Another month had passed since they parted ways with the crew of the "Violet."
The family flew aboard Snowy, crossing the silent heavens above the continent of Nightingale—a land where night reigned supreme over day. It was no wonder this realm was so beloved by dark creatures. Vampires and werewolves, leshies, ghouls, banshees, and gargoyles—all the spawn of twilight called it home.
Darkness lingered here for most of the day. The sun shone no more than six hours in twenty-four. Yet the continent itself was far from barren. Its flora and fauna had formed a unique ecosystem, one sustained solely by the dim, reddish glow of Nyx.
Beneath her lunar radiance, dense thickets of deep violet had spread far and wide. The trees intertwined like living veins. Every plant, every living creature had learned to breathe in the rhythm of the night.
Photosynthesis did not unfold beneath the sun, but under the blood-tinged light of the moon, and life flourished in defiance of the gloom.
The temperature remained surprisingly steady, reminiscent of an evening breeze after a sweltering day.
The very atmosphere of the continent stirred a quiet melancholy.
To an adult, Nightingale might have seemed peculiar, yet in its own way deeply soothing—like a world weary of itself that had finally found peace.
Yet not everything was so serene.
The oppressive darkness magnified every grim thought that would normally remain buried. Gray suffered the most. Day after day without sunlight worked like a slow poison. A vague anxiety accumulated within him, without beginning or end.
Like a smoldering ember given air, the boy's fears and insecurities flared up with renewed force. For the past few days he had not been himself: he did not speak, did not laugh. He simply watched the shifting landscape with an empty, detached gaze.
Thoughts of that ill-fated day returned again and again, as if lodged somewhere deep within his subconscious. It felt as though he were reliving the escape from Lutetia—the days steeped in fear and uncertainty about tomorrow.
Nightmares haunted him.
The moment he fell asleep, the faces of the priest and his father rose before him once more—cold and merciless.
The prophecy rang out like a sentence: "When day and night fall out of rhythm, a child shall be born whose shadow will eclipse the sun. Old tales will burn, and legends will be rewritten. Invaders will come, and the world will be bound in new chains."
Even the ordinary townsfolk appeared in his dreams, defiling him as a cruel and heartless monster.
It seemed as though the very atmosphere of Nightingale fed his inner terror. The fear of being abandoned, of being left alone—a hated, lost, unwanted child who did not understand why he lived.
And so he clung to his mother's dress as though it were the last thread of hope.
Of course, Catherine noticed that her son was sinking into gloom. But what could she do? She could not stretch the daylight to lift his spirits. She was not that powerful.
All she could offer was to smother him in love—and urge Snowy onward, hastening their flight so they might reach their new home as quickly as possible.
Their thoughts were interrupted by Grace's voice. "Mom, are we almost there? I'm so tired..."
"Yes, sweetheart," Catherine smiled and gently ruffled her daughter's hair. "Our new home is very close now. A home where no one will disturb us ever again."
"Really?" Gray asked softly, a faint spark returning to his eyes. His voice carried a timid anticipation, as though he were afraid to believe in something good.
Catherine caught it at once and hurried to lift his spirits. "Really, my dear. We're heading to the village of Zandrysh... It's also called the 'Village of the Forsaken.'"
"That doesn't sound very nice," Grace frowned.
"Mm, it isn't," their mother replied calmly. "Only those with nowhere else to go end up there. The elderly, the disabled... people like Grandpa Ma. But at the same time, it is the most secluded and safest place for those who long for peace."
"Then what's the catch?" Gray asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Exactly. There's always a catch. The Village of the Forsaken lies on the border between Nightingale—the land of vampires and werewolves—and the continent of Yama, where demons dwell.
"It's a rather grim place. The sun shines for only six hours a day. And even the darkness itself is dangerous. Countless aggrieved souls wander within it. They seek the warmth of the living... and drag away anyone who crosses their path.
"So remember the first rule: when it's dark, you do not go outside."
"Are you sure a place like that can be called safe?" Grace asked doubtfully.
It was as if their mother were teasing them, for her description of their new "home" sounded nothing short of ominous.
"You have nothing to worry about. Strong people live in that village, and every one of them knows how to defend themselves. Because of the conditions there, outsiders rarely ever come. For us, it's the best possible choice. Isn't that right, Cassia?"
Gray's shadow trembled faintly, and from it stepped the maid with catlike ears.
"My lady is right. The people there are very kind. And I will always be able to protect you from the shadows."
"And there it is—the Village of the Forsaken," Catherine said, pointing down below.
Small heads leaned over the bird's feathers to glimpse the land below.
A deep grove stretched beneath them—violet treetops swaying gently in the moonlight. Between the trunks, a narrow path could be seen, winding toward a tiny settlement perched on a hill.
The Village of the Forsaken held no more than a dozen buildings. Their triangular roofs were overgrown with moss. The fence surrounding them did not look reliable: a rickety barrier no higher than one's waist. And the mournful creak of a bucket swaying over the well made the atmosphere all the more unsettling.
The children exchanged glances but chose to remain silent.
Snowy landed nearby.
They had not yet dismounted when an old, old man darted out to meet them with a twisted smile.
Or rather, he hobbled forward.
He moved with the aid of a cane, deftly shifting his single healthy leg. His face was withered, his clothes stained all over, and his voice rasped like rusted hinges.
"Katie, my little beauty, what brings you here?" he shouted, beaming with delight. "What made you decide to visit this useless old man, hmm? Khe-khe. Don't tell me they treated you poorly in that blasted Empire?"
Catherine broke into a radiant smile. If one looked closely, a faint shimmer of moisture could be seen gathering in the corners of her gentle eyes.
"Hello, Old Man Ma! You haven't changed at all. I've been gone ten years, and you're still the same..."
She nudged the children forward so they could greet him. "This is Elder Mark—though everyone simply calls him Old Man Ma—a dried-up mummy who's lived for more than five centuries. He raised me like a father. So that makes him your grandfather."
"Hello, Grandpa Ma!" Gray and Grace chimed in together.
"Fufufu. Well, what do you think, old man? This beauty here is Grace—my eldest daughter. And this little rascal is Gray. They were born on the same day. Beautiful, aren't they?"
The twins immediately exchanged glances. Their mother rarely showed emotion with anyone outside their small circle. The very fact that she had told the old man their real names—and even seemed to seek his approval—struck them as astonishing.
Old Man Ma's crooked smile stretched from ear to ear. He let out a booming laugh and said,
"Good, good! They're almost as lovely as you were when you were little. Well then, don't just stand there like posts—come inside. I'll treat you to something tasty."
He immediately smacked the owl on the beak, and she twisted and shrank, returning to her miniature form.
Snowy let out an indignant hoot. She clearly disliked such rough treatment. Climbing onto Catherine's shoulder, she seemed ready to complain. But the old man had already turned away.
"Come along, little Katie," he said, scooping up the two children in his arms.
In the blink of an eye, Grace found herself perched on his shoulders, while Gray was tucked under his arm like a sack of potatoes. The favoritism was obvious at first glance.
The women giggled merrily and followed him into the only stone house at the very center of the village.
Once inside, they stepped into a spacious living room with high ceilings and massive wooden beams. Antique dark-wood furniture and soft rugs hung along the walls, creating a warm, homely atmosphere. At the center of the room stood a large dining table, already set for tea.
"Sit down and tell me—what brings you to this hole of a place? Surely it's not just to visit an old man, right, young miss?" Grandpa Ma said, lighting his smoking pipe.
He studied the twins and their mother with keen interest. When his gaze settled more closely on the dark-haired boy, his pupils narrowed, and the ember in his pipe flared brighter, as if he had drawn a particularly deep puff.
Grandpa Ma exhaled a cloud of smoke and looked at Catherine, waiting for her to tell everything. In detail.
Catherine sighed. "Cassia, can you play with the twins? Grandpa and I need to have a serious talk."
"Yes, my lady," Cassia replied.
She led the children into the adjoining room. Gray and Grace were quick-witted: understanding that the adults wanted privacy, they obediently followed Cassia. Who wants to sit at a table for hours listening to grown-ups talk? Nothing could be duller. Better to play "the floor is a shadow" with Cassia instead.
While the children played, Old Man Ma's beard bristled with fury.
The longer he listened to Catherine, the hotter his rage boiled. At one point, he leapt up from the table and prowled the room like a wounded lion.
"And then?! What did that little brat Adam say?!" he growled, sending a dining chair flying at supersonic speed.
The chair smashed into the wall and splintered to bits, yet it barely fazed him. He immediately grabbed his cane to strike the table with it.
"I'll go myself and castrate this evolutionary mistake! I'll feed him his own genitals!" he raged, shaking the cane like a scepter of justice. "Damn him to hell in every crevice! How dare that little bastard treat my granddaughter like that?!"
"Don't stop me! I said let me go—I'll be gone just five minutes, there and back. I need to… feed my goose. Yes, my goose!"
Catherine paid no mind to his outbursts. She knew his fiery temper better than anyone. If he wasn't allowed to vent, he could very well turn the place into a bloodbath.
She spoke calmly, without embellishment or softening, recounting everything methodically and in detail. Not a single piece of the story was omitted. The old man needed to understand that their tale was riddled with hidden pitfalls, many still concealed.
"…Thus, the prophecy of the ancient Sibyls forced even the gods to intervene," Catherine continued, sipping the last of her tea at a leisurely pace. "You know they couldn't care less about the 'greater good.' Most likely, Apollo fixated on the lines '…whose shadow will eclipse the sun…' From his point of view, that's a direct challenge."
She let out a short, grim smile.
"In any case, now two human empires have waded into this mess. Who knows how many more 'champions of justice' will show up soon…"
Setting her cup on the remnants of the table, Catherine looked Old Man Mark squarely in the eyes.
"So we have to prepare ourselves and keep our heads down."
"That's all?" the old man asked, stroking the remnants of his beard, adopting the pose of a wise elder, though secretly ready to dash out of the house in search of vengeance the moment Catherine signaled the conversation was over.
"Yes, that's all," Catherine replied. "Hold your temper, Grandpa. I want you and the villagers to teach the children everything you taught me. I don't need bloodshed—I just want them to grow up safe and at peace."
The old man slumped, his face twisting in irritation, and he reluctantly sank onto the broken remains of the sofa.
"Alright, alright. You're right. Let that little brat live a while longer in his miserable province," he muttered, his voice softer now.
Grandpa Mark lifted his pipe to his lips and drew a deep, deliberate puff, as if gathering his thoughts. The air filled with the sharp scent of tobacco. Gradually, his face smoothed, his shoulders relaxed—it seemed as if, with each exhalation of smoke, he expelled a portion of his fury.
"I'll fix everything right away. The hut, the belongings, the food. Rest, don't worry about a thing. The children are tired, and so are you," he said, pounding his chest with a fist, hacking hoarsely, then turning away to hide the tremor in his hands.
"I will be living here," Catherine interrupted hastily. "We need a spacious house: room for play and learning. You don't want us cramped into a tiny hut, do you?"
Old Man Ma's face lit up.
"Of course! You can live with me! Little Katie, you've grown up. I thought you'd demand a separate hut, like last time when…"
"Who said you're living with us?" Catherine cut him off. "Old man, with your foul mouth, by tomorrow you'll have my children swearing so fiercely that even the demons will blush."
The old man froze, his smile frozen in place.
"Ahem… ahem… Well… of course, of course… I wasn't insisting, it's just…"
For a few seconds, he blinked rapidly, as if unable to fully grasp that he had just been barred from his own home. He dared not be angry with his adopted daughter; Adam irritated him far more.
He muttered under his breath, "Damn. I hope this little mistake of nature finds its way here so I can break his knuckles…"
"What did you say?"
"Ahem, ahem… Nothing, nothing, little Katie. Go rest with the children."
When Gray and Grace left the room with Cassia, it took them a moment to realize they were still in the same house.
The room looked as if a hurricane had passed through—broken dishes, overturned furniture, and in the midst of it all, their mother glowing with the smile of a goddess.
"Come along, darlings, Grandpa Ma has just arranged a place for us," Catherine said, taking the children by the hands and gracefully ascending the stairs.
"And don't forget to clean up after yourself, old man," she added, disappearing behind the bedroom door.
Old Man Ma—the respected elder of the Village of the Forsaken—cast a look over the remains of the room and sighed.
He shot Cassia, dressed in her maid's uniform, a pleading glance, hoping for some assistance. But she merely rolled her eyes and followed her lady. It was clear she had no intention of cleaning up after him.