The eve of Walpurgis dripped crimson beneath the moon. Its light seeped through the thin fabric of the Sloth faction's tent — a slow pulse of red that moved like breath.
Inside, the air was dense with the scent of herbs and burnt incense. The canvas walls sagged slightly, weighed down by damp mist. A small brazier hissed weakly in the corner, giving off a lazy glow that barely chased the shadows away.
Aira sat on a mat, her fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty cup. The world outside murmured — distant laughter, the crackle of torches, the restless wind.
Her gaze drifted toward the flicker of light that cut through the tent's entrance.
Bjorn's name still echoed in her mind — captured by the Lust leader.
Her heartbeat quickened. For a long moment, she didn't move. Then, quietly, she began to rise.
The shift of fabric, the creak of the floor mat — that was enough to stir the figure reclining on the couch nearby.
Lan, the Sloth leader, lay sprawled across it like a man molded from exhaustion itself. His robe half-open, one arm draped lazily across his chest. Even the air around him seemed slower, heavier, as though his indolence had gravity.
> "Sigh… an..d....w..e...r.e.....do....you....th..ink...yo..ur....goi...ng?"
His voice came out in fragments, dragged from the depths of a yawn.
Aira's eyes met his — tired meeting determined.
> "I'm going after him," she said softly.
Lan's tone shifted.
His half-lidded eyes opened fully — sharp, alert, and unsettlingly clear beneath the red glow.
> "So in the end…" he murmured, voice low, almost dangerous, "all my warnings about that brute were nothing but noise to you, huh?"
The weight in his voice made the air tremble. The brazier's flame stuttered.
Aira's throat tightened. Her hands trembled slightly, but she didn't look away.
Her eyes reflected both fear and resolve — trembling, yes, but fixed on the entrance.
She took a single step forward.
> "I've made my choice," she whispered.
Lan's eyes lingered on her — sharp now, despite the drowsiness in his posture. The faint glow from the brazier licked across his features, casting uneven shadows that made his half-smile seem both lazy and knowing.
> "It seems…" he drawled, voice soft and stretched like a silk thread, "…you've really taken a liking to the brute."
The words hung in the tent like incense smoke — slow, teasing, impossible to ignore.
Aira froze mid-step. Her face tightened instantly — eyes widening, a faint flush crawling up her neck.
Her lips parted as if to protest, but she couldn't summon the words.
Her expression flickered — stubborn, embarrassed, and guilty all at once.
That familiar tsundereish tension.
As if denying it would only make it more obvious.
She turned her face slightly, pretending to adjust her cloak — but her trembling fingers betrayed her.
The brazier crackled faintly, a low sigh of ember breaking the silence. Outside, the wind rattled the tent flaps, whispering fragments of laughter and faraway drums from the restless camps beyond.
Lan's eyes followed her, half-hidden behind silver hair that caught the crimson moonlight bleeding through the fabric above.
He looked for a moment like a man carved from stillness — decadent, untouchable, and tired of pretending otherwise.
Then he exhaled long and slow, stretching an arm over the back of the couch.
> "Yawn…" he sighed. "Go ahead."
A pause.
> "I was never going to stop you from the beginning."
His tone carried no weight, no warning — only the quiet resignation of someone who had already read the ending and chose not to interfere.
The firelight quivered.
Aira turned toward the tent's exit again, the crimson glow brushing against her face as she stepped closer to the flap. The mist outside shifted, carrying with it the scent of rain and the faint hum of something dangerous waiting beyond.
For a heartbeat, she glanced back.
….then gone she was....
Lan lay motionless for a few heartbeats, eyes fixed on the place where she'd stood ….. that flicker of defiance still echoing in the tent's air. The brazier crackled weakly beside him, throwing faint, amber scars across the walls.
He exhaled — slow, tired, theatrical.
> "This girl…"
The words dragged out of him like smoke. His arm shifted slightly, covering his eyes again.
> "Always making me clean her messes…"
He muttered it half to himself, half to the ceiling. The tone wasn't scolding — it was the tone of someone used to it, worn down by affection he refused to name.
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It pulsed — alive, watchful.
Something moved at the far end of the tent.
Opposite the exit, where the light from the brazier refused to reach, a shape clung to the darkness — tall, indistinct, patient. Its outline bent and swayed with the shadows, as if the fabric itself were breathing.
Lan didn't look at it. He didn't need to.
> "Follow her…" he murmured, voice so slow it nearly blurred with his next breath.
"Protect her… only when her life's in danger."
"after all...when shame and fear are no longer in the picture.... anything is possible, wether good or bad."
He turned his head lazily, one eye opening just a slit, reflecting the faintest ember-glow.
> "And don't let her know…"
His words slurred slightly at the end, caught somewhere between command and yawn.
The shadow didn't answer. It never did.
But the temperature dipped — just slightly — as if the air had inhaled.
Then the shape pulled away from the wall and unraveled — stretching thin, dissolving into the folds of darkness like a whisper retreating into silence.
Lan's hand dropped back across his chest.
> "Tch… troublesome girl," he breathed again, quieter this time, the edge of a smirk ghosting his lips.
Outside, the wind shifted. The crimson moon bled through the canvas again — steady, heavy, inevitable.
And within the tent, the Sloth leader closed his eyes, letting sleep take him as easily as command.
—---
With darkness spreading across Sloths Camp, the witches' room emerge
The chamber of the seven witches hummed like a living organ beneath the mountain's skin. Candles hissed as if gasping for air, their flames warping in the strange gravity that clung to the room. The orb pulsed faintly on the altar — not light, but a breathing hunger — and shadows gathered around it like worshippers waiting for communion.
The main witch sat forward, elbows on her knees, eyes darting — a predator studying its meal before devouring. Her stare locked onto the orb, and for a heartbeat, the reflection inside it almost looked back.
Around her, the six others lingered — still, spectral, patient. Until a sound came.
A low vibration.
The stitched shadow at the far end — the silent one.
Their voice — when it finally came — was a rasp stitched from calm and contempt, filling the room like a sermon delivered to ghosts.
> Stitched Witch: We sit in shadow, picking at the threads of their souls and call it judgment. It is a safe and empty feast.
The chamber stilled.
The baby-sized witch, who had never once stopped humming since the dawn of their gathering, froze mid-note.
The vine-crowned one's thorns trembled faintly.
The raven-draped witch tilted her head, feathers shivering.
Even the glass-eyed one blinked — her first motion in hours.
For the first time in an age, the stitched witch had spoken.
> Baby-Sized Witch (hastily, in a tone that's too small for the words):
"W-what do you mean by that?"
The stitched one turned — slowly — their head jerking slightly, seams whispering. Their gaze met hers for a brief moment. No malice. Only silence.
A silence that meant: wait.
And then they continued.
> Stitched Witch: But to truly risk... to see a new kind of sin take shape in the fire and dare to call it art... that is the only criticism that leaves a scar worth keeping."
The air trembled. The orb flickered as though it, too, was listening.
The main witch leaned back slightly, a smirk curling across her lips — part intrigue, part irritation. Her voice rolled through the chamber like smoke and saltwater.
> Main Witch (philosophical, piratic, poetic):
"So in the end… what are you suggesting?"
The room grew hungrier. The vines stirred. The raven feathers rustled. The glass-eyed witch leaned forward, her tapping fingers resuming — one, two, three — impatient, eager. Even the child-like one's pupils widened, round and curious, waiting for revelation.
The stitched witch's shadow rippled, rising taller, darker.
Their voice came low — a confession drawn from the void itself.
> Stitched Witch:
"Before that… a question."
> Main Witch:
"Please do."
The silence that followed was thick enough to feel.
> Stitched Witch: "These humans… did you not choose them because they fit not in Earth — because they were destined to die?"
The main witch's lips twitched — the smallest movement, but enough to fracture the calm.
> Main Witch:
"I did so. So?"
> Stitched Witch:
"Then I wish to cancel this Walpurgis that is upon us."
The orb's glow flared — violently. Candles bent as if in pain.
The glass-eyed witch's fingers froze mid-tap.
The vine-crowned one hissed, roots cracking beneath him.
The raven-draped witch's feathers ruffled in sharp disapproval.
The child-sized one covered her mouth, eyes wide, horrified.
The main witch rose — not quickly, but with the heavy grace of something ancient waking towards the stitched witch. The red glow bled across her cheekbones; her smile was gone now, replaced with a sharp, simmering amusement.
> Main Witch (low, dangerous, but still poetic):
"I take it you're not joking… right?"
Her tone sank into something darker — the room shrinking under her voice.
> Main Witch:
"Then you'll have to explain yourself… before I decide whether to listen — or to unmake that mouth you finally used."
The stitched witch leaned forward, its voice like silk dragged across iron — a whisper meant only for her (the main witch). The words were too quiet for the others to catch, but their echo lingered — heavy, deliberate, dangerous.
The other four witches froze.
The raven-feathered one tilted her head sharply, feathers rustling in alarm.
The glass-eyed witch's tapping fingers halted midair.
The vine-crowned one straightened, thorns tightening around his hands as if bracing for impact.
And the child-sized one simply blinked, her lullaby dying mid-note — the silence that followed was almost human.
The main witch did not answer immediately.
She merely stepped back — slow, precise — as though the floor itself had shifted beneath her feet. Then she turned not at all, only lowered herself back onto her seat.
A heartbeat passed.
Then laughter — twin, sharp, and terrible — filled the chamber.
The stitched witch's laughter was a low ripple, quiet but unending.
Hers was the mirror — a soft, melodic chaos that cracked through the tension like light through a wound.
The others exchanged uneasy glances. The air thickened. The candles flickered as if unsure whether to stay lit.
> "What an idea…" she mused at last, her voice curling like smoke.
"Hmm. I also think it's time we changed this… for a long time."
Her smile deepened — not joy, but amusement sharpened into something close to prophecy.
The four remaining witches stared — some wary, some fascinated — unsure if they'd just witnessed revelation or madness.
The orb pulsed once — red, slow, alive.
To be continued.