Song vibe: Epiphany – BTS

  __________

  RELL

  Inside the walls, Firestone

  The walls of Firestone breathed their dying breath.

  Behind Rell, the faint glow of firelight trembled through cracks in the stone—his crew still searching, voices echoing hollowly through the narrow arteries of the keep. They sounded distant, unreal—following him from behind as Rell scouted the way.

  Firestone’s sick from within—and so am I. Forever the boy who can't master himself. He could still taste the biscuit from Saphira’s luncheon in his mouth. I don’t need forgiveness—I need redemption.

  He pressed on alone.

  The air was thick with dust and mould, the air hot from the heat of the thermal pipes running through the wall space. His torch hissed in the damp, throwing light that barely reached the walls.

  This is what I’m good for now—crawling through the dark, patching what Nox built. Trying not to break something else.

  Instinct guided him through the maze. He crouched, running his calloused fingers through the thin layer of dust. The pad marks of Dusty’s paws, a scattering of rat droppings, a single claw-gouge etched deep into the stone.

  “Bloody cat,” he muttered, though the affection behind it ached more than it soothed. The tension in his neck would not ease.

  Wait. He sniffed the air. The scent of blood.

  A few paces ahead, he found what he was looking for—footprints, human and fresh. One heavy and certain, the other narrow, dragging on one foot.

  He straightened slowly, feeling the dull pull of his old wound in his knee. Should’ve seen this sooner. Should’ve known.

  Rell sniffed the air again, the habit of an old fighter. Down one corridor, the scent was wet and stale; down the other—pine, faint and far, carried on a thread of cold air. The exit. Always an exit.

  The walls around him seemed to hum with their own pulse, low and resentful. He felt it pressing into his skin, the same quiet judgement that had haunted him since Nox left.

  You’re not him. You can’t keep this place standing.

  Then, a sound that broke through thought.

  A yelp; sharp, pained. Dusty.

  Rell’s blood turned cold. The next breath brought the stench of iron and decay—and death.

  He moved without sound, boots whispering against the stone, sword loosening in its sheath.

  He turned the bend and found her—Dusty, tail low, fur bristling, facing down a cloaked intruder. The air shivered, heavy with rot and magic.

  Finally, Rell thought, drawing Ignis Solaris. A problem my steel can solve.

  Dusty’s ears flattened; blood dripped from her side.

  The figure did not move. They were hooded. Shorter than him, wiry, shrouded in a black cloak. A dark cloth covered their face, leaving only eyes—dark, alive, hateful.

  Rell shifted forward, the weapon humming faintly in his grip, begging him to draw on its power. The figure tilted its head, studying him in silence.

  Then, it turned and fled.

  Rell cursed under his breath and gave chase—Dusty limping beside him, her growl echoing through the walls.

  A door groaned on its hinges. Moonlight spilled into the tunnel.

  Rell burst out through the exit—just in time to catch the glint of a blade.

  Steel slashed for his heart. He brought up his sword in a single motion, catching the blow with a screech of metal. Sparks jumped between them, bright and brief.

  The attacker pivoted, drawing a second dagger with their left hand and driving it toward Rell’s throat.

  The next heartbeat was all instinct—steel, breath, blood. Rell ducked under the thrust, twisting his body as his sword thrust forward in answer. The blades met again, the clang echoing through the stone.

  The figure rolled, quick as smoke, and came up low in a defensive crouch, both daggers ready.

  Rell steadied his stance, shifting his weight to his good leg. Pain tugged at the other—Golgog’s mark—and he gritted his teeth. Can’t go all out. Not with this knee.

  He circled. The night forest fell deathly silent; even the moon seemed to hold its breath.

  “Assassin’s blades, assassin’s moves,” he muttered. “Pity—I’m tougher than you.”

  The figure made a guttural sound, half growl, half snarl, eyes glinting through the shadowed hood.

  Dusty limped into the clearing behind him, blood streaking her flank. She gave a low, furious growl, hackles rising.

  “You hurt my girl,” Rell said quietly. He kept Ignis Solaris in his right hand, drew his dagger with his left. “Now you’ll bleed for it.”

  He lunged.

  The figure met his charge head-on, daggers flashing. The first strike slammed against Rell’s sword, sending a shock through his arm; the second came for his side, but he caught it, metal biting into metal.

  For a moment, they were locked, blades crossed, muscles trembling. The sound of their breathing filled the space—his rough and human, theirs faint, almost inhuman. The stench of decay rolled from beneath the hood.

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  What is this thing? He shoved the figure backwards, but they did not budge. Human? Eldritch? Nightspawn?

  Dusty sprang, silent and sudden, her fangs sinking into the figure’s leg.

  Still, the intruder did not flinch. Instead, it jerked its arm up and flicked its dagger toward Rell’s exposed throat.

  He blocked it by instinct, his smaller blade snapping up just in time. Metal rang. The force jarred his wrist, pain radiating to his shoulder, but he held the line.

  An unnatural fear filled Rell—a gut-sinking, jaw-clenching sense of dread. His pulse faltered, hands slick with sudden sweat. He blocked another blow, but each clang of steel seemed to drain him, the sound turning heavy and slow.

  A darkness pressed in—not shadow, but despair itself. Invisible, suffocating, like the air before a storm. The intrusion of his will, his own voice in his head, telling him it was hopeless.

  This isn’t like me. I don’t give up—ever.

  Rell pivoted, forcing breath through his teeth, trying to shake it off. His gaze flicked toward the treeline.

  He saw it in his peripheral vision—half-hidden among the trunks in the darkness—a second figure stood, hooded, unmoving. Power rolled off them like smoke. The scent of raw magic—ozone, iron, and burnt pine—clawed at the back of his throat.

  There you are, the one twisting my head, he thought grimly, never looking directly at them. Don’t let them know I see them. He forced his focus back to the swordsman before him. You first.

  Above: Rell realises there are two of them.

  Rell lunged, driving his sword toward the figure’s chest—his attack met only cold air.

  Tsek. Too fast. Like Golgog. He countered smoothly, met by a lightning-fast block. I need to draw on Ignis' speed if I'm going to get ahead.

  The blade came again, this time aiming for Dusty. She hissed, crouching low.

  Rell made his choice in an instant. He dived, ramming the attacker mid-swing and slamming them against the wall—his sword dropping from his hand. The flesh beneath his grip felt human, yet something beneath the skin writhed—like cords of wire or veins pulsing with wrongness.

  He pinned their wrists, shoving hard against the stone. “What are you?”

  The figure gave no answer. Behind the cloth that covered its mouth, its eyes glinted—cold, empty.

  Pain spiked through his skull—a fresh wave of dread, raw and sudden. From the edge of his vision, the second figure’s hand lifted. They were still there, still feeding the fear.

  “Not—today—” Rell snarled, forcing the terror down with sheer will.

  The masked attacker jerked its knee upward. Metal flashed—a hidden blade on its knee. Rell twisted aside just in time; the weapon sliced through his shirt, grazing his skin. He rolled, snatching up Ignis Solaris from the dirt.

  When he turned back, both figures were gone. The woods stood empty but for the echo of his pulse.

  “Fight me, assassin!” he roared, voice cracking the silence. "Coward!"

  He turned to Dusty, sheathing his sword. The hell-leopard’s flank heaved, breath rasping through blood-matted fur.

  Rell dropped to one knee beside her, palm pressing to her side. Warm blood soaked into his hand.

  “You were brave,” he whispered. “Braver than me.”

  For a heartbeat he just knelt there, the smell of iron and pine thick in his lungs. Around him, the forest was still—too still. No sound but Dusty’s laboured breathing and his own.

  I let them get away. The thought carved deep in him. Nox would’ve finished the fight. Nox wouldn’t have lost them.

  He tightened his grip, forcing the spiral down. No time for self-pity.

  “Hang on, girl. Hang on.”

  He gathered Dusty into his arms. She was heavier than he remembered, her body limp but warm. The blood ran down his sleeve, sticky against the hilt calluses of his fingers.

  The quickest way back was through the tunnels. He pushed through the narrow stone throat of Firestone, each step slower, heavier. The wards along the walls pulsed faintly as he passed—warning flares to August and the others. Their light caught in Dusty’s coat, painting her silver and gold.

  By the time he reached the upper corridors, the air had turned warm and clean again. His breath shook with relief and exhaustion.

  He burst from the hidden door and ran straight for the apothecary.

  "Verri!” His voice cracked the quiet. “Need you!”

  Verity looked up from her desk, already tying her apron. “What is it—”

  Then she saw Dusty. “Put her here.”

  Rell obeyed, setting Dusty down as gently as he could. His arms ached, empty, as he explained what happened—while Verity set to work.

  Then, he turned toward the corridor, catching a servant hurrying past. "Maxine. Go wake Lady Saphira,” he said, voice rough. “Tell her—it’s Dusty.”

  As Maxine ran, Rell lingered in the doorway, watching Verity work. The rhythmic sound of her cleaning the wound and the soft murmur of comforting words filled the small room. He leaned his head against the wall and shut his eyes.

  Please, Almighty, save Dusty. Don’t let me fail her, too.

  As Rell paced, the minutes stretched thin. He only stopped when he saw Saphira running down the hallway—hair unbound, cheeks flushed, the shell of a dress thrown over her nightgown.

  For a heartbeat, he almost reached for her—then stopped himself. He held the door open instead, letting her pass.

  Saphira gasped when she saw Dusty sprawled on Verity’s table. She rushed forward, hands trembling as they found the creature’s blood-soaked fur. Rell felt it then—the soft ripple of magic, steady and sure, washing through the air like a breath of clean wind.

  They’re bonded. Saphira soothed her, and Dusty reassured her—both without even knowing it.

  Dusty’s ear flicked. She licked Saphira’s hand once before sinking back, breathing easier.

  “Good, she’s calm now,” Verity said briskly, nodding to Rell and Saphira. “The wound’s clean. Both of you, hold her still.”

  He obeyed, hands firm but gentle over Dusty’s flank. His heart thudded in time with the rhythm of Verity’s stitching.

  “Will she live?” Saphira’s voice wavered.

  “If there’s no infection—and she doesn’t tear her stitches—yes,” Verity replied. “She’s strong.”

  Rell did not know how long it took. Time dissolved into the quiet sound of thread pulling through flesh, the soft hiss of breath, the low crackle of the hearth. When Verity finally stepped back, Rell dragged a chair beside the table for Saphira, steadying her arm as she sat.

  For a moment, he hovered behind her, uncertain. She needs someone to hold her. Someone to tell her it’ll be alright. Nox isn’t here. Felix would know what to do.

  He took a breath and placed his hand on her shoulder. She tensed, then stilled beneath his touch. He squeezed gently—both steady, protective. “Dusty was brave,” he said. “I wouldn’t have found the intruders without her. She fought them off before they escaped.”

  “And you saved her.” Saphira’s hand trembled over Dusty’s fur. “Thank you.”

  The words sank deeper than he expected. He released his lip piercing from between his teeth, letting out a long breath. “I’ll find who did this. I swear it.”

  “I know.” Her hand came up to rest over his, light but certain. “But not tonight. Tonight, we rest.”

  “Aye.” He paused. "If your trap worked, then they're probably headed towards the Yule Mountains now—but they won't come back, not now that I've seen them."

  "They?"

  "Aye, two figures." He sank onto the chair near the hearth, the exhaustion finally catching him. “One impossibly strong—probably not human. The other, a mage. No wonder we haven’t caught them.”

  Saphira nodded absently. She only stroked Dusty’s head, her magic pulsing in gentle waves. The room was warm; Rell’s spawnhunting senses could feel the low and steady hum of the wards behind the walls.

  As Rell watched Saphira—lavender hair spilling across her face as she stroked Dusty’s head—something eased in his chest. I could’ve killed that thing, he thought, but Dusty would have died for it. I made the right choice.

  Above: Saphira tends to Dusty.

  Outside, the moon slipped behind the spires of Firestone. The keep fell quiet; its wounds sealed for now.

  In that silence, Rell finally let himself exhale. Dusty lives. Saphira is safe. Firestone still stands. The weight in his chest shifted—not gone, but lighter. I failed before—but tonight, I didn’t.

  The fire inside him no longer burned in anger, but in purpose.

  This isn’t a hunt for cold vengeance; this is my redemption.

  For the first time in weeks, Rell let his eyes close and felt worthy.