The sky hasn't been visible for weeks.
Enya walks with her head down, gray scarf pulled up to her nose. Smoke still seeps into her lungs. Beneath her boots, the metal bridge groans with every step. Around her, the Spire wheezes steam and rust from every crack.
Above, the Upper Ring disappears beyond the tangle of ducts and suspended platforms. That's where the ones who still call the sun by name live. Below, the Undercity yawns open like a wound that never stops bleeding.
She moves through the Middle Ring without slowing. Steam-stained stalls peddle synthetic meat and spoiled milk. A child watches her with wide eyes behind a too-large gas mask. She doesn't look back. Keeps walking.
A scuffle. Two men slammed against a wall. A third raises a baton. "Contract fell through, huh, you piece of shit?"
Not her problem. She doesn't slow.
Below her, a platform gives out. A group of workers falls in a burst of steam. No one screams. No one looks up.
Every step is memory. She grew up here. Sold matches here. Lost her parents here. Burned a throne here.
Iron Spire, she thinks. The higher you climb, the harder it crushes.
The door to Gothel's palace is wedged between two walls of acid-sweating pipes. Enya knocks once. The lock clicks. No one opens.
Two guards—mercenaries—watch her from the shadows. One holds a knife. The other, a pistol. Both silent. Neither dares meet the gaze of the Fire Witch of Hell. They know what she can do.
She enters. The room smells of lavender. But beneath it lies old blood, thick and drowned in sickly-sweet perfume.
Gothel sits in her armchair, smiling with the elegance of a decaying queen. A man stands beside her—not smiling at all.
He's not from the Spire. Too clean. Too upright. His tunic bears gold stitching—patched in places where fabric should be flawless. Religious symbols on the sleeves, but he moves like military. And those eyes… glassy. Almost artificial.
"Finally," Gothel says. "Meet the client."
The man nods. "I need you, Fire Witch."
Flat voice. As if he doesn't understand the nickname. Or doesn't care.
"Target name?"
"None."
Enya raises an eyebrow.
"No need. It's... an abomination."
Silence.
He continues. "Spotted in the lower levels. Old ruins."
"Why not send soldiers?"
The messenger doesn't answer. But for a second—just a flicker—his gaze falters. Enough for Enya to see inside his soul.
She turns to Gothel. "A trap."
Gothel tilts her head ever so slightly. "They pay well."
"Who are they?"
"Don't ask, Enya." Her voice is sweet, but the tone—iron.
The messenger draws out a small vial. Inside: a genuine imperial gold coin. Real. Untouched. "A whole shipment awaits, once the job is done."
"Total flames," he adds. "Nothing left. No words. No contact. Burn everything."
Enya stares at him. "You don't talk like a churchman."
"I'm not."
"Or an imperial."
"Doesn't matter."
"Yeah. It never does."
Gothel rises, smooths her dress, steps close. Tilts her face toward Enya's, brushing her chin with icy fingers.
"Burn it, my dear," she whispers. "Like you burned Henry. Like you burn everything you touch."
The messenger twitches—barely—when Gothel mentions the Emperor's end so casually. Enya notices. That's the effect of the Fire Witch of Hell.
The ruins are alive. But they don't breathe.
Enya moves in silence, her steps muffled against the thick dust blanketing every surface. The ceiling is shattered. Pillars corroded by time and soot. Cables dangle like torn entrails.
Sometimes, a whisper of wind. Or maybe not. Maybe something moving.
No need for a torch. Her pupils adjust. The air reeks of iron and burnt oil.
In the first corridor: wreckage.
War automatons, twisted into scrap. Some still smoldering, as if death came moments ago.
Enya crouches by one. The Empire's symbols are scratched out. Not cut. Scraped away—slowly. Methodically.
A message.
A hatred.
She passes a shattered door. Inside, an entire wall is blackened. The mark of an internal blast. Not from the outside.
Something here reacted. Learned.
She stiffens.
A sound.
A footstep—no, too fluid to be a step. Too slow for an attack.
Her breath shortens. Muscles tense. Fire stirs inside her—familiar as poison.
A figure among the debris. A stretched shadow cast by the reflection in a pool of water.
She doesn't hesitate.
She lunges forward.
Only one word escapes her lips:
"Burn."
Flames. Crimson, hungry, alive. A storm from the depths of Hell, devouring all. The room ignites like a living furnace.
Flames that sing. Flames that remember.
"Nothing must remain."
Then, silence. Smoke rises like a broken prayer.
But it's not over.
From the heart of the fire... something moves.
Enya freezes. Cold sweat beads on her brow.
A figure walks through the flames.
Not running. Walking.
Unaffected.
The fire bends around him. Brushes him. But doesn't touch him.
His face becomes clearer with each step.
Skin—perfect, gleaming. Golden eyes reflecting every spark.
Black hair, softly curled, neck-length, flawless.
No armor, only elegant clothes and a long coat untouched by the flames that once reduced an emperor to ash. No weapons.
Just... beauty.
Enya steps back. She hadn't expected this. How could she?
This is no abomination—not in appearance, not in gaze.
Monsters snarl. Attack.
This one doesn't.
This man—if he is a man—is calm. Not a drop of bloodlust in him.
He stops.
No sound. No threat.
Just a look. Deep. Unnerving. Almost... curious.
"You're not like the others," he says. His voice is low, but clear.
Enya raises her hand. A small flame dances on her fingers.
"One more step and I'll turn you to ash."
He tilts his head. Doesn't smile. But doesn't stop either.
Takes one step forward.
The flame bursts in a flash, then vanishes. Enya grits her teeth.
"Who are you?"
Silence.
Then:
"I don't know yet."
Enya feels something break inside.
Not a weapon. Not an alarm.
A deeper fracture.
He... isn't lying.
She knows. She feels it.
But it's impossible. No one survives her fire. No one remains standing.
And no one looks at her like that.
As if they saw her rage.
And didn't fear it.
As if… they accepted it.
He doesn't move. But the space between them feels tighter. As if the darkness itself were holding its breath.
"Stay back," Enya whispers. Her voice trembles. She doesn't know why.
No—she does. She just doesn't want to admit it.
Fire pulses beneath her skin. A red ring in her eyes. Veins glowing like molten threads.
"Stay back."
Nothing. He watches her. Not with defiance. With... attention. Like a reader studying a rare book. As if every reaction of hers were a page to be deciphered.
Enya's heart pounds. Too hard. Too fast.
Her breath breaks.
The ground tilts for a moment—or maybe it's her.
The room closes in.
Panic.
Slow. Invisible. Lethal.
Flames erupt from her hands. Tall. Spectral. Hungry.
But she doesn't launch them.
She holds them back. Shackled.
She sees them tremble in the air, restless.
But she can't release them.
As if something is stopping her.
As if he is stopping her.
"Why...?" she murmurs.
He doesn't answer. Takes half a step forward.
Then—
The side wall explodes into a thousand shards.
Black smoke. Sulfur. Something acidic in her throat.
Not a bomb.
Alchemy.
Enya drops to her knees. Ears ringing. Vision shaking.
The fire—out of control—writhes around her, aimless. Like a blind serpent.
Gunfire. Screams.
But not aimed at her.
A figure moves.
Him.
He bolts forward like a living shadow. The flames don't touch him. Smoke follows him.
He hurls himself at the newcomers. Inhuman speed. Surgical precision.
A clean strike. A scream. A blade sent flying.
Enya watches him through the chaos.
She can't breathe.
She can't understand.
Why is he fighting for her?
He moves through the bullets as if time slowed just for him.
The shots bounce off. Some hit him dead center. They leave no mark.
A saber swings down—he catches it with his bare hands. The metal halts, vibrates, then snaps.
An alchemical vial bursts at his feet. Green liquid splashes everywhere. No effect.
Enya rises. Her hands tremble. Her breath scrapes her throat.
Enough.
Her heart hammers in her chest. Too much.
First the trap mission. Then him. Those words. That look.
And now—the ambush.
Blood. Smoke. Confusion.
A corpse falls nearby. Its cloak falls open.
A silver-etched symbol gleams: the Church's Broken Cross.
Inquisitors.
Enya's eyes narrow.
The world trembles.
The Church.
It wasn't a job.
It never was.
It was a trap. Enya knew it. Now she's only certain.
Maybe Gothel knew.
Maybe not.
And Neve…?
If, for any reason, the deal Enya struck with Gothel four years ago had been broken—
A deep growl escapes her throat.
Then: silence inside.
And right after: fire outside.
Hell descends.
Crimson flames devour everything in those filthy ruins.
This isn't like before. This time, it's personal.
The Inquisitors scream, writhe. Their armor melts into their flesh. Sabers drip molten steel.
The silver sigils blacken, shatter, vanish.
Even that unnaturally beautiful, superhuman figure is swallowed by the fire.
Yet he doesn't scream.
Doesn't move.
The flames wrap around him. Try to consume him with the others.
They don't touch him.
Enya screams. Not from pain. Not from rage.
But because it's too much.
Too many questions.
Too much power.
Too much fear.
The fire rises. Seals into a living, roaring dome.
Then—
A rupture.
A clean strike. Impossible to follow.
Like a line of liquid light slashing through the world.
The fire splits in two.
A blow laced with pure magic—straight, precise, devastating.
The invincible man dodges at the last second.
He doesn't catch that blade with bare hands like before.
If that strike had hit him—
He would have died.
A shadow crosses the flames.
Not fire. Not smoke.
Presence.
His sword is as long as a man. The blow that split Enya's inferno came from that blade.
The man steps forward, his face half-hidden by a hood. The symbol of the Broken Cross is etched on his chest, framed by runes that glow faintly with each step.
"Noah," he says calmly. "Captain of the Inquisition."
The sword pulses with runic light, still humming with the last strike.
"You won't burn another of my men, witch."
Enya stares, frozen.
She had heard stories of runic weapons—forbidden relics of the Evil Queen, once kept in the treasure vaults of the Enchanted Dominion.
But that chamber had been collapsed by King Florian himself.
Destroyed. Sealed.
And yet—he wields one.
Behind him, the surviving Inquisitors retreat in silence.
They're not fleeing.
They're hiding. Like children gripped by panic.
Sheltering behind their captain.
Noah is not like the others.
He is a warrior.
A real one.
His gaze settles first on Enya. Then on Ravan.
His expression doesn't change.
No surprise. No fear.
Who was the target?
Her? Him? Both?
Maybe they wanted Enya to burn the "abomination,"
Then capture her, drained,
Turn her into another weapon for the Church.
Or maybe the other way around.
There's no time.
The invincible one and Noah lock eyes.
Man against man.
Superhuman power against sacred steel.
Then—they move.
The duel erupts.
Speed. Precision.
The clash of blade against fists.
Runic slashes against impossible strikes.
Enya doesn't move.
Fire burns beneath her skin.
But she doesn't know where to send it.
Who to strike.
What to believe.
The Inquisitors hold back, confident.
Noah will protect them. As always.
But Enya—
She's not thinking about them.
She's thinking about Neve.
All she can see is her little sister.
Pale. Fragile.
Without medicine. Without protection.
What if they've already taken her?
What if this is the start of blackmail?
Or the end of the truce?
Her hands shake. Her chest tightens.
Then:
tears.
They fall slowly down her cheeks.
She thought they were dry for years.
Didn't even think she had any left.
Inside her, something stirs.
A voice.
Warm. Seductive. Cruel.
It slithers through memory. Through scars.
"Burn."
It whispers.
Doesn't shout.
Doesn't command. It tempts.
"Burn everything. Like you did before."
Where has she heard it?
When?
Four years ago.
In the silence after death.
When her parents' bodies lay without justice.
When no one came.
When Enya decided to fuse an emperor to his throne.
The voice was there.
It's still there.
In front of her, Noah and the invincible man fight.
Metal rips the air.
Energy vibrates through the walls.
Every blow draws the moment closer.
Enya watches.
She trembles.
She must choose.
Silence.
Inside. Outside. Everywhere.
Enya shuts it all down.
The voice that slithers through her scars.
The fear pounding in her temples like war drums.
The rage—that loyal companion for four long years, night after night, in every rotting dream.
She silences it all.
And she chooses.
A scream erupts from her throat—inhuman.
It isn't sorcery. It isn't human.
It's pain unleashed. It's truth, burning.
A torrent of flame crashes into Noah.
It doesn't consume the man who had been fighting him.
This time, she avoids him—with surgical precision.
Noah tries to block. The runic blade glows.
But it's not enough.
The fire slams into his shoulder.
His left arm twists, scorched down to the bone.
The sound he makes is closer to a snarl than a scream.
"Retreat!"
His voice is hoarse. But it's an order.
The Inquisitors don't hesitate. They run.
They crawl out of the ruins now turned into a portrait of hell.
Then—nothing.
The fire dies out in an instant.
As if Enya had cut the thread of the world.
All that remains is unbearable heat. And acrid smoke.
Silence returns.
Heavier than any scream.
He remains still.
Those golden eyes don't leave her.
They watch. They don't judge.
Enya collapses to her knees.
Panting.
Breath like molten iron in her lungs.
Minutes pass.
Endless.
Motionless.
Then—a step.
Slow. Cautious. But not fearful.
He approaches.
Not out of fear.
Not out of pity.
But with… satisfaction.
As if something had just been confirmed.
As if that act—that choice—told him that maybe
she isn't just "the Witch."
Maybe she's like him.
A lost soul in a cruel world.
He offers his hand.
Time breaks.
The moment stretches.
Her heartbeat halts.
Enya lifts her eyes.
And chooses again.
She takes the hand.
Pulls herself up.
Then lets it go—brutally.
Cuts the contact like one severs a bond before it takes root.
She doesn't trust.
She doesn't trust anyone.
He watches her.
Calm. Unyielding.
Still as a statue watching the tide.
Then he speaks a single word:
"Ravan."
She looks at him.
For a long moment.
Then murmurs:
"Enya."