Chapter II

A girl runs through smoke.

Another watches her burn.

A third remembers nothing but pain.

Fire walks.

Fear follows.

And names—

spoken once,

change everything.

A sister hidden.

A pact broken.

A cage disguised as shelter.

Crimson light in narrow halls.

Children cry.

Mercenaries tremble.

Gothel rots behind perfume and poison.

Enya wants to burn.

Ravan tells her not to.

Neve begs without words.

Something old shatters.

Something new flees.

They leave behind the scent of scorched betrayal.

And carry only what still beats.

A name.

A hand.

A chance.

A dirty hand.

Small.

Stretched upward.

"Sir… matches?"

The voice was thin.

But stubborn.

Always.

Even back then.

The wind froze her fingers.

Winter gripped her bones.

But Enya stayed there.

Shoes too big.

Coat too short.

Eyes too tired for only ten years old.

Now she runs.

The ground bites at her feet.

She doesn't feel the cold.

Only the flame.

Inside.

"It's just two copper coins, sir…"

She would say, when passersby ignored her.

When Neve greeted her every morning with a cough-ravaged voice.

When the day ended with a miserable handful of coins.

Now Neve is in the arms of a man she doesn't know.

But Enya doesn't look at him.

She looks at her.

Only her.

Then, that night—

Enya was just fourteen.

Neve, barely ten.

The wait too long.

Then the bodies.

Their parents.

Laid out like broken dolls on the floor of their home.

Brought back by coworkers from the factory, their faces hollow, disappointed.

For them, it was just more good people

killed by work,

by exploitation,

by the greed of warm-sleeping masters.

No justice.

No compensation.

No protection.

Only her.

And Neve.

And the voice.

Now that voice is silent.

But not gone.

Never gone.

"Burn it all."

It had whispered, four years ago.

When the tears had dried.

When the heart shattered into a thousand knives.

And she obeyed.

She chose.

She burned an emperor to silence that voice.

To feed her thirst for vengeance.

To give meaning to despair.

Now, she watches Ravan's back.

The flawless coat.

The fluid stride.

The gait of someone who doesn't know fear.

Enya clenches her jaw.

She hates him.

She admires him.

She fears him.

She uses him.

He carries Neve.

And with every step, Enya wonders:

Shouldn't it be me?

She had lied.

To protect Neve.

From the world.

From her illness.

But maybe—

from herself.

Enya stumbles.

Just for a second.

Her heart skips a beat.

Ravan doesn't turn.

But holds her tighter.

Neve curls into his chest.

Unconscious trust.

Almost cruel.

"I'm not ready to tell her everything—

what I've done,

what I've become," Enya thinks.

"But it doesn't matter.

I never was."

And she keeps running.

The alley is desolate.

Filthy.

Perfect.

Ravan stops.

His steps make no sound,

but the decision is final.

A hidden corner,

between rusted pipes and flickering neon.

No windows.

No eyes.

He knows this city.

Someone stitched it into his mind.

Like a map sewn onto living skin.

Iron Spire—he contains it.

Every stairwell. Every vent.

Every exit.

He sets Neve down gently.

As if she were glass.

As if he knew exactly how heavy a heartbroken child can be.

Enya catches up.

Breath ragged.

Legs like lead.

But her eyes… only for Neve.

She's still crying.

Never stopped.

Breath hitching.

Shaking.

Staring at nothing.

Enya moves closer.

Tries a gesture.

A word.

Something.

Fails.

Neve doesn't look at her sister.

Doesn't hear.

Doesn't recognize.

But she clings to a corner of Ravan's coat.

Grips tight.

Like an anchor in chaos.

Enya freezes.

Her heart—

breaks.

Soundlessly.

Like glass beneath boots.

In him, Neve saw shelter.

In her sister—only flame.

Ravan kneels.

Not too far.

Just enough.

"Your sister," he says softly, "has fought for you since the beginning."

A gentle voice.

Not cold.

Not indulgent.

Just truth.

A secret returned to the world.

Neve looks up.

Turns to Enya.

Stares.

"The fire… in the Imperial Palace."

A trembling voice.

"The one everyone talked about. Four years ago."

Silence.

"The Emperor…"

A breath.

"The Fire Witch of Hell…

…you've always been her?"

Enya doesn't answer.

She can't.

Her body folds on its own.

Her knees give out.

A dull thud.

Then tears.

Heavy.

Hot.

Endless.

She doesn't try to hide them.

Not anymore.

Neve watches.

For a long time.

Then—

she falls too.

To her knees.

One meter away.

Two sisters.

Broken.

Ravan stays silent.

Watches them.

Doesn't move.

Doesn't interfere.

He knows—

some fractures don't mend with words.

They need time.

And an abyss.

The silence grows heavier.

Thicker.

Unnatural.

Then—

Ravan turns.

No sound alerted him.

Only instinct.

The kind that doesn't rise from the ears,

but something sewn into the nerves.

Enya sees it.

Sees him stiffen.

A step forward.

Like a wolf before the den.

Neve lifts her head.

Eyes still swollen.

Enya grabs her arm.

Reflexively.

Then—a figure.

From the dark.

As if born of shadow itself.

A woman.

Raven-black hair tied back practically.

Predator-green eyes.

The smile on her lips is sharp.

A curved arc, sardonic,

crafted to pierce whoever sees it.

Light armor.

Feline movements.

Confident steps, never wasted.

A warrior.

It's in how she breathes.

How she balances on her heels.

How she doesn't look at Ravan.

But senses him.

She stops.

A calculated distance.

Not out of respect.

But instinct.

The man with golden eyes is too calm.

And instinct—this woman always listens to it.

"Ignored and broken," she says.

Her voice smooth, but with poison underneath.

"What a pity… The Fire Witch of Hell, the most powerful weapon this world has ever known… so alone. So… abandoned."

Her gaze slides to Neve.

"And you must be the little sister. The reason she fights."

Pause.

"Sick, aren't you? I can tell."

Neve clutches Enya.

Trembling.

Enya growls.

Flames dance under her skin—

but stay put.

Ravan steps forward.

Just one.

Silent.

Hands slow but ready.

Voice steady.

"Name. Or leave."

The woman chuckles softly.

"Easy there, golden prince. I didn't come to fight."

Her gaze snaps back to Enya.

Sharper now.

Blunter.

"I have a deal."

Silence.

Enya shoots her a glare that could set the world ablaze.

Neve clings tighter.

Eyes full of terror.

The woman only smiles.

Not like someone who's won.

Like someone who knows the real hell is made of words.

She opens her arms.

Theatrical.

Ironic.

But not a liar.

She doesn't need to lie.

"My name is Masie," she says.

A half-bow, as if on stage.

"Crimson Wolf of the Resistance. Leader of those who fight the true evil of this land. Fugitive. Thief. Killer. Warrior."

She lifts her chin.

Her smile doesn't falter.

"But you, Fire Witch… you are the legend. The nightmare."

The word lands heavy.

Not spoken with admiration.

But calculation.

"Fire Witch of Hell. The one who fused an emperor to his throne."

She licks her lips, amused.

"And now... here you are. More feared than me. But alone. Desperate."

Ravan doesn't move.

But his eyes track every shift in her tone.

Every breath.

Masie steps forward.

Slow.

Confident.

But not too close.

She's not stupid.

"The deal is simple," she says.

Her voice lowers, sharpens.

"You give us the fire. Your wrath. Your vengeance. We give you…"

Her gaze falls on Neve.

"…medicine. Shelter. Protection. Food. Water. Everything the little one needs. That you can no longer obtain on your own."

Enya holds Neve tighter.

Too tightly.

The girl squirms a little.

Then stops.

She understands.

It's not a prison.

It's protection.

Masie watches.

Studies.

Sniffs.

She's a wolf.

She doesn't hide it.

Doesn't deny it.

Enya's doubts reach her like blood in the snow.

She knows what it feels like to be alone.

To barter everything for a sliver of hope.

And she knows a wounded prey when she sees one.

"The oppressors I ask you to fight," she says quietly,

"are the bloated, greedy nobles of the Palace. Those who killed, and will kill again, just to grow richer. Those who want you dead. And who will use her—" she points to Neve, "—to get to you."

Silence.

Only the heartbeat of the sick city.

Far off.

Enya stares.

A beast's gaze.

Stifled.

But alive.

Four years ago, she was alone.

Neve slipping from her hands.

Blood that wouldn't wash away.

Smoke still curling from the emperor's melted throne.

And a spotless hand—Gothel's—

that looked like salvation.

But already smelled of lies.

Masie presses.

"Think. Will you keep running? Hiding? Until the day you can't find medicine anymore? Until the day your sister… stops breathing?"

Enya bites her lip.

Her hand moves.

Brushes through her sister's silver hair.

Just the idea—just the idea—of losing her

is a bite to the heart.

A hole in the chest.

A scream without voice.

And Ravan?

Still.

Eyes always moving.

Doesn't speak.

Doesn't interfere.

But everything in him says:

I'm watching. I'm understanding.

Silence turns to lead.

Masie smiles.

But her stomach tightens.

She doesn't show it. Would never allow it.

But anxiety carves out her lungs.

This is the chance of a lifetime.

The moment that could shift the war.

The ultimate weapon — the Fire Witch.

And she won't let her slip away.

Enya stands still.

Divided.

A storm inside.

She doesn't want it.

Doesn't want Neve to see her as a monster.

As she already has.

As she surely will again.

But she can't survive on her own anymore.

Not now.

The city is too filthy.

Too vast.

Too hostile.

Ravan watches.

Golden eyes locked on Enya.

He doesn't speak.

Not yet.

Then—

a fractured breath.

A fragile sob.

Neve.

Clinging to Enya.

Hands gripping her worn coat.

Her shoulders shake.

Then…

she speaks.

One sentence.

Just one.

Heavier than any threat.

"Enya… I want to live."

Not for Enya.

For herself.

Her blue eyes rise.

Meet her sister's crimson ones.

And sink into them.

Read them.

Masie smiles.

She's won.

She doesn't say it.

But she knows.

Ravan doesn't move.

But his gaze narrows.

He watches Enya like someone waiting for a bloom in the dead of winter.

Enya falters.

Barely holds back the tears.

She leans down.

Kisses her sister's forehead.

Long.

Silent.

Then, in a hoarse voice:

"I'll do everything… anything. So you can live."

She turns.

Masie waits.

Arms crossed.

Her gaze a sharpened blade.

Enya stares at her.

Fierce.

Suspicious.

Ready to kill at the slightest mistake.

But she yields.

"I accept."

The word slides out like poison.

Bitter.

But inevitable.

Masie nods.

Doesn't gloat.

Because triumph, too obvious, is a provocation with women like Enya.

Then—

Ravan speaks.

"I will stay with her."

Steady voice.

No hesitation.

Masie watches him.

Enya looks up.

A breath too long.

A glance that lingers.

A strange warmth.

Not soft.

Not pure.

Something deeper.

More confused.

That Enya can't name.

She hates him.

A little.

But there's a part of her that breathes more easily, knowing she won't be alone.

A sound breaks the moment.

Footsteps.

Heavy.

Numerous.

Close.

Mercenaries?

Imperial soldiers?

Doesn't matter.

They're coming.

Enya stands.

Neve too.

Still trembling.

Their hands find each other.

Grip tight.

Strong.

Ravan turns toward the sound.

A shadow among shadows.

Muscles tense.

Every fiber poised.

Silent as the night before a storm.

Masie doesn't flinch.

Smiles.

Almost amused.

She raises a hand, like a commander on the stage of a forgotten opera.

"Follow me," she says.

"My home's cozier than it looks."

She says it like she's offering dinner.

Not shelter.

But her eyes are dead serious.

No time to argue.

No time to hesitate.

Enya nods.

Pulls Neve by the hand.

"Run."

Neve obeys.

Doesn't ask.

Doesn't protest.

Her lungs are a battlefield.

But her legs move.

The snowflake wants to live.

And now she fights.

Masie leads.

Sure.

Lethal.

She knows every crack in the Undercity like a scar on old bone.

The sisters stay in the center.

A fragile, unbreakable core.

And behind them,

closing the line,

Ravan.

Silent.

Unyielding.

Each step, an unspoken vow.

Each glance, a quiet promise.

He will protect.

He will watch.

He will understand.