Date: The Night of the 2nd Day of the Month of Blossoms, Year 1107 of the Imperial Calendar.
Location: Dead-End Alley, The Lower District.
Silas's boot was an inch from Aanya's skull when the air split open.
It wasn't a shout. It wasn't a thunderclap. It was a low, terrifying whoosh—the sound of heavy metal cutting through rain and wind.
CRACK.
A bar of solid iron, three feet long and wrapped in worn leather, struck Silas in the side of the head.
The blow was precise and devastating. Silas didn't scream. His eyes rolled back, his jaw went slack, and the massive brute of a man crumpled sideways into the brick wall like a puppet with cut strings. He slid down into the mud, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Gorm froze, his rusted knife hovering in the air.
Pip squeaked, dropping his stone.
Aanya, curled in the mud, flinched at the sound of the impact, waiting for the pain. But the pain didn't come.
Instead, a shadow fell over her.
A figure stood at the mouth of the alley. He was lean, silhouetted against the dim streetlamp. He wore a ragged tunic that was soaked through, and his black hair was plastered to his face. He was panting slightly, his breath steaming in the cold air.
He looked like a wraith born of the storm.
In his right hand, he gripped the iron rod.
"You're loud," the figure said. His voice was flat, bored, and dangerous. "I'm trying to drink myself to death, and you're making it difficult."
Gorm pointed his knife at the stranger, his hand shaking. "Who are you? This is our territory!"
"Territory?" The boy laughed. It was a dark, jagged sound. "You're beating a beggar in a dead-end alley. You're kings of the trash heap."
Veer stepped into the light.
He didn't look heroic. He looked wrecked. His knuckles were bruised from the tavern brawl earlier. His lip was split. His eyes were bloodshot and swimming with a toxic mix of cheap ale and rage.
He looked down at the burlap bundle on the ground. He saw the small, shivering form. He saw the blood.
He didn't know who it was. The face was hidden in the mud. He assumed it was just another victim—an old woman, a child, a leper. It didn't matter.
Veer was angry at the world. He was angry at the Palace. He was angry at the girl in the violet dress who was sleeping on silk sheets while he froze.
He needed to break something. And these men looked breakable.
"Get lost, drunkard," Gorm snarled, feigning bravery. "Or I'll gut you."
"Gut me?" Veer tilted his head. He spun the iron rod in his hand—a fluid, practiced motion. "Do it. Please. Save me the trouble of waking up tomorrow."
Gorm lunged.
He was fast for a drunk, thrusting the knife toward Veer's stomach.
Veer didn't back down. He stepped in.
He sidestepped the blade with a movement that was more instinct than thought. He brought the iron rod up in a vicious arc.
Thud.
The iron struck Gorm's wrist. Bone snapped. The knife flew into the darkness.
Gorm screamed, clutching his shattered arm. "My hand! You broke my hand!"
Veer didn't stop. He pivoted, driving the end of the rod into Gorm's solar plexus. Gorm doubled over, wheezing, and collapsed face-first into a puddle.
"Two down," Veer muttered.
He turned to Pip.
The rat-faced man was already backing away, his eyes wide with terror. He looked at Silas out cold, he looked at Gorm writhing in the mud, and he looked at the demon with the iron rod.
"I... I didn't touch her!" Pip shrieked. "I just watched!"
"Then watch this," Veer said, raising the rod.
Pip turned and ran. He scrambled over the slippery cobblestones, disappearing into the maze of the Slums, leaving his friends behind.
Veer watched him go. He lowered the rod. His chest was heaving. The violence hadn't fixed anything. The hole in his chest where his heart used to be was still there. He still saw Aanya on the balcony. He still felt the gap between them.
He spat blood onto the ground.
"Pathetic," he whispered.
He turned to leave. He had saved the victim; his job was done. He didn't want gratitude. He just wanted another drink.
Then, he heard a sound from the ground.
"Veer..."
It was a broken, gargling whisper. Barely human.
Veer froze.
The rain hammered against his shoulders. He slowly turned his head back to the burlap sack.
He walked over. His boots squelched in the mud. He stood over the figure.
"You know my name?" Veer asked, frowning.
The figure tried to push itself up. The burlap hood slipped back.
Veer looked down.
He recoiled. His breath hitched in his throat.
The face looking up at him was a nightmare. Gray, melting slime hung off the cheekbone. The eye was swollen shut. The skin was raw, red, and bleeding. It looked like the face of a corpse that had been dragged through a fire.
"Gods," Veer whispered, his stomach turning. "What happened to you?"
He didn't recognize her. How could he? The Aanya he knew was either the girl with the scar (bad, but human) or the goddess on the balcony (perfect). This... this was a monster.
"Veer..." the creature rasped again.
She reached out a hand. Her hand was cut, bleeding from the glass she had punched.
But on her wrist, there was a faint, pale line—a tan line where a golden bracelet had been just hours ago.
And then, she opened her good eye.
The streetlamp caught the iris.
Violet.
A deep, impossible violet. The color of a stormy twilight. The color of the girl in the carriage.
Veer felt the world tilt on its axis. The iron rod slipped from his numb fingers and clattered onto the stones.
He dropped to his knees in the mud. He didn't care about the filth. He grabbed her shoulders.
"Aanya?" he whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief.
She looked at him. She tried to smile, but her lip split.
"You... found me," she croaked.
Veer stared at her face. He stared at the gray sludge. He reached out a shaking hand and touched the goo. It was sticky. Chemical.
"Makeup?" he realized. "It's... it's fake?"
He looked at the red scar underneath. The old burn. The one he knew.
"The balcony..." Veer stammered, his mind racing to connect the dots. "You were perfect on the balcony. You were the Queen."
"A lie," Aanya whispered, tears leaking from her violet eye. "It was all a lie, Veer. The Alchemist... the oil... it melted."
She coughed, her body convulsing with shivers.
"They threw me out," she sobbed. "My parents... the King... they threw me in the trash."
Veer felt a rage so hot it burned away the alcohol in his blood. He understood. He saw the whole twisted tragedy in a second. They had painted her to sell her, and when the paint ran, they discarded her like garbage.
"They did this to you?" Veer asked, his voice low and terrifying.
Aanya nodded against the mud. "I'm ugly, Veer. I'm a monster. Don't look at me."
She tried to pull the burlap hood back over her face. She tried to hide.
Veer grabbed her wrists. He pulled them away.
"No," he commanded.
He leaned in close. He didn't look away. He didn't flinch at the slime or the blood or the swelling. He looked straight into the violet eye.
"You are not a monster," Veer said fiercely. "You are Aanya. You are the girl who eats apples."
He ripped off his own tunic—the ragged, wet wool—leaving himself bare-chested in the freezing rain. He wrapped it around her shoulders, covering the rough burlap.
He scooped her up.
She was light. Terrifyingly light. She felt fragile, like a bird with hollow bones. Her head lolled against his bare chest, her cold, slimy cheek pressing against his skin.
Veer didn't care. Let the slime touch him. Let the world see.
"I've got you," Veer whispered into her matted hair. "I've got you, Apple Girl."
"Where..." she mumbled, her eyes fluttering shut. "Where are we going?"
Veer stood up, holding her tight against the storm. He looked toward the deepest, darkest part of the Slums—his territory.
"Home," Veer said. "We're going home."
He stepped over the unconscious body of Silas and carried the fallen Queen into the darkness.