They say beauty is a blessing.
They lied.
Beauty is a weapon — and I was born holding it.
I bent the world with a glance,made gods and beasts alike kneel for a touch they could never keep. Even in this cursed realm, thrown here by that wrinkled witch, I believed my charm would conquer everything.
But then came the two who would not look at me.
Lucien ...pride carved into flesh. A man too immaculate to be tempted.
And Bjorn...the broken wolf, silent, scarred, and maddeningly indifferent.
Their refusal was a wound… and a challenge.
I craved the taste of what denied me.
To chase Lucien is to chase war...and I am not a fool who wastes her soldiers before Walpurgis.
So I chose the smaller beast.
The one who defies beauty itself.
The one who makes my hunger feel human.
---
The drums had gone quiet.
Only the wind spoke now— a low, rhythmic moan that slipped between the torn veils and half-burned lanterns of the Lust camp. The moon bled down like an opened vein, painting everything in red. Perfume clung to the air, heavy as sin, sweet as rot.
At the center of it all — the wolf.
Bound against the dark log,surrounded by eyes that glittered like wet knives. His breath came shallow, rough; each exhale sounded like it hurt to make.
And before him — her.
The Lust leader stood with her head tilted slightly, the crimson light tracing the curve of her jaw. Her smile was a wound that never healed. When she finally spoke, her voice dripped warmth that froze the air around it.
"Tell me, wolf… what do you go by?"
A murmur rippled through the gathered Lust members — the sound of amusement, curiosity, hunger. They all knew who he was; this was not a question of ignorance. It was dominance.
Bjorn lifted his head, slow, deliberate — his glare slicing through the veil of perfume and laughter. He did not speak at first. The silence stretched, taut as the ropes that held him.
Then, with a voice dry and coarse but steady, he answered —
"You've got a lot of nerve asking for my name when you haven't got the decency to give your own. Try again, and this time, start with 'I'm…'"
His tone wasn't raised, but it cut through the camp like a blade.
A gasp fluttered through the crowd — then laughter, sharp and discordant.
Some smirked,others jeered; a few called for punishment, their voices drunk with eagerness.
"How dare he speak to the leader like that?"
"Break his mouth!"
"Teach him manners!"
The noise swelled — a fever of voices, laughter, and lust. Chains rattled, silk whispered. Somewhere in the dark, a drum struck once — like a heartbeat faltering.
The Lust leader did not move. She simply smiled, the kind of smile that promised both cruelty and curiosity. Her eyes gleamed like liquid gold beneath the bleeding moon.
"How charming. Even dying dogs can bite."
Her smile deepened, her voice softening into something almost tender — the calm before cruelty.
"But it's okay… I'll humor you, just this once."
She stepped closer, slow, deliberate. The crimson veils swayed like they were breathing with her.
"My name is Mia. Etch it into your soul. For I have collected many things… but you…"
She raised a hand, her fingertip tracing the air just above his cheek — not touching, but close enough that he could feel her warmth.
"…you have a light inside you."
Bjorn's vision flickered. The moon's red halo blurred, the noise of the crowd dissolving into a low, endless hum. His body sagged, the pain momentarily gone — or perhaps hidden behind exhaustion.
For a heartbeat,he slipped away.
Darkness.
A voice bloomed within it — soft, endless, echoing like a secret whispered through a thousand mirrors.
"Do not mistake this cage for rebellion, child of ruin.
You struggle against her hands, yet both your leash and your heartbeat are mine.
You think pain makes you free — how quaint. Pain is only another kind of prayer,
and I… am the one who listens...so make it worth mine time."
Bjorn's breathing hitched; his eyes flicked open. The world snapped back — torches, perfume, laughter — but her words clung to him, curling behind his ribs like smoke.
And Mia's voice continued, unaware, perfectly in rhythm with the witch's echo:
"And I will have it. I will drink your defiance,
savor your despair,
and feast on your pleasure until you are a hollow, beautiful shell…
remembering only my name."
For a heartbeat, the world stopped breathing.
Even the drums fell silent.
Bjorn's head hung low, his blood-matted hair veiling his eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft — too soft. The kind of calm that comes right before a storm remembers its name.
"What have I done wrong to deserve this…?"
The crowd stirred. His voice carried through the camp like a whisper dragged across glass.
"Have I done you any wrong? I just wanted to live quietly — in peace…"
His breath trembled; the ropes creaked.
"And you're saying I can't have that?"
A long silence followed. Even Mia tilted her head, lips parting slightly.
"Fine…"
He exhaled— tired, hollow.
"I give up."
Then his voice sharpened, rising like a blade through the stillness.
"FUCK YOU ALL! Both you and that old hag can go to hell!"
Mia blinked — once, twice — then let out a small, amused breath.
Heh… as long as he's tied, there's no trouble. And he's barely standing anyway.
— her eyes glittering with condescending delight. She leaned in close, her perfume wrapping around him like a taunt.
But Bjorn moved first.
"You…"
"Huh?"
His head rose just enough for her to see his eyes — and what looked back was not exhaustion anymore, but something feral.
"It's only your face you've got going for you, right?"
He smiled— teeth bloody, eyes blazing.
"What do you say I rid you of it?"
Before the words could even settle, he lunged.
Gasps. Screams.
Then—
A wet crunch.
Mia's shriek cut through the night as Bjorn's teeth sank into her cheek. Flesh tore. Blood spattered across his face like paint on a broken canvas. She stumbled backward, hand flying to the ruin on her face, her eyes wide with disbelief and pain.
The camp erupted.
Lust members shouted, some rushing forward, others frozen in shock. One dropped their torch, setting a sheet ablaze.
As the Lust members scrambled around their fallen leader, Bjorn seized the moment. His body screamed in pain—the struggle to break the ropes having torn his already battered flesh—but he didn't care. Teeth gritting, he snapped the ropes with sheer force, the sound like a whip crack in the tense air.
Mia screamed at her minions,
"You idiots! Don't worry about me! Eyes on the damn wolf!"
Her voice rang sharp, panicked yet commanding, but it was already too late.
Bjorn's eyes gleamed with a predatory light. His voice cut through the chaos, low and cold,
"Way too late for that, don't you think?"
Blood and rage flowed through him as he surged forward, every movement a storm, unrelenting. The Lust faction froze for a heartbeat—then everything fell apart.
Mia's scream tore through the night, sharp and commanding: "Attack him! He's only one injured man!" Flames from the burning tents licked the sky, casting flickering shadows across the forest clearing. The acrid smell of smoke mixed with sweat and the tang of blood, creating a choking haze that clung to the wounded and the reckless alike.
Bjorn's wrists throbbed with every movement, blood seeping through torn bandages, but his eyes burned with a feral intensity. Even in his battered state, the muscles in his arms tensed with the precision and fluidity of combat—the kind that made every strike feel like a storm wrapped in steel.
The first Lust member lunged, dagger glinting in the firelight. Bjorn sidestepped, letting the man's momentum carry him into a low swing that ended with his arm snapping against a charred tree trunk. The crack echoed like thunder, yet Bjorn barely paused. A second assailant swung a club at his ribs; he caught it awkwardly between his forearms, pain shooting up from his already bruised side, but he twisted, flipping the man over his shoulder. The firelight danced over their twisted forms, casting grotesque, moving shadows across the smoke-hazed forest floor.
Another attacker came from the left, a blade aiming for his neck. Bjorn's hand shot out, deflecting it, but the force drove him to his knees, scraping skin raw against gravel and ash. He rolled, grabbed the man's ankle, and spun, slamming him into a nearby tent. The canvas tore as fire met flesh, the scent of burning cloth and fear mixing in the night air.
Every hit he took, every bloodied scrape across his face and arms, seemed to sharpen him rather than dull him. His movement was staggered, uneven, yet precise—his body a weapon honed by sheer survival instinct. The firelight reflected in his eyes, making them glow like molten metal as he pivoted to meet a new wave of attackers. A kick to the chest, a spinning elbow to the jaw, a sweep of the leg that sent two men sprawling into smoldering tents—the choreography was brutal, almost balletic in its violence.
Yet the injuries weighed on him. A jagged pain in his wrists flared with every grapple, a knife nicked his side, sending a hot shock of pain through his abdomen, and still he pressed forward, durable, relentless. The forest around him became a theater of chaos—flames devoured canvas tents, sparks scattered into the night sky, the screams of the Lust faction rising over the crackle of burning timber.
Bjorn landed a final, punishing palm strike to the throat of the last advancing foe. The man crumpled, coughing, gasping, the firelight reflecting off his wide, terrified eyes. Bjorn's chest heaved, ribs aching, blood running from fresh cuts, his wrists raw and trembling—but he stood, unbroken, framed by fire and shadows. Around him, the forest seemed to hold its breath.
The Lust faction lay scattered, some crawling, some unconscious, and their leader's furious roar sliced through the night. Bjorn, bleeding and battered, wiped a line of blood from his lip, eyes narrowing. He had survived.
The firelight danced across the clearing, flames leaping from tent to tent, casting the ruined forest in shades of orange and shadow. Smoke curled like serpents, acrid and suffocating, while the groans and whimpers of the defeated Lust faction filled the air.
Mia stepped forward, her crimson silhouette sharp against the fire, eyes locked on Bjorn. Each step was measured, deliberate, exuding menace. Bjorn, limping heavily, his body battered, wrists and ribs screaming with every motion, met her gaze. A smirk played across his bloodied face.
"I told you you'd regret keeping me alive," he rasped, voice hoarse but defiant. "And you thought I was bluffing? Look around… do you like how I decorated your compound with your minions' half-dead bodies? Hmm? Tell me, Mia… or whatever the hell you're called."
Mia didn't respond. She reached toward her thighs as if to distract him, a slow, deliberate motion. Bjorn's thoughts sharpened despite his pain: Does she think I'm the kind of man who'll just let her do that?
Before he could speak, Mia's hands were gone, replaced by a blur of twin hammers. Without a word, she lunged. The night exploded with violence.
Bjorn staggered back, barely avoiding the first hammer swing that shattered the ground where he had stood. The heat of the nearby flames seared his arms as he twisted, bringing his own fists up to intercept the second blow. Sparks flew as metal met bloodied forearms.
Mia spun, hips twisting, hammer smashing downward in a vertical arc. Bjorn ducked under it, rolling through the smoke and ash, and came up swinging a rapid counter—elbows, knees, feints, each motion precise but slowed by exhaustion. He connected with her side, but she pivoted, hammer grazing his shoulder and driving him back several feet into a patch of burning underbrush.
His vision blurred. Pain pulsed through his wrists, ribs, and face. Each breath came shallow and ragged. The fire around them cast long shadows, turning the fight into a dance of silhouettes—striking, ducking, crashing through flames.
And then it hit him—a sudden, overwhelming wave of fatigue. He stumbled mid-swing, micro-napping for a heartbeat as his mind flickered into blackness. Mia's eyes narrowed. She didn't hesitate. Twin hammers rose in synchronized arcs, slamming toward him. He barely raised his arms in time; the second hammer crushed his shoulder, pain ripping through him as he was thrown to one knee, sparks flying from the ground where molten metal from a fallen tent smoldered.
Bjorn gasped, forcing his eyelids open, blood dripping from a split lip and his battered forehead. Sweat and soot streaked across his face. He swung blindly, catching one hammer with a brutal twist of his wrist, wrenching it aside and sending the other crashing into a burning stump. The heat seared his skin, but he gritted his teeth and lunged, planting a knee into Mia's midsection. She staggered back, hammers spinning to intercept him again.
He ducked under the first swing, rolled to the side, and kicked a flaming log toward her, sending sparks spraying into her path. She twisted, hammer deflecting his kick, eyes cold, lips set in a grim line. She swung, again, faster this time, forcing Bjorn to backpedal through the firestorm, every step tearing at his bloodied, exhausted body.
Another micro-nap hit him, a blink of darkness in his vision. Mia didn't pause. She brought both hammers down in a synchronized double strike, aiming at his knees. Bjorn barely twisted aside, metal grazing his calves. Pain blossomed in his joints, his arms threatening to buckle under the effort.
He staggered, blood and sweat dripping into his eyes. But he rose, breathing heavy, ignoring the heat of the fire and the ache of shattered muscles. He feinted left, then spun right, elbow crashing into her jaw. Mia's head snapped sideways, hammer swinging wildly, forcing him back. He rolled, grabbing a fallen branch and shoving her aside with brute strength, sparks flying as metal scraped bark.
The fire crept closer, smoke filling his lungs, but neither fighter gave quarter. Each strike, each block, each dodge was a battle against both the other and his own failing body. Micro-naps stole fractions of seconds—enough for Mia to land stinging blows, enough for Bjorn to realize survival was a razor-edge game, played in pain and fire.
Finally, sweat-soaked, bloodied, his wrists trembling with the effort of every block and strike, Bjorn planted his feet firmly, forcing himself into a defensive stance. Flames danced around him, smoke stung his eyes, but his gaze locked on hers, unyielding.
This was no longer just a fight. It was survival, choreographed in firelight and blood, where exhaustion was a weapon wielded by both combatants. And neither would fall willingly.
---
The main witch's voice cut sharply through the quiet, tinged with anger. "What do you mean… you forbid the proceeding of this Walpurgis?" Her heels clicked against the floor as she walked briskly toward the stitched witch, whose face remained silent, stitched lips unmoving, eyes dark and unreadable.
Around them, the other four witches leaned in, curiosity and excitement in equal measure, eager to witness the unfolding confrontation.
The narrative's eye closed in on the main witch's towering black hat, a silent proclamation of authority. Across from her, the stitched witch raised a gnarled, wrinkled finger, pointing deliberately at a book hovering impossibly above the orb. The tome floated like some absurdly proud creature, spinning slowly in the dim light.
"The manuscript," the stitched witch whispered, her voice rasping yet precise, "is the language of the Orb. We read it. We change the world. The previous translation—the one that brought us here—requires perfect despair to unlock the next page. These humans… are not yet ripe. And it seems… a new page will not open for this Walpurgis either."
The main witch didn't turn. She moved backward toward her chair, heels still echoing ominously across the floor, and began a low, amused laugh that echoed against the walls. The stitched witch joined in, the sound creaking and rasping as if scraped from the very bones of the room. Together, they shared a moment of dark amusement, their laughter curling like smoke around the orb.
The four other witches pressed forward, leaning in, eager to hear what had passed between the two.
The main witch's voice, still calm yet sharp as a blade, broke the suspense. "I'll let you announce this."
The stitched witch's lips, finally moving, delivered her proclamation with chilling certainty:
"As the saying goes,my friends… in the void of destruction, seeds of creation take root."
---
To be continued