Chapter 7: The Devil’s Shadow

The storm roared overhead, lightning slicing through the night as rain began to fall in heavy sheets. The wind howled through the trees, carrying the scent of blood and steel.

Evelyne barely had time to process what was happening before Phileo moved.

His fingers curled, grasping at something unseen—

And the scythe emerged from the darkness.

It didn't materialize like a normal weapon. It breathed into existence, its blackened steel shimmering with something unnatural. The curved blade gleamed under the lightning, its edge sharp enough to slice through the air itself.

The moment it appeared, the air thickened.

Even Nikolai hesitated.

"Well, there it is," he mused, his smirk widening. "The Devil's Scythe."

Evelyne's breath caught.

The Devil's Scythe?

She had heard the stories. Whispers of an assassin so deadly that he was nothing more than a shadow—an executioner who wielded death itself.

A legend. A myth.

And yet, here he was.

Phileo's silver-gray eyes were unreadable as he lifted the scythe, the long, dark handle fitting perfectly in his grip. His presence had shifted entirely—no longer the man who had hesitated, no longer the reluctant warrior.

Now, he was a killer.

A monster.

Evelyne shivered.

Nikolai exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his sword. "Haven't seen you use that in a while." His voice was light, but Evelyne didn't miss the way his muscles tensed.

Phileo didn't respond.

And then—he moved.

Faster than lightning.

The scythe cut through the space between them, and Nikolai barely managed to block in time. Sparks exploded where metal met metal, the sheer force of Phileo's strike sending Nikolai skidding backward.

Evelyne had never seen anyone move like that.

It wasn't just speed. It was inevitability.

Like death itself had taken form.

Nikolai steadied himself, breathing harder than before. His smirk remained, but there was a flicker of something else now.

Something close to uncertainty.

"Finally," Nikolai murmured, adjusting his grip. "Now we can have some real fun."

And just like that, they clashed again.

Blades against shadows.

Phileo was relentless. His scythe moved in a fluid, merciless dance—arcing, twisting, striking with terrifying precision. Each movement forced Nikolai to retreat, his smirk slipping as he struggled to match the sheer brutality of the attacks.

For the first time, Evelyne saw it.

The difference between them.

Nikolai was strong. Skilled. Dangerous.

But Phileo?

Phileo was death itself.

The fight didn't last long.

A single misstep—just one—and Phileo took advantage.

His scythe hooked around Nikolai's sword, yanking it away in one brutal motion. Before Nikolai could react, the blade of the scythe pressed against his throat.

Silence.

Evelyne barely dared to breathe.

Nikolai stared at Phileo, his smirk returning—wry, almost impressed.

"Well," he murmured, "I guess you haven't lost your touch."

Phileo didn't move.

His grip on the scythe was steady, his gaze unreadable. The wind howled between them, the storm growing stronger.

And then—

He pulled the scythe back.

Evelyne blinked.

He… wasn't going to kill him?

Nikolai chuckled, rubbing his neck as he took a step back. "Interesting."

Phileo's voice was quiet, but firm. "Tell the Order I'm not coming back."

Nikolai tilted his head. "Oh, they already know that." His smirk widened. "That's why they sent me."

Phileo's fingers twitched.

Evelyne felt the tension in the air shift.

Something was wrong.

Then, before she could react—

A sharp pain struck her side.

Her breath hitched.

She looked down—

And saw the knife embedded just below her ribs.

The world tilted.

Nikolai had thrown it.

She hadn't even seen him move.

Her legs buckled, and she collapsed to the ground, gasping as pain flared through her body.

"Evelyne—!"

Phileo was beside her in an instant, his scythe vanishing as he caught her before she hit the dirt. His grip was firm, but she barely felt it over the fire spreading through her wound.

Blood. There was so much blood.

She dimly heard Nikolai chuckling. "Oops."

Phileo's breath was ragged, his shoulders tense. "You—"

But Nikolai was already stepping away. "Relax," he drawled. "It's not fatal. Probably."

Phileo's entire body trembled.

Evelyne had never seen him like this before.

Like he was moments away from losing himself.

Nikolai gave them one last amused look before retreating into the darkness. "See you soon, old friend."

Then he was gone.

The storm raged around them.

But all Evelyne could focus on was Phileo's expression as he pressed a hand to her wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

There was something in his eyes she had never seen before.

Panic.

Desperation.

And something else—

Something that almost looked like fear.

Before the world faded to black, she thought she heard him whisper something.

Something that didn't quite make sense.

"Not again."

The world flickered in and out of focus.

Evelyne's vision swam, her body trembling from the shock. She could feel the warmth of her blood pooling beneath her, soaking into the cold earth. The pain was distant now, dulled by the numbness creeping through her limbs.

A voice called her name. Urgent. Rough. Familiar.

Phileo.

She tried to focus on him, but her eyelids felt so heavy.

"Stay awake," he ordered, his voice sharp with something she had never heard before. Fear.

She wanted to answer, to tell him she was fine, but the words stuck in her throat.

Phileo cursed under his breath. His hands moved fast, pressing against her wound to stem the bleeding. Rain poured down in thick sheets, mingling with the crimson staining her clothes.

This was bad.

Too much blood. Too fast.

Phileo's mind raced. He had seen wounds like this before—on battlefields, in dark alleys, in the silent rooms where assassins bled out with no one to hear them.

He had watched men die from lesser wounds.

He wasn't going to let that happen to her.

With a deep breath, he ripped off a piece of his cloak, wrapping it tightly around Evelyne's abdomen. His fingers moved with practiced precision, but his heart pounded wildly.

She's losing too much blood.

He needed to get her somewhere safe. Now.

Gritting his teeth, he scooped her into his arms, ignoring the way her body sagged against him. She was still breathing. Still alive. But if he didn't act fast—

No. He refused to think about that.

The storm raged around them as he started moving, his boots splashing against the rain-soaked ground. The abandoned chapel was too exposed. They needed shelter.

Somewhere defensible.

Somewhere close.

His mind settled on a place.

The old manor stood at the edge of the forest, half-consumed by time. Vines curled around the stone walls, and shattered windows stared back like empty eye sockets.

Phileo kicked open the heavy wooden door, stepping inside with Evelyne still limp in his arms. Dust and decay clung to the air, but it was dry. Safe.

He set her down carefully near the fireplace, his movements quick but gentle.

She stirred, a weak groan slipping past her lips.

"You're alright," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "You're going to be fine."

He pulled off his gloves, pressing his fingers against the side of her throat. Her pulse was there—too fast, too weak—but it was there.

Still breathing.

Still alive.

His hands clenched into fists.

This was his fault.

Nikolai had aimed for her. Because of him.

Phileo inhaled sharply, forcing the thought aside. He had no time for guilt right now. He needed to stop the bleeding.

Moving quickly, he grabbed a flask from his belt and uncorked it. The strong scent of alcohol filled the air as he poured it over the wound. Evelyne gasped, her body jerking weakly.

"Easy," he murmured, steadying her with one hand. "I know it hurts."

She didn't respond. Her breaths were shallow, her skin too pale.

Phileo pressed a hand against his forehead, trying to think. He needed better supplies. Bandages. Herbs. Something to counteract the damage.

But there was no one he could trust. No one he could turn to.

Except—

His jaw tightened.

No.

He didn't want to see her.

Didn't want to owe her anything.

But Evelyne's breathing was growing fainter, and the choice was no longer his.

With one last glance at her unconscious form, Phileo stood.

Then, without another word, he disappeared into the storm.

The hut was hidden deep within the forest, shrouded in mist and legend.

People spoke of a woman who lived there, one who could heal wounds that should have been fatal. A woman who knew things she shouldn't.

A woman who once knew him.

Phileo approached the door, his body tense.

He hadn't been here in years.

Had hoped never to return.

But now, he had no choice.

He raised his hand and knocked.

Silence.

Then—soft footsteps.

The door creaked open.

A woman stood before him, wrapped in dark silks, her black eyes gleaming with knowing amusement. Her beauty was untouched by time, her presence as unsettling as he remembered.

"Well, well," she murmured. "Look what the storm dragged in."

Phileo exhaled sharply.

"I need your help."

The witch's lips curled into a slow smile.

"Of course you do."