A crown of ash.
Walls of gold.
Eyes of pity.
No one fears her now.
Only the throne burns.
Empty.
Waiting.
Three men.
Three fangs.
Steel. Shadow. Silk.
They circle.
They bite.
They fail.
She does not win.
But she does not lose.
She breathes.
She endures.
A message.
The girl again.
Sophia.
Born of steel and grace.
Born wrong, they said..
A closed room.
A bruised boy.
A furious noble.
A mother.
A daughter.
Two silences.
They speak.
They scream.
A slap.
A door.
A broken breath.
Alone again.
"Help me."
But fairy tales don't answer.
Not anymore.
The Undercity has no sky.
Only rotting roofs, cables hanging like snakes, and gas lamps trembling like anxious hearts.
The sun doesn't reach here.
It doesn't dare.
Day dies before it descends.
And night—never ends.
Masie walks at the front.
Alpha of a pack of starving wolves.
Mud-stained boots, a worn cloak, a gaze proud like a scar kept open on purpose.
Every step is a command.
Every glance a dividing line between who lives and who vanishes.
Here, in the buried city, those who fear her are her allies.
Those who hate her… stay away.
Because even hatred, in some places, knows fear.
Around her: crumbling walls, rusted grates, the stench of iron, blood, and mold.
Rags hung like curtains.
Eyes peering from holes in the brick.
No one approaches.
But all see.
Ravan brings up the rear.
Silent.
His spine straight like a vow carved in wood.
No emotion on his face.
But his eyes…
His eyes see everything.
Measuring distances, weighing reactions, decoding invisible signals.
As if every movement is logged in real-time.
He doesn't observe—he records.
Enya carries Neve on her back.
The girl is light. Too light.
She breathes softly, that broken sound that's been tearing Enya apart for years.
But she never complains.
Never.
Enya walks.
Tired.
But alert. Always.
She knows these streets.
She's killed here more times than she can count.
Missions for Gothel.
Sparks of hell extinguishing lives she never knew.
But she was only a passing shadow.
Masie, though—Masie is flesh of this place.
A vein in the beast.
And now she leads them.
Into the Empire's rotten belly.
The filthy heart of its lie.
Where the mud remembers.
And the Resistance—like a predator thirsting for vengeance—smells blood.
Two armed men appear from a side alley.
Dirty skin, patched jackets, rifles on their backs.
Hard eyes.
But when they see Masie, they straighten.
No questions. No hesitation.
"Check the east access, I might've been followed," Masie orders, voice sharp as a cough.
"Two hours to rendezvous with the Good Friend. No distractions."
One nods.
The other, before disappearing, throws a glance at Enya.
A mix of disbelief and awe.
As if he doesn't trust his eyes.
As if he's recognized the impossible.
Enya exhales sharply.
Of course Masie didn't waste time.
She must've already spread the word like a trophy:
the Fire Witch now walks with the Resistance.
How noble.
Well...
If they want her to roast some guards, some weapons depots…
She can do that.
She's done worse.
She burned an Emperor.
She senses a movement.
Minimal.
Silent.
Ravan.
He's drawn close without a sound.
Again.
He says nothing.
But Enya feels him.
A solid presence. Calm.
Like a shadow that knows how to wait.
He looks at her.
Not with fear.
Not with desire.
With... attention.
As if—even surrounded by flame—he sees only a girl.
Disassembled.
Dragged once more into a circle of blood and vengeance.
Claimed. Again.
Then—two figures. Greasy. Watching from a corner.
Lurid eyes on Neve, still sleeping on her sister's back.
One look.
That's all.
Enya's eyes ignite.
Literally.
The air around her warps.
Temperature rising.
Dust and grime lifting off the floor.
She's about to explode.
But a hand.
Slender. Steady.
Touches her.
Ravan.
No force.
No grip.
"Don't," he murmurs. "It's not worth it."
Enya inhales.
Slowly.
Steps away.
Irritated.
Or... maybe not.
She hates that voice inside her.
The one that wants to stay close to the man with golden eyes.
She hates not knowing why she hears it.
Masie calls out.
"We're close. Stay with me."
The Resistance hideout has no real doors.
Just welded sheet metal, secret passageways hidden behind curtains of rags reinforced with steel plates.
Once inside, the smell shifts.
No longer just mold and iron, but cigar smoke, motor oil, unknown spices, and dried blood.
There is no luxury—but there is ingenuity.
Walls reinforced with scrapped ship parts.
Pipes bringing air from the upper levels.
An independent lighting system, probably built by some renegade engineer.
Masie enters first.
The sure stride of someone who knows all of this is hers.
Then she stops in front of a wider door.
It creaks open, revealing a towering figure.
Otto.
Two meters of muscle and scars.
A long black beard streaked with silver.
Shaved head.
One eye clouded by a scar shaped like a lightning bolt.
The other, black as pitch, narrows in a mix of surprise and respect.
"Otto," says Masie,
"We have a new flame among us."
Then she turns, theatrically.
"The Resistance has finally found the Fire Witch. The Empire... is about to fall."
Otto looks at her.
Then looks at Enya.
He stares for a long moment.
Says nothing.
Then, in a voice like gravel:
"The Good Friend will be proud."
Enya clenches her teeth.
She doesn't like that name.
She doesn't like this place.
Too many eyes.
Too much expectation.
Masie notices her discomfort.
Approaches, tone softer.
"I'll introduce you to someone. A trusted woman. She'll care for your sister.
No one in the Undercity is stupid enough to mess with this place. Trust me."
Otto nods.
A slow, almost solemn motion.
His gaze lands on Enya.
And in that gaze—there is no fear.
There is respect.
And an unspoken promise:
She will be safe.
But Enya…
doesn't know why,
but it's not enough.
She needs another look.
Another nod.
She turns.
Ravan.
Silent. Still there.
As if he never stopped following her.
Their eyes meet.
Enya says nothing.
Doesn't need to.
Ravan nods.
Just that.
But it's enough.
Otto approaches.
Slow.
Cautious.
Like one would approach a legendary beast.
Enya tenses.
Then—inspires.
Closes her eyes for a moment.
And makes the impossible gesture.
She hands over Neve.
Entrusts her sister.
Otto takes her with surprising delicacy for a man like him.
Cradles her like someone who's carried many wounded or dead brothers and sisters.
Many dying children—all casualties of cruel, indifferent masters.
Masie snaps:
"Give her a safe room. Now. Call the healers. If the medicine she needs isn't in stock, tell the boys I want it here within the hour. They can buy it. Steal it. I don't care how."
Otto nods.
Leaves.
Enya stands still.
Empty hands.
Heart in pieces.
She looks at Masie.
The Crimson Wolf doesn't lie.
She'll keep her end of the deal.
And Enya will keep hers.
She'll burn whoever they tell her to burn.
A few minutes later, Otto returns.
Neve is gone—entrusted to the healers.
He gives Enya a silent nod.
Masie turns to the witch and the golden-eyed man.
"You two. Follow me. Welcome to the wolf's den."
The room is bare.
As naked as an ossuary.
A wrought iron table, four mismatched chairs, a frayed old rug, and a decrepit-looking armchair.
And yet—Enya senses it instantly.
This isn't an ordinary place.
There's something.
In the air.
In the dust.
In the silence.
Sitting in the armchair, wrapped in a dark shawl, is a woman.
Old.
Skin as thin as paper.
Bones sharp beneath oversized clothing.
She might look like a survivor.
A relic.
But no.
What she radiates is not weakness.
It is power.
Raw.
Silent.
Absolute.
Otto immediately bows his head.
And his voice goes coarse, almost childlike:
"Good Friend."
Enya feels a shiver on her skin.
That name—it's a paradox.
A childhood whisper that smells of terror.
A gentle way to call something too great to name fully.
Masie, though, smiles.
Almost cheerful.
Almost… affectionate.
"Miranda," she says. "Look what presents I've brought you."
The old woman stands.
Every movement is measured, slow—but not uncertain.
As if time itself had to adjust to her rhythm.
Her eyes—two violet wells, tired but deep.
They search.
They probe.
They land on Enya.
Then on Ravan.
Then she speaks.
Her voice is low.
Rough.
But each word weighs like an ancient decree.
"I am Miranda. Counselor to the Crimson Wolf. Shadow of the Resistance."
She steps toward Enya.
Not with reverence.
Not with fear.
But with genuine respect.
"Welcome, daughter of fire."
Enya shudders.
Not from threat.
Not from flattery.
From truth.
Then Miranda turns to Ravan.
And stops.
Just a second.
But her gaze shifts.
Becomes lucid.
Vibrant.
As if something inside him answered a secret too terrible to remember.
But she says nothing.
Just nods.
"Sit."
She takes an old tea set, stained by time.
Pours water from a chipped teapot.
Slowly.
Masie scoffs.
"Tea again, Miranda?"
The old woman doesn't answer.
But the faint smile across her face is nearly imperceptible.
Masie stands.
Takes two cups.
Steps forward.
"Let me help, or we'll begin talking come next century."
Miranda bends slowly toward the old gas burner.
Turns the knob.
A faint hiss.
But no flame.
She tries again.
Nothing.
"Mh," she mutters, "seems fire doesn't want to obey today."
A sigh.
Slightly too long.
Masie rolls her eyes.
"Great. Broken again?"
She turns to leave.
"I'll fetch a flint, or we'll be here 'til the next war."
But Miranda halts her.
With a calm, almost lazy gesture.
Almost—irritating.
"Perhaps… our guest could help us."
Masie freezes.
Hand halfway to the door.
Turns slowly.
Enya looks at her.
Then at Miranda.
Smirks.
A crooked, ironic grin.
A test?
She thought they would finally be past the theatrics.
Ravan watches.
Motionless.
But if he were human… he might seem amused.
Enya raises a hand.
One finger.
Indifferent.
Her nail points at the burner.
An instant.
Zzzt.
A spark.
Precise.
Perfect.
A flame bursts to life.
Clean.
Alive.
Miranda smiles.
A smile that holds decades.
A smile of recognition.
"Thank you," she says simply.
But that thank you weighs more than most praise.
Masie swallows.
A chill runs down her spine.
She knew what Enya was.
What she could do.
But seeing that spark—that careless gesture, that power unleashed as if it were nothing—freezes her bones.
Otto says nothing.
Doesn't move.
But in his mind—for a moment—he sees a throne aflame.
A man who was believed to be untouchable burning like parchment.
And a goddess of fire and destruction who, with a single finger, could change the world.
Miranda pours the tea slowly, as if each drop needs its own time.
Her wrinkled hands do not tremble.
Not anymore, at least.
She hands a cup to Ravan, another to Enya, then sits again.
Silence thickens, like smoke in the air.
Then, the old woman's voice rises—low, solemn.
"The Resistance was not born of revenge. Nor rage. It was born of necessity."
She leans back in her chair, gaze fixed into the void, as if seeing something no one else can.
"I am the one who founded it. Many years ago. When I realized the Empire couldn't be saved—not in its current form. The Emperors have always ruled with iron fists. Always exploited, crushed, ignored. But… Henry?"
A pause. Bitterness darkens her voice.
"Henry was the worst. At first, I had hope. I admit it. Young. Brilliant. Charismatic. I thought… maybe he'll change things."
A sad smile.
"Instead, he brought the blackest night this land has ever known."
Masie crosses her arms. Her tone is blunt, direct.
"When the Emperor was assassinated four years ago, on his own throne… silence fell. Fear. An act no one thought possible. An Emperor… burned alive."
Miranda nods slowly.
"To me, it is a sign. A warning. And a promise."
Masie scoffs, raising her tea.
"For us, it was a signal. From that day, the Resistance wants only one thing: the weapon that did it. The king's assassin."
Enya takes a sip. Then sets the cup down. Her gaze sharp, her tone cold—almost scornful.
"If the Witch didn't have a sick sister, you'd never have the Witch."
Silence.
Then Miranda smiles.
"I'm sorry the circumstances brought you to us like this."
Masie isn't so gentle. Her eyes burn with purpose.
"Sorry or not, the fact is—you're here now. And the Resistance now has the fire to burn the rotten crown."
"Fire is not the solution."
Ravan's voice cuts through the air like a razor dipped in honey. Calm. Unshakable.
All eyes turn to him.
"Burning what's left of the royal family… what will that actually accomplish?" he continues. "Is the Resistance ready to govern an empire of hundreds of millions? Or do you have a plan only for destruction—and none for what comes after?"
Masie clenches her jaw but stays quiet. Miranda studies him.
"You're right," she says. "Order cannot be shattered without knowing what will replace it. That's why we already know who will take the throne."
A pause.
"But it's not yet time to reveal it."
Masie groans.
"Riddles again, Miranda…"
Otto, silent, studies Ravan. He looks at him like a puzzle without a solution.
The man with golden eyes… something is different about him.
He hasn't just been with Enya—he's stood with her. Present. Steady.
Then Ravan speaks again.
"You can raze the imperial palace to the ground. Burn it to its foundations. But it won't matter. Not until the real demon lurking in the depths of the Iron Spire is eradicated."
The room freezes.
Miranda stiffens.
Otto doesn't understand—but his muscles tense.
Even Masie stops swirling her tea.
Enya looks at Ravan.
She feels it too—something just out of reach.
"Explain yourself," Miranda says.
Ravan lifts his gaze. It's steady—almost eternal.
"I'll make you a deal. Use Enya's power wisely. No senseless bloodshed. And in return… I'll tell you every secret. Every hidden truth I know."
Silence.
Enya's crimson eyes lock onto his.
She doesn't know what to say.
For a moment, the words burn inside her.
Is he… trying to protect her?
Is he truly trying to preserve what little remains of her humanity?
To save the Fire Witch—from herself?
Masie slams her cup on the table. Tea spills across the old wood.
"No." Her voice is sharp, raw. "I won't allow this. Who even wanted this guy? We wanted her. The Fire Witch. Not her golden-eyed handler."
Otto moves slightly—but it's enough to ease the rising tension.
"Masie…"
"No, Otto." Masie stands, eyes like lightning aimed at Ravan.
"What game are you playing? Talking about secrets—maybe you're making them up. Where did you come from, huh? Who are you?"
Ravan doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink.
"I've already told you. I don't want blind war. I want justice. Like you."
"Justice?" Masie snarls. "Who are you to talk about justice?"
Then—against all logic, against the weight of a thousand scars and the instinct to stay silent to survive—Enya speaks.
"Enough."
Her voice is clear. Cold. But firm.
Everyone turns to her.
She stands. Hands clenched. Eyes fixed on Masie.
"Ravan helped me save Neve."
A pause.
"He also helped me fight off… Hounds of the Church."
Silence. Absolute.
Miranda, who rarely shows emotion, pales.
"The Church?" she whispers.
Masie stiffens. "Just what we needed… we can't fight them too. The Resistance doesn't have the strength."
Otto nods, slowly.
"Wait. Who were the Church hunting?"
Enya opens her mouth.
But Ravan answers first.
His voice deep. Final.
"Both of us."
A knock at the door.
Then, slowly, it opens.
A young man steps in. Dusty, wearing a coat far too big for him, a pistol at his side and a saber he probably wouldn't have the courage to use. Humble. But his eyes are urgent.
"S-sorry…" he murmurs, as if even breathing too loud might get him punished.
"The… the Witch's sister has woken up."
Enya spins around.
The look on her face is a stab, a wave, a scream held back.
Worry.
Fire.
Love.
The boy pales.
As if that single glance had burned him.
Masie half-rises, her tone sharp.
"The medicine?"
"The others retrieved it, Masie. The healers already gave her a dose. She's… doing better."
Enya doesn't wait.
She leaves the chair like it burns her.
Moves toward the boy.
"Where is she?" she asks, voice low, sharp. A blade wrapped in concern.
The boy gulps.
Nods.
"N-nearby. In a room. If… if you'll follow me…"
Masie scoffs, then waves a hand.
"Go, go. As if I could stop you."
Ravan rises wordlessly.
A simple gesture, refined, respectful.
He follows Enya.
Silent.
As always.