-- Ray --
Within just a few hours of walking, Ray and Caleb reached Tsubuki, the nearest city. When the first distant lanterns came into view, Ray slowed his steps.
"We need to be ready for anything," he said in a low voice. "If Shizen has fallen, this city might already be under Samael's control. We can't afford to let our guard down."
Tension crept into his body again. His shoulders stiffened as his eyes scanned every shadow, every alley. He braced himself for more devastation—burnt houses, soulless stares, dreams trampled under iron boots.
But what they found was... the opposite.
As soon as they crossed through the outer gate, they were met with a city ablaze with life. Bright lanterns danced in the air like stars caught in celebration. Music spilled from open taverns, and colourful fabrics fluttered like banners in a breeze. Laughter rang out from crowded streets, and perfume mixed with the scent of grilled meat and warm bread.
Ray stood frozen, staring as if he'd stepped into another world. People swayed with drinks in hand, stumbling from one inn to the next. Joyful yells, off-key songs, and drunken giggles wrapped around them like an invisible parade. Every few seconds, someone bumped into them, muttered a quick apology, and disappeared into the crowd again.
"It's… peaceful," he said at last, but his voice was full of unease rather than relief.
A drunk stumbled forward, nearly crashing into Ray. "S-sorry there… hic," the man slurred. His hazy gaze swept over both of them. At first, he squinted, then suddenly his eyes widened in exaggerated clarity. Ray's pulse spiked. Could the man somehow see through their disguise? Muscles tightening, he braced himself to strike if needed.
But then the drunk burst into laughter. "Oh holy mother of nature! Hah! What a pair—some odd little hunter and his darling child-bride!" The shout echoed through the street, drawing attention from every direction.
Heads turned. Fingers pointed. Laughter erupted.
A soft growl rumbled from Caleb.
"No kidding," Ray muttered under his breath. "So much for the disguise. Definitely not keeping a low profile."
As they pressed on, more drunken calls and shrill whistles followed, accompanied by stumbling cheers and wild gestures. Ray yanked his straw hat deeper over his brow and hissed, "Let's find the Dancing Stag and get the hell off the street."
Caleb nodded and pointed with one paw. "That might be it."
Ahead, a crowd had formed in front of a squat brick building. The air was thick with sweat and beer, voices overlapping in a messy tangle of shouting and off-key singing. Every few seconds, a fresh belch or hiccup split the din. A quick glance confirmed their destination: above the door arched a grand pair of antlers mounted on a wooden plaque. Below them, painted in ornate gold script, was the name: The Dancing Stag.
No one moved aside as they approached.
The building's forest-green shutters stood open, but the glass was fogged from the press of bodies inside. It was clear the tavern was just as packed as the street outside. Ray sighed and braced himself.
Without hesitation, Caleb surged forward.
"Coming through!" he bellowed in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. "Make way for a proper lady, you drunken swine!"
Each step of his raspy pink dress added an extra rustle to the chaos. Elbows bumped, curses flew, but slowly, grudgingly, the crowd parted just enough for them to squeeze through.
Ray trailed behind, trying not to laugh at the sight. Caleb's stiff expression warned him not to push his luck.
As they navigated the chaos, a few hands reached out—some groping, others curious. Caleb batted them away with sharp, deliberate movements of his strong forearms, his paws striking just hard enough to warn, not to wound. One hand even dared to pinch a frilly sleeve, but Caleb twisted and slapped it aside with a speed that made the offender stumble backward into a barrel of ale.
Ray ducked a swinging mug and followed close behind, heart pounding not from fear, but from the absurdity of it all.
"Remind me to burn this outfit once we've made it out of Tsubuki," Caleb grumbled under his breath.
Ray didn't answer—he was too busy trying not to laugh again.
The crowd finally gave Caleb some breathing room—though not without leaving behind a trail of catcalls and hungry eyes. He ignored the whistles, focusing straight ahead, his whiskers twitching with irritation.
Ray, on the other hand, faced a different kind of attention.
He wasn't groped, but the way eyes clung to him made his skin crawl. Women—some clearly old enough to be his mother—leaned in and purred flirtatious comments.
"Well hello, sweetheart. New in town?"
"Such a handsome boy…"
Younger ones dared only shy glances, giggling behind their hands before casting over-the-shoulder looks that were anything but innocent.
Ray was no stranger to being admired. Back in the Water Tribes, his chiseled features, strikingly deep blue eyes, and long dark hair had earned him more than a few admiring looks. His lean, hardened warrior's body was considered handsome even by tribal standards—but there, he'd been one of many. A face in the crowd.
Here, in Shizen, he might as well have been a sculpture come to life.
Women reached out as he passed, fingertips brushing the skin of his arm, his shoulder. His complexion, a warm blend of olive and caramel, stood in stark contrast to the pale, rose-tinted hues of the locals. That difference—rare, striking—only made him more exotic. More... desirable.
Normally, a little admiration might have amused him. But tonight, under the weight of grief, exhaustion, and their fragile disguise, it was just too much.
He dropped his gaze and pulled the hat lower.
A bold girl stepped directly into his path. "Oh, a war hero," she breathed, and—without warning—lifted her hand to touch his face.
Her fingers grazed the tender, raw scar cutting across his right cheekbone, still red from battle.
Pain flared instantly. His jaw clenched.
The look he gave her could have frozen boiling water.
She stumbled back, startled, muttering a nervous apology as she retreated into the crowd. And yet, her eyes lingered.
Apparently, the wound added just enough tragedy and mystery to turn his ragged cloak and ridiculous straw hat into something alluring.
Ray sighed heavily. "So much for holy and devout. This feels more like a drunken village bacchanal," he muttered to Caleb.
They slipped through the tavern doors without much more fuss—only to find the inside was... well, a bit underwhelming.
Faded crimson sofas slouched in the corners like tired old men, and a chaotic scatter of wooden tables and chairs left barely enough space to walk. The walls were plastered with crooked deer antlers and yellowed paintings, all glorifying the hunt or showcasing overly dramatic portraits of long-forgotten hunters.
"I see the deer," Caleb grumbled under his breath, "but nothing's dancing."
A gilded bar took up most of the far wall, gaudy enough to make Ray blink. Behind it, a burly old man and a young woman were doing their best to keep up with the orders flying in from the loud and thoroughly inebriated crowd. Shelves behind them gleamed gold, crammed with bottles of all shapes and colours—liquor from every region imaginable.
And then Ray spotted it.
A bottle near the center, dark purple with wax-sealed top, label in elegant script. Iceberry Schnapps.
His breath caught. That drink was from Wa—his home. He hadn't even realized they exported it. The memory hit him all at once: chasing friends through thorny iceberry bushes, scraped knees, wild laughter. The sweet sting of his first sip at eighteen, face twisting from the burn while his father and grandfather laughed themselves silly. That night, to save face, he'd downed the whole thing in one go—eyes watering, throat on fire, pride barely intact.
That was only last year.
And yet it felt like a dream from another world. One sip away. One lifetime away.
His chest tightened.
By the time he blinked himself back to the present, Caleb had already muscled his way to the bar—or tried to, at least. The poor guy barely reached the edge. Paws flailing, he tried to get the bartender's attention. But between the swaying drunks and elbow-happy locals, he might as well have been invisible. To them, he was just a kid in a frilly pink dress. Definitely not worth serving.
When Ray finally reached him, Caleb looked ready to explode. Tiny fists clenched, whiskers twitching. If he'd been any more furious, the dress might've combusted on the spot.
Ray sympathized. Caleb didn't take well to being overlooked. And honestly? Neither did Ray. The thing was—while Caleb's temper exploded outward, Ray's just simmered... with style.
A single crooked grin was all it took.
The young barmaid blinked twice and froze mid-pour, clearly not used to seeing someone like him walk through the door—young, clean-faced, exotic. Compared to the rest of the crowd, with their sun-worn skin and grizzled stubble, Ray might as well have come from another planet. Or at least from a fashion magazine.
He didn't blame her for staring.
Most of the patrons looked like they'd come straight from the fields, kicked off their boots, and decided it was time to drink like there was no tomorrow. The tavern wasn't so much cozy as chaotic, but Ray could admit—there was a certain charm to it. If you ignored the spilled beer, the yelling, and the danger of being groped by a stranger.
Well. One step at a time.
The young woman behind the bar looked to be about Ray's age—plain, perhaps, but in an honest, unpolished way. Her ashen-blonde hair was hastily tied up in a bun, though several strands had escaped and now clung to her sweat-slicked forehead. Clearly, her shift had been a long one. She was drying a large mug with a rag that had seen better days when she finally turned toward the two newcomers.
Her voice, thick with a southern Shizen accent and far deeper than Ray had expected from someone her size, rolled across the counter.
"Aye. What can I get ya?"
Her stormy grey eyes gave him a curious once-over.
"We'd like a room," Ray said, keeping his tone as polite and casual as he could. "And if possible… a word with the owner."
"We?" Her brow rose.
She looked around and saw no one beside him. Ray sighed and, with all the grace of someone lifting a sack of rice, hoisted Caleb—still dressed in frills and pink—onto the velvet-topped barstool beside him. The otter warrior's expression could have curdled milk.
"We," Ray repeated, "that's me and…"
He looked at Caleb. There was no graceful way to do this.
"…my little sister," he finished.
Caleb made a noise halfway between a grunt and a groan but wisely kept his mouth shut. The barmaid stared.
"She doesn't exactly look like she belongs in a place like this," she muttered.
"She's older than she looks," Ray replied smoothly, doing his best to project innocence and authority at once.
But the barmaid wasn't buying it. Her stare sharpened as she wiped the same mug again—and again. There was a flicker of something darker in ihrem Blick. Suspicion. As if she were weighing whether Ray might actually be some kind of child smuggler.
Crap.
He leaned in just slightly and let his smile grow crooked, softened his expression, and met her eyes with all the trustworthy charm he could summon. "I promise, it's not what it looks like."
There was a pause. Then she exhaled through her nose, glanced sideways at Caleb, and muttered: "Fine, then then. Follow me."
She placed the dried glass on the long, dark shelf lining the back wall. It was crammed with glassware of all shapes and sizes, casting soft glints of light beneath the hanging golden rack above, which proudly displayed a glittering array of spirits and wines. Despite the clutter and slightly worn-out charm, the bar had its own character. Something about it felt rustic and alive—Wa had taverns like this too. His father would've enjoyed a place like this, Ray thought, probably sitting back with Uncle Haku and groaning about responsibility and family.
The ashy-blonde barmaid tossed her dishcloth over her shoulder and nodded toward a wooden door tucked into the far corner of the room. Without waiting, she stepped around the counter and headed straight for it.
Ray and Caleb exchanged a glance and began following. As the crowd closed behind them and the noise swelled again, Ray leaned in toward his companion.
She turned, disappearing into the back, leaving Ray with a faint flicker of relief… and Caleb with a death glare that could have peeled paint off the wall.
"I hate you a little bit right now," the otter muttered under his breath.
"You'll get over it, sis," Ray whispered, barely hiding his smirk.
Caleb let out a low growl, the frills of his ridiculous dress rustling with every step.
By the time they caught up, the woman had already jammed an old brass key into the door's lock. With a heavy clunk, the mechanism gave way and the wooden door creaked open. A draft of musty air greeted them—cool, dry, and thick with the scent of dust and something faintly metallic.
They stepped inside. The moment the door fell shut behind them, the riotous noise of the tavern dulled to a distant hum. It was replaced by silence so stark it buzzed in Ray's ears.
The hallway was narrow and dimly lit, its wooden floor creaking beneath their steps. Old hunting trophies lined the walls—more antlers, more faded paintings of rugged men with rifles and oversized prey. It was less glamorous than the front room and far more oppressive, but at least it was quiet.
Ray let out a long breath and murmured, "Finally."
Caleb just folded his arms—paws still balled—undoubtedly counting every second he spent in that frilly humiliation.
"We've got a room free—it's all the way up at the top…"
The barmaid marched toward a cluttered shelf, yanking drawers open at random as she searched for the right key.
"…the low ceilings shouldn't be a problem for the little one. And you—you'll just have to duck."Her southern Shizen drawl dragged out the "you" into something longer and flatter, making her sound even more commanding. With every word, her tone grew more irritated. She clearly had no patience for searching—but keeping things in order hadn't crossed her mind either.
Strange woman, Ray thought, watching as she rummaged through a chaotic pile of trinkets, coins, and miscellaneous junk. She cursed softly to herself, slamming one drawer shut and yanking another open. Then, finally, her expression lit up as if she'd struck gold.
"Ha! Got it."
Triumphantly, she pulled out a frayed lanyard with a faded stag emblem embroidered near the top. The copper key dangling from it glinted faintly under the dim hallway lamp.
"This one's yours. You'll find everything you need upstairs. Just keep climbing until you can't anymore. Washing room's down here."She waved a hand lazily toward a door nestled in the shadows beneath the creaky wooden staircase climbing along the right-hand wall.
"Two silvers for the night. We'll sort payment in the morning—it's chaos out there tonight, and I need to get back before the place burns down."
She shoved the key into Ray's palm and turned to leave, already squeezing past them toward the noise of the tavern.
Ray quickly stepped forward. "Wait—can we speak with the owner?"
With an exaggerated sigh, the woman twisted around one last time. "You…"That drawn-out you again—flat and disapproving, like a slap in the face.
"…can talk to my father in the morning. During breakfast. Not before."
"Oh, your father's the owner?"
She raised a single eyebrow. "Yeah. Got a problem with that?"
Ray raised both hands defensively. "No, no. All good. See you in the morning."
The young woman gave a curt nod, raised her hand in a half-hearted farewell, and disappeared behind the door that separated the dusty hallway from the tavern's roaring main room. Ray let out a sigh.
He doubted the room was truly worth two silver.
That suspicion only grew stronger once they reached the top. The stairs had become steeper and narrower with each floor, forcing him to duck the entire final stretch to avoid cracking his skull on the ceiling beams. Had they carried anything more than the little they owned—which was practically nothing—squeezing through would've been a gamble.
The room itself didn't do much to improve the impression. The slanted ceiling and thick wooden beams loomed oppressively overhead, making the space feel smaller than it already was. A single hatch-style window near the roof let in barely any moonlight. The night sky was overcast, casting the room in a dim, murky gloom.
Probably for the better, Ray thought grimly. The less he saw of the corners and surfaces, the easier it was to ignore the musty scent of dust and age that filled his nostrils.
In one corner stood a battered water spout with a dented tin bucket below it—apparently their washing station. In another, a sagging metal rod passed for a clothing rack. Ray eyed it with suspicion. It looked like it might collapse and rip through the roof if he dared hang his fur cloak on it.
At the center of the room was a single bedframe. Crooked. Creaky. Definitely older than both of them combined.
"Well, it's going to be cozy."
Despite the grim setting, Ray felt genuine relief to be under a roof again—no cave floor, no biting wind, no constant fear of being hunted in the dark. He let himself fall onto the patched-up mattress. Dust exploded from it like a firework. He coughed violently, eyes watering, and cursed as the fresh scar on his cheek flared up with pain.
Caleb, meanwhile, had all but shredded the frilly pink dress the second they entered. With one huff of disdain, he tossed the fabric aside and curled up next to Ray on the bed—still grumbling.
Ray wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes and looked down at his hands. Moisture clung to his knuckles, tracing the thin network of scabs and cracked skin that covered them—half remnants of battle, half the result of fishing, foraging, and surviving in the wild.
What had he become?
A fugitive. Hiding from one ruined shelter to the next. Living in the shadows like a wounded beast.
Frustration swelled inside him. He clenched his battered fists and shut his eyes, trying to force the anger back down. It rose anyway, curling hot through his veins like smoke.
It wasn't just rage. It was shame. Guilt.
He had failed to protect Wa—the place he had once sworn to defend. Caleb had told him again and again: they never stood a chance. That no one could've stopped what happened. But those words rang hollow now. They were too easy, too convenient. An excuse to ease a coward's conscience.
Ray exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. Inhale. Exhale. Just breathe.
But the images wouldn't fade. The fire. The screams. The ashes that once were homes and laughter and childhood.
A low growl rumbled from his throat.
His fist slammed into the wooden beam just above his head with a dull thud. The pain shot up his arm—but it wasn't enough. Not nearly.
He struck again. Then again. Faster. Harder. Skin split under the force of it, blood blooming across his knuckles in a vivid red streak. It was messy, senseless—and it still didn't drown out the accusing voice in his head.
Coward.
You ran.
You're not a warrior. You're nothing.
"I'm pathetic," Ray hissed between clenched teeth. "What am I even doing here? What's the point?"
He hit the beam once more, his voice rising.
"I have to—"
Another blow. His hand screamed in pain.
"I have to—!"
Caleb sat up again, his gaze calm but firm as it met Ray's.
The fury inside Ray surged, hot and suffocating, clouding every thought. His breath trembled as he spoke."I have to go back. I have to save my people. I have to—"
"You have to calm down first."Caleb's voice was steady, cutting through Ray's whirlwind of rage like a blade through water."Broken fingers won't win us anything."
"I don't need to calm down!" Ray snapped. "Maybe you should stop being so calm! Calm won't save anyone! We need to act! What am I if I do nothing?!"
His whole body shook. It felt like lightning was crawling through his blood, burning his veins from the inside.
"Alive," Caleb said dryly.
"You turned us into traitors! We should've fought to the last breath, side by side! You—"
Caleb closed his eyes and let Ray's accusations roll over him like a tide, not flinching, not blinking.Ray's voice rose into a shout, raw and unsteady."LISTEN TO ME!"
"We can't just sit around," he repeated, fists clenched. "We have to—"
The words hadn't even left his lips before his body moved. Fueled by his own fury, Ray jumped from the sagging bed—too quickly, too blindly.
With a loud thud, his skull slammed into one of the low wooden beams overhead. He dropped like a stone, crashing back onto the mattress, stunned.
His vision blurred. Pain throbbed across his forehead. Silence followed.
"…And that's exactly what happens when we act without thinking," Caleb said coldly.
Now it was the otter's turn to speak, his tone sharp and unwavering."You think you can just scream at me and call me a traitor? You think you can storm back to Wa and single-handedly tear through the red-and-black army? What a joke."
He let out a barking laugh."Ha. You arrogant little idiot."
His eyes blazed with heat—not rage, but something worse. Conviction."You should be grateful you're still breathing. Grateful you still have the chance to fight smart instead of throwing your life away. Because that's the only chance we've got."
Caleb's voice dropped lower, heavier."There's nothing to go back to. Wa is gone. The Southern Water Tribe has fallen. And all that fire inside you? That's not bravery—it's childish delusion."
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing."You and I might be the last chance our people have. So pull yourself together and think. What you do next matters. More than your pride, more than your anger."
Caleb's muzzle curled, voice like ice."Because right now, the way you're acting? You're just a reckless, wounded brat. Nothing more."
The otter let out a disdainful snort."I always thought you were destined for greatness. Not just some spoiled chieftain's brat. But maybe I was wrong about you—"
"No. You—"
Ray clamped his arms over his head.The rage still pulsed through his veins, bitter and hot, but he forced himself to take another breath—deep, slow, steady. His temper had no place here. That much hit him all at once.
"…You're not wrong about me," he said at last, voice trembling."I can do this."
He turned to Caleb, breath shallow, chest aching."I'll avenge them all," he whispered. "But with a clear mind. No more rushing in. You were right. I'm sorry."
He bowed his head—not just as a sign of apology, but to hide the tears that now slipped freely down his cheeks. Hot, angry tears. Grief-filled tears. Unlike anything he'd ever felt before. He felt so small. So useless.
Maybe Caleb saw something in him—something worth believing in—but Ray couldn't see it himself. Not now. Not tonight. All he saw was failure.
Failure to protect his people.Failure to fight back.
Pathetic.
A moment verging on silence passed between them.
Then Caleb, without a word, reached out and placed a paw on Ray's shoulder. Firm. Warm. Unshaking. Ray flinched, surprised by the gesture—but didn't pull away. The quiet weight of it said more than words: You're not alone. You're still here. I'm still here.
The otter said nothing more. He just gave a soft snort, rolled over, and tugged an old blanket up to his chin. Ray wiped his cheeks, drew a shaky breath. Both sank into the lumpy pillows, exhausted. Caleb's steady breathing soon turned into soft snores, but Ray lay awake, staring through the skylight into the quiet night above.
The stars above were distant. Silent. Cold.
And as the weight of everything settled heavy on his shoulders, he made a vow—one so sharp and absolute it echoed through his very soul.
He would avenge his people.
No matter the cost.
He would not rest. Not until the scent of iceberries returned to the wind, and Wa was more than a memory.Not until those responsible faced justice.
Not until Samael had fallen.