? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  The road was a web of cracks and craters, like scars on a veteran’s hide. An old cart, drawn by a haggard mule, lurched toward the port city. The clatter of wheels against stone and the shriek of the axles sliced through the silence like a blade. Violetta sat on the edge of the wagon, not bothering to hold on. There was nowhere left to fall.

  The rain had long since washed away the blood, but her dress—faded and stained with rusty patches—bore the evidence of the slaughter. It was caked in dust and the permanent reek of woodsmoke. Yet her body—her skin, her hair, her tail—remained untouched. Dirt and water simply pearled off her as if from a lotus petal. Violetta looked at her clean palms and touched her cheek, expecting the stickiness of tears or earth, but her fingers glided over a surface that was unnervingly smooth and pristine.

  Beside her sat Maryna, pale as a wax doll. Her gaze was hollow—not the look of a person, but of a broken toy. Only her shallow breathing proved she was still alive. Violetta gently squeezed her cold hand, remembering how Maryna once taught her to weave: "Don’t pull so hard, you’ll snap it, little one!" That voice felt centuries away now.

  The adventurers walked ahead. Ratmir kept glancing back at Violetta, his eyes wide with a fear he couldn't mask. He had seen her covered in the blood of dozens, leading the women out of the cave—and he had seen how that blood simply slid off her skin, leaving her terrifyingly clean.

  "She’s not human," the archer whispered, clutching an amulet. "Did you see what was left of those goblins?" Ratmir shushed him, but his hand trembled on his sword hilt.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  The Imperial city welcomed them like a storm welcomes a derelict ship. Stone walls rose like grey tombs. People wrapped in heavy cloaks hurried past, their stares sharp as scalpels. Children hid behind their mothers’ skirts, whispering, "Mama, look! A beast-kin..."

  The Temple stood in the city center, a stone gullet designed to swallow the living. Its icons were peeling, the gold leaf tarnished, as if the gods themselves had abandoned the place. A priest stood at the entrance, his belly round, his face a ruddy mask of gluttony. His vestments, spotted with wine and grease, swayed as he gestured dismissively. On his chest hung a gilded amulet: an eye illuminating a sword, a crown, and scales.

  "Unload this filth," he grunted, not even looking at Maryna, as if she were a sack of manure.

  Violetta leapt from the wagon, her bare feet splashing into the mire. The mud was cold and slick. At that moment, the priest shoved her—not with force, but with the casual disgust one uses to kick a dead rat off a porch. She tumbled into the freezing sludge. Her dress was instantly soaked in filth, but the mud didn't stick to her skin. Not a single drop. She felt no physical pain—only a humiliation that cut deeper than any blade.

  "Monster," the priest spat. "You want to clear your sister's name? Bring gold. Healing for your kind isn't free. If you have nowhere to go, the local Lord is always looking for 'pretty' maids."

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Violetta sat in the mud for a long time. The city’s noise faded, becoming muffled as if she were underwater. The world had split. In the village, hands had touched her with smiles. Here, she was a void. A cause for all misery.

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  Violetta rose and walked the streets, her head low. The citizens parted before her—her supernatural cleanliness was an abomination to them.

  She stopped before the Adventurers' Guild. The building hummed like a hive, reeking of cheap tobacco, stale ale, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood—blood celebrated with beer. Her stomach didn't even growl; food felt like a foreign concept.

  Inside, a young mercenary with a leather vest and a sneer called out, "Look at this! What is this filthy creature?" Laughter erupted, fueled by spirits. Someone tossed a gnawed bone at her feet, splashing her with grease. Violetta stood like a black shadow amidst their triumph.

  Behind the counter sat an elf. He was hulking, his face shadowed, but his ears told the story—they were clipped, jagged, the remnants of torture.

  "I want to take a contract," Violetta said, her voice flat and cold.

  The elf looked at her, his scarred ears twitching. "Get out. You're too young. Sixteen is the minimum."

  "I have no choice," she replied softly. "If I don't find money, they will sell me to the Lord as a servant."

  The laughter died in the room, strangled. The elf’s knuckles turned white. He looked at the creature before him—half his size, yet bearing a weight he recognized too well. Without a word, he tossed a small pouch of coins onto the counter.

  "Leave. And don't come back."

  It wasn't help; it was hush money. A handout to make her disappear. Violetta took the pouch and walked back into the wind.

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  In a dim alleyway where the puddles reflected the flickering lanterns of the Festival of Fires, a voice emerged from the dark.

  "Hey, kid. You need real money?"

  A man in a mask and a heavy cloak stepped out. His voice was hollow, as if processed by a machine. "The world hates those who don't get dirty. True evil is always clean," he said coldly. "Come with me. Let’s talk about work."

  Violetta didn't ask what kind. She followed him into the depths.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  The "Shadows" led her to an underground vault. They gave her a bowl of warm herb soup—a smell that flooded her soul with memories of Lukia—and clean, sturdy clothes.

  In a hall smelling of wax and steel, a metal-plated mannequin stood. The masked teacher—the man from the alley—nodded. "Show me what you can do."

  Violetta’s Visor flared, highlighting stress points in the iron. She struck. Her hand, like a battering ram, punched through the steel. The crack echoed like a gunshot. The teacher froze, staring at her unmarred hand—no scratches, no bruising.

  "Not bad," he murmured. "But not enough."

  Days blurred into a gauntlet of training. She ran through labyrinths, dodging whistling arrows and falling into pits lined with spikes. Once, a spike grazed her arm—her cloak tore, but her skin remained whole. Dirt rolled off her like mercury.

  "She's too fast," other trainees whispered. "She isn't one of us."

  Violetta ignored them. She had a purpose now. She was a blade being forged in the dark. For Maryna. She was ready to become anything—even a dagger in the shadow.