone wandering aimlessly. He knew this path. She watched him suspiciously as he avoided deep tufts of grass and hidden rocks. His pace never faltered, not once. Perhaps she was about to discover something unprompted. Whatever he was up to, it could not be good.

He’s going to get himself fucking killed.

Violet's hand slid to the hilt of the knife tucked at her side. Her fingers were already stiff from the cold, but the blade was warm against her thigh, a small reassurance.

They walked—him unaware, her tracking with careful steps—until the trees thickened, now far out the town. Aaron paused. Violet crouched in the tall grass, squinting past the moonlight.

Hovering just a few paces from Aaron was a figure that gleamed unnaturally under the night sky. Violet’s breath caught in her throat. The woman floated just above the ground, her silhouette shimmering like fresh snow. Her gown clung to her frame with impossible elegance, woven with threads too fine for common folk. Her dark hair was pulled into a crown-like updo, adorned with something glittering. Even from this distance, Violet felt the weight of those opal eyes.

Oh gods. She’s here.

Aaron felt his heartbeat thunder in his chest. Who was this woman dressed so lightly in the cold? His hand went to the small dagger at his side, though he didn’t draw it. He stepped forward, voice strained, trying to force out authority.

“Who are you?” he barked, deepening his voice in an attempt to intimidate.

Violet’s hand tightened on her blade. She crouched lower, unsure. She could hear the rustle of her own nerves. A million thoughts rushed through her head. She had prepared for the possibility of this happening, but being actually faced with the situation was a whole other deal. 

And then the shade moved. She darted toward Aaron with inhuman speed in a blur of dark silk. Aaron stumbled back in fear, landing hard on the frost-hardened grass.

“Shit,” Violet hissed, surging from her hiding spot with a scream.

Her knife slashed through the air as she charged, body pumping with adrenaline. The shade twisted, spinning away from Aaron. Violet got between them, her blade slicing at empty air, the fabric of the shade’s robe whispering as it moved just out of reach.

“What the—” Aaron wheezed, eyes wide with panic, propped up on one elbow.

“Run,” Violet growled, her body tense, blade poised in front of her. She didn’t look at him, only at the figure before her. The shade stood still now, her glowing eyes fixed on Violet with some surprise.

Her face was delicate. Porcelain skin. Those haunting eyes, too still to be human. She wasn’t panting. Wasn’t blinking. She just watched.

“Oh god,” Aaron breathed, scrambling to his feet, legs wobbling. He turned and began to jog away, limping slightly from the fall.

Violet stepped forward and slashed once more. Again, the shade evaded, not with effort, but with elegance—her movements were dance-like, fluid, taunting.

Violet snarled and drove forward harder, her every strike faster, more desperate. But each one missed. The shade spun, ducked, floated out of reach with no sign of aggression—until she stopped.

In a blink, she vanished from Violet’s sight.

Before she could react, an arm slid against her throat from behind, pulling her backward. Violet yelped, her knife flying from her hand into the grass.

She hit the ground hard, her back smacking against the frozen dirt. Then the shade’s palm slammed against her chest—small, delicate—but with force enough to keep her pinned.

Violet gasped, struggling, but her limbs felt heavy. Her head swam. She stared up at the ghostly face hovering above hers.

The woman’s expression wasn’t cruel. Her hand was warm. So warm. That surprised her. How could a body so fleeting and spectrally light carry this human strength, this human heat.

Violet blinked hard, her vision blurring. Her muscles refused to obey. Her body was shutting down like it had in the valley when they first met. No, no, no. She squinted at the woman’s face, and then spat the words out, half-defiant, half-pleading.

“You got me. Fucking kill me. Kill me then.”

The shade’s eyes shifted, glancing over her shoulder—Aaron, a speck now in the valley. Violet tried to speak again, but it came out as a whisper.

“Don’t do this.”

The last thing she felt was the pressure of the palm lifting. And then darkness.

She had failed her mission.

**

Ten years earlier.

The sky was slowly dipping into amber as Violet stumbled onto the dirt path leading to Pine, her legs shaking beneath her like they barely remembered how to walk. Her boots kicked up little clouds of dust as she moved forward one heavy step at a time. She carried everything she owned in a canvas bag, frayed at the seams and damp with rain. Her skin was marked with soot and specks of ash, and a dried smear of blood still clung stubbornly to her jawline.

But worse than the wear on her body was the hollow ache in her chest. Her hands trembled around the compass she’d used to get here, a tiny brass thing, a little cracked. She had been walking two hours. Everything since the fire was a blur. And she still hadn’t found her sister.

Her eyes lifted when she caught sight of movement up ahead. A man was herding sheep into a wooden pen beside a crooked fence, his wide-brimmed hat casting his face in shadow. The sheep bleated quietly as they shuffled in, and the man gave a rough grunt to hurry the slower ones.

Violet hesitated, then clutched her bag tighter and approached. Her voice came out softly, barely louder than the wind. “Excuse me, sir… what’s the name of this place?”

The man didn’t look up at first. He was too focused on ushering the last few sheep through. He gave one a sharp pat on the rump and muttered something under his breath. “Pine,” he said flatly.

He bent to close the latch on the gate, shoulders hunched, work-worn hands fast and familiar with the motion. Then, reluctantly, he turned to face her.

“Who are ye, girl?”

Violet opened her mouth, but it took a second for anything to come out. Her throat burned. Her lip quivered. “I’m from the Wheel Company,” she said shakily. “My caravan was… it burned.”

That last word cracked as it left her, and she looked down quickly, trying to push the tears back into her eyes. She wiped at her face with her sleeve, only smudging more dirt across her cheek. The man grimaced and looked away.

“Uff... What do you want me to do?”

Her heart sank a little. “Do you know where I could sleep for the night?”

The farmer scratched at the back of his neck, already grabbing his satchel and moving toward his cottage. “Uh... not really,” he muttered.

“Who else could I ask?” she pressed, her voice catching again.

He took in the burns on her clothes, the soot smeared on her cheek, the way her eyes didn’t seem to know where to rest and his heart sank.

“Look,” he said finally. “Pine doesn’t really trust your folk. But I wish you good luck.”

He started to walk away.

“Please, sir,” she called after him more desperately, one step closer. “I don’t have my family. Just for the night. Please.”

Her hand reached out, fingers brushing his sleeve, but he pulled away without looking back. His boots thudded heavily on the wooden steps as he entered his home and shut the door behind him. A click of a lock. That was it.

Violet stood there in the quiet yard, the last rays of sunlight catching on her hair, her eyes glazed and wide. Her mouth formed a tight line, a sob threatening to rise in her chest.

Inside the cottage, the interior was dim and warm, walls lined with dusty shelves and tools hanging from rusted hooks. A fire snapped in the hearth.

A voice, youthful and clipped with a sharp accent, drifted from the small kitchen. “Who was that talking with you?”

A boy stood at the sink, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands covered in soap. His face was angular, boyish, with a mop of brown hair and a wary look about his eyes. His shirt was a bit too big, buttoned all the way to the collar. The farmer dropped his coat onto a nail by the door. “Some trader,” he said shortly.

Viktor glanced back, scrubbing harder at the pan in his hand. The farmer sighed as he sat in his chair, rubbing his forehead.

“It’s tragic,” he muttered. “These orphan youngsters left alone. But I can bet ya, when they have to fend for themselves like that, they turn up to no good.”

Viktor paused. His hand tightened slightly on the dish handle. He said nothing. The farmer hadn’t meant it cruelly, not really. It was just the sort of thing people said. Still, Viktor’s chest stirred at the mention of his own condition.

“I finished tying the sickle together,” he said after a beat.

The farmer glanced up. “Good boy. Bring it to me then.”

Viktor nodded and set the dishes down. He crossed the room, passing through a doorway into the workroom, his favorite place. The table was cluttered with tools, sketches, bent bits of iron twisted into shape. He found the sickle he’d repaired earlier, its curve elegant, the leather binding around the handle just slightly uneven, and carried it carefully back to the main room.

Later that night, when the sun had fully set, Viktor took on his evening tasks. He pulled on his coat and slipped outside with ease, leaning lightly on his cane. His walk had a rhythm to it—one-two-tap, one-two-tap—as he made his way toward the barn. The ground was cold beneath his boots, and the night air crisp.

He whistled a little, absent-minded. His chore was simple: gather hay for the sheep so they wouldn’t wake the farmer too early come dawn. He did it every night. But as he approached the barn, his steps slowed. His whistling stopped.

The door was ajar. That was strange. It was never left open.

His pulse picked up. Carefully, he reached out and nudged the door further.

Inside, the barn was dim, lit only by the faint spill of moonlight through a small upper window. The air was heavy with the scent of hay. He stepped in slowly. Then he saw her.

Curled on the topmost layer of hay, small and still, was a girl, dirtied and sweaty. Her knees were pulled to her chest. Her arms tucked tightly around herself. Her face was furrowed even in sleep—like her dreams didn’t give her peace either. Viktor immediately made the connection between the presence and his conversation with the farmer.

She’d found her way in somehow. Slipped past the door or climbed through the window. She didn’t look dangerous. Just utterly exhausted.

He looked at her, then at the hay scattered at the side of the barn. Without a word, he stepped lightly, careful not to disturb her, and grabbed what he needed. As he turned to go, he hesitated by the door.

He left it as it was. Closed, but not latched. A gesture, small and deliberate. She could leave whenever she needed. Or stay, if she chose. No one would wake her.

**

Viktor stirred awake with a grunt, his cheek stuck to the surface of a paper on the atelier table. His eyes blinked against the harsh sunlight filtering in through the slatted windows. He cursed softly, stretching his sore limbs.

He sat up, rubbing his arms briskly to shake the haziness off. Just meant to nap.

He looked down and swore again at a folded page, crumpled beneath his forearm. He opened the old book carefully, straightening it with fingers that bore the faint tremble of fatigue.

He’d meant to sleep for a few hours after Violet left the atelier that last morning. The threads, the map, the pinned documents, everything was still here, still real. And now—judging by the quality of light—he’d slept an entire day and night away. His body ached from the chair’s hard curve.

Rubbing his face, he stood slowly, steadying himself with his cane. The atelier was quiet, smells of wax and sweat thick in the air. He changed quickly, pulling on a fresh shirt and one of his spare coats that hung from a hook. He knew to keep clothes in here. Sleeping over at the atelier was no rare sight. The place felt like home—more so, at least, than anywhere else.

He pushed the door open. Outside, the sun was already well into the sky, late morning, but Pine was eerily quiet. The usual murmur of distant tools, children’s squabbling, or gossiping neighbors was absent. No footsteps on gravel, no chattering. The only sound was the faint rustling of wind through the grass.

Viktor squinted. Where is everyone?

He didn't mind quiet. He liked it, even. But this was different.

Still, he began his habitual morning walk, cane tapping against the ground with each uneven step. Past the saloon, past the well. The houses stared at him, windows dark, shutters drawn, like the whole town was holding its breath.

Viktor was becoming increasingly agitated. Until, far off down in the valley, beyond the edge of town, he spotted them. A crowd. Small figures moving like ants across the field. He stopped, leaning slightly forward, blinking hard. His stomach twisted.

Whatever this was—it wasn’t good.

He started down the path. His limp made the walk slow, each step jarring the panic that was growing inside him.

As he got closer, the murmur of voices thickened, buzzing with tension. He saw the back of the crowd, shifting restlessly. Someone noticed him.

“Oh, Viktor, there you are,” a man called out.

“Finally,” came another voice.

“Nevermind Viktor,” a woman muttered, not turning around. “She’s his little protégée.”

Viktor’s eyes jumped past the backs of heads and shoulders—and then he saw Violet. She was being held by two men, one on each arm. Her legs were digging into the ground, her torso twisting in resistance, but she wasn’t strong enough to break free. Her breath came fast, eyes wild with fury.

And in front of her—a young woman wearing a large scarf, holding a kitchen knife toward her chest. Her hand trembled, but her expression was fixed with tear-streaked fury.

“Let me go,” Violet growled. Her voice was low, rough, shaking with emotion. “Let me go or else—”

“Okay, okay—come on!” Viktor pushed forward through the ring of onlookers, some of them stepping aside with mild surprise, others not budging. “Is this necessary? What can be the matter?

“The matter?” The woman with the knife rounded on him, voice cracking. “The matter is your little friend here is a murderer!”

Viktor reeled. His cane planted hard in the dirt. “Murder…?”

He barely noticed the muffled sob until it turned into a wail. He turned his head and saw Betsy Kold on her knees nearby, her hands in her hair, rocking back and forth like she was trying to rock herself into another world.

“Aaron…” Viktor whispered.

The crowd roared up around him like a tide. Voices crashing together:

“She killed him!”

“She had a knife!”

“No more strangers in Pine!”

“Where is Aaron?!” Viktor yelled over them all, voice cutting the din. Everything fell silent for a moment, as if the question briefly unsettled the foundation of what was happening.

That’s when Violet saw Viktor. Her eyes flickered, caught in panic and relief. “Viktor!” she cried out. “I’m sorry. I tried to save him. It was her! It was—”

But one of the men holding her jerked his arm across her throat, cutting off her voice. She gagged as she thrashed harder in protest.

“No!” Viktor shouted, stepping forward instinctively, though the mass of bodies still separated him from her.

“Let’s calm down,” he said again, raising a hand. “Let’s calm down. Please.” He repeated it like a prayer.

The crowd quieted slightly.

The woman with the knife turned to him, her eyes red and puffy, grief twisted into something sharp. “We think she should die. Eye for eye.”

Viktor shook his head, furious and afraid. “You’re not… this is not justice. Where is Aaron?”

A man pointed behind the crowd. “Laid out in the dirt. Few meters up.”

“She had a knife!” someone else shouted, emboldened. The mob burst into shouts again—blame, grief, fear. Viktor couldn’t follow it all. His eyes kept snapping to Violet, her arms jerked back painfully, her chest heaving.

Then the gruff-voiced man holding her spoke with finality. “Let’s take her back to town. Put her in the box. Decide later what to do.”

Voices picked up in agreement. A few dissented—but not enough. And the men began to drag her.

“Let me go!” Violet kicked and twisted, but they gripped her arms like iron vices. Her boots scraped the dirt. She screamed but the sound was lost in the clamor.

The crowd surged around her, Viktor caught in the middle. People pushed past him like he was a ghost. He tried to follow, tried to force his way toward her, but bodies moved faster than he could.

“Violet!” He yelled. “Don’t do anything! Just—just stay calm!”

He didn’t know if she heard him.

She disappeared into the moving crowd, dragged by people she’d tried so hard to belong to.

Viktor stood behind, breathless, watching the angry tide roll back toward Pine, his heart pounding like a war drum. This would not be easy to undo.

**

After Violet had been placed in the box—an old, broken-down horse trailer with rusting metal poles and a heavy door bolted shut—the community had grown colder by the hour. The box sat deep inside a barn, itself locked tight, belonging to one of the men who had helped drag her fighting silhouette down the hill.

Viktor had not been able to even speak to her. Not once. Every approach he made had been turned back by angry, grief-blinded villagers who posted themselves in shifts in front of the barn door. No one trusted themselves to leave her alone, not when the air was so thick with the clamor for blood.

A vote had been declared, to be held the next day. A choice between exile—or hanging. But it was clear to any who watched the crowds murmuring and pacing that exile was already losing favor. The people of Pine were burning with a kind of morbid thrill, the hunger for death contagious among them.

Yet, though it had been nine hours already, Viktor kept coming back, again and again, desperate to speak to her. Always refused.

“He’s back,” muttered the man sitting atop an upside-down vegetable cart, his voice edged with disdain.

The woman beside him—Yita, the young one who had pressed a knife against Violet’s chest not so long ago—stood up from the dusty ground where she had been resting. Her body was tense with exhaustion and anger.

“It’s no use, Viktor,” she spat out across the distance as Viktor approached, his limp steady but determined. Regardless of their hostile tone, they both knew he would keep coming.

When Viktor reached them, he addressed them without hesitation, his voice as calm as it had been every hour before. “Yita, Gayle,” he said, nodding to each in turn. “I want to speak with her. Ten minutes.”

The woman’s eyes were rimmed red, from weeping and from sheer, grinding fatigue. Her voice came out cold, brittle. “You know, you don’t impress me much. Your air of superiority, your thinking you must know better than everyone else.”

Viktor stood still, weathering her anger like a static rock in a flood. “I do not think this,” he said simply, without inflection.

She scoffed, an ugly, tired sound, and looked away. “Four deaths now. And what have you done? We are tired, Viktor,” her voice muttered in a rasp.

She kept her eyes turned skyward as she continued, as if the act of speaking was painful. “You know what could happen in bad trade arrangements, during the war. I still think about how it was to watch my family get murdered by traders. How do you think a child should go about forgetting that?”

Viktor bit the inside of his cheek hard enough that the sharp copper of blood filled his mouth. It did not surprise him, the taste of iron on his tongue, it was how he kept his composure in front of others. “Yita, Violet has been here a long time. And part of Pine.”

But she wasn’t listening, not really. She looked at the sky a moment longer before snapping her gaze back down, casting the tears away with sheer force of will. “My parents were friends with them,” she said with a grimace, her face folding briefly with pain. “They just don’t have it in them, loyalty. It’s in their culture.”

The man on the cart—Gayle—finally stirred, uncomfortable sitting in the thick tension of the air. His voice was rough, but his words were clear. “Look Viktor…She did it or she did not. She has been making most of us uncomfortable. Roaming, picking fights, and whatnot. We finally have a tight-knit community here in Pine. I know you out of all people would not want to divide it.”

Viktor stood silently, absorbing the words. In a sense, they were right. But they didn’t know the whole of it. They didn’t know what Viktor had hidden, the truths buried beneath layers of necessity and fear, lies that had been safeguarding Pine before, and might damn it now.

“I want everyone to be well. And I mourn for Aaron Kold,” he said solemnly, and meant it.

Gayle shook his head in agreement, tired and worn. “We have been suffering too much.”

Yita softened slightly, her eyes losing a bit of their harsh edge. After a long moment, she spoke, her voice quieter. “You will be able to speak to her. To say goodbye.”

Viktor opened his mouth, then closed it again. Whatever he had been about to say he swallowed back. His eyes, normally flat and careful, caught a sudden, almost imperceptible new light. Something had shifted.

“Okay…So be it,” he said calmly, resolute. “I will not come back until the vote is done.”

Yita nodded, confusion flickering faintly across her face. She didn’t understand what had changed, what had made him finally give way.

The pair watched as Viktor turned and began to walk down the dirt path, his cane tapping softly with each step. His pace was quicker than before—not by much, but enough that someone truly watching would have caught it.

“Do you think he means that?” Yita asked, arms crossed tightly over her chest as she stared after him.

Gayle shifted and muttered without much interest, “It does not matter. He will not trick us with words. It's not like he has the capacity to do anything physically. Nor does he have anyone on his side.”

The dust settled behind Viktor as he disappeared over the ridge, carrying with him a quiet urgency, an idea tucked into a sleeve, waiting.

**

The night now clung to the barn. Inside the broken-down horse trailer, Violet lay against the cold iron poles, the rust biting through her sleeves. Her body had stopped protesting hours ago. It just existed now, small and crumpled like a doll.

Her knees rocked in and out from her chest at a slow rhythm she wasn't even aware of, her mind stuck somewhere between waking and old memories.

Aaron’s fearful eyes flashed behind her lids. The sound of her own screaming curled around her like smoke. Betsy’s visceral grief, which had zombified her completely, filled her with guilt. Violet didn’t weep. She didn't pray. She just pressed her forehead harder against the metal until it hurt, willing herself into numbness.

She wasn’t built for saving anyone. Neither the townsfolk nor she. Especially not her little sister, whose body she had never even found and probably lay somewhere alone.

It was almost a relief now, lying here, waiting for the hangman’s noose to do its work. Perhaps she deserved it even. Better dead than trouble.

The thought circled lazily, carving a hollow place inside her.

This was until a heavy rope, unfurled from the narrow shaft of the window on the roof of the barn. Violet flinched, staring. Her heart made a leap against her ribs.

She let out a dry, joyless laugh. “No one is here,” she groaned to herself. “Violet, give it up. Give it up.” Her voice cracked and she swallowed it down.

She shifted, dragging her chin up just enough to glance toward the window. “A hanging will do you good,” she rasped, slipping into a mocking imitation of Viktor’s voice.

The rope jerked. Someone was climbing down.

Violet barely narrowed her eyes. “What the fuck,” she muttered.

The figure hit the barn floor with a soft grunt and started moving fast toward the trailer.

Violet tensed. The way the figure moved, efficient, light, was akin to a hallucination. The shade. It had come for her after all.

“It’s you,” she hissed, a grimace twisting her mouth. “You want to shove it in my face. Kiss me up, fight me, and then get me killed.”

The figure crouched low next to the trailer, and a sharp, impatient shush cut through the dark.
“Shit. Will you be quiet please?” the voice whispered harshly—a man’s voice, real and rough-edged.

Violet blinked again, her sluggish brain catching up too slowly. The silhouette shifted, and in a sliver of moonlight, a sharp, wiry frame came into view. Her breath caught painfully.

“Jo,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

He knelt by the door, pulling something from his coat and attacking the lock with focused urgency.

“Don't get your panties all twisted, will ya?” he muttered under his breath. “Viktor sent me.”

Violet stared at him, her eyes adjusting to the dark. For the first time, she truly saw him—not the slouching, half-drunk comic he usually played at being. Here, in this moment, his body moved with crisp, deliberate control. His shoulders steady, his thin muscles locked into precise tension. The same careless Jo—but a version of him the village never got to see. The stories about his military past unfurled in truth in front of her eyes as she watched him work.

Jo didn't look up, but something about the tightness of his jaw suggested he knew she was noticing. He worked faster.

She forced herself to find her voice, brittle and weak. “I thought we left on bad terms.”

Jo gave a snort under his breath. “Let me focus.” He jiggled the pick against the lock, then, almost conversationally: “I know you didn’t kill him.”

He shrugged a little, still hunched over the lock. “You’re a tough one for sure. But you don't have it in you.”

Jo muttered again, voice low and rambling despite telling her to stay quiet: “Anyways. Viktor promised me some money... for my projects.”

The lock clicked weakly but didn’t spring open yet. Violet blinked, confused and still trying to process all of it.
“Wha—”

“Nothing to say about that,” Jo cut her off, almost cheerful. Then, after a heartbeat, his voice softened into something else—half joking, half broken: “I’ve done things I’m not proud of, kid. Never again gonna stand around while blood gets spilled for nothing.” He flashed her a lopsided grin, pleading her to not make it sentimental. She didn't dare touch the weight behind that line.

The lock gave one last stubborn twist—and snapped open. Without waiting for permission, Violet lunged from the cage. She almost collapsed into him, her hands fisting into the fabric of his coat. Jo gave a startled huff, stiffened, then awkwardly patted her back once, twice.

“Easy,” he muttered. His voice was gruff, but there was a strange gentleness under it.
“Know how to climb a rope?” he asked, half a smirk curling the corner of his mouth.

Violet pulled back just enough to see his face, her eyes burning with tears, her chest heaving with a sudden, furious hunger to live.