(Chapter 5)
The hay creaked beneath his weight as the wagon jolted over uneven cobblestones. The farmer driving it hummed an old tune, oblivious to the young man stretched lazily atop the pile of straw.
Enix Faust chewed idly on the toothpick in his mouth, one hand propped behind his head as he watched the clouds drift across the midday sky. He looked like any other wanderer—just another vagrant catching a ride into the city. But there was a hardness in his eyes that belied the casual posture.
Eyes like his did not belong to the carefree. They belonged to survivors.
The scent of hay mixed with the faint smoke of forge fires drifting from Ethille's outskirts. The familiar noise of merchants, blacksmiths, and townsfolk filled the air. Enix shut his eyes against it, though his ears remained alert, picking apart each sound like a man who could not forget what danger once lurked behind every corner.
It had been years since the war between Ragnafiore and Revheek, but the screams of that night still haunted him. He had been a child, crouched in the ruins of his burning home, the bodies of his parents cooling not far from him. War had stolen everything, left him hollow—until he came.
The scarred man.
A warrior with eyes like molten iron, who had dragged him from the ashes and beaten survival into his bones. Under him, Enix learned the way of the blade—not polished knightly arts, but the raw, brutal style of men who fought to live another day. And when his mentor finally passed, leaving only the greatsword "Incinerator" at his side, Enix had carried on alone.
Now he was here, drifting into Ethille like a leaf upon the wind.
But his journey was not without purpose.
As his blade only meant to protect those who can't and not to for the sake of vengeance. Because, somehow he knows that somewhere in this city, were whispers of the Trinity of the Abyss stirred. And where their shadow lingered, Enix's blade would burn.
He rolled the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, smirking faintly.
"Let's see what kind of mess I've stumbled into this time…"
The wagon rolled on, vanishing into the heartbeat of Ethille.
---
Meanwhile, at the inn, silence had settled after the storm of tears and gratitude. The knights, though patched and treated by the acolytes, remained weary—rest claiming most of them until the sun leaned past its zenith.
Azre awoke again to the soft light of afternoon filtering through the shutters. Her body still ached, though not nearly as violently as before. Every movement carried soreness, yet she could finally draw a steady breath without wincing.
She rose slowly, feet brushing against the cool wooden floor. The room smelled faintly of poultices and incense, traces of healing rituals still clinging to the air.
But the walls felt too close, the air too still.
Azre slipped from her chamber, careful not to wake Nilda or the others. The inn's common room was quiet now, save for the innkeeper wiping down mugs. Beyond its doors, Ethille stretched wide—a city alive with noise, color, and motion.
She stepped outside, letting the warm air brush against her face. For the first time since the battle, she could breathe freely. The cobblestones beneath her boots thrummed with the life of the city: vendors hawking goods, children darting between market stalls, soldiers patrolling with weary discipline.
For a moment, Azre let herself be simply a girl in the crowd, not a knight, not a vessel for powers she did not fully understand.
But even in that fleeting peace, her mind tugged back to the weight of what had transpired—the tome stolen, Holon escaped, and the shadow of the Trinity of the Abyss darkening the horizon.
Somewhere out there, she knew, pieces were moving. And soon, their paths would collide again.
Perhaps with an unfamiliar drifter whose hair bore both night and snow.
The Central Plaza of Ethille was a swirl of life—merchants calling out wares, the clang of smiths' hammers echoing, and the laughter of children weaving through the crowd. Enix leaned against a fountain's edge, chewing on his toothpick as his eyes roamed lazily across the scene.
Then he heard it—soft at first, nearly drowned in the din.
A child's sob.
Turning his head, he spotted her: a small girl, no more than six, standing alone in the press of people, cheeks streaked with tears.
Enix sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn't the sort to get involved. But his feet moved anyway.
"Hey, little one," he said, crouching down, voice rough but not unkind. "Why the tears?"
The girl hiccupped, wiping her eyes. "I… I'm lost. Mama was just here a while ago."
That struck him harder than he expected. Still, he looked away, shaking his head. "Sorry, kid. Can't help you with that."
But before he could rise, her tiny hands clutched his leg. Her eyes—wet, desperate—looked up at him with wordless plea.
Enix froze. The world seemed to blur, and for a heartbeat he wasn't in Ethille anymore. He was back in the ruins of his home, smoke choking the air, a boy crying out for help while the world walked past him.
No one came.
No one, except the scarred man. The hand that had pulled him from despair.
Enix's jaw tightened. With a heavy sigh, he patted the girl's head. "…Alright. Let's find your mama."
The child's tears slowed, her small smile trembling with fragile hope. Together, they wandered the plaza, Enix scanning the crowds, asking merchants if they had seen her mother.
But soon, the girl tugged at his arm. "Mister… I'm hungry."
Enix exhaled, amused despite himself. He guided her to a nearby vendor, handing over a few coins. "Here. Eat. Stay put right here, got it? I'll keep looking."
She nodded, munching happily.
For the first time in a long while, Enix felt a ghost of warmth in his chest.
And then the sky split open with a roar.
A massive shadow passed overhead as a wyvern swooped low, wings spanning the plaza. Its claws dug into stone as it landed in the very heart of the marketplace, sending up shards of broken pavement.
Panic erupted instantly. Merchants abandoned stalls, citizens screamed, guards scrambled uselessly.
The wyvern bared its fangs, throat glowing like molten steel.
Azre felt it before she saw it—the oppressive weight of the beast's aura, like a storm pressing down on her lungs. Despite the ache still lingering in her body, her knightly instincts flared. She sprinted toward the plaza, her heart pounding, her legs burning.
And then she saw it.
The wyvern's eyes locked onto a single figure. The little girl.
The child stood frozen, trembling, too scared to run.
Azre's chest constricted. She pushed harder, shouting, "NO—!"
But she was too far. The wyvern's jaws opened wide, fire gathering like a miniature sun in its throat.
The girl closed her eyes.
The world blazed.
But the fire never touched her.
A figure had stepped between the child and death itself. His sword, broad and battered, was raised in a single hand. The flames, roaring and violent, curled against the blade's edge—but instead of consuming, they bent, sucked inward, vanishing into the steel like water swallowed by parched earth.
The fire was devoured.
Enix stood unmoved, his eyes glowing faintly, the greatsword Incinerator pulsing with strange heat. The plaza, moments ago drowning in chaos, now rang with stunned silence.
Azre stumbled to a halt, her breath caught in her throat.
She had seen miracles before. She had felt divine power coursing through her veins. But this—this was different.
A stranger, draped in shadow and light, his blade drinking flame like it was nothing. A man who should not exist, yet did, standing as a shield for the weak.
Azre's lips parted, her voice a whisper carried only to herself.
"…What are you?"
The wyvern recoiled, its flames swallowed by the strange sword, and snarled in fury. Its wings spread wide, beating hard enough to scatter crates and send townsfolk tumbling.
Enix shifted his stance, the Incinerator humming with latent heat, its edge flickering like embers. "Tch. Big lizard's got an attitude."
Azre caught her breath, drawing closer, eyes narrowing. "You. Stranger. Can you fight?"
Enix glanced at her—at her silver hair streaked with gold, her armor cracked but still gleaming, her stance screaming of knightly resolve. A smirk tugged at his lips. "Guess we'll find out."
The wyvern lunged, jaws snapping.
Enix moved first, sliding under its bite, his blade carving a fiery arc across its scales. Sparks burst as steel met hide, forcing the beast to roar in pain. It reared back, wings thrashing.
"Now!" Azre shouted, charging in. She swung her sword low, slashing at its exposed leg, divine light flashing as she struck. The wyvern faltered, staggering, its wing dipping just enough to clip a building, shattering stone.
The two fell into rhythm—Enix's wild, fire-laced strikes keeping the monster's attention, while Azre's precise, disciplined blows found its weak points. Where he burned, she carved. Where she faltered, he shielded.
But the wyvern was far from finished. With a shriek, it spread its wings and vaulted upward, then slammed down with bone-crushing force. The plaza cracked, shockwaves toppling stalls and scattering debris. Azre was thrown off balance, her sword skittering out of reach.
The wyvern loomed over her, maw opening wide.
"Move!" Enix roared, darting between them. He crossed Incinerator before him once more, catching the burst of flame. But this time, the fire's sheer force drove him back, his boots grinding against stone, his arms trembling.
"Dammit—this thing's not gonna stop!" he hissed through clenched teeth.
Azre's eyes darted around desperately. Her sword—too far. Her body—still weak. And then, she saw it: a length of twisted metal pipe jutting from the rubble of a collapsed stall.
Her fingers wrapped around it, hot and jagged, cutting her palms. She closed her eyes, calling forth what little strength she had left.
A prayer. A plea.
Light surged from her hands into the steel, running through its veins like molten silver. The pipe glowed, humming with sacred energy.
"Fall!" Azre cried, sprinting forward with all the power her battered frame could muster.
The wyvern turned its head, fire still spewing, too late to react.
Azre leapt, driving the glowing makeshift spear straight into its skull. The divine light exploded, searing through bone and flesh.
The wyvern shrieked—a final, broken cry—before collapsing in a heap of smoldering ruin.
Silence blanketed the plaza. Only the sound of Azre's ragged breathing filled the air as she stood over the slain beast, the glowing pipe still in her grasp.
She pulled it free, letting it clatter to the stones. Slowly, she turned.
Enix was watching her, his chest rising and falling, Incinerator resting at his side. Their gazes met—his eyes still simmering like hidden coals, hers burning with divine fire.
Two warriors, strangers until moments ago, now bound by blood, battle, and something unspoken.
Neither said a word.
But both knew.
This was only the beginning.
---
Far above, unnoticed by the crowd below, a lone hooded figure stood atop Ethille's bell tower. His cloak fluttered in the night breeze, and his hands still glowed faintly with the residue of summoning magic.
He watched the fallen wyvern in silence. Then, a low chuckle slipped from beneath his hood.
"The Valkyrie awakens… and the Hex Flame stirs. Just as the Master foretold."
His shadow vanished into the night.