The clearing was steeped in silence.
Seven leaders stood under the cold canopy, the air thick with unspoken grudges. The faint rustle of leaves was the only sound after Bjorn's departure.
Lucien's eyes swept the group, his posture straight, chin slightly lifted.
Finally, his gaze locked on the Envy leader.
Lucien (prideful, his words like polished steel):
"You orchestrated the coup d'état in my faction… didn't you?"
His voice carried no tremor of doubt — only the satisfaction of a man stating fact, not asking a question.
The others turned toward Envy almost in unison.
Some watched with sharp anticipation, as if waiting for a fight to spark.
Others leaned back, silent, measuring her every move.
The Envy leader tilted her head, a slow smile curling on her lips — not of apology, but amusement.
Envy (low, velvety, calculated):
"If I did, it means you were… vulnerable enough to allow it.
But I'll leave them to you, Lucien. I have no need for wounded prey."
Her tone was like a whisper of silk over a blade.
Lucien's eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of respect in them — the kind a predator gives another predator.
Lucien:
"Your way of fighting… efficient. Even admirable."
(Then his tone sharpened.)
"But try it again with my faction, and you'll learn that Pride does not forgive twice."
Envy's smirk deepened, her voice cool but edged with warning.
Envy:
"And I'll make sure Pride learns what it feels like to be envied… as you choke on what you hold most dear."
Lucien's lips curved, but it wasn't a smile — it was a bare showing of fangs.
His gaze cut toward the rest of the leaders.
"The same goes for all of you."
Wrath folded his arms, leaning forward with a grin that promised violence.
"You think threats scare me, Lucien? Try me. See who's still breathing after."
Greed chuckled under his breath, gold-cold eyes narrowing.
"If you step into my lands, bring a gift. Otherwise… you might leave with less than you came with."
Gluttony's voice was slow and heavy, like grinding stone.
"Keep away, or I'll feast on the marrow of your ambition."
Lust tilted her head, lips curling in a provocative smirk.
"Mmm… step into my domain and you'll beg for release before the end."
Only Sloth remained silent, leaning on his staff with a bored expression — but his gaze was steady, quietly watching everyone else.
Lucien turned away first, his cloak brushing the forest floor.
One by one, though some were heavily injured, some were bruised the leaders began to leave(staggering), heading toward their own territories.
But just as Wrath turned his back, Lucien stopped.
Lucien (loud enough for all to hear):
"Wrath."
The others paused mid-step, not far enough to miss what came next.
Lucien's voice dropped into something sharper, like a dagger slid across a throat.
"That dog of yours… put him on a leash. If you can't even do that, you're not worthy of being a faction leader."
Wrath turned fully, a slow, dangerous grin spreading over his scarred face.
"Careful, Lucien. Push me too far, and you'll find out the difference between a dog… and a wolf."
Lucien didn't flinch, didn't answer — just smiled faintly and walked away.
The others followed in silence, though their thoughts flickered like storm clouds:
Envy: If Wrath kills him, it saves me the trouble.
Greed: Both of them bleeding could be… profitable.
Gluttony: what kind of food should I eat when I arrive in my territory??!!
Lust: Mmm… men who hate each other often break so beautifully.
Sloth: Such energy for nothing… tiresome.
The clearing emptied, but the tension lingered — like blood scent on the wind.
The forest closed in around him, branches scratching at his shoulders as he dragged one leg through the undergrowth. His breath came ragged, each exhale tasting of blood.
Somewhere in the haze of pain, a memory surfaced — the crooked tree.
Its gnarled silhouette had been the first thing to catch his eye when he arrived in this cursed place.
It looked like it had been waiting for him.
It still was.
"If it wasn't for those Wrath suicidal bastards…"
His voice was hoarse, bitter.
"…I'd have finished building the perfect home."
A deep, guttural sound broke the silence — grrrrrl.
He stopped, glancing down at himself with a grimace.
"Fuck… even my stomach is complaining now."
Almost a day and a half without food, and now every step made the ache in his gut feel sharper than the wounds on his body.
Still, he kept moving toward that crooked tree.
Bjorn's steps were uneven, each one heavier than the last. His breath came in ragged bursts, blood dripping steadily from his side. His stomach let out a low, angry growl.
"Fuck… even mine stomach is complaining now," he muttered, pressing a hand to his wound. It had been almost a day and a half since he'd eaten, and the hunger gnawed at him as much as the pain.
He kept moving, staggering through the undergrowth. The world began to tilt. His vision swam.
Am I… going to faint again?
"It's all because of those self-crowned bastards… if only they had left me alo—"
His words cut short as his knees buckled. He hit the ground hard.
Darkness. That was all he could see. Endless and suffocating… until suddenly, a pale light split through it, searing his eyes.
Bjorn squinted, confused. Just moments ago, he'd been in the forest.
"Where the hell is this?! Have I… died?"
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Seems I can finally rest…" He lay back, closing his eyes—
A voice broke through, sharp and mocking, echoing across the strange space.
"Interestin'… I've ne'er taken fancy to a lamb 'fore now…"
Bjorn's eyes snapped open, shock flashing across his face. "Old hag." His tone was flat but edged with annoyance. "Which strange place did you drag me to this time?"
Her laugh slithered into his ears, a mix of swagger and ancient malice.
"The real test's on its way, lad. I'd wise up an' save yer strength if I were ye."
Her words lingered in the air, heavy and ominous, as the light around him began to shift.
_____
The witch's last words faded into nothingness, and darkness poured in once more.
A faint warmth returned before light did — the steady rise and fall of someone's breathing, the gentle cushion beneath his head.
His eyes cracked open halfway, vision foggy. The world swam in and out of focus, and for a fleeting moment, he was somewhere else — younger, safer, resting on his mother's lap as her fingers brushed through his hair.
A tired smile almost formed. …Mom?
But as his sight cleared, the illusion shattered. His head was resting on someone's lap — not his mother's. Aira's.
Her hands froze where they had been lightly steadying his shoulders.
""Wait… you?!—!!" Bjorn jerked upright, almost as if burned, his tone sharp, but his heartbeat had already betrayed him — pounding, uneven, as if some part of him didn't want to move at all.
Aira just looked at him, unflinching, the corners of her lips twitching with the ghost of a smile she didn't dare let bloom.