With the waning moon overhead, Ivy advances through the remains of the camp on the banks of the clear water river, where colorful minnows nibble at the faces of the men who tried to escape and ended up submerged. With the gnarled wooden staff and two angry faces at the tip, the witch pushes aside the swords, bows, and hammers that the bandits raised but never used. In the expressions of the open-eyed and open-mouthed stiffs, there is a permanent and mute plea for help. None of those subjects must have known what attacked them, but they did have time to understand that their lives were over. Ivy does not know if the perpetrator of the nine deaths had it all planned, or if the situation was the result of chance. Knowing the history of executions, it was most likely the first option.

"We have to keep watching her" Ivy says very seriously, without turning around. The cold wind stirs the berries hanging from the maroon ribbon around the cone of her wide, black hat. The boy behind the witch's back nods, but without a word. Such a taciturn attitude from the boy is not strange to the witch, silences in Camui are usually commonplace, but after two cycles of seasons traveling together, Ivy learned to detect the non-conforming silences from the normal ones. The annihilator turns with a small smile. "You've been spying on her for too long. Feel sympathy?"

The brown-haired boy keeps his dark-eyes averted. His face retains some boyish fat, but his bare arms show slight muscles every time he pulls them out of their skin layer and flexes them, consequences of training and dangers overcome.

"I don't think she's a bad person" Camui says in a distant, impersonal tone, as if throwing the words to the wind.

Ivy nods and returns her attention to the center of the camp, to the pot on the fire, boiling with a stew that miraculously did not end up overturned during the brawl, or would it be more accurate to say massacre?

"I think like you, Camui, but..." Ivy's gaze passes from the pot to the nearby tree, with its black, leafless branches, on whose trunk the body of the leader of the thieves hangs nailed. Split open like a fish, with guts and organs falling out like a sinister, slimy curtain, and a hole the size of a fist where the heart should be. "We must be ready for anything, even killing. These are the drastic measures necessary when talent becomes error. You wanted a mission, right? It's healthy learn to accept the trials with all they entail"

Camui nods, his eyes suffused with a calm coolness, the same that shimmers when he hunts or carves a sculpture. He squats down next to the stew and picks up the metal spoon left on the side of the firewood. He stirs the meats and vegetables. It tastes good, so he decides to finish the thieves' job. His grandfather taught him never to waste.