The dagger was the last barrier between them, a sliver of steel still pressing its chill into the hollow of his chest. Zyphara let the silence linger, savoring the way the assassin's eyes sharpened like a cornered wolf's. Then, with the slow grace of a tide withdrawing from the shore, she drew the blade back. Metal rasped faintly against his tunic as she eased the weapon away and rose.
He rose with her, though less like a wolf and more like a man startled by his own heartbeat. His hand twitched toward his belt, then fell uselessly to his side, as if something unseen had shackled his intent. She had not bound him with spell nor charm, only with the veiled weight of her presence. It was enough.
He did not know her. Not truly. He had seen only the shape of her—Tavira Cloudfern as she chose to name herself, a beautiful woman with toffee-brown skin that glowed like polished chestnut beneath lamplight, with black hair cascading like poured silk, and eyes dark and deep as almond groves at dusk. He had admired her, followed her, imagined her. He had thought himself clever in shadow, watching her from alleys and rooftops these last days. Clever, and unseen. He had not guessed that her gaze had caught him at the very first, that every step of his stalking had been permitted, even drawn.
Zyphara—goddess of protection, ancient beyond the counting of human suns—hid herself in that mortal guise. Tavira's smile was a mask, her soft breath a veil over the eternal flame coiled within. And now that Orin Kaelen stood before her, chest still tingling where the dagger had kissed him, the plan moved to its next turn. What the plan was, no mortal tongue yet deserved to speak.
She tilted her head, feigning curiosity, her lips parting on a voice supple with innocence. "Who are you, truly? And what business have you, stealing into my home?"
Her goddess self knew. She knew him from the marrow outward: the boy who had grown in orphanage shadow, the youth who learned knives as other children learned prayers, the man whose name in the underworld was whispered with equal fear and reverence. Throat-Cutter. Assassin. Shadow-wraith. Blade-for-coin. Yet Tavira—the woman she pretended to be—must not know. So her question was asked with feigned ignorance, as if she were simply a frightened girl with courage enough to confront an intruder.
He startled her with his answer. "Orin Kaelen," he said, without hesitation, without even the shadow of a lie. The name leapt from him as though ripped from his throat by unseen force, and his own face betrayed surprise.
Names had power. She could have drawn it out of him by divine compulsion, yet she had not. He had offered it willingly, nakedly. Something deep within him was already answering to her authority, though he did not know why.
He blinked, breath catching, then tried to recover with a flicker of charm. "And… who are you, if I may ask? Seems poor manners to trespass into a lady's home without knowing her name."
Zyphara almost laughed. How effortlessly mortals played at etiquette, even when the dagger had only just been withdrawn. She let the curve of a smile grace her lips. "Poor manners indeed. Though perhaps ruder still to break into a stranger's dwelling in the first place."
His ears reddened faintly. "I didn't break in," he muttered. "Only… slipped in."
She let her eyes glint at him, amused and unimpressed. "Then consider me merciful. My name is Tavira Cloudfern." The name rolled easily off her tongue, a fabrication spun from smoke and memory.
"Cloudfern," he repeated, as though tasting it. Then his grin returned, wolfish and unpolished. "A fine name. A pretty one. Fitting for a lady as fine and pretty as you."
She nearly allowed herself a laugh, but quelled it with divine restraint. He thinks me young, she mused, watching him gaze with raw admiration at her mortal skin, her mortal face. He saw only what she permitted him to see: a woman scarcely past her maidenhood, radiant in her youth. He did not see the goddess, whose age could not be numbered in centuries or millennia, whose true beauty would have blinded his mortal eyes and broken his mortal mind.
She wondered—what would he do if she unveiled her true form, wings of radiant ivory unfurling, her voice thunderous with eternity? Would he kneel? Would he weep? Would he shatter like fragile glass? Yet she would not. Not yet. To show him was to ruin the careful weaving of her design, and her design must remain intact.
So she lowered her lashes and asked again, softly but with steel beneath the words, "What were you doing here, Orin Kaelen? How many times have you slipped into my home?"
He shifted, shoulders stiff. "Only tonight. I… I was starving. Couldn't find work. Thought maybe—maybe I'd lift a crust or two from some unattended table."
A lie. Thin as mist, easy to pierce. She saw through him as easily as light through glass. She knew his purse was not empty, knew his work was not scrounging but killing. He had slit the throat of Veynar Khold, mage of renown, not a fortnight past. He had spilled more blood than he could remember. Yet she did not expose his lie. Not now. To expose was to risk, and to risk was to fracture her plan.
Instead she breathed out slowly and softened her expression. "Starving, are you? Then it is poor form to send you away hungry. Will you share a meal with me?"
His eyes widened, startled by the offer. "I… no, I couldn't—"
"You could," she interrupted gently, "for you have already said you were starving."
His mouth opened, closed. At last he nodded. "Then… yes. If you would have me."
"Come," she said, turning toward the inner rooms of the house. "Follow."
He followed, unable not to. His gaze tracked the sway of her hair, the curve of her shoulders, the lamplight gilding her form as she guided him deeper into her dwelling. He marveled, not only at her beauty but at the house itself—its polished beams, its carved lintels, the muted glow of lanterns set with crystal glass. Every detail struck him with wonder, though he hid it poorly.
Poor boy, she thought, amused. You think yourself the hunter, yet every step you take has already been measured, prepared.
She led him into a dining chamber modest in size but warm in its intimacy. Cushioned chairs stood ready at a table already set, two places prepared with ceramic bowls and silver spoons. She had cooked, in truth, bending her divine hand to mortal custom. Stew simmered rich with herbs and lamb, bread browned golden at the crust. She had known he would come. She had timed every preparation to align with his intrusion, for she had seen the moment of it days ago.
Leaving him seated, she moved into the kitchen and returned with steaming dishes. She placed them carefully before him, as though this were the most natural of mortal exchanges: a hostess feeding her guest.
He did not question why there were two portions ready, though the thought flickered across his eyes. Hunger silenced curiosity. He reached, tasted, then devoured with the silent desperation of a man who claimed to have starved.
She sat opposite, eating in measured bites, watching him. He thought himself still cloaked, still a mystery. He did not see that she looked through him entirely.
The lamplight played upon his face, sharpening his cheekbones, softening the scar that cut across his jawline. His eyes—gray, stormy—kept darting from the stew to her face, unable to choose which he hungered for more. Admiration was written across him, as plain as script on parchment.
She let him ogle, let him drown in her presence. And silently, within, she smiled.
One move, Orin Kaelen. One step closer into the snare I have laid for you.
***
The meal bound them in silence at first. Orin ate with the guarded eagerness of one unaccustomed to abundance, spoon moving swiftly from bowl to mouth, bread torn and swallowed with barely a pause. His storm-gray eyes flicked up at her now and again, then darted down, as though embarrassed by his own glances.
Zyphara let him have his quiet. Her own spoon moved gracefully, though the food itself meant little to her. She had cooked because mortals cooked, not because she required it. The act itself was part of the masquerade, the rhythm of mortal life she wore like a cloak. She allowed herself to taste, savoring flavors not for sustenance but for the artistry of them, the way rosemary teased the lamb, the way butter seeped into crust. Her divine palate could discern every subtle note. It pleased her, if only for the elegance of the design.
When the silence grew heavy, she lightened it with gentle words. "Tell me, Orin. How long have you been without work?"
His spoon stilled. He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Too long. A damn long time."
A lie. She could see it ripple through him like heat above a flame. His eyes shifted too quickly, his tone too casual. She pretended not to notice, lowering her lashes in a show of sympathy. "I am sorry for that," she said softly.
"Life screws us all," he replied, smirking at his own profanity. "Some worse than others." He laughed once, low and bitter, as if daring her to judge him.
She did not. Instead she leaned back, tilting her head, studying him with the gentle curiosity of a woman and not the scrutiny of a goddess. "If work is what you need," she said, "perhaps I might offer you some."
He blinked, mid-bite, and swallowed too quickly. "Work?"
"Yes. You slipped past my guards as though they were statues carved from clay. If you can pass men trained to keep watch, then perhaps you are skilled enough to guard me instead."
He barked a short laugh, nearly choking on the bread. "Guard you? My lady, you honor me. Yet I think it's you who should guard me. You had me at your mercy not moments ago." His eyes narrowed, a touch of suspicion gleaming in them. "You fought like a mage."
"I am no mage," she said smoothly. "And even those who fight well can be slain. Steel and spell are not shields against fate. Death comes, Orin, even for the mighty."
He stiffened. The spoon slipped in his hand. A cough tore from him, choking on stew, and he fumbled for his cup of water. He drank deep, regaining himself, though color rose to his cheeks. Zyphara almost laughed, almost let the goddess within mock him. For she knew why he choked.
Because you have killed mages, she thought. Because you know their power does not spare them. Veynar Khold, and others whose names bled out beneath your blade. You, assassin, know that all fall.
When he found his voice again, it was quieter, roughened. "Even so. You don't need my protection. You're… too kind to even say it."
"And why too kind?" she asked, smiling lightly.
"Because I came here to rob you," he admitted bluntly, surprising her with the raw honesty. "And you feed me. You talk of giving me work. It feels wrong. Feels like robbing you twice over."
"Nonsense." Her tone was gentle, but firm as stone. "You need not decide now. Think on it. Answer me when the time feels right."
He hesitated, then nodded once. "As you wish."
When the bowls lay empty, Zyphara excused herself. She left the dining chamber not by divine disappearance but by the simple act of walking into the next room. She let him sit in silence, perhaps wondering whether he should flee, perhaps measuring what price came with her kindness. When she returned, she carried a leather pouch heavy with coins. She set it down before him, its mouth open to gleaming silver and gold.
His eyes widened, but he did not reach for it. "I can't take that."
"You can," she said, voice firm but gentle. "And you will. It will aid you for some days."
He looked up at her then, truly looked, as though searching for deceit in her face. "Why?" he asked.
She smiled faintly. "Because helping those in need is my specialty. I enjoy it. And I will not lose a fortune for the sake of generosity."
He stared, caught between refusal and temptation. At last he reached, slowly, as though afraid the pouch might vanish like smoke. His fingers curled around it, and when he looked back up, he found her gaze steady on his.
"Thank you," he said simply.
She inclined her head, though inwardly she smirked. You do not need it, assassin. You who have hoarded wealth in shadows. Yet you lied of hunger, and I play along. Every move of this game is mine, not yours.
When it came time for him to leave, she stood with him, walking him toward the door. He refused at first when she offered to accompany him further, but she insisted. Perhaps it was her beauty, perhaps the gravity of her presence, but he did not resist long. Together they stepped into the night, the cool air brushing against them as lanterns guttered in the street.
They walked slowly, her pace unhurried, her form radiant in the moonlight. He glanced at her often, as though marveling that such a woman could exist, much less speak to him. "That's a fine house you have," he said at last. "And at your age… remarkable."
She let laughter rise in her throat and spill lightly. "Inherited wealth. My father's, all of it. I was his only child. No brothers, no sisters. When he passed, it fell to me alone."
It was a lie delivered with the ease of centuries. Her voice carried just the right touch of wistfulness, her eyes lowering as though touched by grief. He believed her. He wanted to.
"And you?" she asked, turning the question upon him. "Any siblings?"
His smile faltered. "None. I was alone. No mother, no father I ever knew. No kin. If they live, I've never seen their faces. I grew without family, in a world that worships family."
This time, the truth rang clear. Zyphara knew every detail—his mother lost in childbirth, his father Tzandrel, the god bound in celestial chains, his bloodline scattered to the winds. She had been there when he was placed into the orphanage, her divine hand guiding the moment. She could have given him to kin, but her wisdom had forbidden it. His greatness demanded this path, not one softened by relatives.
She nodded slowly, her gaze warm though her thoughts sharpened like blades. Yes, Orin Kaelen. This path is yours, because I gave it to you. The orphan, the killer, the lone wolf. You walk it because I decreed it, because your destiny is bound to mine.
They reached a corner where the street forked, not far from her home. She stopped, turning to him. "Here is far enough," she said softly.
He inclined his head. "Goodnight then, Tavira Cloudfern."
"Goodnight, Orin Kaelen."
They parted there, his steps carrying him into the night, hers carrying her back toward the house. She did not watch him go with mortal eyes, for mortal eyes were blind beyond distance. She watched with the divine, her awareness stretching, following, seeing.
Every move he made, every shadow he passed into, was hers to observe. He thought himself free, thought himself unseen. He was wrong.
She smiled faintly as she walked back into her house, her mortal skin cloaking the goddess within. The game had only just begun.
One step deeper into my design, Orin. You think the choice was yours. It never was.
***
For days before Orin Kaelen crossed her threshold, he had convinced himself he was the predator. From alleys and rooftops, from the haze of tavern smoke and the murmur of crowded markets, he had watched her. He thought his shadow steps were flawless, his glances unnoticed. He believed the game his own, that his eyes hunted her, that his patience snared her.
Zyphara had let him believe it.
In truth, his every watchful hour had been permitted—welcomed, even. She had laid the bait carefully, scattering it like breadcrumbs for him to follow. The tilt of her head at a window, the careless way her hand lingered on a market stall, the sweep of her hair when she turned a corner. She had crafted moments as a fisherman casts nets. And he, eager wolf though he fancied himself, walked straight into every snare.
She remembered the first night he perched on the tiled roof opposite her house. She had drawn the curtains just enough to let lamplight spill across her form. She sat by the table with parchment and ink, writing lines that meant nothing—letters to no one, poems never finished—her movements languid, deliberate. She knew he was there, crouched low, eyes fixed. Her divine sight pierced the dark and saw him plainly, though she let her mortal body act the fool, turning pages as though oblivious.
You think yourself unseen, she mused, tracing a line of ink. Yet you are already mine.
When she rose to extinguish the lamp, she let her fingers linger at the wick, letting the light gild her skin one moment longer. She could feel his gaze tighten. Then the room fell dark, and she smiled unseen.
The next day, she strolled through the marketplace, robes simple yet fitted to her mortal form with elegance. She paused at stalls, touched fruit, haggled lightly with merchants. She could hear his footsteps pacing after her, his breaths measured, his attempts at blending into the crowd. With her divine eyes, she saw him not merely as a man but as a soul blazing against the gray sea of mortals—his aura sharp, restless, edged with blood. She allowed him to follow her through the press of bodies, allowed him to think his craft superior.
Once, she paused before a jeweler's stall, fingers brushing over a chain of silver set with a shard of moonstone. She tilted her head just enough for her hair to fall like a curtain, giving him the illusion of privacy, as though she had not sensed him watching from behind the spice vendor's cart. When she straightened, her eyes flicked sideways—not at him, never directly, but at the empty air just short of where he stood. The faintest gesture of acknowledgment, though he would never know if it was meant.
That evening, he shadowed her again, this time along the riverbank. She let her steps slow, trailing fingers through the water. She hummed a song that mortals had not sung in centuries, yet her voice cloaked it in mortal cadence. She could feel his attention sharpen, curiosity stirring, hunger growing. Come closer, Orin Kaelen. Draw near. You think you are the wolf circling the doe, yet you are the young stag in the hunter's sights.
There were other nights, too. Nights when he perched on balconies not his own, watching her move through lamplit rooms. Nights when he followed her across narrow lanes, never daring to approach, always convinced he stalked unseen.
She saw everything. Not with mortal eyes alone—those she allowed to feign ignorance—but with the fullness of her divine gaze. She saw him even when walls intervened, even when darkness thickened. She felt the cadence of his heartbeat from streets away, traced the flicker of his thoughts as one might trace ripples on a pond. He was transparent to her, as every mortal was.
And still she let him play at the hunter.
One evening, when he grew bolder, he lingered at her garden wall. He watched through the lattice as she watered roses. She bent gracefully, pouring from a simple clay jug, knowing how the curve of her spine and the sway of her robe would catch his eye. When she rose, she let a drop of water run down her wrist, catching lamplight, a detail sharp enough to snare him further. He stared, entranced, while she pretended not to see.
Poor assassin, she thought, lips curving faintly. Every glance you steal, I placed for you to take.
When at last he withdrew—slipping from her orbit, returning to his own shadows—she did not lose him. She followed, cloaked in her true self. Not in mortal flesh, but in the quiet majesty of the goddess unseen.
She traced his steps to a tavern thick with smoke and laughter. He had been here before—here, in this same place, where agreements were made in whispers and blood sealed itself unseen. Zyphara needed no mortal ears to know what contracts had already passed across this air, what names had been spoken, what fates had been signed.
Now he came not to bargain but to drink. He settled at a table, tankard in hand, laughter from other patrons rising around him. Zyphara perched invisible in the rafters, her divine sight drinking in every detail. He thought himself veiled, but he never was from her.
Later, when Orin drank with Lira, the tavern whore, Zyphara remained. Lira laughed loudly, her hair spilling wild, her body warm against his side. Orin flirted, teased, his hardened edges softening beneath ale and flesh. Zyphara perched above them still, her eyes glimmering with amusement.
When he led Lira to her chamber, Zyphara followed, unseen. The walls meant nothing. She stood in the corner as they tumbled onto the bed, as lips met skin, as garments fell. She turned her face aside—not from shock, for she had seen passion and coupling in every form mortal and divine—but from disinterest. What struck her was not the act, but the foolishness with which he believed himself free. He thought himself unobserved, thought this moment his own.
Even here, assassin, you are mine, she thought. Even in your lust, I see. Even in your drunken laughter, I watch.
***
Evening draped itself across the city like a shawl of fading crimson. Tavira Cloudfern—her mortal guise, her delicate mask—walked the streets with unhurried steps. Her robe of pale green brushed against cobblestone, her hair catching the last gold of sunset. To the mortals she passed, she was only a young woman wandering home, admired perhaps for her beauty, noted perhaps for her poise, yet nothing more.
But within, Zyphara was ever herself. Goddess of protection. Keeper of shields unseen. Her gaze, though cloaked in human softness, saw far deeper than the wrinkled faces of merchants closing their stalls, deeper than the laughter of children tugging at their mothers' skirts. She saw souls, luminous or dim, threads of fate coiling around them like smoke.
There was the mason's apprentice, hands blistered, mind gnawed by envy of his master. She saw the rot of resentment festering, a danger if left untempered. She had already woven a thread of protection around him, thin as spider silk, so that his bitterness would not drive him to strike before wisdom tempered his years.
There was the widow selling herbs, her prayer a silent murmur Zyphara could hear beneath the clang of shutters. The woman's devotion wrapped her like a cloak, and Zyphara had answered in unseen ways: a neighbor's coin dropped "by accident," a thief passing her by without knowing why.
Others passed—skeptics, scoffers, men who carried blades with no belief in gods, children who had never prayed. Some she sheltered still, for her mercy overflowed. Others she left bare, for only through lack of shield would they learn to seek the unseen.
Everywhere her gaze fell, she discerned hearts. She was pleased with some, displeased with others, but never blind.
Then it came.
The prayer.
Not a gentle murmur but a scream, searing through the quiet dusk. It ripped through her mind, pulling her goddess self taut. Another followed. Then another. Dozens. A chorus of anguish, voices shrill with terror, desperation woven into each syllable. They cried her name—not Tavira, no, but Zyphara, goddess, shield, protector.
She halted mid-step. Mortals passing her gave no notice. To them, she was only a woman pausing in the street. But her eyes had gone far away, locked upon the torrent of pleas.
They came from the east. From beyond mountains, where another sun hung in later morning. She did not hesitate. With a thought, she shed distance like a discarded cloak. The street, the sunset, the city—gone.
She appeared invisible upon churned earth beneath a foreign sky, where the sun blazed high and steel clashed like thunder. A battlefield.
Two armies crashed upon each other, their banners tattered, their cries hoarse. Spears thrust, swords shattered, shields splintered beneath the roar of men and the fury of mages unleashing fire, frost, and lightning. The air was thick with blood and smoke, arrows arcing like swarms of locusts. Horses screamed, men fell, and the ground drank crimson.
Zyphara walked untouched, unseen, among the chaos. Her robe of green did not soil with mud or gore. She passed soldiers locked in mortal struggle, their blades sliding through each other's ribs, and neither saw her. She was spirit here, goddess cloaked.
She turned her gaze and saw him.
Not Tzandrel, god of blood and slaughter—his reign had ended in chains, his laughter silenced in celestial prison, his wars left to echo only in memory. No, this battlefield belonged to Kaelthys, god of conquest, warlord divine, brother to fire and thunder. His form towered above the slaughter, visible only to divine sight. He stood clad in bronze armor that gleamed though no sun touched it, helm crowned with black plumes. His eyes blazed crimson, and in his fist he held a spear longer than ships. Each stroke of his weapon was echoed in mortal arms below, guiding strikes, decreeing victories, decreeing deaths.
Zyphara shed Tavira's skin. Mortal form peeled away like mist, and she stood revealed in her goddess majesty. Her beauty was terrible now, too radiant for human eyes. Her hair shimmered ivory, her eyes glowed with unbroken dawn, and in her hand appeared her own weapon: a spear of pale light, shaft of ivory, tip glimmering with wards. The Aegis-Spear, symbol of her guardianship.
She strode across the battlefield, her steps thunderless yet echoing in the weave of the divine. Soldiers parted without knowing, their bodies moving instinctively from her path.
"Kaelthys," she called, her voice a ripple through heaven and earth.
He turned, eyes narrowing. "Zyphara," he answered, his voice iron and storm. "Why come you here? This is not your war."
She lifted her spear, its light shimmering. "It is, when my worshippers cry out. Both sides call to me, their pleas rising like flame. I cannot ignore them."
He laughed, a sound that rattled shields. "Both sides? Then they are fools. They pray for protection even as they cut one another's throats."
"They are mine," she said, voice firm. "And I will not see them all cut down."
He tilted his helm. "This is war, sister. They came to the field knowing death's price. Why should I stay my hand for your soft heart?"
"Because mercy is no weakness," she said, stepping closer. "Because to kill them all would serve no glory, only desolation. Spare them. Spare those who are mine."
His gaze burned, his aura towering, but she did not flinch. Their spears hummed in resonance, divine wills colliding in silence deeper than any mortal clash.
At last Kaelthys snorted, lowering his weapon slightly. "You argue well, Zyphara. Very well. I will let yours live. But see to them yourself. They will not die by my decree today."
Relief, quiet as rain, brushed her chest. She inclined her head. "Then you have my thanks."
She turned, power unfurling from her like wings. Her voice whispered through the weave, into every corner of the battle. She marked her own, those whose cries had reached her. Soldiers staggering with wounds found their enemies stumble instead. Blades glanced off at the last instant, arrows veered, flames sputtered before they struck.
One fell to his knees, sword raised against him—only for the enemy's blade to shatter. Another tripped in mud as a spear darted for his heart, the point missing him by inches. A third lay gasping, chest pierced, until the shaft snapped by unseen hand, the wound closing where death should have claimed.
Everywhere her shield stretched, invisible yet unbreakable. Her worshippers bled, yes, but none died.
The battle dragged on, brutal, bloody. Neither side yielded, neither claimed victory. Corpses piled high, vultures circled, cries grew hoarse. At last horns sounded retreat, and armies dragged themselves from the mire. The field lay strewn with the dead—but not one of hers among them.
They limped, wounded yet alive, each one a miracle breathing. They did not see her, but they would know. In their hearts they would feel the shield that had held, the hand that had stayed fate. They would whisper her name in awe, and she would hear.
Zyphara stood among the ruin, spear glimmering faintly, gaze solemn. She had answered. She had protected. And she knew the tale of this day would ripple across lands, a testament to the power of prayer, to the goddess who came when her name was cried.
Kaelthys watched from afar, his crimson eyes narrowing, a faint smile curving his warlord lips. "You shield them now," he muttered. "But one day, Zyphara, even your shield may break."
She did not answer. She vanished, dissolving into light, returning to the streets where dusk still lingered. Mortals there never knew she had left, never knew the goddess had walked among them and gone to a field of death and spared lives.
She resumed Tavira's guise once more, her face serene, her robe unsoiled. Yet her eyes gleamed faintly with the echo of battle, with the satisfaction of promises kept.
Not one of mine lost, she thought. Not one.
And the night deepened, carrying her ever onward, her plan with Orin Kaelen still weaving in secret, even as the world's wars cried her name.