Rules For The Bled

When night fell, Yvain and Adeline were left with the bare bones of survival. The cold seeped into their bones like creeping frost, and the hunger clawed through their bellies with dull persistence. The only sound was the crunch of their weary feet on dead leaves and the occasional hoot of an unseen owl in the treetops.

Yvain missed the bard most in moments like this. Mars, the man had a talent for making suffering bearable. There would have been jokes, a fire coaxed from nothing, maybe even a song to distract them from the ache in their limbs and the emptiness in their guts.

"I'm exhausted," Adeline muttered, slumping against a tree. Her breath came in ragged, shivering pulls.

Yvain had been watching her for hours, how her gait had faltered, how the lines around her eyes had deepened. She was reaching her limit. In truth, so was he.

"Just a few more minutes," he said, offering his hand. "There's a camp not far from here."

She hesitated, then took his hand. "How do you know that?"

"Augury. Simple cantrip."

Adeline looked at him sidelong as they started forward again. "Is that how you knew I had monster blood?"

His brow arched slightly. "Celeste?"

She nodded, and he exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.

"It was your aura," he explained. "It… hums. Not like a human. Not entirely."

"You're not going to ask?"

"Ask what?"

"You know what," she snapped, more tired than angry. "Do all augurs pretend not to know what they see?"

"Surveillance breeds distrust," he said, stepping over a root.

They walked for a moment in silence, the woods dim and close around them.

"Celeste said she didn't care what brand of vermin I was," Adeline muttered. Her voice was even, but Yvain couldn't tell if the words stung or amused her. "I suppose you don't either."

He didn't respond immediately, so she continued. "It was your people, after all, that hunted mine into the Ashen Lands."

Yvain felt the weight of her accusation, though it was nothing new. His ancestors had been both conquerors and gods, saints and butchers. They had carved history in blood and fire, leaving behind as many curses as they did legacies.

Still, this one was complicated.

The Endless had four children. Angels, his intended creations. Demons, born of his waste. Humans and monsters, born from the wound left by his grief.

After the Deluge that started the Second Age, when the world was still recovering, monsters and humans were left fighting over the scraps. Humankind had sorcery. The Nephilim clans. They won. The Spear-Kings of Old hunted dragons, then learned to ride them. In doing so, they turned the strongest monsters against their own kin.

And then Babel was built on the bones. By nine clans, called the Ennead, they made it a homage to the superiority of mankind. And thus, the Third Age began.

"Woe to the conquered," Yvain muttered, more to himself than to her. "If monsters had won, we would be the ones scratching in the dark."

He didn't say it with pride. Nor shame. Just fact.

Adeline's reply never came.

They had stepped into a clearing, and there, surrounding a modest fire, sat five armed men. Brigands, by the look of them. Their clothes were worn, armor mismatched, swords rusting in battered sheaths. A pot of something oily and bubbling hung over the flames, the only sign of comfort in the otherwise crude camp. Horses were tethered nearby, steam rising from their flanks in the cold night air.

All five looked up at once, the firelight throwing shadows across their faces. Their expressions shifted quickly, from surprise to caution, then something more primal.

Yvain raised a hand in what he hoped was a disarming gesture. "Apologies for the intrusion. We've been walking all day and were hoping to warm ourselves for a short while—"

He paused, realizing how pointless the act was. These weren't men who shared fire out of kindness. They were wolves, and they had just scented blood. Even if he tied them up and gagged them, he wouldn't sleep a wink near them.

One of the brigands stood and approached, a half-grin on his face. "You look half-dead, friend. Come, share the fire. There's soup, if you don't mind bones."

The smile never reached his eyes.

Yvain spoke without looking away from the man. "Should I kill them, or will you?"

"I'll do it," she said.

Their strange exchange drew startled silence from the men for a beat, then laughter broke out, loud and jeering, echoing through the trees.

"You hear that, lads?" the first one cackled. "She says she'll do the killing!"

"I'd let her," another laughed, elbowing his friend.

"She's welcome to try—"

Adeline's eyes shimmered suddenly, like ink spilt into water. The laughter died, choked mid-breath, as the fire's crackle became the only sound.

Their gazes shifted. One by one, the brigands' faces slackened, expressions softening into worshipful obedience. Pupils dilated. Mouths parted slightly.

"Find the nearest river," she whispered, her voice a thread of silk winding into their minds. "And walk into it."

The men rose as one. Not a word spoken. Their weapons were left behind, forgotten. They turned, walking in eerie unison into the dark, vanishing between the trees like dreamers pulled into a nightmare.

Yvain stared after them, listening to the crunch of leaves.

Adeline stepped forward and stirred the soup with the ladle they'd left behind.

"They'll be dead within the hour," she said, matter-of-factly. "Would you like some?"

Yvain nodded, and Adeline handed him a tin plate filled with the steaming broth. It wasn't anything remarkable, just bits of stringy meat, soft root vegetables, and an oily surface that glistened in the firelight, but when hunger gnawed at your ribs, even the humblest meal could taste divine.

When they were done, they doused the fire, burying the embers in soil. Neither spoke much during cleanup. These woods were far from safe, especially at night.

"It's going to get very cold," Adeline murmured, her voice low as she picked through the remains of the brigands' camp, retrieving a rough, scratchy blanket that looked older than she was.

"It will," Yvain agreed, already feeling the chill bite through his clothes like teeth.

"We should huddle together," she said without pretense, holding the blanket in one hand.

He blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Right. Makes sense."

They slipped beneath the blanket, shoulders touching. Her body was warm and soft against his, the nearness of her presence stirring an old, treacherous memory of the bathhouse in Canthia. How close they'd been. How tempting.

He hadn't forgotten. Not even close.

Then she spoke, her voice quiet but clear. "I'm a siren," she said, eyes fixed on the dark treeline. "Half-siren, actually."

He turned slightly toward her, the weight of the revelation sitting between them like another body.

She met his gaze, then shifted so they faced each other fully, their breaths warming the narrow space between them. Her eyes were dark pools lit with quiet defiance, or perhaps hope.

"I came with you," she said, "because I thought you might understand. Being half of something, and never fully whole."

Yvain's eyes lingered on her lips, plush and parted slightly. Then he looked into her eyes, saw the raw truth of what she offered, not seduction, but something far rarer. Vulnerability.

"I do," he whispered.

"I've realized you don't," she said quietly, sitting up so that the shawl pooled around her waist. Her shoulders were bare, goosebumps rising in the cool air, but her voice was steady. "They fear Nephilims, but there's awe in it too. Reverence, even. The same way people fear storms. But us? Us monsters?" Her mouth twisted. "All they have left for us is disgust."

As she spoke, her form shimmered faintly, like a mirage. Her features dissolved and rearranged, cheekbones softened, lips narrowed. Her hair bleached itself bone-white, curling slightly at the ends, and her skin deepened to the rich tone of Yvain's own, marked by pale vitiligo blooms that spilled like constellations across her shoulders and arms.

"Celeste," Yvain breathed, blinking.

"Imagine what kids did to someone who could do this at will," Adeline muttered. Her voice came from Celeste's mouth now, but it was unmistakably her own, resentful and bitter. "They called me a liar, a witch, a demon. I made the mistake of trying to be liked. That was the first lesson."

She shifted again. This time into a bronze-skinned woman with thick, dark curls. Then into a long-limbed red-skinned creature with slit-pupiled eyes and spiraling horns. Yvain flinched, not in fear, but in recognition. The image tugged at a half-remembered page from a bestiary.

"You were raised in a castle," she said, her voice steady now, heavier. "Groomed for glory. Trained to retake your throne like it was your birthright. I was raised being told I shouldn't be. That I was some divine oversight."

"I don't think you're a mistake," Yvain said.

She looked at him for a long moment, then sighed and shifted back. Pale skin, raven-dark hair, those old eyes of hers full of unshed fury and bone-deep sorrow.

"The world doesn't care what you think," she replied flatly.

Yvain reached for her, pulling her into him. Her head rested on his chest, and she let him hold her.

"Then the world is wrong," he murmured into her hair.

She chuckled, soft and wry, curling into his warmth. "Is that an imperial decree, Your Grace?"

"It is."