Alana Sato's Perspective
The march had started uneventfully.
Boots crunched over gravel and half-frozen soil, the sound half-muted by the thickening moss underfoot. The air was crisp, sunlight filtering through the sparse northern canopy in clean, golden beams. It was almost a beautiful day.
That made it worse.
"Trail of corruption starts here," Captain Dael's voice echoed up ahead.
I walked a little faster to get a better look.
And there it was.
The ground changed.
Blackened roots twisted out from the base of the trees, thick and vein-like, pulsing faintly beneath the bark as if the mountain itself was alive—or pretending to be. The soil around them was dark, not with moisture, but with some deeper stain. Like dried blood that had sunk too deep to scrub out.
I'd seen this before.
Exile's Reach. Duskwind.
Old missions. Cold ground. Slaughtered patrols.
But something about this place felt older—like the corruption had settled into the bones of the world.
I adjusted my grip on my katana and glanced behind.
The healers remained inside the carriage, huddled in cloaks, too still for the brightness of the day.
All except one.
Alliyana walked on foot—where she always seemed to be. Unbothered. Untouched. Last night, the soldiers said the Duke's orders had been clear:
Let her do as she pleases.
It still didn't make sense. But they followed orders.
She wasn't alone either.
Beside her, Duchess Isabelle Nazaad—archmage of the Zepharim Empire—walked with casual elegance, her long coat brushing low against her calves, the air subtly pulsing with the quiet trace of mana.
What was a woman like that doing this far from the capital? From her kingdom?
She didn't wear her title, but you could feel it in the way she carried herself. She wasn't worried. Of course she wasn't. She didn't need to be.
Archmage.
A classification given to those whose mana control surpassed battlefield theory and crossed into myth. Isabelle was a human weapon. Mages like her didn't fight on the front lines. They reshaped the field.
They also didn't walk without protection.
And yet—there she was. Conversing with a little girl as if they were colleagues.
Their tones were too casual. Too measured. Not mentor to student. Not noble to servant.
Just two people who spoke the same unspoken language.
The quiet shattered.
A low growl. Then the thunder of paws.
From the ridge ahead, three massive canid beasts lunged—fur matted with blackened patches, teeth dragging strands of crimson drool.
The scouts panicked.
Dave didn't.
He moved before the formation could break—blade drawn, divinity humming through the steel. He cut through the largest beast mid-leap, shoulder rotating with the weightless confidence of a hundred drills.
The others fell before anyone else needed to act.
I held the rear. As instructed.
Hours passed. The beasts didn't stop. But they came predictably.
Ambush. Reaction. Recovery.
We were marching into rot—but we weren't untrained.
The bishops finally moved to assist. Healing the slashed, the stabbed, the shaken.
The scouts were now kept between units, an extra layer of control. One scout in particular stood close to Alliyana.
The same man from before. The one who screamed in the mess hall.
Isabelle didn't mind him. Alliyana didn't even acknowledge him.
And still—she was calm. Unnaturally so.
Her eyes scanned each body, each malformed beast, with an intensity that wasn't clinical… but curious.
She studied them. Not for threat. For pattern.
Earlier, I heard her mutter deductions out loud, how the canine and feline mutations were showing seasonal adaptations. Thicker coats. Lower body mass. Tundra conditioning.
That wasn't how children talked. That wasn't how most scholars talked.
Anderson hadn't sent her to her grave.
He'd sent her on an adventure.
Night fell. The sky above was cloudless—star-pierced and endless.
The scouts guided us to the planned site. Jagged cliffs surrounded the campsite on three sides, the last open to the valley below. The trees here were sickly—thinner, gnarled, bending in unnatural angles. And yet... the night was quiet.
Too quiet.
Even the crickets had vanished.
I slept with my gauntlets on.
"Alana."
I stirred.
Dave's voice, low, steady. It was my turn for night watch.
I wrapped my cloak tighter, slipped out of the tent, and exhaled into the cold. My breath steamed in the dark.
Then—footsteps.
Soft. Measured.
Too far from camp to be casual.
I turned, instinct checking for corrupted resonance. Nothing. No malice. No corruption. Just... quiet.
"Who's there?" I called.
A pause.
Then a familiar voice.
"Alliyana."
I squinted into the dark. Her figure stepped into view, hands at her sides like she'd just wandered out of a dream.
"You should be asleep," I said, more confused than stern.
"I went out for a walk," she replied.
Of course.
That phrase again.
That impossible, infuriating, ordinary phrase.
She yawned as she passed me, not a care in the world, like she hadn't just walked through demon-infested wilderness.
I didn't stop her. I couldn't. I just watched her silhouette disappear into the tents like a shadow returning home.
Morning.
We'd been walking for hours.
The cold had lifted a little. The trees thinned.
No resistance.
But not because there was no threat.
Because something else had already cleared the path.
The ground was littered with bodies. Demonic beasts in various states of ruin—canines split open, bears pierced through the skull, wolves cleanly killed with one precise cut. Some still twitched as if unwilling to accept their deaths.
And for once—Alliyana was in the carriage.
Sleeping. Peaceful.
Still bundled in a thin blanket, head resting on her arm like any normal child too tired to keep marching.
Finally, something that made sense.
I looked ahead at the trail we were walking—through the wreckage—then back at her small, slumped frame.
That tight feeling curled again in my chest.
I let out a soft chuckle.
A little girl carving through corrupted beasts last night?
Ridiculous. It had to be something else.
It's probably just the fatigue.