“How is she?”

  A harsh question. The kind asked in hospitals with the in the throat and hands turned into prayers.

  “Stable. She managed to survive,” the doctor sighed, reviewing the records. “Her body managed to tolerate the mana discharge from your healing spells.”

  “I see… I see…”

  Healing blanks with magic was rigorously regulated in hospitals by health systems all over the world. Not all mortals had physical fibers capable of reacting quickly to arcane flow; some did not even feel its effects when attempting to close wounds. The risk was not high, but when it came to a child, the priority was to avoid resorting to that type of practice.

  “It’s as you said. No contact numbers, no last name, nothing. We called every orphanage, they don’t know her. We couldn’t even use a photo; her face…”

  Smiley lowered his head slightly, in mute sadness, and slowly raised a hand, indicating there was no need to go into further detail to remind him of the pitiful state in which he had found the blonde girl in that horrendous place.

  Two figures.

  One dressed in white.

  The other, in wine red.

  A room with the door closed. And a life that had just been saved from what could have been another tragedy.

  “Did she wake up?” Smiley asked, saddened, vaguely brushing his wooden fingers together. “I’d like to greet her. Tell her she’s not alone.”

  The doctor leaned back in his chair, setting the papers down on the desk. He removed his glasses and rubbed his face with one hand, trying to erase once and for all the images that had greeted him that night: blows, needle marks, an innocent face destroyed by knife cuts that, had it not been for the puppet’s threads, would have been lost entirely.

  “Do you think they’ll come after her?” the physician asked. He had already seen the news.

  Flesh torn from bone. Throat slit.

  Only a sick mind could have done something like that to a creature so young. Smiley recognized the inverted pentacle burned into the girl’s abdomen.

  “Don’t worry about that, sir.”

  The Design.

  “She still hasn’t opened her eyes. It’s not a coma, fortunately.”

  The expedition of the Spellborne squad, commanded by him, had finally managed to intercept the clandestine center of necromancer mages they had been relentlessly searching for for months.

  Before the doctor could say anything else, Smiley thanked him for his services with a slight tip of his hat and left.

  A national alarm had been triggered over the sudden disappearance of children of all species, used as juicy ingredients for morbid and forbidden rituals. The vast majority belonged to racial minorities, but they always sought young blood.

  Eternal life, they called it.

  “Idiots in robes,” Smiley called them as he arrested those who surrendered. The rest were eliminated in combat. “An insult to magic itself.”

  The back door of the basement of that abandoned house, in the marginalized suburbs on the other side of the country, was filled with children. All dead.

  All but one.

  She had been about to lose her life at the hands of a man with a knife, determined to leave no witnesses. Smiley extended his hand toward him, severing his wrist with the slash of his threads. His men entered immediately to apprehend him.

  He ran to the girl and carried her in his arms. Her throat was nearly cut.

  He closed the wounds with impeccable precision using his threads, stopped the hemorrhage, and applied advanced miracles again and again, surrounded by corpses. Of death. Of evil.

  Taking advantage of the empty corridor, he recited softly, without raising his hands:

  “Alteration Style: Veil of Silence.”

  In a blink, his wooden body became completely invisible. He walked through the hospital corridors, carefully dodging those coming and going. Medical staff. Grieving relatives. Others grateful to see their loved ones improving.

  That drew a smile from him, even in the midst of anguish. It reminded him why he fought every day.

  Because if I don’t have a family, I’ll make sure others keep theirs.

  He reached the room where the girl had been admitted. Even if she was asleep, he needed to see her. To know she was all right. He checked to either side to make sure no one noticed a door opening and closing on its own, and entered.

  His wooden and tin heart stopped.

  The bed was empty. The sheets, wrinkled. There was fresh blood where the IV needle had been torn out. Alarmed, he turned his head to look for her, and then he saw her.

  “Woooaaahhhh…”

  She was kneeling on the floor, using a cushion from the armchair as a seat, watching the movie projected on the ceiling television. Her face was completely bandaged, except for her left eye. She wore a patient’s gown over her newly recovered body.

  Smiley dispelled the spell with a slight tilt of his head.

  “Ahem.”

  He cleared his throat to get her attention. She turned immediately.

  “You!” she shouted, her voice muffled by the bandages. “Weirdo, shut up! I’m watching the movie!”

  "Huh?"

  The puppet blinked twice, incredulous at the girl’s energy. She hadn’t been frightened to see him. How could she have thought to rip out the IV like that as if it were nothing? There was no crying, no screaming, no panic. She just wanted to watch her movie in peace, even though the television was silent and she couldn’t find the remote.

  He interlaced his hands behind his back, sighed with a smile, and stood beside her, lifting his head to watch as well.

  When the girl didn’t react, Smiley flicked his pinky finger once. The television regained its volume.

  Screams. Sword clashes. Moans of pain. Heads and arms severed by the protagonist.

  Blonde, like her.

  “Awesome…” she murmured, opening her huge brown eye wide at the sight of the woman in the yellow-and-black suit wielding the katana. “She’s so pretty…”

  “Kill Bill. That’s the name of the movie,” Smiley said gently, without looking away. “Aren’t you afraid of so much blood?”

  She thought for a few seconds.

  “Mmm, no.” She shook her head. “The basement was worse. It smelled gross. This place smells clean. So I’m not scared.”

  Smiley watched the screen, Beatrix Kiddo tearing men in suits apart in violent choreography. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the girl squeeze the cushion excitedly between her small fists.

  She’s not afraid. She’s angry. She doesn’t want to cry. She wants to fight those who hurt her, even if she’s alone against the world.

  “Owww… booo! I don’t wanna see that!”

  The complaint pulled him from his thoughts. The movie had gone to commercial break. Smiley took advantage.

  “What’s your name, dear?”

  “Grace.”

  “Do you know where we can find your mom and dad, Grace?”

  She shook her head.

  “The men in suits took them.”

  If Smiley had blood, it would be boiling. He clenched his left fist tightly behind his back and forced himself to calm down. That line of questioning wouldn’t lead anywhere.

  “Here. I want you to shake this for me, please.”

  From inside his coat he pulled out a maraca. Grace took it curiously and shook it.

  Sha–Sha–Sha!

  Blue sparks burst from the toy. Grace let out a high-pitched giggle and shook it harder. Mana. She was a mage. The Design had been willing to sacrifice a mage child regardless of anything else, not even caring if she was one or not.

  The puppet smiled. If she had been a blank, the law would have forced him to send her to a relative or an orphanage. This meant something else.

  “Would you like to live with me?”

  Grace stopped and tilted her head.

  “Do you have movies at your house?”

  “Mhm, mhm. Many. And especially of her.” He pointed at the screen, where the movie had returned. “But before that, I want you to have this.”

  He lifted his top hat, revealing not only his wooden head, but a teddy bear. He tapped it gently on the chest, releasing golden sparks. The bear blinked, stretched its plush limbs, and sought its balance.

  Grace completely ignored the movie. She crawled over to the plushie and, without thinking twice, hugged it with all the strength she had. The bear returned the hug as best it could.

  “I need to sign some papers before we leave,” Smiley said from the doorway. “Go back to bed, okay?”

  Alone again, she lifted the bear into the air.

  “You’re my best friend forever now. Okay?!”

  The plush nodded seriously, saluting like a soldier. Out of nowhere, it pulled out a sign that read “OK!”

  Grace laughed and hugged it.

  “I know! I know! I’m gonna call you…!”

  …

  …

  …

  Grace opened her eyes to the . Gasping, she jolted upright. Beer cans rolled from her abdomen toward the lit campfire in the forest, clinking against each other with a guilty jingle.

  “Ugghh… Buttons?”

  The teddy bear was roasting sausages on sticks, wrapped in a solemn, almost ritual peace. The aroma tickled her nose and drew an involuntary smile from her.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "Breakfast, nice!"

  With an unnecessarily exaggerated yawn, Grace stretched, lifting her leather motorcycle jacket and black shirt. The inverted pentagram was still there, burned into her skin.

  Just another scar.

  “Where’s the boy?” she asked, taking the sausage her lifelong companion offered her. “I know he’s sad about his butler, but this isn’t the best time to whine,” she muttered, mouth full. “We need to get back to Lorian, soon.”

  Buttons pulled out a sign.

  “Larion.” He flipped it a second later, adding to the correction. “You have dyslexia.”

  “I DON’T HAVE DYSLEXIA, I JUST—!” Grace swallowed, turning her flushed face away. “I just get a little confused with names, it happens to everyone!”

  Buttons sighed, turning the stick over the fire.

  Before receiving another illustrated lecture, she set out to look for the young noble whom, at no point in her disastrous life, she would have expected to meet… much less take care of like his personal nanny.

  “Twenty-five years old and the kid has never lit a campfire…” she muttered, walking as she ate the sausage. “Why the hell do rich kids have to be so useless at everything?”

  She began to remember. She tossed the empty stick into the bushes so she could gesture better while complaining.

  “Oh, Grace, I don’t know how to hunt deer.

  Oh, Grace, I can’t tell normal berries from poisonous ones.

  Oh, Grace, I don’t drink beer!”

  She kicked a mound of snow, sending the hidden rock dozens of meters into nothingness.

  “Who the fuck is twenty-five years old and doesn’t drink beer?! If I had his money I’d buy whole barrels!”

  She snorted loudly and kicked a tree, frustrated by the situation they were in: hidden, fleeing from the Design’s bounty hunters who were after Gerard’s head. Amon’s men also wanted to avenge their patron for the memorable beating Grace had given him.

  “Hey, stop it!” Gerard shouted from above.

  “Huh?”

  Grace looked up. The white-haired young man was sitting on the highest branch, holding Grace’s mirrorphone up like an offering, searching for signal no matter how minimal. With his other arm he clung to the main trunk, careful not to fall.

  Alarmed, she checked the pockets of her jacket and her jeans.

  Yes.

  Indeed.

  That mirrorphone was hers.

  “Boy! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

  “I’m… looking… for signal!” he replied between efforts, minding every movement. “We’ve been in this forest for days!”

  A strong wind suddenly blew. The boy lost his balance, and the branch finally snapped.

  “AAAHH, GRACE, HELP ME!”

  “MY MIRRORPHONE!”

  "NOT MY PHONE!"

  THUD.

  Luckily, Gerard fell onto a bush. The impact wasn’t pleasant, but it was cushioned enough to allow him to see, his face twisted in pain, Grace kissing her phone with devotion.

  “Thank you, Elerya…” she murmured, grateful it hadn’t broken. “Thank you, thank you.”

  This woman is the strongest fighter I’ve ever seen in my life, Gerard thought, remembering the train incident. And she acts like a rebellious teenager. What have I done to deserve this…?

  "Mwah, mwah. Thank you, thank you..."

  Every deer he had to gut with his ice.

  Every night shared by campfires full of both their snores.

  Every bounty hunter annihilated by the two of them.

  Everything made him wish he hadn’t been born noble. Had lived a normal life in the suburbs. Anything before spending a single day more under the care of that disastrous woman.

  “Hm? Oh, a message?” Grace opened the flip phone. “A message! Boy, you finally do something useful!”

  “What does it say?” Gerard asked, brushing branches off his coat. “And please, stop calling me like that.”

  Still sitting on the ground, she read, barely frowning, as if each word took a small effort.

  “It’s from Vans…” she murmured. “I’m… with… Smiley… where… the hell… are you?”

  She rolled onto her back, completely impassive.

  “Huh. Why would Vans be with him?” she wondered aloud. “He’s a blank. He can’t belong to the Spellborne. Besides, Little-Hat doesn’t mix with the non-mage police… Hmmm…”

  "Did she reply~?"

  "Not yet."

  "Oh! She's like that. Disappears for months with no trace!"

  Weird. What would Little-Hat be doing right now? All of this is really weird.

  Gerard approached, watching her think while staring blankly at the gray sky.

  “Smiley, the puppet? Isn’t he the headmaster of the Academy of Larion?”

  Grace jumped to her feet, shaking the snow from her jeans.

  “Yeah, yeah. Quite the eminent celebrity,” she added with disdain. “Like you.”

  She looked back at the tree. The broken branch made it useless; it had been the only one tall enough to search for signal.

  “Well, whatever. Let’s move.”

  Guided only by a coffee-stained map burned around the edges, they advanced eastward. Not because Seryndale lay in that direction geographically, but because the trained instinct of two professional drifters pushed them that way.

  When they returned to the camp, Buttons had already undone the evidence as best he could: fire extinguished and covered, footprints erased, remains scattered. They couldn’t leave any trace.

  Ready, Grace planted herself in front of the plush.

  “Let’s go before they track us down again,” she recited, raising her index and middle fingers. “Expand.”

  Poof!

  In a burst of white smoke, Buttons adopted his full form: the huge, robust bear. He dropped to all fours and loaded the large backpack onto his broad back.

  As they moved through trees and snowy fields, Gerard noticed it was the first time since he’d known them that they could enjoy silence. Peace, if that’s what one could call the crunch of boots on snow and the wind slipping through branches.

  The thorn of pain in his chest over Elijah’s death, and the anguish of searching for his sister, gave him no rest. It was a constant stress, made even more evident by watching that duo so relaxed.

  She has only told me her name and that she hunts ruffians to hand them over to justice. After that, nothing. Not a single word more about her past.

  An absolute enigma: a wandering woman wielding a sword, accompanied by a creature straight out of a children’s tale.

  “Grace?”

  “Hm.”

  Always monosyllables.

  “Did you study at the Academy of Larion?”

  “Mhm.”

  Another silence, broken only by the snow beneath their feet.

  “And you also… were with the Spellborne as an agent?”

  “Hm.”

  Does she only know how to communicate like a troglodyte?

  Gerard sighed, adjusting the collar of his coat.

  “I haven’t formally thanked you for saving my life.”

  “Hm? Oh. Yeah. It was nothing, boy.”

  Buttons growled softly, smiling at him from the side.

  Nothing? They had almost died facing that monstrous man. He supposed it made sense: if both had been with the Spellborne, they were used to saving lives and hunting criminal mages.

  “Why did you… leave the unit?”

  Grace stopped. Just a microsecond, but it was enough for Gerard to notice.

  “We got bored,” she replied in the flattest, most forced voice in the world. “Buttons and I left because there wasn’t enough action.”

  Before Gerard could insist, he felt a light shove. Buttons looked at him with an apologetic expression and shook his head.

  “Your little sister,” Grace changed the subject. “What’s she like? Just as useless as you in the open field?”

  I take it back. A troglodyte has more manners than she does.

  “Miria is…” he swallowed. In truth, he hadn’t spoken to her in years; only formal greetings at meetings and ceremonies. “Strong. She is strong.”

  “Sounds like you don’t really know her.”

  Sounds like I haven’t been there. Like my fear of her anger pushed me out of her life.

  This time it was Gerard who stopped, fixing his gaze on the snow. His chest tightened… until he felt Grace’s firm hand on his shoulder. He looked up. Amid sutured scars, he saw a genuine smile.

  “Hey, boy,” she winked at him, squeezing without hurting. “I know you’re a mess right now, sucks. I know it. But we gotta keep going. When your little sister and you are safe, I’ll charge you dinners at the most expensive restaurants in the capital. And you’d better have savings, because I eat three times as much as Buttons.”

  Buttons roared, nodding enthusiastically.

  She wasn’t the best travel companion, but she knew how to lift your spirits just enough so you wouldn’t fall behind. Gerard smiled faintly, and they continued.

  “Who’s Vans?” he asked, his tone lighter now. “You seem to know him.”

  “Eh, a life-bitter detective. We worked together for a while. He hired me because I was the only one not scared to beat tough criminals.”

  “Sounds like he’s your friend.”

  She smiled, half nervous.

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  Discreetly, Buttons showed Gerard a chewed-up sign in his mouth as they kept walking, with a red heart split in two that read: “Didn’t work.”

  “Oh! I see…”

  At one point, Grace pulled a ukulele out of the bag — clearly enchanted, because there was no way it could have fit in there with her Katana and their supplies. Buttons stopped instantly and pulled out four earplugs. He put two in and tossed the other pair to Gerard.

  He didn’t understand why… until the torture began.

  “She'll be coming 'round the mountain!”

  “GHCK–!”

  Listening to plates being scraped by forks at full volume would have been more pleasant than hearing her sing, if that could be considered singing in the first place.

  “She'll be coming 'round the mountain, around the mountain! She'll be coming 'round the mountain!”

  Buttons gave him another little shove and pointed at his ears. Gerard obeyed immediately.

  “Around the mountain!”

  Grace kept singing, moving forward without the slightest shame. Weren’t they supposed to be traveling discreetly?!

  Vultures began circling overhead. She spun around, playing the ukulele with enthusiasm.

  They must think she’s agonizing.

  When more carrion birds arrived, Gerard put on a catalyst glove and fired ice stakes to scare them away.

  “She’s not dying!” he shouted at them, venting frustration. “The only one dying here is my sanity…” he muttered afterward. “Elijah, wherever you are in the afterlife… I beg you to protect me.”

  …

  …

  …

  Back at the castle.

  BEEP–BEEP–BEEP!

  The fire alarm was still blaring. The sprinklers mercilessly drenched all the halls and the second-floor corridor.

  Shouts from the kids who hadn’t yet gone down for lunch suddenly erupted, pouring out of classrooms and running down the stairs after the fire that had broken out in one of the rooms. They used notebooks, backpacks, or any improvised barrier to shield themselves from the water falling in torrents.

  BAM!

  The classroom door burst open under the firm kick of a black boot. Smoke billowed out in thick clouds, and from within it emerged a soaked figure, red eyes blazing and fire still burning in her hands.

  Feralynn Blackwood. The demon girl.

  She wasn’t coughing from the smoke; she had lived her whole life with it invading her lungs.

  As soon as she stepped fully out, a single figure awaited her in the middle of the now-empty corridor, arms crossed.

  “...”

  “...”

  I'm so fucking dead.

  No words were needed. Astera watched her without blinking, with that severe face she always wore, but which this time felt like a death sentence pronounced in silence. Above her head floated a translucent barrier of sky-blue mana, protecting her from the water.

  “Miss Blackwood,” she finally said, letting her gaze travel over the soaked, furious girl, her hands still aflame. “I see you are not yet in the cafeteria.”

  Again, no response from the girl. Astera tilted her head, evaluating the fire, the smoke, the water pouring without control from the class. Then she made a sharp gesture for the girl to step aside.

  Without slipping despite her heels, she entered the classroom. She extended her gloved hand toward the disaster, and with a clean motion, as if drawing an invisible slash through the air, dispersed what remained of the fire and smoke. A lethal cut of wind. The sprinklers and the alarm shut off only seconds later.

  Feralynn had remained seated on the hallway bench, hands in her pockets. Head tilted, gaze lost, completely emotionally defeated. She didn’t care about staying wet. She just wanted to eat lunch, go home, and sleep until the weekend. Apologizing to Annya right now wouldn’t have helped anything.

  When she felt Astera stop in front of her again, she spoke in a hoarse voice, worn out from so much screaming during her outburst of rage.

  “Lemme guess, grounded, right?”

  Normally, the headmistress would have already taken her to her office to lecture her, warn her, and threaten her with expulsion for destroying school property and endangering other students. But that dull tone, and the fact that she had nearly bled out in class hours earlier, softened the rigid chest of the elven woman.

  “Stay here.”

  Fer didn’t even blink. She stayed seated, listening to the residual dripping of water falling from the ceiling. She closed her eyes. Annya’s pained smile returned to her mind. A few minutes passed. She tensed when, all of a sudden, something soft fell onto her face.

  A towel.

  “Dry yourself,” Astera said, looking at her with what Fer would have described as a hint of empathy. “I’ll think about your punishment later. For now, just dry yourself, change out of those wet clothes, and go to eat.”

  Before Fer could ask anything, surprised, Astera had already left, leaving her alone in the hallway with the white towel.

  "She has dark circles too." Fer noticed, recalling her face. "She must be tired… like me."

  “Headmistress!”

  Astera paused before ascending the stairs, glancing back.

  “…Thanks.”

  Astera snorted, a small smile tugging at her lips as she shook her head.

  “Change your clothes, Miss.”

  Meanwhile, Miria enjoyed the view of the forest surrounding the school. She let her legs dangle in the air, sitting on the edge of the terrace. She took slow sips of her drink, thinking of her father, of her brother. Not with sadness; she had already cried alone in the bathroom.

  Now it was… curiosity. A need to recalibrate the facts, to understand what was happening with her life. Part of her was still annoyed. She had entered the academy precisely to avoid going to the one Gerard attended, to leave behind comparisons, family comments, inherited expectations. To forge her own shine, not live in his shadow.

  Her mind returned to today. To the origami note in Feralynn’s handwriting, inviting her to lunch. To the accident. To the fainting. To the blood.

  She coughed up blood. Just like Mother when she suffered her attacks from the illness.

  Her brow furrowed. Without realizing it, she squeezed the thermos tightly. Ironic that the place she went to leave the past behind handed it back to her with the same pain, only with a different flavor. With different people.

  She looked at the clock tower. Almost twenty minutes had passed. There was no sign of Fer.

  “I guess she must be with Oak,” she snorted, frustrated. “Tch. Why invite me to lunch if you’re just going to go off with your baker girl like always? Idiot.”

  She shut the lunchbox angrily. There were still several sandwiches left. Just as she was about to stand up, the door opened. This time, without kicks.

  “Feral—” she corrected herself with a short fake cough. “Blackwood?”

  “Hey.”

  Why are you wet? Did you just take a shower?

  Miria noticed immediately that Fer wasn’t wearing the uniform. Instead she had her usual black hoodie and the dark blue skirt, without the black opaque tights. Her hair was still damp and messy, as if she had showered and dried it in a hurry to make it there.

  “You’re late,” Miria broke the silence, noticing Fer’s tired smile. “How are you feeling? Your fainting in class was—”

  “I’m fine,” Fer cut in, without aggression. “Don’t remind me, will you?”

  Her stomach growled loudly. Fer covered her abdomen by reflex. Miria tilted her head, noticing she wasn’t carrying a lunchbox. She opened hers, showing the remaining sandwiches.

  “If you want, you can eat the rest—”

  With a swat, Feralynn snatched it from her and started eating like a savage, panting with relief.

  “They’re chicken...", she murmured with her mouth full, still standing. “Fuck… they’re delicious.”

  Miria crossed her arms, watching that pseudo-friend devour food like an animal, confused.

  "You’re a mess", she thought. But seeing her like that, so indifferent to the chaos of the day, drew a smile from her. "An interesting mess."

  …

  …

  …

  “, you will explain yourself.”

  "Of course."

  

  ?