Behind the curtain, the merchants laughed softly, unaware they were no longer alone.
One rolled the wine between his palms. "Three more last night. Smaller ones fetch better. Easier to calm."
The other smirked. "The song does most of the work. They come on their own now."
Blaze stood so close she could smell the fear buried beneath their sweat.
"Do you ever worry," the first merchant went on, "that someone might trace it back to us?"
The second snorted. "Trace what? A lullaby? Ghost stories? Everyone's too busy blaming the red-wearing nightmare."
He raised his cup. "To monsters that don't exist."
They drank.
Blaze's eyes burned gold.
She saw it then — not with sight, but with something far older. Threads of stolen warmth clung to them. Echoes of small hands. Fading breaths. Fear that had been harvested, bottled, sold.
They weren't killing the children.
They were trading them.
"Jin Valley's perfect," one merchant continued. "The house does the rest. The woman's soul is bound there — fractured. She sings because she can't stop. Because she's chained to loss."
"And the children?" the other asked.
"They're offerings," he replied lightly. "Not sacrifices. Anchors. Each child strengthens the binding. Keeps the song alive."
A pause.
"And when the song stops working?"
The merchant shrugged. "Then we find another grieving soul."
Blaze did not move.
She did not speak.
She simply listened as the last words settled into the air like rot.
Death would be mercy for creatures like these, she thought coolly. And mercy is not something they deserve—especially for wearing my name like a mask.
Slowly, soundlessly, she stepped back. The curtain fell into place without a ripple. Neither merchant sensed the absence of her presence, only the comfort of thinking themselves alone again.
Blaze turned away.
She left the room the way she had entered it—unnoticed, unremembered.
Her fingers snapped once.
Behind her, the first merchant inhaled sharply.
"What—do you smell that?" he asked.
The second opened his mouth to answer and screamed instead.
Fire bloomed without warning.
One man's hair ignited in a violent rush, flames crawling across his scalp, devouring it down to bare skin in seconds. He clawed at his head, howling, stumbling backward as burning strands fell like ashless embers.
The other barely had time to rise before his back erupted in heat—flesh roasting beneath cloth, fire sinking in rather than spreading outward. He collapsed, shrieking, rolling across the floor as if stone could save him.
It didn't.
They screamed.
They begged.
They burned.
Downstairs, Blaze descended the steps at an unhurried pace, her veil unmoving, her presence cooling the air as panic erupted above.
"This," she murmured softly, more to herself than to them, "is only the beginning."
She paused at the bottom step.
"Blame your negligence," she continued, voice calm as frost. "You used my name to dress your filth in fear."
Her icy-blue eyes flicked upward, distant, disinterested.
"I do not care what you do with children," she said flatly. "But you blamed it on me."
She turned away.
"Now," Blaze added, stepping into the tavern's shadows, "it's time for payment."
Behind her wrist, the golden feather mark pulsed faintly.
Maze's voice echoed inside her mind, amused. Master… you're being soft again.
Blaze didn't stop walking.
"Think another absurd thought like that," she replied coldly, "and I'll drown you in the Valley of Tears."
There was an immediate, chastened silence.
"Understood," Maze whispered.
Blaze returned to the table to find it spotless.
Every plate was empty.
Every bowl scraped clean.
Not a single crumb remained.
Aleric sat back with quiet satisfaction, hands folded, eyes bright in a way only someone who had eaten properly after a long hunger could manage.
Blaze looked at the cleared table, then at him.
"…You have quite an appetite for someone with that physique," she said coolly, taking her seat beside him.
She lifted her cup and resumed sipping her tea, unhurried, as if nothing upstairs had happened at all.
Aleric hesitated, then glanced at her untouched dishes. "You're not eating?"
"I lost my appetite," Blaze replied flatly. "Filthy crowds tend to have that effect."
Aleric scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. "Oh. Sorry."
She glanced at him sideways, unimpressed. "You didn't eat the table. Be grateful I find that acceptable."
He nodded quickly. "Yes—yes, sister."
She sighed softly and turned her gaze back to the room, veil still hiding her expression.
For a moment, the tavern felt almost… normal.
Almost.
Blaze sat in silence for a long while.
She sipped her tea slowly, savoring not the taste—but the sound.
The screams upstairs threaded through the walls, clear as bells to her supernatural hearing. Every cry, every broken gasp, every frantic plea reached her untouched by distance or stone. The sound pleased her in a quiet, private way.
Aleric shifted beside her, restless.
"How long are we staying here?" he asked carefully.
Blaze turned her head.
Just slightly.
The look she gave him was enough.
Aleric froze at once, lips sealing shut. He picked up his cup awkwardly and began copying her movements—lifting it, pausing, pretending to sip with exaggerated seriousness.
Blaze watched him from the corner of her eye.
"You're going too far," she said coolly. "Or do you think I'm so incredible that I deserve imitation?"
Aleric hesitated, then nodded honestly. "Yes."
She stared at him for a moment.
Then turned back to her tea without comment.
Minutes later, chaos broke the tavern's forced calm.
The two merchants were dragged down the stairs by frantic staff—one bald now, scalp raw and blistered, the other screaming as his back smoked beneath torn cloth. The scent of burned flesh spread through the room, sharp and nauseating.
Blaze smiled beneath her veil.
The fire still clung to them.
Water was thrown. Buckets emptied. Someone screamed for help.
The flames refused to die.
They crawled stubbornly along skin and fabric, glowing as if alive, as if insulted by the attempt to extinguish them.
"They were in a soundproof room!" a waiter cried. "No one heard a thing!"
"But they came out burning!" another whispered. "How does that happen?"
Guests crowded close, voices overlapping in frightened excitement.
"Is it her?"
"The red-wearing ghost?"
"I told you she was here."
"They deserved it—didn't you feel that cold when she walked in?"
Blaze lowered her cup.
Her whisper slid into the noise, unheard by all but herself.
Of course this is my work.
Her eyes remained icy blue, calm, distant.
They deserved it for wearing my name without consent.
She leaned back slightly, composed as ever, while the merchants were hauled away for treatment that would never truly help them.
Beside her, Aleric clutched his cup tighter, staring wide-eyed at the scene.
Blaze took another unhurried sip.
Fear, gossip, and pain churned around her like a storm.
And she sat at its center—perfectly still.
Blaze placed a heavy pouch on the table.
It hit the wood with a dull, final sound.
"Payment."
She did not wait for a response. She turned and walked out as if the matter had already ceased to exist.
Aleric hurried after her, his steps lighter now—no hunger weighing him down, no weakness in his legs. Evening had begun to claim the city. Lanterns blinked awake one by one, their light trembling in the growing dark. The streets grew quieter as people sensed night settling in, the air cooling, shadows stretching thin and long.
They stopped before an inn that clearly did not belong to common travelers.
Tall double doors carved with careful designs. Polished stone that reflected lamplight like calm water. Curtains thick and heavy, meant to keep secrets in. Even the sign hanging above the entrance was understated—confidence without decoration.
Blaze pushed the doors open.
Warmth spilled out. Voices. Laughter. The gentle clink of glasses.
All of it faltered the moment she crossed the threshold.
Conversations thinned. A few guests glanced up, then quickly looked away. A pressure settled into the room—subtle but unmistakable.
Blaze approached the counter and placed another pouch down.
This one was larger.
Heavier.
"I want the entire inn," she said evenly. "Emptied."
The receptionist blinked once.
Twice.
His gaze dropped to the gold. His throat worked. "My lady… we are currently hosting guests—important ones. Contracts—"
"One hour," Blaze continued calmly. "Seven days. No occupants."
She tilted her head just enough for the candlelight to catch the veil.
"Make it happen."
The man's confidence collapsed in an instant. He nodded far too fast. "O-Of course. Immediately."
He rang the bell.
Staff froze—then scattered.
Blaze moved to a shadowed corner and waited, hands folded loosely before her. She did not pace. Did not rush. She simply stood, perfectly still, as though the world were rearranging itself around her rather than the other way around.
Aleric stayed close, watching.
At first, the staff tried politeness.
Soft apologies. Awkward smiles. Carefully chosen words.
Then the gold came out.
Small pouches passed into hands. Larger ones followed. Voices dropped. Complaints turned into hurried packing. Doors opened and shut. Footsteps echoed up and down the stairs.
Some guests argued.
Others sensed something wrong and left without being asked.
A woman paused halfway down the stairs and glanced back at Blaze. Their eyes met for a breath.
The woman shivered and hurried out.
The hour stretched—not long, but heavy. Like time itself had thickened.
Luggage rolled across floors. Cloaks were thrown over shoulders. A merchant muttered curses under his breath. A couple whispered urgently to one another. One man nearly tripped in his haste to leave.
Through it all, Blaze did not move.
Aleric watched her instead of the chaos.
"You're incredible," he said quietly, awe seeping into his voice.
Blaze didn't look at him. "I am more than incredible."
Gradually, the inn emptied.
The laughter vanished. The warmth dimmed. Candles were snuffed out one by one. Doors closed and stayed closed.
At last, silence settled in—a purchased silence. Obedient. Absolute.
The receptionist approached again, pale but respectful. "The inn is yours, my lady."
Blaze nodded once.
She turned to Aleric. "Pick a room."
His eyes widened. "Any room?"
"Yes." She was already turning away. "Do not disturb my sleep."
"I won't," he said quickly. "I swear."
Blaze ascended the stairs, her steps soundless, her presence following her like a shadow that refused to fade. The corridor seemed to hold its breath as she passed.
Below, the inn remained unnaturally quiet.
Even the walls seemed aware that for the next seven days, they belonged to something ancient, wealthy, and utterly unforgiving.
Night settled over the inn like a held breath.
The corridors were dark, lanterns extinguished at Blaze's unspoken preference. The silence was not peaceful—it was obedient. Even the wood seemed careful not to creak beneath her steps as she moved through the upper floor.
Blaze stopped before a door at the far end of the hall.
Inside, the room was vast. Tall windows draped in heavy curtains. A bed carved from dark wood, untouched. Everything pristine. Temporary.
She set the veil aside.
The air shifted.
Cold threaded through the chamber, subtle but sharp, as if the room itself recognized her uncovered presence. Blaze sat at the edge of the bed, posture straight, hands resting lightly in her lap.
Seven days, she thought. More than enough.
Behind her ribs, the golden feather mark warmed faintly.
Maze stirred.
Master… you felt it too, didn't you?
The song, Blaze thought. It's closer now.
The lullaby reached her—not as sound, but as pressure. A pull. Soft, aching, unfinished. It slid through the walls, through distance, carried by grief rather than air.
Somewhere far beyond the city lights, Jin Valley answered the night.
A woman's voice trembled across the land.
Blaze rose and crossed the room.
She had just drawn back the curtain when something shifted behind her.
Footsteps.
Breathing.
Before the sound fully reached her senses, the veil was already back in place—smooth, practiced, final.
The cold in the room deepened.
Blaze did not turn.
The melody continued, faint and broken.
"…Chains," she murmured softly. "Crude ones."
Maze's voice echoed within her mind, quieter now. They bound her with grief.
"Yes," Blaze replied inwardly. "And with children."
She faced the window again, moonlight outlining her veiled form. Beyond the glass, Jin Valley lay unseen—but unmistakable. A wound that refused to close.
Her eyes flickered beneath the veil.
Icy blue.
Then, for the briefest breath, something molten traced their edges.
Not activation.
Recognition.
You are still there, she thought—not to the woman herself, but to what remained. And you are still singing.
A knock sounded behind her.
Blaze did not turn.
The door opened a fraction.
"I… you said not to disturb you," Aleric's voice came, low and careful. "But I couldn't sleep."
Blaze remained still.
The silence pressed down hard enough to steal his breath.
"The walls here hum," Aleric continued, forcing the words out. "Like something crying very far away."
A pause.
Then Blaze spoke, voice even and distant. "You hear it too."
Aleric swallowed. "Yes."
She turned then—but only enough for him to feel her attention, not see her face. The veil hid everything. Completely.
Her gaze settled on him like frost.
Sensitive, she assessed. Or broken enough to notice broken things.
"Stay inside your room tomorrow night," she said.
His eyes widened. "Tomorrow?"
"I'm going to Jin Valley."
Aleric stiffened. "That place… people say—"
"They say many things," Blaze cut in calmly. "Most of them incorrect."
She moved past him, her presence brushing his shoulder like winter passing through stone. He shuddered without knowing why.
"And Aleric," she added without slowing, "if you hear the lullaby clearly—"
He turned after her. "Yes?"
"Do not answer it."
The door closed behind her.
Aleric stood frozen in the dim corridor, heart pounding, the distant song threading faintly through the walls.
Far beyond the city, in Jin Valley, the lullaby faltered.
For the first time in a year—
Something ancient had listened back.
"I can't sleep alone."
Aleric's voice broke the stillness, small and unsteady.
Blaze turned just enough for him to feel it.
That look.
Not anger. Not surprise. Just the quiet weight of something that had ended far greater lives than his without effort.
He inhaled sharply and immediately scrambled onto the bed, lying stiff as a corpse before she could utter a word. The mattress dipped slightly under his thin frame.
"I—I'm a good sleeper," he rushed out, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "I won't disturb you."
Blaze stood unmoving near the window, moonlight carving her silhouette in pale silver.
"You're nearly a grown man," she said coolly. "Barging into a beautiful lady's room is not considered wise behavior."
Aleric swallowed. "I'm still a kid."
He yanked the blanket over his head, hiding completely, as if cloth could shield him from her presence.
Blaze exhaled slowly through her nose.
Pathetic creature.
She turned away, fingers slipping into her sleeve with practiced ease. A faint shimmer of dark powder gathered at her fingertips—scentless, weightless, older than most kingdoms.
I am not in the mood to argue.
With a subtle flick of her wrist, she released it into the air.
The powder dissolved instantly, sinking into the room like a breath held too long.
Under the blankets, Aleric's tense breathing slowed.
Then deepened.
Then vanished into silence.
He fell into the deepest sleep he had ever known—no dreams, no fear, no hunger. Just nothingness.
Blaze watched him for half a second longer than necessary.
Her veil did not move.
Then she turned and stepped away.
The room accepted her departure without a sound.
The city vanished beneath her feet.
Wind tore past as she moved—not running, not flying, but folding distance into submission. Stone blurred. Roads dissolved. The world shrank.
Within a minute, she stood before Jin Valley.
The air here was wrong.
Heavy. Wet with sorrow. The moonlight bent strangely over the broken land, as if reluctant to touch it. Ruins crouched low against the earth, half-swallowed by shadow and time.
And beneath it all—
The lullaby.
It threaded through the valley like a wound that refused to scar.
Maze stirred against her wrist, the golden feather mark warming. Master… you're protecting that child.
Blaze's eyes remained icy blue as she stared into the darkness.
"I do not care," she said flatly.
Her gaze shifted toward the distant city, far behind her now.
"He is a nuisance," she continued. "And he would have only made this harder."
The lullaby wavered.
Somewhere in the valley, something noticed her.
Behind her, the night grew colder.
Maze fell silent.
Back at the inn, far from the valley's grief—
Aleric stirred beneath the blankets.
He yawned softly in his sleep, face relaxed, untouched by nightmares for the first time in years.
For once—
He felt safe.
Unaware that the monster he feared had already chosen to walk into something far worse alone.
As Blaze stepped forward, the lullaby shifted.
With every stride, it grew louder—then softer—stretching and thinning like breath through cracked glass. The sound did not travel through air. It pulled. It curled around her bones, seeped into the hollows of the valley, guiding her toward its source with patient insistence.
The house stood at the center of the ruin.
Broken walls. A collapsed roof. Doors long since rotted away.
And yet the song lived there.
Blaze crossed the threshold without hesitation.
Inside, the air was colder, heavy with dust and old grief. Moonlight barely reached the floor. The lullaby echoed from the far end of the room, gentle and unending.
A woman sat there.
She wore torn, faded clothes that clung to a shape too still to be alive. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, untouched by time, untouched by decay. Her eyes were closed as she sang, lips moving in a rhythm learned through loss.
She did not breathe.
She was not flesh.
She was memory made restless.
A spirit—bound, fractured, unseen by human eyes.
Blaze regarded her without sympathy.
Without fear.
So this is what they chained, she thought. A mother. How predictable.
The woman's voice wavered as Blaze lifted her hand.
With a snap of her fingers, light flooded the room.
Not fire. Not flame.
A cold, pale illumination bloomed outward, banishing shadow from every corner. Dust froze midair. The lullaby snapped apart, the last note dying like a cut string.
The spirit stiffened.
Her eyes opened.
Slowly, she turned.
For the first time in a year, the song stopped.
Her gaze fell upon Blaze—and recognition shattered across her face.
Not relief.
Not peace.
Terror.
The woman rose unsteadily to her feet, chains of unseen force tugging at her soul as she whispered, voice thin and broken, "You… you can see me?"
Blaze's veil stirred faintly as she stepped closer.
"I see everything," she replied calmly.
The room trembled.
Somewhere deep beneath the house, the binding responded—tightening, resisting, afraid.
And for the first time since her song began—
The trapped soul realized she was no longer alone with her grief.
The light held.The song was gone.
And in the ruins of the broken house, two figures faced one another—one bound by grief, the other untouched by it.
The mother's spirit trembled beneath chains she could not see, her silence louder than any lullaby she had ever sung. Blaze stood before her, veil unmoving, eyes unreadable, presence heavy enough to bend the air itself.
Outside, Jin Valley lay hushed, unaware that its curse had finally been seen.
And somewhere far away, a child slept deeply, dreaming without fear.
The lullaby had stopped.
For now.