The tavern, which a moment before had been a pocket of cheerful chaos, was now caught in a brief, awkward hush, all eyes on the startling splash of crimson staining the front of Myra’s tunic.

 

“Oh, my apologies! Terribly sorry!” Master William boomed, his face a mask of flustered regret as he scrambled for a cloth, shattering the spell. “So clumsy of me! Let me get that cleaned for you, Myra. Are you alright?”

 

Myra seemed to snap out of a trance. She looked down at the dark, sticky stain blooming across her chest, then at the crimson drops still falling from her hand, her expression unreadable. “It’s quite alright, William,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “It will wash out. Just an accident.”

 

“A terrible accident!” William bemoaned, staring at the shards. “That vintage was a gift for my favorite guests! I wanted to treat you all. I can’t believe it broke! It just flew from the tray and… and spilled all over you! I am mortified, truly!”

 

Sera, seeing the stares of the other patrons, knew she had to regain control of the moment. She forced a light, dismissive laugh, placing a steadying hand on William’s arm to both reassure and gently halt him. “It’s nothing, Master William, truly. Just a bit of spilled sweetness. We were just heading upstairs to freshen up anyway.”

 

She turned to Myra, her voice a low, urgent murmur that was for her and her alone, but her outward expression was one of simple, friendly concern. “Come now, Myra. Let’s get you cleaned up before that sets and stains that lovely tunic. We can bring our stew up with us.”

 

The mundane suggestion, so at odds with the chilling omen that hung in the air, was the perfect cover. Myra looked at her, saw the grim certainty in the witch’s eyes, and simply nodded. “Thank you for the meal, William,” she said, her voice regaining its steady warmth as she placed a few coins on the table. “Just an accident.”

 

“Of course, of course,” William said, still flustered but relieved to be given a course of action. “My apologies again. Please. Let me at least send Elara up with some hot water and fresh towels.”

 

“That’s very kind of you, William,” Sera said with a calm nod that brooked no further discussion. With a final, reassuring smile meant for the room at large, she guided Myra and Aria toward the stairs, leaving the innkeeper to his apologies as the general murmur of the tavern slowly resumed, the brief, strange tableau already becoming just another story to be told over ale.

 

Back in the relative quiet of their room, the fire crackling, Myra let out a long, shuddering sigh. The mask of calm had slipped, revealing the deep, weary concern beneath. She went to the small washbasin, pouring water and soaking a cloth.

 

“What a mess,” she murmured, her hands trembling slightly as she began to wipe the sticky liqueur from her face. She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her tunic, pulling the damp, stained fabric away from her skin to clean the splatter on her chest.

 

Aria watched with a scholar’s focus, her luminous eyes tracing the path of the cloth. She leaned forward slightly, studying Myra’s chest with a healer’s concern. She wasn't just looking for wounds; she could feel the tremor running through Myra’s frame, a jagged current of anxiety that the woman was trying desperately to suppress.

 

Sera caught Aria’s unblinking focus and followed it, her own gaze landing inadvertently on the pale, soft curves revealed by Myra’s unbuttoned tunic. Her face flamed. Panic overriding dignity, she slapped a hand firmly over Aria’s eyes to blind the angel, while simultaneously wrenching her own head away to stare fixedly at the ceiling with wide, frantic eyes.

 

“Aria!” she gasped, the word sharp with panic. “It is not proper to stare!”

 

Aria gently peeled Sera’s fingers from her eyes, her brow furrowed in genuine bewilderment. “Sera, your thoughts are a tangled path. I cannot follow,” she whispered, casting a worried glance toward Myra. “I sought only to see if the flesh was marred. The crystal shattered with great force; I feared the shards might have pierced the skin beneath.”

 

Sera kept her own eyes resolutely fixed on a water stain on the ceiling, her face burning. “I understand the scholarly impulse, really, I do. But in polite society—or even semi-polite tavern society—one does not simply inspect a lady’s… specific geography… without an invitation! Regardless of medical necessity!”

 

Aria tilted her head, trying to parse the witch’s frantic logic. She gestured vaguely toward Myra's unbuttoned tunic. “You mean the soft parts of her chest?”

 

Sera made a strangled noise, waving her hand frantically. “Yes! That! We don’t stare at that!”

 

“But why is it forbidden?” Aria persisted, her voice dropping to a logical, gentle whisper. “We see each other in the bath often. I have seen yours, and you have seen mine. It is just the body. Why is it a thing to be hidden here, but not there?”

 

Sera’s cheeks flushed a darker, deeper red. “That was… that was a private matter!” she whisper-yelled. “This is… different! There are rules of public decorum! You don’t just…” She trailed off, realizing she was losing the argument against celestial logic.

 

A soft chuckle from the washbasin made them both freeze. Myra turned, a wet cloth in one hand, an amused, knowing smile on her face. Her tunic was still partially unbuttoned, but she seemed utterly unconcerned.

 

“It is quite alright, Serafine,” she said, her green eyes twinkling. “I have a feeling your… companion… is more of a scholar than a scoundrel. There is no impropriety in her gaze, only questions.” She looked at Aria, her smile softening with a gentle warmth. “Thank you for your concern, Aria. I am not hurt. Just a bit sticky.”

 

“Sticky!” Sera repeated loudly, perhaps a bit too loudly, gesturing at Myra’s chest. “See? She says sticky. Which means fine. Which means we can all stop looking at... areas. Now.”

 

Myra finished re-buttoning her tunic, hiding the offending areas from view, but her gaze lingered on Aria with a quiet, thoughtful curiosity. She had lived long enough in the shadow of the enchanted woods to recognize when someone didn't quite fit the mold of the mundane world.

 

The girl’s silver hair caught the firelight in a way that seemed almost self-illuminating, and her earlier stare had been too innocent, too devoid of social artifice, to be entirely ordinary.

 

She came to sit in the chair opposite them, her expression open and inviting.

 

“Where are you from, Aria?” she asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.” She leaned forward slightly, creating a small, safe space for the sensitive question. “You spoke earlier of seeing a golden cord connecting us. To see such a tether… that takes eyes that have seen more than just mountain snow.”

 

“She comes from… very far away,” Sera answered quickly, stepping in with practiced caution before Aria could reveal the heavens themselves. She chose her words carefully, offering honesty without detail. “A place much higher and quieter than this swamp. She’s… new to our ways. And to our troubles.”

 

Myra’s gaze lingered on Aria, then shifted to Sera. She nodded, accepting the obvious evasion. “I understand.”

 

Sera leaned forward, an idea taking root. She had come for a trade, a simple transaction for a book. But the situation was no longer simple. Freya was in true peril. And in that peril, Sera saw not just a danger, but an opportunity—not of exploitation, but of a true alliance.

 

If we help her survive this, she'll owe us more than a dusty old tome. She'll owe us a debt, she reasoned. And that... that is how I get the knowledge I need to protect Aria.

 

Her voice, when she spoke, dropped to a gentle, earnest pitch. “Myra, if you are willing to carry the message, perhaps let Freya know she doesn't have to face this alone. I know my way around a curse or two, and I have tricks in my satchel that even an ancient vampire might not expect. If she will allow it, I can help her hold the line.”

 

She glanced briefly at Aria, then back to Myra, her voice dropping to a firm resolve. “But this is a path for me to walk, not... others.”

 

It’s the only logical play, Sera’s mind raced. If I offer myself as the vanguard, as the sacrifice... Freya might grant us the book in exchange for my service. And more importantly, I can keep Aria far away from danger. I’ve lived in the mud; I can take the hits. But Aria... she’s just started to shine. I need to fix this, to handle the darkness myself, so she never has to see or feel another moment of sorrow. I can be the shield, so she can stay the light.

 

“I will go,” Sera said aloud, her voice steady. “Alone.”

 

“No,” Aria’s voice cut in, soft but immovable as stone. “If you go, Sera, then I go with you.”

 

Sera whirled on her, panic flaring behind her eyes. “Absolutely not. It is too dangerous, Aria! This isn't a village squabble. We are facing the monster that made Freya. I brought you here seeking safety and instead I led you into a trap. I won't make the same mistake twice.”

 

Aria did not flinch. She simply held Sera’s gaze with luminous, wounded eyes. “I thought… I thought you promised you would not leave me alone again. You said we face the shadows together.”

 

Sera opened her mouth to argue, but the words died in her throat.

 

Myra’s gaze dropped to her hands, a shadow passing over her face. She shook her head slowly. “It is a kind offer, Serafine—from both of you—but an impossible one. It is far too dangerous.”

 

She looked up, her eyes sad. “Freya… I don’t think she can be helped, Sera. Her mind is set. Her fear of this Amelia… it is absolute. That is why she must go alone. She believes any companion would simply be a weakness for her maker to exploit. But I know the truth of it. This isn't just about strategy for her. She is trying to push me away, to keep me clean of this darkness. She'd rather face hell alone than let its shadow touch me.”

 

Sera felt a sharp, bitter pang of recognition. It was the exact same logic she had used herself, the same desperate need to be a wall between the danger and the person she cared for. I suppose a centuries-old vampire and a swamp witch aren’t so different after all, she thought, her gaze flitting briefly to Aria. Two terrors of the dark, both utterly disarmed and terrified by the simple fact that we have finally found something we cannot bear to lose. No. There has to be another way. I will go alone and find a way to help, whether she allows it or not. I am a witch, after all. We make our own rules.

 

Aria turned to Sera, taking the witch's hand in hers, her gaze direct and compelling, pulling her from her internal spiral.

 

“If she insists on walking into the dark by herself,” Aria said, her voice thoughtful but ringing with quiet resolve, “then perhaps I can help her now. Before she goes.”

 

Sera looked at her, eyebrows raised, her protective instinct flaring. “Help her how, little star? You can’t exactly shield her from a distance, and she’s not likely to take a weapon from us.”

 

“Not with force, Sera,” Aria corrected gently. “With… a feeling.” She turned her luminous gaze to Myra. “Her heart is a storm of fear and sorrow. To face a monster when her soul is a battlefield… she will fail. But if I could offer her peace… a profound calm to quiet the storm inside her… she could face her maker not with fear, but with strength.”

 

Myra stared at the young woman, a trembling hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Is such a thing even possible?” she whispered, looking from Aria to Sera with wide, desperate eyes. “Freya’s mind is… vast. And dark. To calm a storm that has raged for centuries… surely no magic, no matter how gifted the healer, can touch an immortal soul so deeply?”

 

Sera looked at Aria, remembering the wilted fern she had resurrected with a mere gentle thought, and how effortlessly she had plucked the nightmares from Elara’s soul just hours ago. She made the impossible look simple.

 

“It’s possible,” Sera said, her voice quiet but firm. She met Myra’s gaze, offering her the conviction she needed without revealing Aria's true nature. “I’ve seen what she can do. She doesn’t just patch wounds; she mends the spirit. If anyone can reach Freya through that armor, it’s her.”

 

But as she spoke the words, the reality of what that meant crashed down on her. Sera closed her eyes for a moment, wrestling with the terrifying math of the situation. When she opened them, her gaze was sharp, fixed on Aria.

 

“But just because you can, doesn’t mean you should without knowing the cost. Do you understand what you are walking into, little star? This isn’t a child’s bad dream."

 

"A creature like Freya… her mind is a labyrinth of centuries. There are traumas in there older than this kingdom. If you step into that current to soothe it, you could be swept away. You could drown in her history.”

 

“I will not drown,” Aria said, her voice quiet and certain. She turned slightly, her hand finding Sera’s on the table and squeezing it. “Because I won't drift away. You are the solid ground beneath me, Sera. I know that no matter how deep the storm gets, you will be a there to pull me out.”

 

Sera looked at the two of them—the fragile human willing to face a monster, and the fallen angel willing to walk into hell for a stranger. She let out a long, ragged sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose as if trying to ward off a headache born of sheer absurdity.

 

This cannot be my life, she thought, her mind reeling. I came here for a book. A simple trade. Boar’s blood for a spell. How in the blighted bog did I end up volunteering to walk into a vampire duel to save a woman who tried to feed us to her lawn ornaments? And why did I just agree to it? Why would I expose Aria's gift to a near-stranger, confirming her suspicions, when I’ve spent weeks hiding it from the world? What is happening to me?

 

Her gaze drifted to Aria, whose hand was still warm over hers. A strange, unsettling realization bloomed in Sera's chest. It’s her. It has to be. Ever since the angel had fallen into the swamp, the sharp, defensive edges of Sera’s life had been smoothing out. The nightmares that had plagued her for years were gone, replaced by a deep, restful sleep whenever Aria was near.

 

Is this… contagious? The thought was terrifying. Have I caught some sort of celestial fever of nobility? Is her light actually making me… kinder? A proper heroine instead of a sensible swamp witch? What is this soft, mushy feeling in my gut?

 

She shoved the existential crisis aside, locking it in a mental box to be panicked about later. Right now, she told herself firmly, it doesn't matter if I'm going soft or just going mad. Yes, I am here for the book. I need it to protect Aria, and this insane plan is the only path left to get it. We have a job to do.

 

“Fine,” Sera grumbled aloud, though her hand tightened around Aria’s in silent support. “But we do this my way. I ward the room. I watch the perimeter. And if I see even a flicker of shadow trying to crawl from her to you, Aria, I am pulling you out, whether the storm breaks or not. We are here to save a life, not trade yours for hers. Understood?”

 

Aria smiled, a radiant, trusting expression that made Sera’s chest ache. “Understood.”

 

Myra stood, smoothing her skirts, a newfound determination hardening her features. “Then it is decided. I will go ahead to prepare the way. Meet me at the manor tonight.”

 

As soon as she was gone, Sera’s composure crumbled. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, warding off a headache born of her own stupidity. Fine. Of all the idiotic, bog-brained words, I chose 'fine.'

 

Myra’s footsteps faded down the stairs, leaving an expectant silence. Aria didn't dare speak, but her thoughts were a torrent directed at the stubborn witch beside her.

 

Oh, Sera, forgive me, Aria thought, her heart aching with a truth she couldn't say aloud. I saw the path you were forging in your heart. A path for one. You meant to be the sacrifice, to keep me safe and separate.

 

You would have walked into the dark alone and left me behind...You would create a solitude for me, just as Freya is for Myra, and call it protection.

 

But I will not be your burden to hide. If we are to have any hope, it cannot be built upon your sacrifice alone. 

 

A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of light pulsed where her hand still rested on Sera's. That is why I intervened. Forgive me, but I cannot let you walk that path alone.