The stream of piss hit stone with a steady patter, echoing faintly off the tower wall. Brann sighed, shoulders dropping, eyes half-closed in relief.

  "One of the pleasures of life, innit, Rook?" he called over his shoulder, shaking off the last drops and retying his belt.

  Rook leaned against the opposite tower, picking at his teeth with a splinter. "Nah. Shitting's better. Nothing like a good—"

  "We both know what you think is better," Brann cut him off with a grunt, grabbing his spear from where it leaned against the stone.

  "Damn right." Rook's grin turned wolfish. "Speaking of which, where the hell's our relief? My back's killing me."

  "S'posed to be here by now." Brann squinted toward the Veilspine Range, where the sun hung low behind the peaks, orange light bleeding across the ridgeline. "Dalen's got everyone running ragged. Fires, missing folk, the Baron can't make up his bloody mind..."

  "We're lucky we're out here instead of in all that shit," Rook said, then paused. "Though it's been quiet since those scholars passed through. That old fart and his pretty little assistant."

  Brann snorted. "You mean the one you wouldn't shut up about? 'Wonder what else she could do with those hands...'"

  "Can you blame me? Girl like that, wasted on books." Rook stretched, joints popping. "Bet she'd be more fun than—"

  "Shut it." Brann had gone rigid, staring west toward the mountains. "You see that?"

  Rook followed his eyes. The road lay empty, just dust and shadow stretching toward the Veilspine foothills.

  Then, movement. Not on the path. Between the hills.

  Five figures emerged from the fold of shadow where two ridges met, materializing as if the twilight itself had birthed them. They descended the slope, their silhouettes stark against the dying light: tall, composed, moving with a deliberate elegance that felt wrong for ordinary travelers.

  Two walked in front. Three followed behind, cloaked and hooded, their forms barely distinguishable from the gathering dusk.

  "That ain't our relief," Brann muttered, his grip tightening on his spear.

  "No," Rook agreed slowly, the splinter dropping from his hand. "That ain't them at all."

  The figures drew closer, stepping from shadow into the road's fading light. The leader's dark coat caught the wind, silver filigree gleaming faintly at collar and cuff. He was tall, his posture carrying a knightly bearing without rigidity: controlled, observant, moving with the quiet confidence of someone who thought before he struck. Dark hair framed a finely sculpted, aristocratic face with pale, moonlit skin. His features were sharp, high cheekbones framing a strong jawline, and his deep red eyes gleamed with quiet intelligence as they swept across the two guards, reading and measuring

  A silver chain bearing a blood-red gemstone rested against his collar, the design old and noble rather than ostentatious.

  Beside him walked a young woman whose very presence seemed to draw the fading light toward her and devour it.

  She was tall, her long legs lending her a striking, poised elegance, slender and disciplined—the form of someone who had never known softness. Her face was sharply sculpted, porcelain-pale, framed by long straight black hair that ended in a severe blunt fringe across her brow. Narrow eyes glimmered with deep crimson irises, shadowed beneath by dark markings that resembled ritual paint.

  Ornate gold earrings shaped like hanging scales swayed gently at her ears. A golden collar inset with a blood-red gem rested at her throat, gleaming like sacred regalia. Her lacquer-black vestments clung to her form like polished obsidian, pauldrons sweeping outward in angular gothic arcs. Gold filigree traced sacred motifs across her chest.

  A dark sanctity radiated from her, something between inquisitor and executioner.

  Behind them, the three cloaked figures moved in perfect synchronization, their hoods drawn low, faces hidden. Each carried a tall staff-spear hybrid, and embedded along their lengths, tiny arcane stones pulsed with faint light—active, channeling. The air around all five shimmered subtly, like heat distortion, though the evening had already grown cool.

  Brann's hand drifted toward his spear. "What in the Baron's name—" His words died as he saw the subtle shimmer in the air around them, the way shadows seemed to bend inward.

  "Easy," Rook muttered, though his hand had found his sword hilt. "Let's see what they want first."

  The two guards spread out beneath the arch, weapons ready but not raised, eyes fixed on the approaching strangers.

  They drew to a stop within speaking distance of the gate.

  The leader with his dark coat stepped forward first, his movements unhurried. He wore a faint smile—polite, disarming—as his deep red eyes swept across the guards with quiet assessment.

  "Good evening, gentlemen," he said, his voice soft and perfectly enunciated. "I hope we haven't alarmed you."

  Neither guard spoke. Both stiffened.

  The young woman stood at his shoulder, her crimson gaze sweeping across them with slow, deliberate precision. Her expression remained perfectly composed, as her lips curved into something that barely resembled a smile.

  "How... warm they are," she murmured, her voice soft as exhaled breath. "I can hear the pulse of their blood from here. Thrumming."

  Sebastian's hand rose slightly—a subtle gesture, barely noticeable.

  "Forgive my companion's... directness." His tone carried polite warmth, though his eyes remained watchful. "I am Sebastian, and this is Astraea." He inclined his head graciously toward the guards. "We've been sent to investigate certain... irregularities."

  Astraea's smile widened fractionally at the introduction, though her gaze never left the guards' exposed throats.

  "Patience," Sebastian added quietly, the word clearly directed at her.

  Brann swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. "N-Nobody leaves or enters until two fugitives are found," he managed, voice rough. "Baron's orders and all. No exceptions."

  "Of course." Sebastian inclined his head gracefully, his gaze never leaving the guards' faces. "We wouldn't dream of causing inconvenience."

  He unfastened his cloak with deliberate care, spreading his arms to show no weapon at hip or belt, only the fine cut of his clothing, the silver chain at his throat catching the dying light.

  "As you can see—disarmed. Entirely."

  Rook shifted his stance, unconvinced. "Don't matter if you're armed or not. You talk, or you walk."

  "Direct." Sebastian's smile widened slightly, genuine appreciation flickering in his eyes. "I appreciate clarity. It saves so much time."

  He took a single step closer, his tone shifting—still polite, but carrying quiet authority now.

  "We've received reports of fires at the excavation ruins. Significant destruction, from what we understand. We've been sent to investigate the matter."

  Brann and Rook exchanged quick glances.

  "Fires, yeah," Rook muttered. "Whole camp went up. Nothing left but ash and bodies."

  "Bodies?" Sebastian's expression remained calm, but his focus sharpened. "How many?"

  Brann spat into the dirt. "Don't know exactly. Scholars, workers, guards—all of 'em. Been a right mess."

  Sebastian absorbed this quietly, his gaze drifting toward the Baron's manor and the distant spires of the Athenaeum. He spoke softly, eyes still on the skyline. "With this much chaos, someone must be in charge. Who?"

  "Who d'you think?" Brann snorted. "The Baron. Scholars go digging where they shouldn't, stir up trouble—we get stuck dealing with it."

  "Aye," Rook added. "And half the Baron's manor went up this morning. Bet it's those bloody scholars behind that too."

  Sebastian went very still.

  "I beg your pardon?" His voice dropped, soft and precise. "The manor?"

  "Half of it's gone," Rook said. "Took damn near every man we had just to keep it from spreading."

  "Fascinating." Sebastian's eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze drifting toward the Baron's manor on its hill. "Two fires. The ruins and the manor. Separated by... what, a bell's span?"

  Brann scratched his jaw. "Three, maybe four. Hard to say—that damn clock's been running wrong lately."

  Sebastian's gaze shifted to the tower. "Wrong how?"

  "Skips time. Chimes come late, sometimes early." Rook shrugged. "Can't trust it like we used to."

  "I see." Sebastian's expression grew more thoughtful. "And you think the fires are connected?"

  Brann shifted uncomfortably. "Don't know what to think. Just know it's all gone to hell. And now we got you lot showing up looking like... well, looking like trouble."

  "I think," Sebastian said carefully, "that two significant fires in one day suggest a pattern rather than coincidence."

  Astraea's gaze had drifted downward during the exchange. Now her head tilted slightly, a thin, predatory smile curving her lips as her crimson eyes fixed on something at her feet. "Sebastian," she said softly, her tone carrying quiet certainty.

  He glanced at her.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  She pointed one gloved finger at the ground.

  A drop of blood. Still glistening.

  Then another, a few steps ahead.

  A trail.

  Astraea crouched slowly, her movements carrying ritualistic grace as she examined the nearest drop without touching it, crimson eyes studying it with the focus of a hunter sizing up prey.

  Her gloved fingers hovered just above it, trembling.

  "This blood." Her voice dropped to something almost reverent. "It is... different."

  She leaned closer, studying the crimson drop. A small, involuntary shudder ran through her frame.

  "Something dwells within it," she whispered, her voice carrying unmistakable hunger. "Something that calls." Her hand trembled harder, fingers curling as if fighting the urge to touch, to taste. "The living one who bled this... it carries something in its veins that should not exist in mortal flesh."

  A soft, desperate sound escaped her throat.

  "Sebastian." The word came out strained, not quite a plea, but close.

  He stepped toward her, voice low. "How recent?"

  Brann and Rook exchanged uncertain looks.

  "What the hell is she on about?" Rook muttered.

  Astraea rose slowly, a tremor of anticipation running through her frame. Her lips parted slightly, breath quickening as her gaze followed the trail toward Veilmouth, eyes bright with something between hunger and rapture.

  "This blood." Her voice carried barely restrained excitement. "How long ago did it pass through here?"

  "After sunrise," Brann said slowly, scratching his beard. "Scholar came through with his daughter—or assistant, somethin' like that. She was bleeding from the eyes—straight down her face like tears. Never seen anything like it."

  Sebastian's eyes gleamed. "Bleeding from the eyes." He repeated the words slowly, tasting them. "And you let them through."

  "Baron's orders back then—we weren't stopping scholars unless they came from the main ruins." Brann gestured defensively. "Man said they'd been at the scattered ruins. Found some artifact. She eyeballed it wrong, or somethin'."

  "And her name?" Sebastian's voice carried no accusation, just gentle, relentless inquiry.

  "Petra... Petra Archstone." Brann paused. "Both of 'em had stone names."

  "Archstone." Sebastian glanced at the weathered gate towers flanking the road, then back at the guard. A faint smile touched his lips. "Creative."

  Brann blinked, not understanding.

  Astraea stepped forward. "The living one who bled this... she walked here not long past." Her gaze lifted toward Veilmouth's distant streets. "She cannot be far from us now."

  "Indeed." Sebastian said. "And the scholar accompanying her—you saw his face?"

  "Uh-huh. Older man. Black hair. Wore a dark green coat—proper scholarly type." Rook frowned. "Said his name was Cornelius Riverstone."

  Sebastian's eyebrow rose fractionally. "Riverstone and Archstone." He glanced at the cobblestones beneath their feet, then at the gate towers again. "How... poetic."

  He straightened.

  "These fugitives you mentioned," he continued, his tone shifting back to casual inquiry. "Do they have something to do with all this? The fires?"

  Brann shook his head. "No one's claimed nothing. Just... chaos. Dalen's got everyone searching for answers."

  "Dalen." Sebastian filed the name away. "And he is?"

  "Captain of the Baron's guard. He's in charge of keepin' the valley safe."

  "I see." Sebastian's smile returned—polite, understanding. "And this Captain Dalen—I assume he's currently occupied with the manor fire?"

  "Him and half the garrison, far as I know."

  "Leaving you here." Sebastian gestured at the two guards. "Overworked."

  Rook hocked a wad of phlegm into the dirt. "You got that right. Been here since yesterday's sunset."

  Astraea, still fixed on the blood trail. "This blood. It calls." Her head tilted slightly, crimson eyes gleaming with something between curiosity and hunger. "I will follow it."

  Brann shifted uneasily. "Follow it where?"

  "To the source," Astraea whispered, her smile thin and mirthless. "Until I find what bleeds."

  The way she said it—soft, anticipatory, like describing something beautiful—made both guards take an involuntary step back.

  Sebastian shifted his stance, drawing the guards' attention back to him.

  "What my companion means," he interjected smoothly, "is that this phenomenon—blood flowing from the eyes—may be connected to the fires. An arcane effect, perhaps. Something that requires... investigation."

  He met Brann's eyes directly, his voice dropping to something gentler, more persuasive.

  "Surely you understand. If there's a threat—magical, whatever it might be—it's in everyone's interest that we identify it quickly."

  Brann hesitated, shifting his weight uncomfortably, his eyes glazing slightly.

  Astraea took another step forward.

  "The blood is fresh," she continued, her voice carrying no urgency, only patient certainty. "The warm-blooded one bleeds still. Each moment we linger here..." Her smile widened fractionally. "...the crimson cools. Fades. Becomes useless."

  Brann blinked heavily, raising his spear slightly but with no real conviction. "Easy there. Folks don't pass this gate without telling us who they answer to."

  Sebastian took a single step closer. His hand rose in a slow, deliberate arc, passing before his crimson eyes. When his gaze locked onto Brann's, the air seemed to thicken, the weight of his will pressing outward—ancient, hypnotic, compelling.

  "Where we come from," he murmured, letting the words settle directly into the guard's mind. "Of course."

  "But consider—do you truly need such formalities? The fires are real. The blood is real. The threat is real." His voice carried a subtle resonance now, pressing against their resistance like water invading deep stone. "What harm in allowing us to investigate?"

  Brann's pupils dilated, swallowing the iris. His shoulders slumped, the tension draining out of him, replaced by a dull, pleasant compliance.

  "I... suppose..." Brann mumbled.

  "Exactly." Sebastian's smile never wavered. "Simply allow us passage. We'll follow the trail. Handle matters quietly. No need to trouble your Captain Dalen with additional concerns."

  "Of... course," Rook muttered, shaking his head as if waking from a nap. "Blood trail. Just... into town. Toward the northern bank, looked like."

  "Perfect." Sebastian inclined his head graciously. "Most helpful. You have our gratitude."

  Astraea was already moving, her gaze locked on the blood drops leading into Veilmouth's twilight streets. The three Veilbound followed in perfect silence, their cloaked forms barely disturbing the dust.

  Sebastian moved to follow, then paused, glancing back at the guards with genuine curiosity.

  "One last question, if you'll indulge me." His tone was polite, almost friendly. "This scholar—Cornelius. Did he seem... concerned? Frightened?"

  Brann frowned, thinking back through the haze in his mind. "Concerned, yes. But not scared. More like..." He struggled for the word. "...determined."

  "Determined." Sebastian repeated the word thoughtfully. "How interesting."

  He turned and walked through the gate, his dark coat catching the wind.

  As they passed beneath the arch, Rook squinted at Astraea's back, at the elegant weapon strapped across her shoulders, its dual crescent blades gleaming faintly in the dying light.

  The guard rubbed his eyes, the strange mental fog lifting just enough to let his natural unpleasantness return. His gaze caught on the blade, then dropped lower, watching the sway of her hips.

  "Uh... what kind of weapon is that?" he muttered, his voice rough.

  Astraea paused mid-step.

  She turned her head slightly, crimson eyes sliding toward him with the lazy focus of a predator noticing a particularly loud insect.

  "This?" Her voice remained soft, almost gentle. "This is not a weapon, blood-stock."

  She traced one gloved finger along the crescent blade's curve with ritualistic reverence.

  "This is an instrument. One does not fight with it." Her eyes never left his face. "One performs. One conducts."

  A small, breathy giggle escaped her lips, barely above a whisper, musical and terrible.

  "And the performance is always final."

  Rook's bravado faltered. His grip on his sword tightened, but his eyes lingered on her form with a mix of fear and lust.

  "You possess no grace," Astraea observed, tilting her head as if studying something mildly disappointing. "You would simply... spill. All of it. No ceremony. No beauty." Her smile remained. "What waste that would be."

  "Astraea." Sebastian's voice was quiet but firm. "We are leaving."

  She held Rook's gaze a moment longer, watching his pulse jump at his throat. Then she turned, taking a few more steps down the road.

  Rook muttered, low and crude, the words spilling out in an ugly snort meant only for Brann: "Wouldn't mind takin' her behind the tower. See if she screams."

  Astraea's smile thinned, a hairline fracture across porcelain calm. She stopped completely.

  "Sebastian," she said softly, her voice carrying easily across the distance. "These warm-blooded creatures... they do not understand what I am." Her lips curved into a smile that touched her eyes with terrifying delight. "Perhaps a demonstration would clarify matters."

  Sebastian stopped.

  He didn't turn around. He simply closed his eyes and let out a long, weary sigh of resignation. He knew what that sound meant. He knew there was no point in speaking now.

  The movement was so abrupt, so perfectly still, that it drew every eye. She stood some distance down the road, her back to the gate.

  Then she turned. Slowly.

  Her crimson eyes fixed on the two guards with a voracious, absolute focus.

  "Astraea—" Sebastian began, but the word was just a formality.

  She was already reaching back, her gloved fingers finding the Crescent Twins' grip with ritualistic precision.

  The weapon came free in one fluid motion, the twin-bladed scythe gleaming as it caught the last rays of dying sunlight. The crescents seemed to drink the light, their edges impossibly sharp, their curves elegant and terrible.

  Brann and Rook stumbled backward, weapons rising in clumsy panic.

  "Hold!" Brann shouted, spit flying. "Don't—"

  Astraea rotated the weapon around her grip.

  Once.

  The blade whirled like a propeller, air moving outward from the rotation with a rising, wing-like whirr—steel cutting air.

  Twice.

  The sound crescendoed, musical, precise, building toward something inevitable.

  Three times.

  Then she stopped, hooking the double scythe smoothly into its mount across her back in one seamless motion.

  Silence.

  Brann and Rook stood frozen—pale, weapons half-raised, confusion flickering across their faces.

  Nothing had happened.

  Brann lowered his spear slightly, his brow furrowed. "What—"

  His eyes bulged. Blood bubbled from his mouth as he tried to speak, gurgling thickly. "I don't—"

  A thin red line appeared across his torso—leather parting, then flesh, perfectly horizontal, impossibly clean.

  His upper body began to slide.

  It defied physics for a heartbeat, and then, with sudden, terrible finality, the top half of him separated from his legs. It toppled forward, hitting the cobblestones with a wet, heavy thud.

  Rook opened his mouth to scream—

  Blood sprayed from between his lips instead of sound. He looked down, confused, as red lines blossomed across his body—diagonal cuts crossing perfectly at his center, another through his waist, through his knees.

  He tried to take a step toward safety. His body disagreed.

  He collapsed into segments—torso pitching forward, legs falling in different directions, arms sliding away from shoulders. The meat inside was distinct from the clean cut of the skin, a wet, steaming mess spilling out across the dusty road. Each piece hit the ground with its own wet impact, his face frozen between horror and disbelief as his head rolled free, eyes blinking once, twice, before the light faded.

  Blood spread across the cobblestones in dark rivers, flowing between the stones, pooling in the gate's shadow. Steam rose from the spreading pools in the cool evening air. Brann's hand—severed at the wrist—still gripped his spear, fingers twitching reflexively in the dirt.

  Then, with a sound like thunder grinding through stone, the gate itself moved.

  The left tower lurched. Stone grinding against stone, mortar crumbling. A perfectly straight line appeared through its center, starting at the arch's crown and running down through weathered stone, through the rusted iron gate, through the foundation itself.

  The right tower followed.

  Both structures hung there for a moment, defying gravity, defying belief.

  Then they fell.

  The left tower's upper half slid inward, crashing across the path in an explosion of ancient stone and dust. The right tower collapsed outward, its pieces scattering across the landscape. The iron gate folded in on itself with a tortured shriek of metal, its bars severed clean through, falling in twisted segments among the rubble.

  Dust billowed outward, a gray shroud trying to hide the carnage.

  Astraea stood amid the settling chaos, her back straight, her expression transformed. Where before had been cold composure, now something else flickered across her porcelain features—a subtle flush of color in those pale cheeks, her crimson eyes gleaming brighter, pupils dilated with rapture.

  Her lips parted slightly, a soft exhale escaping—not quite a sigh, not quite a moan. The corner of her mouth curved upward in genuine pleasure for the first time since she'd arrived.

  She tilted her head back slightly, savoring the copper scent of blood mixing with stone dust. Her gloved fingers flexed once at her sides, a small, involuntary movement of satisfaction.

  Not a drop of blood touched her vestments. Not a speck of dust marred her lacquer-black surface.

  She looked down at the spreading crimson pools, at the perfectly severed human debris scattered across the cobblestone, and that breathy giggle escaped again—but fuller this time, richer with contentment.

  "This..." she whispered, savoring the words, "is the place of your kind. Split open. Emptied. Given back to the dirt that spat you out."

  Her movements as she turned were languid, carrying the grace of someone deeply satisfied.

  "Beautiful," she whispered, though whether to herself or to the carnage, it wasn't clear.

  Then she continued walking toward Veilmouth, her stride slightly looser now, more fluid—like a predator finally fed after too long a fast.

  The three Veilbound followed in perfect silence, their staffs still pulsing with faint light, their movements undisturbed by the destruction.

  Sebastian remained where he had stopped, his gaze sweeping across the ruined gate, the scattered bodies, the blood still spreading across cobblestone.

  He sighed quietly, a sound of weary acceptance.

  Then he followed, his dark coat catching the wind, his footsteps steady and unhurried.

  Behind them, the Baron's gate lay in ruins.

  Stone and flesh. Iron and bone.

  The blood trail led them forward into Veilmouth's twilight streets, each crimson drop drawing them closer to the Copper Hearth Inn where its source waited, unaware of what hunted her.