The night clung to the world like wet wool, heavy and suffocating, The wind breathed shallow, cold, and thin like a ghost of warmth that has never been. Aira stood at the threshold of the merchant's camp where she sat inside a tent pondering why she was reincarnated in this heartless world of her own creation, her breath misting in the frigid air, her limbs stiff and sore, she was still weakened from all that has already happened to her, yet she was humming with the strange, brittle energy of someone who had been shattered and survived the breaking.
The firepits ahead had dwindled to sullen embers, glowing like dying stars in a sky too cruel to care. Around them, mercenaries lay sprawled in uneasy sleep, one hand curled near their hilts, their faces locked in scowls even in rest. They dreamed of booze and coins. She had dreamed of nothing.
Not because she hadn't slept—no, her body had collapsed hours ago, curled under a frayed cloak like a child hiding from monsters. But her mind had remained sharp. Awake. Watching. Listening. Changing.
Something inside her had shifted—no, not shifted. Crystallized.
The girl who once trembled at shadows, who prayed to nameless gods for mercy, was gone. In her place stood something cold, something quiet, something that had looked death in the eye and did not blink.
The world had tried to kill her. To chew her up and spit her out as dust.
It had failed.
She pulled the thin cloak tighter around her shoulders, her fingertips numb, but her gaze burning clear as polished glass. The stars above blinked slowly, ancient and indifferent, but she looked back at them without fear.
She was done hesitating. Done waiting. Done being weak.
She needed power to change her life.
She needed knowledge to change this world.
And she needed both now.
Now it's time for her to take her Pricefrom thatMerchant
He was right where she expected him to be—sitting by the fire, sipping from a flask, his silhouette draped in arrogance and wealth. His coat was tailored, thick with silks and leathers too fine for these roads. His boots gleamed like oil. Even in the wilderness, he carried the stench of money and power.
She stepped into the firelight. As a completely different person from how she was before.
He didn't startle. Didn't flinch. He simply glanced up, a slow smile curling his lips like a blade unsheathed. "I can see that you really survived after all that," he said, voice smooth and wine-warm. "Barely."
Aira's face didn't twitch. Her voice was flat. "I completed the job."
The merchant chuckled and took another drink. "Did you? You look like a corpse with a grudge. Was it worth it?"
She held out her hand.
"The payment."
He stared at her hand, bemused, then sighed as if it were all terribly inconvenient.
"Ah, yes. About that." His tone shifted slightly—just enough to make her stomach clench. "Your sister is dead, so what do you want this money for now?"
There it was. Those words of betrayal that she had already expected all this time.
Well, after all, these kinds of merchants like these are not usually known for their loyalty; you trust them and show them your back, and the blade comes naturally.
"And well," he went on, smiling like he was offering her a kindness, "the money was for her, wasn't it? I fail to see the point in paying a girl who's lost her reason for fighting."
Her fingers twitched, just once. Not because of anger for him, but because of her own foolishness in trusting a person like him.
Luckily, she had already expected this.
No, anticipated it.
People like him always played the same hand. Flash gold, hide poison behind the smile. But hearing the words still cracked something inside her. Not grief. Not shock.
Just confirmation.
This was the world's truth. The truth of her own creation steering back at her with mocking laughter
And now, it was hers too.
She met his gaze for a long, heavy moment, letting the silence speak the grief she no longer felt. Letting him believe he held the power here.
But deep inside, the lesson burned itself into her bones.
She would remember this, learn from this, and she is going to use this against him.
A New Game Has Just Began And This Time There Is Nothing Holding Her Back.
Aira exhaled slowly, the breath coiling in the cold air.
Then—she smiled.
Not the brittle, broken smile of someone defeated.
No.
This smile was soft. Steady. Terrifying in its quiet promise.
"Is that so?" she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Then I suppose there's no reason for me to work with you again."
That got his attention.
The merchant's brow twitched. His eyes narrowed.
She took a small step forward, her shadow stretching into his like ink spilling across parchment. "You see," she murmured, voice velvet-smooth, "I went into that castle. I saw things. Things you wouldn't want getting out."
His amusement drained, replaced with a wary stillness.
She had him.
"Rumours spread fast," she continued. "And I hear the church is these days are especially... paranoid because of the plague that has been ravishing all throughout the continent. Imagine if they found out one of their favoured merchants was dabbling in the forbidden. That you sent a dying girl to retrieve something from a cursed castle."
"I know—deep down—I know that if I walk into a church and speak of what I've seen, they won't just call me a liar. No… they might silence me altogether. Not out of hatred. Not even fear. Just... convenience.
Because to them, I'm nothing more than a nameless face. A commoner. And the truth I carry? It shakes the foundations of a noble's reputation. And they'd rather let me rot in a quiet grave than risk the scandal. It's easier that way. Safer. Cleaner".
After all, who'd believe someone like me?
"But then I wonder… what if it wasn't me who spoke? What if the words came from someone cloaked in silk and legacy? Someone from the House Tharyvion of the Triune Sigil—where even their whispers carry the weight of law?
If she were to speak of what I saw… the world would listen. The priests would bow their heads, not raise their hands. They wouldn't dare call her a liar, not when her bloodline threads through the veins of kings. No, they'd hush their doubts, cloak their guilt in ceremony, and act as if justice had always been their intent".
It's strange, isn't it? The truth doesn't change—but the lips that bear it decide its worth.
"And how does a gutter-born wretch like you claim to know someone of that bloodline?" he sneered, lips curled like he'd tasted something foul. "The House Tharyvion? Of the Triune Sigil? Don't make me laugh."
He stepped closer, the stink of wine and arrogance heavy on his breath. "Even I—son of a rich merchant—don't breathe the same air as their scullery maids, let alone share words with their daughters. And you? A dirt-smeared nobody with calloused hands and coinless pockets?"
A dry chuckle rattled from his throat. "You expect me to believe you know a Tharyvion? Please. Crawl back to whatever hole you squirmed out of and leave the names of nobility out of your filthy little lies."
"Oh, but I do know them—know far more than your silver-weighed imagination could ever grasp. Believe me or brand me a fool; it hardly matters. What should matter—to you, clever merchant—is that loose ends have a habit of knotting themselves into walls. And one day, you may find this ragged "nobody" standing between you and the profit you prize so dearly.
So sneer if it soothes your pride. Scoff if the sound pleases your purse. I'll keep my secrets close, my knowledge closer, and let time decide whose words become the stumbling stone in whose path." She says this with a cold smile on her face.
"For a little girl—what, no more than thirteen?—you sure let your mouth run wild," he said, voice dripping with contempt, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "Do you even realize where you're standing right now?" He spread his arms, gesturing to the camp around him—men sharpening blades, eyes watching, silent and still like hounds waiting for the leash to slip.
"This is my camp. These are my people. And with a flick of my finger, they'd snuff you out like a gutter flame." He leaned in, his grin sharp as broken glass. "So where, exactly, is this arrogance coming from? What makes you think you can speak to me like we share the same sky?"
He chuckled darkly. "I may not wear a noble's crest, but I carry power in my shadow—and you? You're just a speck. An interesting little rat, scurrying in the wrong place. So let me make this very clear, girl—I'm not the one in danger here."
His hand closed into a fist, slow and deliberate. "You are. And if you're smart, you'll remember your place… before someone reminds you for you."
She wasn't scared. Not even a flicker of fear crossed her face. No trembling lip, no widened eyes—just that same maddening calm.
Then she smiled. Cold. Sharp. The kind of smile that cuts deeper than any blade.
"Oh, you thought I was going to cry? That I'd fall to my knees, beg for mercy, maybe even sob a little?" she said, voice smooth as ice. "Better luck next time, buddy."
She took a step forward, not back. Eyes locked on his, unblinking.
"And that reminds me," she continued, tilting her head just slightly, like she was remembering something trivial, like the weather or a half-forgotten name. "I haven't told you what I know, have I?"
That smile widened—still cold, still cruel.
"So how about this? I tell you everything I've gathered… and then we talk about what you're going to pay me to keep it quiet."
She began in that over-the-top, melodramatic tone of hers—dripping with sarcasm, like every word was part of a performance.
"Oh, mighty one," she said, tossing an imaginary curtain aside, "I entered the noble's castle disguised as a humble maid, ready to scrub floors and peel potatoes. But you know what's funny? You never actually told me what I was supposed to be looking for. So I figured I'd use my tiny little commoner brain and see what caught my eye."
She leaned in a bit, voice lowering, now more serious, but still laced with that unnerving calm.
"The only thing off was this rule—no servant allowed out of their corridor after midnight. Ever. And then, the sounds… soft at first. Whispering voices in the night. Footsteps that didn't belong. And every now and then, one less servant in the morning. But no one talked. No one even blinked."
She paused, letting the silence weigh the room.
"So one night, I decided to break the rule."
Her fingers tapped once on the table, as if keeping time with the memory.
"I followed the sound. It led me to a pair of massive locked doors. Big. Iron-bound. And behind them—" She exhaled, not from fear, but recollection. "Behind them were people. Chained to the walls. Not prisoners. Victims. Barely alive. Eyes pleading. Mouths stitched with silence."
She looked up, expression unreadable now.
"The noble was there. Not just watching. Doing. Performing the old blood arts—the kind that twist life and death, feeding on others to stretch out your own years."
She sat back slightly, arms crossed.
"I ran. Or tried to. The guards were on me fast. Too fast. So I slipped down into the basement to hide."
She closed her eyes for a beat, then opened them slowly.
"It wasn't just a basement. It was a dungeon. A graveyard that hadn't yet finished dying. Bodies piled, some breathing, some not. A place for the forgotten."
Her voice had gone cold now. Flat.
"I made a run for it when I could. They sent guards. Hounds. Vicious things, teeth dripping with hunger. And the rest, well… you already know how that chase ended."
Then she smiled—just slightly, like she was returning from a long walk inside her own memory.
"And now, here we are… back in the present. You, me, and that payment we were about to discuss."
And here's where you comes in—the clever son of a rich merchant, sitting smug in his silks and shadows, pretending he's just a spectator in all this filth. But see, ever since I got here, a little theory's been whispering in the back of my mind. A suspicion I couldn't quite shake.
Now, I can't say it's fact—not yet. But let's imagine for a moment, shall we?
What if you weren't just curious about that noble for no reason at all? What if there was a deal made in some quiet corner of the world—between a desperate young merchant and a man who dabbled in the darkest of arts? You, offering him what he needed—rare substances, illegal and dangerous, the kind of things whispered about in fearful tones. At first, maybe, you were suspicious. Of course you were. Who wouldn't be? But did you raise your voice? Of course not. Who would be so stupid as to challenge a noble?
No, you kept quiet. Took the coin. Took the chance. And by the looks of it, he paid you well—very well. Enough, perhaps, to impress someone. A father, maybe? Someone whose approval you've been chasing your whole life?
And here's the twist of the knife: if he's ever caught for what he's done—if those chained victims ever find their voices again—he won't fall alone. Oh no. He'll drag you down with him, won't he?
So what do you do? You can't spy on him yourself. You can't send someone connected to you—not if it backfires. So you send me. A nameless girl. A commoner. Disposable. If I don't come back, your suspicions are confirmed. If I do, and I talk? Well… here we are.
And now, you see the danger, don't you?
Because if I'm right—and oh, I have a feeling I am—then you've done something terrible. Something people with power and torches and gallows would find very interesting. And I don't think your daddy's coin can bribe away the kind of trouble that comes from being the merchant who fed the butcher his blades.
But then again… what do I know?
I'm just a little commoner girl, right? What would I know about secrets, blood, and the weight of a truth that could shatter your entire world?
The fire cracked. Somewhere behind her, a mercenary stirred in his sleep.
The merchant's face darkened, his hand tightening around his flask.
But Aira didn't blink. Didn't stop.
"I want my payment. And I want information."
The fire cracked behind me, casting long, flickering shadows across the camp.
He stared at me—longer than necessary. A beat too long, like he was sizing me up or maybe wondering if he should laugh in my face or snap my neck.
Then he scoffed. That smug, oily kind of laugh people like him have perfected. The kind that drips with mockery.
"What information does a little girl like you need, anyway?" he said, voice sharp with condescension. "Planning to buy yourself a kingdom with your pocketful of secrets? Or maybe you just want something shiny to brag about in whatever gutter you came from."
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming mean.
"You really think you're playing the same game as me? You're not even on the same board."
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't threaten like a brute or beg like a beggar. She simply stood there, staring into his eyes with a calm that made the night itself hold its breath. The fire crackled, a slow ember hissed, and behind her, the mercenary mumbled in restless sleep.
Then she said it—flat, firm, ice edged with steel:
"I'll take your silence as confirmation about my theory."
She stepped closer, just enough for her shadow to stretch toward him.
"I want my payment. And I'll keep my mouth shut about what I saw. If you try anything… well, I won't be able to stop you. I know that. I'm just a girl, right? All I could do is run and pray the gods let me live through it."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
"But just think—I could become an ally instead. Someone who stays at your side. Someone useful. You've already seen what I'm capable of. All I ask for is what you promised me—my payment. A map of this area. Some rations. Enough to survive."
Then her tone dipped, quiet and venomous, like a curse whispered in a cathedral.
"But if you decide to kill me instead… and if I survive? Then I swear to every god listening that I'll become your greatest enemy. I'll tear your world apart, piece by piece. I'll end your life—and your family's—by my own hands. I'll make you suffer until you beg the stars for the mercy of never having been born."
A beat. A breath. A silence so sharp it could cut bone.
"So. What will it be?"
Then, with a hiss of breath, he reached into his coat and pulled out a pouch. He tossed it across the fire. It landed at her feet with a satisfying clink.
"Heavier than you expected, isn't it?" he said, voice laced with that bitter tone people use when they realize they've lost control of the game.
I didn't bother looking down. Just picked it up—payment, leverage, a promise all wrapped in one.
"You want information?" he muttered as he leaned back, the weight of his guilt or fear sinking into the logs behind him. "Fine. But be careful, little girl. Knowledge is dangerous."
And I smiled.
Not the sweet, innocent kind of smile they expect from someone my size. No. Mine was slow… sharp. Like the edge of a blade you didn't notice till it was already at your throat.
"So am I."
Then I turned my back on him.
Not out of arrogance—no, I wanted him to know I wasn't afraid. I needed him to see that. The fire flickered behind me, casting my shadow long across the snow, stretching like a dark omen from the edge of some ancient tale.
That was my first deal. My first step.
The rules of the game had always belonged to men like him—rich, connected, merciless.
Not anymore.
Now I would be the one writing them. One page at a time.
Me—Aira.
The girl who would carve her own fate, even if it meant burning the old world to build the new.
Dawn came like a bruise spreading across the sky—violet, grey, and cold in that cruel, indifferent way the world always seemed to wake.
I moved fast. Quiet as I could manage. The camp behind me was beginning to stir—mercenaries muttering, firewood cracking—but I was already slipping away, my life packed into a worn satchel: a few crusts of stale bread, a threadbare cloak, and the coin pouch with a old map, I'd earned, held tight to my chest like it might disappear if I breathed too hard.
I caught my reflection in a puddle near the edge of the trail—shallow, rippling in the breeze.
There she was.
Aira, the peasant girl.
Aira, the beggar with a dying sister.
Aira, the foolish child who once believed in things like kindness. Like mercy.
But that girl… she was gone.
Burned away in the dark guts of that castle. Smothered by silence and screams and the stink of old blood.
What stood there now—what looked back at me from that broken mirror—was something else entirely. A shadow wearing my skin. Eyes too old. Hands that wouldn't tremble again.
I needed a new mask. No… not even that. I needed to disappear.
Names were dangerous. Names had histories. They came with bloodlines and chains. I would have none of that.
From now on, I'd be no one.
Just a common girl with nothing in her eyes, nothing on her tongue. A ghost that passed unnoticed. A whisper in the wind.
I would listen. I would learn. I would endure.
And when the time came—when the moment was sharp and perfect—
I would strike.
The road ahead was long. The world was vast. Hungry. Full of teeth.
But for the first time… I felt ready.
The wind that once froze my bones now curled around me like a companion, brushing against my cheek with something almost like encouragement.
Keep walking, it seemed to whisper.
Keep changing.
Keep becoming. greater than you are now and I intend to do just that.