The air shifted, filling with a new sensation altogether. What had been tense only moments ago now buzzed with wild excitement. For the soldiers and guards gathered at the riverbank, this day had begun as a nightmare. They had expected blood, injury—perhaps death. The Banshee of Venom had terrorized this region for months, and no one had managed to so much as wound it. Being sent to confront it felt like being marched toward one’s own grave.
There were powerful fighters in the West—men and women who might actually have stood a chance against the beast—but most of them now held high military posts in the royal city of Nightsong. Generals did not abandon their duties to chase reward money in distant Tyria. Even though Lord Rong, head of the First Noble Family of the West, had announced a generous bounty at the royal court, no one important had come.
Amarin had worried endlessly over it. Tyria was under his family’s governance; the responsibility to protect it was his. Yet there had been no one capable of slaying the beast. That was when he remembered. Seven years ago—this very river, this very terror—he and Marcus had faced the Banshee together and survived.
And now Marcus, Emperor of the South, famed across Merwan as the War Beast, was coming to the West for the Festival of Aris. Amarin had seized the opportunity and requested his aid. Marcus had agreed. Even so, the soldiers accompanying them had cursed their luck at dawn. Fighting the Banshee, even with Marcus present, was no small risk.
But fate had twisted the day into something no one had imagined. The beast was already dead. And now—the Southern Emperor had revealed himself as a cut sleeve and was about to fight the very person who had killed it.
A duel.
Even restrained, even without his full power, the chance to witness Marcus fight with their own eyes felt like a blessing. Every gaze locked onto the two figures standing opposite each other.
Illaria drew her sword. Marcus had declared he would not use spiritual energy. He would not use his blade. Then how did he intend to fight?
She needed to know. She surged forward, her opening strike simple and direct—nothing fancy, nothing wasteful. As she closed the distance and swung for his shoulder, something unexpected happened. A red, translucent layer bloomed around Marcus’s body, liquid-like, alive.
Her blade struck it—and the impact vanished, swallowed whole.
Illaria leapt back instantly, landing lightly on her feet. Through the shimmering red veil, she caught a glimpse of his eyes—steady, glistening, disturbingly warm.
She narrowed her gaze.
“So,” Illaria said evenly, “Your Grace plans to fight me using some form of Myrenn magic.” A faint smile tugged at her lips. “Interesting. I must commend you—for actually finding magic suited for combat.” How much ever he annoyed her, he never failed to impress her.
Marcus lunged forward, striking as he spoke.“As you may know,” he said calmly, “I’ve always been interested in combining Auren and Myrenn since I was young. But against you—Myrenn alone will suffice.”
Illaria met his advance head-on. Steel rang against force, sparks flashing as their movements blurred together. Marcus pressed the attack relentlessly, his Myrenn shaping itself into shifting barriers and strikes, while Illaria answered with pure instinct and skill. For a while, nothing existed beyond the clash between them. The river, the guards, the world itself faded away.
This is fun, Illaria admitted to herself. But now—I must escape.
Marcus launched another powerful shockwave toward her. This time, Illaria didn’t dodge left or right. She didn’t even raise her blade to block.
She jumped.
Her body surged upward, propelled by the last reserves of her strength, aiming straight for the top of the ridge. While Marcus had been distracted earlier—talking to Amarin—she had remembered something crucial.
Not all her traps had been used.
It was reckless. Dangerous. A dozen things could go wrong. But it was the only option left.
Marcus’s shockwave slammed into the mountain ridge below her—and exactly as she had planned, the unstable rocks and half-cracked trees she had prepared earlier gave way. The ridge erupted. Boulders and splintered trunks thundered downward in a roaring cascade.
Illaria glimpsed Marcus weaving cleanly through the collapsing debris. She had never expected the rocks to crush him—that was never the point. All she needed was time. A few seconds. A single opening.
While the ridge collapsed beneath her, she sailed higher.
Ten seconds. That was all it would take. As she hung suspended in the air, she glanced down instinctively—and froze.
Marcus was smiling.
Not annoyed. Not surprised. Not even mildly inconvenienced.
Just… amused.
“Oh gods,” she thought, panic prickling her spine. “I will never understand this man.”
But there was no time to hesitate. Illaria landed at the top of the ridge and ran. She ran as if her life depended on it—because it did. Her heart pounded violently, breath tearing from her chest as she put distance between herself and the battlefield. Behind her, she heard Amarin shouting furiously, ordering his guards to pursue.
She also heard Marcus’s voice, calm and clear. “No need to go after him.” That smile still haunted her.
After nearly five miles of relentless running, Illaria finally slowed, spotting a half-collapsed, abandoned cottage on the outskirts of a forgotten village. She slipped inside, cloaked herself in shadow, and dropped to the floor to meditate.
An hour passed. She carefully drew a protective spell around the cottage, enough to repel searching soldiers if they came.
No one did. Morning bled into noon. Still nothing.
“The ridge must connect to multiple villages,” she murmured to herself. “Too many paths. Too hard to track.” She exhaled slowly, finally allowing herself to relax.
“Anyways… I escaped.”
Illaria settled back onto her mat, exhaustion overtaking her at last—relieved.
Her relief didn’t last long.
“Oh—damn it,” Illaria groaned suddenly, sitting upright. “The Banshee is still by the river. By now they must have retrieved the body. And with that many guards around, there’s no way I can go back.”
She dragged a hand down her face, frustration boiling over. “All that effort… all that pain… and I didn’t earn a single dime.” She slapped her palm against her forehead—and felt something solid in her pocket.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Her fingers froze. Slowly, she pulled it out. The beaded chain. Marcus’s chain.
She stared at it for a long moment, then brought it closer. The chain itself was pure gold, warm even to the touch, and the beads embedded along it shimmered faintly with rare crystals. Even without knowing much about Northern craftsmanship, she could tell—this was priceless.
Her mind clicked immediately.
“If I sell even one bead,” she murmured, “I’ll have more than enough to buy transportation bombs.”
The thought brought relief… followed instantly by guilt.
Marcus had recognized her—no, the Banshee killer—as his soulmate. He had defended her without hesitation, stood against an entire noble house, and handed her something so clearly precious. And here she was, calculating its worth.
Illaria exhaled sharply. “Ugh. I hate this.”
She looked up at the dark ceiling of the abandoned cottage. “I’m sorry, Marcus. Truly. But you people interfered with my plans, and I need that money. I don’t have a choice.” He was her enemy. She had already decided—she had to kill him too. And yet… selling his chain still felt wrong.
“Fine,” she decided aloud. “I’ll sell just one bead. Only one. I’ll keep the rest with me until I die. That way… I can at least pretend I was fair.”
She lifted the chain, ready to pluck a bead free—
And paused.
Only now did she really look at them. Each bead was different.
The first was shaped like a snowflake, delicate and intricate, with a lotus carved into its center. Its surface was worn smooth, its glow softer than the rest. Instinctively, Illaria knew—this one was old. Probably the first bead ever added to the chain.
The second was a sword, slim and elegant, etched with tiny incantations that pulsed faintly with dormant power. The third showed two flags—one white, standing tall, and one gold, lying broken and horizontal. A clear symbol of victory. White over gold.
And the last bead…
A dagger, encircled by a halo. It gleamed brighter than the others, its edges sharp, its polish untouched by time.
Illaria frowned. “What kind of strange symbolism is this?” she muttered. “What kind of culture do these Northerners even have?” For a brief, absurd moment, she wished Marcus were here—just so she could demand an explanation.
The beads felt like fragments of a story. Not decoration. Not ornament. History. Meaning. Identity. Which made the choice harder.
In the end, she sighed and focused on practicality. “The dagger with the halo,” she decided. “It’s the shiniest—probably the most recent one.” Older beads could be recognized. That was a risk she couldn’t afford.
With careful fingers, Illaria reached for the fourth bead—still unaware of the story it carried.
She stayed hidden for the next two days, just in case someone was still looking for her. From a distance, she kept watch over the shop where she had sold the bead, half-expecting soldiers to appear or an ambush to be laid. But nothing happened. The streets moved as they always had—merchants bargaining, guards changing shifts, citizens living their ordinary lives. Everything felt… normal.
On the third day, Illaria finally acted.
She sold one of the beads without incident and used the money to purchase the transportation bombs and a detailed map of the western region. The remaining chain, she tied carefully into her bun and concealed beneath her loose hair. It was the safest place she could think of. There was no risk of it slipping from her robes during a fight, and if anyone searched her, no one would think to check her hair. This way, the chain would always stay with her.
The past few days had passed quietly, but Illaria knew better than to trust calm for long. Trouble had a habit of finding her, so she bought one extra bomb—just in case.
Night was the best time to move. Fewer people on the streets meant fewer eyes, fewer questions. When she saw lanterns being lit and families settling down for dinner, she finally set her plan into motion. She unfolded a map, studied it carefully, and focused on the nearest city within reach. Holding the bomb tightly, she concentrated—and threw it.
The world twisted.
When she opened her eyes, she wasn’t in the abandoned cottage anymore but standing in the middle of a narrow street.
“I really hope these bombs don’t malfunction,” she muttered. She quickly checked the map again, chose another point, and activated the next bomb. This time, she landed in someone’s backyard.
“Thief! Thief! Someone help!” a woman screamed.
“Oops. Bad landing,” Illaria muttered, already throwing another bomb.
She reappeared in an open field. And then again.
And again.
Sometimes she landed somewhere absurd, sometimes somewhere safe. Each jump left her heart racing, but she didn’t stop. One by one, the bombs disappeared from her hands.
Finally, she was left with only two. Her next destination was Nightsong—the royal city. The place she had bent her entire plan around. The place that had cost her blood, pain, and far too much effort to reach. Illaria took a long, steady breath and activated the bomb.
Cold.
Water closed over her head. Was she in some river or lake?
Her forehead struck something solid—not rock, but not soft earth either. Startled, she instinctively grabbed onto whatever it was and pushed upward, bursting through the surface with a sharp gasp.
“The water, It’s not deep,” she realized vaguely—
And then she opened her eyes.
Marcus.
He was right in front of her. Too close.
Her hands were pressed flat against his chest, her body leaning over his, water dripping from both of them. The “rock-like” surface she had grabbed onto was his chest—firm, warm, unmistakably human.
“Oh—!”
She scrambled back in shock, but her footing slipped. Before she could fall away, strong arms caught her and pulled her back instinctively. Water splashed everywhere as he caught her.
Her brain shut down completely.
The only mercy was that her mask was still on—because if it wasn’t, she was certain her face would be burning red enough to give her away instantly.
After a moment, Illaria forced herself to breathe and finally took in her surroundings. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with glass bottles, folded towels, and neatly arranged hangers. Long curtains draped from ceiling to floor, framing the space in soft folds. What she had thought was a deep lake was, in fact, a grand bathing pool, no more than three meters wide, its stone edges polished smooth. Everything about the place spoke of luxury.
Realization hit her all at once. This was a bathing chamber in the Royal Capital. And of all possible moments, she had landed here while Marcus was bathing. Her face burned even more now. Her ears felt like they were on fire.
Marcus broke the silence first. “Well,” he said lightly, “it seems you were so eager to see me after that day that you decided to interrupt my bath.”
That infuriating smile was back on his face.
Illaria shoved him away at once and turned her back to him, unable to face him in this state. “I am not eager to see you. This is a mistake!”
“Oh? Is it?” She felt him move closer. Fingers brushed through her wet hair, catching on something. He lifted a strand gently. “Then why is my gold chain hanging in your hair? Doesn’t that mean you accepted me after all?”
Her breath caught. The chain had been hidden well, but the water had betrayed her, making it visible. With her back still turned towards him, Marcus leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper near her ear. “Tell me… you snuck into my bath. Don’t you like me too?”
“Shut up!” Illaria snapped. “It’s not what you think!”
She scrambled out of the tub in a rush—and immediately froze. From outside the chamber came a concerned voice. “My lord, is everything all right? We heard a loud splash… and another voice. Is there someone else with you, my lord?”
Panic flared.
Before Marcus could respond, Illaria pulled out her last transportation bomb. She didn’t think, didn’t aim. She just activated it, praying it would take her anywhere—anywhere—as long as it was far away from this bathhouse and far away from Marcus.
The world twisted. When she opened her eyes again, she was no longer in the bathing chamber. Thank the heavens. Before her stood a massive, magnificent structure. She wasn’t facing its grand entrance but the rear wall was unmistakable. She knew this building all too well.
The Royal palace of the West. The place where the Festival of Aris would soon be held. The place she and Marcus had once infiltrated together, seven and a half years ago—before the War of Betrayal.
Illaria didn’t hesitate. She ran. She ran as fast as she could, heart hammering in her chest. Marcus would have already ordered his men to search for her, and this was far too close to the bathhouse. She didn’t stop, didn’t slow, didn’t look back.
Her thoughts spiraled as wildly as her steps. Whenever Marcus was involved, everything went wrong. He was the last person she wanted to meet, yet she kept running into him. Again and again. And now there was the chain, complicating everything further.
And when, exactly, had he turned gay like this? Or had he always been? Why hadn’t she noticed before? Why did these humiliating, absurd situations keep happening—and always with him?
Couldn’t she take revenge without losing her dignity along the way? Her mind was a mess as she ran, memories surfacing no matter how hard she tried to suppress them. How they had met. What had happened seven and a half years ago. A past she was desperate to leave behind.
Yet no matter how fast she ran, it seemed she could not outrun it.