"Gareth."
No answer.
"Gareth."
The field lay quiet—trampled grass, broken stalks, the scent of iron still clinging to the air.
"Gareth!"
Her voice cracked this time. Wind tugged at her cloak, lifting strands of dark hair into her eyes as she turned, searching the field again.
"Gareth—!"
Silence answered her.
She swallowed, forcing herself forward, boots sinking into soft earth. Something felt wrong.
Too still. Too empty.
"Gareth…"
A whisper now. A plea.
From somewhere beyond the field, a faint echo stirred—uncertain, distant, alive.shadow behind her peeled away from the ground.
Gareth was suddenly there—close, silent, too close—air folding around him as if he had stepped out of somewhere deeper than light.
She spun.
Her fist moved on instinct.
Thud.
The impact drove into Gareth's stomach, hard enough to steal the air from his lungs.
He staggered half a step, choking, a sharp breath tearing out of him as he bent forward, one hand bracing on his knee.
"—Hhk—"
He swallowed, barely keeping it down.
"Idiot!" she snapped, heart hammering. "Do you enjoy terrifying people?!"
Gareth straightened slowly, still catching his breath.
"You punch like you're aiming to kill."
She stared at him—long, rude, unblinking—arms crossed, eyes sharp with lingering fear turned irritation.
"Next time," she said flatly, "announce yourself like a normal human."
Then, mockery slid into her voice, light and biting.
"Oh—and congratulations."
She tilted her head. "You've been summoned."
Gareth blinked. "Summoned?"
"Vice Captain Mira Nightborne," she said, already turning away.
"And trust me—she's not in the mood to wait."
Gareth walked.
Boots brushed through the grass as the camp swallowed him whole—tents, corridors, training yards. Movement everywhere. Laughter, sharp voices, passing glances.
Too many women, he thought absently. More than men… again.
Not weakness. Precision. Discipline wore many faces here.
His gaze drifted. And I haven't seen the captain in two days time.
No briefings. No inspections. No arguments echoing through stone halls.
That alone was wrong.
The thought cut off as he stopped.
A door stood before him—dark wood, reinforced steel seams, sigils carved with care rather than threat.
Mira Nightborne's office.
He raised a hand. Hesitated. Then knocked.
A pause.
From inside, a soft voice answered, calm, unreadable.
"Come in."
The door opened.
Mira Nightborne stood by the window, sunlight spilling in behind her. A black sun hat rested low on her head, shadowing sharp eyes. She wore a white t-shirt, simple, almost careless, a long coat draped over it like authority given form.
She glanced at him, bored already.
"You're late," she said mildly. "I called you because I'm bored."
Gareth stared. "…You dragged me here for that?"
She shrugged. "Yes."
His jaw tightened. "Then what?"
A small smile. Dangerous. Casual.
"We're going out."
"No," Gareth said instantly.
She turned, voice snapping like steel.
"That wasn't a suggestion. It's an order."
The room went quiet.
Gareth clenched his teeth, breath slow, controlled. A beat passed.
"…I accept."
She looked him over—slow, deliberate, unimpressed.
"Absolutely not," Mira said. "You're not walking beside me dressed like that."
Gareth frowned. "This is practical."
"It's embarrassing," she cut in. "Change. Into something worth being seen with."
He crossed his arms. "I don't carry spare clothes."
Her brow lifted. "How many outfits do you even own, Gareth?"
He answered flatly, without shame.
"The ones I'm wearing."
Mira smiled—slow, amused, sharp.
"Don't worry," she said, voice light. "I'll buy you tons of clothes. You'll look… presentable."
Gareth didn't respond. He followed her as she strode out of the massive building, through the vast fields, deeper and deeper into the forest.
The trees thickened. Sunlight filtered through the leaves in sharp streaks, dust motes dancing in the air.
He finally asked, curiosity edging his tone.
"Are the Outermarch… living in the mountains? Far from the civilians they're sworn to protect?"
Mira didn't slow. Her voice was cold, final.
"Shut up. There's a battle happening even now, on the other side of the mountain."
Gareth frowned. "I… can't feel it?"
She glanced at him, expression unreadable.
"You're too weak to feel it."
Gareth slowed, voice steady but sharp.
"Why are you trying to shift the conversation?" he asked, eyes fixed on her back as she moved.
Mira didn't answer immediately.
He took a deep breath, piecing together threads, trying to calm the tension, to understand.
"I'm just… trying to make sense of everything," he said. "To put it all together."
A pause. Then he spoke with quiet certainty.
"I think… I've finally succeeded. I've deduced why you're so… like this."
The forest thinned. Light spilled through the trees in sharp, blinding rays, forcing both of them to shield their eyes.
When Gareth stepped forward, the world opened before him.
A massive graveyard stretched farther than he could see, hundreds of thousands of corpses laid out in meticulous rows, the air thick with decay and iron.
He gagged, hand flying to his mouth. The stench alone was unbearable.
"…Why—why did you even bring me here?" he rasped, voice tight, eyes scanning the endless field of death.
Mira's voice softened.
"…I'm sorry."
Gareth didn't move.
"I brought you here," she continued, "because you needed to see it. What your existence draws. The curse you carry."
She gestured to the field. "The increase in the corrupt… made more people die than necessary."
Silence.
Gareth stood still, staring at the corpses. Long. Unblinking. Guilt settled heavy in his chest.
"I'm… sorry," he said quietly.
Mira rested a hand on his head, brief, steady. Then she guided him onward, deeper into the forest. Gareth followed, but the dead walked with him.
The trees broke apart.
A wide opening revealed itself—and beyond it, a massive town, alive with movement, lights, voices, color.
Gareth blinked. Then smiled faintly.
"…Is this where you're buying me clothes?"
Mira nodded. " Yes."
Mira entered the town without slowing.
Almost immediately, a passerby stopped short, eyes widening in recognition.
"Mira…? Is that you?"
She smiled. "It's been a while."
They fell into conversation—quiet at first, then animated. Laughter. Old names. Old places. Time slipped by.
An hour passed.
Gareth stood a few steps behind her, unmoving, arms crossed. People flowed around him. He waited. And waited. His jaw tightened.
Finally, Mira finished. She stepped forward and hugged the passerby once, firmly.
"Stay alive," Mira said.
"You too."
The passerby left.
They walked on.
Five steps later—
"Mira Nightborne?" another voice called out.
She stopped again.
Gareth closed his eyes.
They talked. And talked. Long enough for the sun to shift, long enough for Gareth's patience to fray completely. His fingers clenched. His teeth ground.
At last, the second passerby laughed, waved, and left.
Gareth exhaled slowly.
They stopped before a massive clothing shop, packed wall to wall with people—racks overflowing, voices overlapping, fabric brushing skin.
Mira didn't hesitate.
She started pulling clothes, shoving them into Gareth's arms.
"Try these."
Gareth disappeared behind a curtain. One outfit. Then another. Then another.
Finally, he stepped out wearing black trousers and a black leather raincoat, the coat falling clean along his frame.
Mira looked him over.
She smiled.
Gareth returned it—half-hearted, tired, but real.
"That one," she said, satisfied.
She went to the counter, grabbed two umbrellas and two dark sunglasses, and set everything down.
"Ten Bloodrings," Mira said casually.
The seller blinked. "That's—"
Mira leaned in. "Reduce it. Or I walk. And you keep your pride instead of my money."
Silence.
The seller sighed, jaw tight. "…Fine."
Mira placed ten Bloodrings on the counter.
As they walked out together, umbrellas swinging lightly at her side, she laughed—soft, victorious—and smiled at Gareth.
Mira handed Gareth the dark sunglasses.
"Wear them."
He slipped them on and frowned. "I can't see anything. These are useless."
"Focus your Veil into them," Mira said calmly. "They're not for light. They're for truth."
Gareth paused. Then he let his Veil flow—thin, controlled—enveloping the lenses.
The world shifted.
Black Veil flooded the sky, thick and endless, choking the horizon in every direction.
Gareth froze. "…That's—too much."
"Why is it like this?" he asked.
Mira exhaled slowly. "The corrupt Veil keeps increasing. And we still can't find the source."
Gareth sighed.
Rain began to fall—soft at first, then steady.
He took one umbrella from Mira. Together, they walked on as night crept in quietly, streetlights flickering alive.
Ahead, a small café glowed warm against the rain.
They stepped toward it, umbrellas shielding them, and disappeared inside as the night settled around the town.