Chapter 9: Chapter 8: No Place Like Home

A lone wolf howled beneath the pale moon, its cry stretching into the sky like a sorrowful thread.

The sound echoed through the trees—what few remained—and faded into silence.

The forest was no longer a forest.

Where once there had been lush canopy and a chorus of life, there now lay a ruin: a scorched, open wound carved into the earth.

Trees had been obliterated, their trunks shattered like broken ribs, their once-vibrant limbs reduced to twisted, charcoal stumps. Branches curled inward, blackened and skeletal, as if in pain.

The air hung thick with smoke and ash.

Every breath carried the scorched tang of burned bark—and beneath it, something more unnatural: the sharp sting of ozone, the metallic hum of lingering magic, old and volatile.

At the heart of the destruction, a crater yawned wide—nearly twenty meters across, and still warm at the edges.

The soil had been glassed. Stone had fractured into jagged shards that shimmered in the moonlight like black ice.

Whatever had happened here hadn’t simply destroyed—it had unraveled the natural order.

And in the crater’s center: nothing.

No bodies. No signs of life.

No Saintess. No vampire.

Only silence, and the haunting echo of a force too great to be forgotten.

Ash drifted from the sky like falling snow, catching the moonlight in slow, spiraling descent. It glowed faintly as it landed on ruined bark and molten earth.

Even the wind had stilled—as if the forest itself were holding its breath, afraid to speak aloud the name of whatever power had just passed through.

Somewhere, deep in the trees, the wolf watched from a ridge—ears pricked, tail still—then vanished into the night, as footsteps crunched across scorched earth.

Lucien slowed to a stop at the crater’s edge, cloak stirring behind him. Cassian followed close, one hand on his sword hilt, his sharp eyes sweeping the ruin.

“…By the gods,” Lucien muttered.

They stood in silence, framed by flame-scorched trees and soot-swept skies.

A battlefield, unmistakably.

But of the combatants—no trace.

“No corpses. No blood,” Cassian said, crouching beside a fractured rock still warm to the touch. “Just... this.”

Lucien knelt beside him, pressing a gloved hand to the ground. A faint vibration tickled his palm—pulsing, distant, as if the earth remembered what it had endured.

“She was here,” he said quietly. “I can feel it.”

Cassian’s voice was low. “So was something else.”

Lucien rose slowly, gaze sweeping the blackened horizon. “Then where are they now?”

Cassian didn’t answer. Instead, his attention caught on something half-buried in the ash.

He descended the slope, boots crunching over vitrified soil, and knelt beside a cluster of crystalline fragments.

Green.

Still glowing.

Still warm.

His fingers hovered just above them—not touching, but close enough to feel the hum.

The shards pulsed faintly, like the slowing heartbeat of some ancient being.

“A resonance crystal,” he murmured. “Or what’s left of one.”

Lucien was at his side in an instant, brows furrowed. “Trap?”

Cassian shook his head. “No. This was part of a ritual. A powerful one.”

“What kind of ritual?” Lucien asked, his voice tightening.

“I can’t say,” Cassian admitted. “But whatever it was meant to summon—or seal—was interrupted. The crystal shattered before it could be completed.”

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Lucien’s eyes swept the ravaged clearing. “She stopped it. It has to be.”

Cassian didn’t reply.

The wind stirred once more, scattering cinders across the darkened sky.

He gazed into the center of the crater as if trying to conjure the moment it had been carved into the world.

At last, he spoke.

“Whoever fought here… was S–class. No doubt.”

Lucien exhaled, long and low. “And we believed there were only seven S–class on the continent.”

A humorless chuckle escaped his lips. “How little we know.”

Cassian rose, brushing ash from his gloves. “We should report this. The Emperor must be informed.”

But Lucien wasn’t listening.

His eyes had settled on one shard—no larger than a coin, its edges jagged but gleaming with a faint internal glow.

Carefully, he knelt, drew a silk cloth from inside his cloak, and picked it up.

The shard was warm. And thrumming.

Lucien’s jaw clenched as he wrapped it and tucked it into a small metal case, sealing it shut.

Cassian glanced back. “You’re keeping it?”

“For study,” Lucien said. “We may not understand what happened here, but someone at the Imperial Academy might.”

He hesitated, then added under his breath, “And I’ve got a terrible feeling about what they'll find.”

Cassian eyed him, but said nothing.

The two stood once more at the rim of the crater—silent figures framed against ruin and cinders.

Behind them, the jungle whispered.

In front of them, the crater still pulsed faintly, like a scar that hadn’t finished bleeding.

Lucien turned. “Let’s head back before something else decides to show up.”

Cassian nodded once. “That’s the wisest thing you’ve said today, Your Highness.”

They walked in silence, boots crunching against blackened stone, cloaks brushing ash-stained leaves. The trees, charred and silent, watched them go.

Neither man spoke again...

Meanwhile, beyond the crater’s ruin, Mira was already halfway toward the red-roofed cottage.

Her steps were slow, deliberate. Each movement sent aches flaring through her muscles—nothing serious, just the kind of pain that reminded her she was still alive.

She kept to the forest’s edge, avoiding the main roads.

She didn’t want anyone to see her like this. Covered in soot and blood, hair matted to her skin, clothes torn at the sleeves and waist.

The wind around her still trembled faintly, as if reluctant to let her go.

The lights of the red-roof cottage finally came into view—soft, golden glows from windows and lanterns, flickering like stars too close to the earth.

Home.

By the time she reached the back door of the cottage, her legs felt like stone.

She slipped inside quietly, the worn wooden door creaking just enough to betray her.

“Mira?”

Her mother’s voice from the kitchen froze her in place.

Then—hurried footsteps.

Her mother appeared, tea towel still in hand, and stopped cold in the doorway.

“Mira!”

In the next breath, her father emerged from the front hall, crossbow slung over one shoulder, expression already hardening.

Both of them stared.

Mira gave them a tired smile. “I’m okay.”

“You are not okay,” her mother snapped, rushing forward to cup Mira’s face with shaking hands. “You’re bleeding, your arm is burnt, and—what in the gods’ names happened to you?”

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Mira said softly, her voice dry. “There were cloaked figures in the forest. They were… trying to perform a ritual. A dark one.”

Her father stepped closer, jaw set. “Dark magic? That close to town?”

She nodded. “There was a vampire leading them. I tried to stop the ritual… I think I did.”

“You think?” her father echoed, frowning. “Did it go off or not?”

“The crystal they were using cracked before the spell could complete.” Mira moved to the bench near the hearth and sat, wincing. “But he got away. He was... strong.”

“Stronger than you?” her father asked bluntly.

Mira looked at him, “I was at my twenty percent.”

Her mother knelt in front of her, eyes wide with worry. “Don't think too much. You'll get him next time. As for now, let me get your wounds—”

“It’s okay, Mother.” Mira murmured, raising a hand.

She took a slow breath, closing her eyes.

Magic stirred beneath her skin—not the silver-green glow of wind, but the soft shimmer of earth and root—natural magic, quiet and warm, like spring water and blooming leaves.

Green light traced along her fingertips.

She pressed them gently to the wound on her shoulder, and the torn skin began knitting itself together—burned tissue cooling, bruises fading.

Vines threaded from her palm, wrapping like bandages before dissolving into golden dust.

Her father folded his arms. “And this vampire… did he say what he wanted?”

“No.” Mira’s expression darkened. “But they were trying to summon something—or someone. Whatever it was, it didn’t finish."

Her mother stood slowly. “You shouldn’t have faced that alone.”

“I know,” Mira said quietly. “But I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” her father said, his voice quiet but firm.

Mira opened her eyes and met his. “Would you have chosen to let them finish the ritual? Let something unknown and cursed slip into the world? Into our town?”

He didn’t answer.

The fire crackled.

Her mother placed a hand on her father’s arm, then turned back to Mira. “At least let us help you next time. Or warn someone.”

“I didn’t have time,” she said. “It happened fast. But… next time, I’ll try.”

Her father exhaled through his nose, then stepped back toward the hearth. “Next time, bring a flare. I don’t want you facing this alone.”

Mira gave a faint nod.

Then, more quietly, she added, “He said something before he vanished.”

Both her parents turned to her.

Her fingers curled slightly as the last of her healing magic faded. “‘I’ll be seeing you soon, Saintess.’"

Her mother’s face went pale.

Her father’s hand drifted instinctively toward the crossbow at his side.

“I don’t know if it was a threat,” Mira murmured. “But... please be careful. Both of you. Arm yourselves if you’re going out. He’s not someone we can take lightly.”

A heavy silence followed, thick as fog.

Mira leaned back against the wall, eyes slipping shut. The ache in her body was finally beginning to fade.

Her hair still smelled of smoke.

Her clothes clung to her skin, stiff with ash and dried sweat.

But she was home.

Her father broke the silence at last. “Rest now. Mira. We’ll keep watch.”

Her mother crouched beside her again, worry softening her features. She draped a blanket gently around Mira’s shoulders.

“We'll tell the town watch what happened tomorrow,” she whispered. “And face whatever comes. Together.”

Mira didn’t speak.

She only nodded.

And for the first time since the forest had gone silent… she allowed herself to feel tired.

In her mother’s arms...

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