A man clad in thick leather armor approached the carriage, the dying light of dusk flickering along the edge of his axe.
"Ma'am Rose," he rumbled,
"we must halt for the night. The Bone Orchards after dark is no place for men—not with slaves in tow, not with the beasts watching. The leopards won't tolerate hunters in their territory."
Lady Rose regarded Mad Dog with icy calm.
"Prepare my tent," she commanded.
"We depart before first light."
Mad Dog stiffened in salute.
"Yes, Ma'am Rose."
"Mad Dog," she added, her voice like a drawn blade,
"I don't want any casualties tomorrow."
He paused, then bowed deeply.
"As you will, My Lady."
Lily clutched Hound tighter, her gaze fixed on Lady Rose.
The Bone Orchards was a graveyard for the reckless—a hunting ground ruled by the Skinless Leopards, beasts that slaughtered any who dared hunt within their domain.
They didn't just kill; they skinned their prey, wearing the flesh like a trophy, stealing the strength of the fallen.
The more powerful the victim, the deadlier the leopard became.
That was why the hunters of the Savage Expanse had a rule: Let the weak strike the killing blow.
A sacrifice to appease the leopards' wrath.
"Mother," Lily whispered,
"what if they come for you?"
Lady Rose's lips curled.
"Let them try. I am no mere beast—I am a Demon Lady."
…
Deep in the night, the raiders' camp lay in eerie silence—broken only by the crackling of burning campfire, their embers drifting like ghostly fireflies in the dark.
Perched high in the gnarled branches away from the camp, a scout clad in a tattered black cloak scanned the shadows.
He was no fighter—his duty was to watch, to warn, to ensure the raiders moved unseen.
But the forest tonight felt wrong.
The air was too still.
The usual sounds of beasts were absent, as if the wilderness itself was holding its breath.
"Hey. Time to switch."
A fellow scout emerged from below, ready to take his post.
The veteran opened his mouth to speak
—THWIP.
An arrow punctured the reliever's skull with a wet crunch, dropping him like a slaughtered animal.
The scout's blood turned to ice.
He fumbled for his horn—another arrow hissed past his ear.
Then a second buried itself in his shoulder, sending him crashing to the forest floor.
Bones snapped on impact, his breath coming in ragged, blood-flecked gasps.
Something moved in the dark.
With shattered limbs, he dragged himself forward, fingers clawing into the dirt—only to freeze as a muddy foot stepped into view.
Slowly, painfully, he looked up.
A man loomed over him, his grin stretching too wide, revealing rows of jagged yellow teeth.
"Shhh," the thing whispered.
"The hunt has just begun."
…
Inside the dimly lit tent, the soft, melancholic notes of Lily's harmonica drifted through the air.
She sat cross-legged, her thin white dress glowing faintly in the candlelight, while Hound listened in silence—his dark eyes wide with a mix of confusion and curiosity.
"You know, Hound," she said, lowering the harmonica with a wistful smile,
"when I was little—just like you—I used to sing in the Church of Light's choir."
Hound tilted his head.
The words meant nothing to him.
He had never seen a church, never heard hymns.
His world was the forest, the wind, the rustling leaves.
"I… play with leaf," he murmured, his voice rough with disuse.
"With Kanaz. It was… fun."
A shadow crossed Lily's face.
"But you can't play with her anymore, can you?"
Hound's hands clenched into fists.
The memory of him and Kanaz—their laughter in the wild, splashing in the river, skipping stones, all of it—ached like a fresh wound.
Seeing his pain, Lily set aside the harmonica and moved closer, her voice softening.
"Oh, Hound… I'm sorry. I'm sorry we took you like this." She hesitated, then sighed.
"But the world… it doesn't care about peace. The strong take. The weak obey. That's just how it is."
A tear rolled down Hound's cheek.
"But why us?" he whispered, his voice breaking.
"We hurt no one. We lived peacefully… far away. Alone. Why… why us?"
Lily smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
It was the kind of smile that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken sorrows.
"There was never any peace, Hound," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Peace is just an illusion—a fleeting gift the strong sometimes allow the weak to believe in."
She shifted, lying back on the bed, her gaze fixed on Hound's hunched silhouette.
The firelight painted shadows across his back, making him look smaller, more fragile.
"Only those with the power to rule the world can ever truly grant peace," she murmured, more to herself than to him.
A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the crackling of the dying fire.
Then, almost hesitantly, Lily spoke again, her voice thick with memory.
"When I was young—back in the East, when I still believed in Hal—I used to think the world was kind." A quiet, broken laugh escaped her.
"I woke up every morning certain that my mother would be there to braid my hair, that my father would tousle it playfully, that my little brother would tug at my sleeve, begging me to play..."
Her breath hitched.
The memories burned brighter than the embers in the hearth.
"I thought everyone was happy. That we were all blessed."
A single tear traced its way down her cheek, glistening in the dim light.
She didn't wipe it away.
Some wounds never truly heal.
Lily's voice was quiet, each word heavy with the weight of memory.
"Our kingdom lost the war," she began, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the bedroll.
"We were trapped inside its crumbling walls. Starving. Desperate. People changed—some stole scraps, others killed for them. My father died over a piece of bread. My mother..." She paused, jaw tightening.
"The invaders took her, then discarded what was left."
A hollow laugh escaped her.
"I lost everything. Even the light I once believed in. Then one of our own knights—a man sworn to protect—tried to take the last thing I had left. So I killed him. With the very power meant to bring hope." Her fingers flexed, as if remembering the feel of divine light burning through flesh.
"Isn't it ironic? The power of light, meant to illuminate the world... used to snuff out a man's breath?"
"After that, I became a beggar. I hid my face, smeared dirt on my skin, pretended to be a boy—just to escape the eyes of monsters. I stole. I killed. All to survive in that wretched kingdom."
Her voice softens, almost wistful.
"But then... Lady Rose found me. She gave me a chance to live as a woman, not a starving beast. She gave me power. Purpose. Everything I have now... I owe to her. She is my Mother now. Our Mother."
She pauses, letting the weight of her words sink in before continuing, her tone shifting—gentle, almost pitying.
"Maybe we did invade. Maybe we disrupted your peace. But even if it wasn't us... someone else would have. And it could have been far worse."
"Yes, your father died because of this invasion. But you already took revenge on the one who killed him. And this invasion... it didn't have to happen. If only your Tribe Leaders had accepted our terms. We didn't come to destroy you—we came to bring you into something greater. But they refused. They chose fight instead."
Her smile turns dark, her demonic nature bleeding through.
"So blame them, Hound... It was their pride that doomed your father. Their stubbornness that got him killed. They sent innocent people like you to die, then called you a traitor when you survived. They were too weak to protect you... too weak to lead. But we? We can."
Her voice drops to a whisper, laced with false comfort.
"You don't have to rely on those who failed you ever again."
Hound's sobs of grief twisted into something darker—anger.
A raw, seething fury that clawed at his ribs, hotter than blood, deeper than sorrow.
He was angry at his tribe leaders—their pride, their failures.
He was angry at the world—so cruel, so indifferent.
But most of all,
he was angry at himself—for being weak.
His vision swam, the edges bleeding crimson.
Not from his blood-inciting ability… but from something far more dangerous.
Rage.
It slithered through his veins, whispering, gnawing at the last remnants of his ignorance.
His muscles tensed, his breath ragged—his very soul teetering on the brink.
A true Barbarian is born from wrath.
A Demon of Neglect thrives in fury.
And Hound was so close.
But his transformation was incomplete—stalled, lacking that final, cataclysmic burst of rage to fully shatter the child he once was.
Lily watched, her golden eyes gleaming with something between hunger and tenderness.
Slowly, she rose, her movements liquid, deliberate.
Then—
—she embraced him from behind, her body molding against his trembling frame.
Her smooth blonde hair draped over him like a veil.
Her warm breath ghosted against his neck, soft and suffocating.
Her chest pressed against his back, her heartbeat steady—a mockery of comfort.
"It's okay, Hound..." she murmured, her lips brushing his ear.
"As long as big sister is here... no one can hurt you."
There was truth in her words.
Lily, who had lost everything once, clung to her new family with desperate devotion.
She loved them—not as a saint loves, but as a starving wolf loves its pack.
And Hound?
He sank into her touch, his calloused hands gripping her arms—not in resistance, but in need.
For a moment, the rage flickered.
The demon within him paused.
"You sleep now, little one," Lily whispered, her voice a lullaby of damnation.
"Tomorrow will be a long day for you..."