Aaron stood, boots planted, the ache in his side a dull hum he barely noticed anymore. His eyes locked on her—the elf—shivering across the room, one eye wide and wild, the other a puckered scar, half her hair gone, patches stitched over wounds like a quilt gone wrong. She screamed, a raw, ragged thing that tore through the quiet. “No! No!”


    Elyra’s hand clamped her shoulder, fingers digging in. “Shush, damn it,” she hissed, voice a whip-crack, low and mean. “Calm the fuck down.” The elf choked on her sob, shrinking behind Elyra’s bulk like a kid hiding from a storm. Her trembling rattled the chair, a faint clatter in the stillness.


    Aaron’s gut twisted. He’d thought her dead—figured Elyra had snapped her neck and tossed the scraps after he’d handed her over, a broken heap of elf in a blood-soaked bag. He could still see it—limbs twisted, bones jutting, the demoness’s handiwork so thorough he’d had to stuff her in a sack small enough for a loaf of bread. “Good job,” he’d told Seraphina then, half-laughing, half-sick. But here she was, patched up, breathing—barely—her one eye a mirror of terror staring straight through him.


    He forced his face blank, dipped his head to the viscount. “Lord,” he said, voice steady, polite as a blade held to a throat. “What’s goin’ on? Why’s a spy elf—years playin’ human—still suckin’ air in your fine company?”


    The viscount’s smile wobbled, a crack in his polish. He waved a hand, robes fluttering like a nervous bird. “Sit, Aaron, sit. No need for that tone.” His voice was honey over gravel, too smooth to trust. “Tell us—how’s the hunting? Progress?”


    Aaron didn’t move. After he had delivered Elyra’s mistake, she took it to heart, whispering to the Nobel sitting before him. he thought it was a chance to grow his circle but alas his own workload doubled, human Nobel’s, anywhere and everywhere, they were the same.


    His eyes flicked to Elyra—stone-still, watching—then back to the lord. “Done,” he said, flat and final. “Finished. Was clear from the start what they wanted.” He let that sit, heavy as a stone dropped in mud. “Could’ve told you day one—I knew. But suspicion’s a messy game. So I cleaned it up instead.”


    The lord’s fingers twitched, smoothing his robe again—once, twice—a tic screaming louder than his words. Elyra’s jaw tightened, just a hair, her gaze sliding to the elf cowering at her side. The air thickened, a storm brewing behind their calm. Aaron’s mind churned. They hadn’t killed her. Hadn’t even tried. And that nervous tic, that flicker in Elyra’s stare—it clicked, sharp and cold.


    ‘….oh! They know now….’ he thought. The great war’s breathing down our necks.


    The fire popped, a sharp crack that split the silence like a bone snapping. Aaron stood rooted, the chamber’s silk walls pressing in, their shimmer mocking the rot beneath.


    He’d seen it. Lived it. The hurricane of chaos and death, a storm so brutal it birthed heroes from the wreckage—Amelia among them, her blade sinking into his chest in that other life, her eyes hard where they were soft now. He glanced at her, standing a step behind, green eyes wide but guileless, her hand twitching toward her sword like it was instinct. So different. So damn innocent. His throat tightened, a knot he couldn’t swallow. He shut his eyes—breathe in, breathe out—then opened them, face a mask.


    “So,” he said, voice steady, playing dumb like a pro, “what’s got you lookin’ like death warmed over, my lord?”


    The viscount said nothing. Just flicked a hand toward Elyra, a weak gesture, like he was passing a burden he couldn’t carry. Elyra’s lips thinned, and she yanked the elf forward, voice low and rough. “Speak.”


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    The elf’s sob broke free, a jagged wail that clawed the air. “Five years,” she rasped, her one eye darting, wild, pleading. “We came—five years back—for her.” She jabbed a trembling finger at Elyra, then shrank back, voice cracking like glass. “Her knowledge. Her spells. To wake the Apocalypse.”


    Aaron’s gut dropped, a stone sinking fast. There it was—the word he’d prayed wouldn’t come, the one he’d tried to outrun. Apocalypse. A war weapon sealed a thousand years ago, a treaty every race swore to—humans, demons, elves, all of ‘em—because it wasn’t just a blade or a spell. It was disaster incarnate, storms and quakes and fire that’d swallow cities whole. He’d seen its echoes in his past life, felt its scars in the heroes it forged. And now these idiots wanted it back?


    He should’ve nabbed Elyra months ago—snatched her from this damn city and bolted, left the elf to rot. Too late now. The truth was out, a splinter under his skin he couldn’t dig free. He straightened, boots scuffing the floor, and faced Elyra square. “I guess I saved yah…..Now, you owe me one,” he said, voice flat, hard as iron. “Big time.”


    She didn’t flinch—just nodded, slow, her eyes sharp but distant, like her mind was already chewing through the mess. She’d known. Maybe not the whole of it, but enough. The viscount cleared his throat, stepping in, his smile forced back into place like a cracked mask. “Aaron, please,” he said, too smooth, too quick. “You’ve done us proud. Take this—” He pressed a pouch into Aaron’s hand, gold coins clinking heavy, then gripped his wrist, a handshake that dug in too deep. “Keep this matter  quiet, as quiet as possible and…..if you have any information on this, please do tell.”


    Aaron pulled free, slow, deliberate, the coins a cold weight against his palm. “Nothin’ to tell,” he lied, meeting the noble’s gaze. Those eyes lingered, narrow and searching, peeling him back layer by layer, a bit desperate. The viscount knew he was full of shit—those instincts were sharp as a blade—but he let it go, hand falling limp, a sigh slipping out like he was too tired to fight it.


    Great instincts as usual, Aaron thought, a dry laugh echoing in his skull.


    He turned, jerking his head at Amelia. “Let’s go.” She followed, steps quick but uncertain, her fingers brushing her sleeve again—a nervous tic he’d memorized. The door thudded shut behind them, heavy as a coffin lid, and the hallway stretched cold and dim, torchlight buzzing like wasps trapped in glass. His boots hit the stone, a steady thump-thump, but his mind raced, a tangle of memory and dread.


    He’d known from the start—five years ago, when the elves crept in, their ember signatures flickering through the city like ghosts. He could’ve spilled it then, warned them all, but suspicion was a noose he didn’t wear well. So he’d hunted, cleaned up their mess, kept his mouth shut. Now? Now it was too late to dodge the storm. The Apocalypse wasn’t just a weapon—it was the end, a force that’d rip this world, for them it was chaos, but for the him back then, it was a ladder, a ladder that reached all the way to the sit of the Demon king.


    The Amelia who’d killed him, her face carved with grief and steel, nothing like the girl trailing him now, muttering under her breath about nobles and their “fancy damn chairs.”


    He stopped, sudden, and she nearly crashed into him. “What?” she asked, brow creasing, voice sharp with worry.


    “Nothin’,” he said, too quick, forcing a grin that didn’t fit. “Just thinkin’.”


    She didn’t buy it—her eyes narrowed, green and piercing—but she let it slide, shoving her hands in her pockets. “You’re a terrible liar.”


    “Am I?” He chuckled, low and rough, and started walking again, slower now, the gold pouch swinging in his grip. The sound of it—clink-clink—grated, a reminder of the viscount’s desperation, Elyra’s debt, the war he couldn’t outrun. He’d wanted to keep her out of it, this Amelia, the one who’d chased him across rooftops and stitched his wounds with steady hands. But the past was a shadow he couldn’t shake, and it was creeping closer, its claws brushing her back.


    Aaron sucked in a breath, letting it burn his lungs clean. He glanced at Amelia, her hair wild from the wind, her jaw set like she’d fight the world if he asked. She didn’t know—not yet—what she’d become, what she’d have to become. Heroes weren’t born easy. They were forged in blood and ruin, and he’d be damned if he let that fire touch her too soon.


    But it was coming. He felt it, a low rumble under his feet, a storm he couldn’t stop. Great instincts, he thought again, bitter, and kept walking, her steps echoing his, steady as a heartbeat he didn’t deserve.