In the vast ocean of the night sky, countless stars shimmered like fragments of forgotten souls. The pale moon hung high, watching silently witness to every sin, every grief, every birth and ending beneath its indifferent gaze.

Under that cold light, he mourned—not for others, but for the death that had long since taken root within himself.

Will I actually gain anything from the world's destruction?

He often wondered that. His heart would whisper that question to him in the moments between thought and silence, yet no answer ever came.

Dasha's sword sliced through the night air, the silver arc gleaming with fatal intent. It drew closer, closer still—aimed for his neck, to end everything.

"Wait."

Veythor's voice cut through her rage. The single word struck like thunder in her ears. Her body froze mid-swing. Breath shallow, chest heaving, she trembled and lowered the blade by instinct.

Veythor slowly raised his eyes toward her, then toward the heavens above. His gaze held neither fear nor defiance.... only a strange calm that made the stars themselves seem small.

"I'll tell you… everything."

Those words, low and steady, fell into the silence like rain on dying embers. Dasha's eyes quivered. Relief surged through her like the first breath after drowning.

Finally, she thought, he's breaking.

Tears welled at the corners of her eyes as she turned briefly toward the tribe. Their faces flickered in her memory.... those she loved, those she swore to protect. She looked back at him, her resolve trembling yet alive.

I can still save them. I can still save everyone.

Veythor stared at her for a long moment. Raika and Shimi had become nothing more than background noise... two figures in a distant painting while this fight unfolded, not with blades, but within blood and breath.

"You remember what Darius said about Diharan Bulz?"

Veythor asked, voice heavy with a guilt he had measured and placed like a weight. His eyes were half-lidded; he swung softly on the chain. Dasha flinched as memory slid into her face.

"Yes. What of it? You lied about that?"

Suspicion hardened her tone; her hands tightened and trembled. A night breeze brushed them like an arrow; to Veythor it felt almost peaceful in the momentary quiet.

Yet chaos waits, he thought, and he let a small smile touch the corner of his mouth.

Dasha lifted an eyebrow. "Why are you smiling? So you actually lied?"

"No," he said. "We certainly are escaped slaves who were taken by that man, Diharan Bulz. After crossing through hell and taking out many difficulties, we finally escaped."

He stopped. Dasha stared at him, impatient and sharp.

"Come to the point. I have no interest in your useless babbling," she snapped; her voice struck like a palm.

Veythor sighed once, slow. "Actually… I am different from these two."

Her face twisted, confusion and warning braided together. "What do you mean... different? How are you different?"

Veythor closed his eyes as if recalling a private map. "My status is different. They are mere peasants. My actual station... far more upper class. I was accidentally abducted by that man."

At his words the color left her face. Her heartbeat stuttered and climbed.

"You're kidding, right?" she demanded, voice sharp as flint.

Veythor let a smirk slip, almost a laugh. "There's no reason for me to joke with you, while my life is literally in your hands."

Dasha searched his face for the tiniest wrinkle of deceit. She found nothing; the act was perfect. No tremor, no falter.

"So who are you? What is your status? Why would your status bring harm to our tribe?" she pressed, the questions spilling out in a rush, then checked herself—forced a colder tone. Her face went flat, trying to show no fear.

Could he be tied to Narzan's higher-ups? The thought struck like ice. Her chest tightened as though about to break. Veythor's smile slid into an arrogant, carefully measured smirk.

"What do you think, Dasha... who could I be?"

Her heart nearly stopped at the question. Emotion unraveled; she ground her teeth and lifted her sword.

"Don't play games with me or else—"

She fell silent, trying to steady her breathing. Veythor watched, amused.

"Or else?" he prodded, deliberate.

He'd asked to provoke her and it worked. Fury boiled up inside her.

"Or else I'll fucking slash your head off and drink your blood… design the soil with your bones."

Veythor raised a brow.

"Whoa... how scary. What if I tell you that I'm connected to someone special in the Narzanian army?"

Instead of fear, she laughed not loudly, but sharp and incredulous.

"You… Tell me, is the word 'stupid' written on my forehead? Do you think you'll say you're connected to someone in the Narzanian army and I'll blindly believe you? In your dreams. What did you think... that because we are at war with Narzan you'd hit a weak spot and make me break? How foolish."

She laughed; Veythor stayed silent, almost laughing with her. On the surface it looked like a grave position for him, but in truth it was not.

"I knew you wouldn't believe me. But believe it or not, that is the truth. If you can't believe me, just wait until tomorrow morning and you'll see for yourself."

Dasha's gaze turned mocking.

"Oh? Is that so? I'm very scared."

Her tone was thick with sarcasm.

"If you're actually connected to anyone important, then prove it, you lying dog. You ain't no one just a nobody with a cunning mind."

She spat in Veythor's face. He closed his eyes; his heart remained colder than ice.

These mere taunts and provocative words aren't going to work on me. I have no shame to spend; I don't have the luxury of it.

He thought, and laughed coldly inside.

"I figured you wouldn't believe me. But I can back my words. I do have proof."

Her gaze widened at his claim; she hadn't expected any backup from him, yet her expression stayed guarded.

"Oh ho? Then prove it, you cunning shit."

His smirk widened. She felt a shiver run down her spine.

"Check my right pocket."

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