Chapter 1

Prologue

Death for the sake of vengeance benefits no one. Therefore, child, grant forgiveness and mercy, and by so doing perform the most righteous deed of all.

The words were etched into the vaulted stone of the paladin order’s inner sanctum, glowing faintly in the torchlight, a constant admonition to the knights who trained and prayed beneath them. Forgiveness. Mercy. Compassion. These were the ideals by which they swore to live and die.

But that evening, the hall that should have echoed with hymns and chants held only the harsh drag of ragged breathing. No dialogue passed between master and disciple, no murmured prayers filled the cold chamber. There was only the sound of lungs gasping for air, raw and uneven. Somewhere in that rhythm of desperation, a sob threaded through. Yet the source of that weeping could not be identified—whether it belonged to man or woman, to victim or executioner, it was impossible to tell.

And within that suffocating silence, a scene played out that mocked the inscription above the altar. A woman’s hands closed around a man’s throat, strangling the life from him.

She was clad in the white uniform that marked her as a paladin, and upon her breast gleamed the golden badge of command—the insignia of a captain, proof of her authority. But in her eyes there was no trace of the mercy and forgiveness that motto extolled. There was no softness, no compassion. Only a consuming rage and a hatred honed sharp over a lifetime. Her face was distorted with the force of it as she bore down on him, fingers tightening with lethal resolve.

Kill him. I will kill him. I must kill him.

Her heart beat with the vow she had lived by all her life. Every step she had taken, every battle survived, every scar she bore had been for this single end: to find this man, and to end him with her own hands. At last—at long, agonizing last—the moment had come.

Her crimson eyes flared with murderous intent, gleaming like twin shards of molten metal as she pressed harder, and the man beneath her struggled for breath. His chest heaved, his throat convulsed against her grip. He was suffocating, writhing—but then, impossibly, his lips curved into a faint smile.

Why? Why, when life was slipping away from him, did he smile? Was he glad to be killed by her hand, delighted by the intimacy of her wrath? Or was he mocking her instead, smirking at her failure even now, because she had not yet managed to take his life completely?

She could not tell. The ambiguity of it was intolerable, and it only stoked her fury further.

“Little one.”

The words, heavy with a rasp of iron, slipped from his lips. A pet name. A tender diminutive, spoken in a voice that always seemed to caress and corrode in the same instant. Every time he uttered it, her fury rose like a tide; every time she heard it, her killing intent sharpened until she could scarcely contain it.

“Do not,” she hissed through clenched teeth, her voice thick with menace, “call me that.”

Her command was a whipcrack, but he seemed not to hear it—or if he did, he cared nothing for it. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand and laid it over hers, pressing against the grip that sought his life.

It was as though the very hand of death, cold and pitiless, guided hers, leading her gently—courteously—down the path of damnation.

His breath came shallow and ragged, yet his tone was tender, coaxing, almost seductive as he whispered,

“This is how you must do it to kill me.”

It was the devil’s own temptation, a demon urging her to hasten her own ruin.

Chapter 1 – An Ill-Fated Meeting

Deep in the mountains, where trees grew so thick that even the moon’s pale light struggled to reach the earth, a woman ran as though the world itself pursued her. Every exhale tasted of blood, metallic and hot on her tongue. Each inhalation was agony, tearing at her lungs as if they would rip open from the strain.

Behind her thundered something worse than exhaustion. A werewolf—starved and ravid—charged through the undergrowth, its breath foul, its claws eager. It would devour her if she faltered for even a heartbeat. She knew she could not stop. Not to stumble, not to breathe, not to cry. To slow was to die.

Yet desperation tore a plea from her throat regardless. “S-someone—please! Help me! Please, help me!” Her voice cracked, the cry scattering into the night like broken glass. It echoed back from the cliffs, empty and mocking. No one came. No one ever came.

Her legs betrayed her soon after, weakened by terror and fatigue. She tripped, crashed into the dirt, rolled through brambles, and scrambled up again, though her muscles screamed mutiny. She ran until her knees buckled beneath her. And then it happened: a clawed hand—broad as a spade, fingers tipped with knives—caught her by the hair and wrenched her upward.

“Aaahhh!” Her scream tore the night wide open, a howl of despair so raw it might have been mistaken for the beast’s own cry. She twisted in its grip, staring into the predator’s glowing eyes, and in that instant her body knew the truth. This was the end. She was prey, and prey always died.

Her legs dangled useless, her strength poured out like water, and the wolf’s jaws opened wide, slavering for her throat.

And then—

The blade pierced its neck, sliding through fur and sinew as though through paper. A gleam of steel burst crimson-blue as the creature’s blood, not red but ghastly azure, ran down the sword’s edge. The moon caught on the wet metal, casting its glow across the woman’s pale, terrified face. She saw her reflection warped in that sheen, saw the fear writ large across her own eyes.

The sword cut clean, decisive. The wolf’s head fell. Its hulking body collapsed, and the terror that had dominated the forest vanished with insulting brevity. Something that had seemed indomitable died like a beast no more significant than a butchered hog.

The woman hit the ground, limbs slack. Relief washed through her so fiercely that she could not even look up. Her body trembled; her mind emptied. She might have lain there forever if not for the voice.

“Stand.”

Cold. A woman’s voice, yet colder than the winter sea. It froze the marrow in her bones.

The survivor flinched, shivering violently as she dared to lift her gaze. There she was—the one who had slain the monster. Black hair darker than shadow, skin pale as polished ivory. And eyes… eyes as red as spilled blood, glowing like fresh wounds beneath the moon. She was terrible and unearthly, and yet undeniably human.

“Hurry. Leave this place,” the woman commanded, her voice unshaken, her breathing calm. There was no sign in her bearing that she had just felled a beast larger than a horse.

The rescued woman gulped, nodding frantically. “Y-yes, of course. Yes.”

“Follow them,” the dark-haired woman said, tilting her chin toward the foot of the mountain. Below, figures in white surged uphill, armor glinting. Paladins. Men sworn to light and justice, clad in the order’s uniform. They were running toward the carnage with urgent shouts.

“Captain!” one of them cried, voice lifting as he caught sight of her.

The title carried weight. Captain. And not merely a captain—she was the youngest ever to bear it, and the first woman to do so. Erin Ferr, commander of the paladins of Perios.

The survivor fell to her knees at once, recognition dawning with stunned relief. “Th-thank you. Thank you for saving me, Lady Erin.”

But Erin gave no answer. She turned without comment, no acknowledgment in her expression, and began to climb further into the dark woods.

The rescued woman hesitated, mouth opening to call after her. But another knight caught her elbow, steadying her. “You must leave. Quickly. This is werewolf territory.”

“But—my legs… they won’t—” She faltered, trembling too violently to stand.

The knight did not wait for her protest to finish. He bent, swept her into his arms, and barked orders to his comrades. “Down the mountain, all of you. Now.”

In an instant, the band of knights moved, flowing downhill in practiced formation. Only Erin remained, vanishing into the shadows above.

“But—Captain Erin, she’s alone—” the woman whispered desperately.

“Obey her command,” the knight said flatly, brooking no argument.

The woman twisted in his grip, straining to look back. But already Erin was gone, swallowed by the forest, her figure lost to the black canopy. Only silence remained.