Belial watched as Xin walked away, his back rigid, shoulders trembling with restrained emotion.
The dead girl still lay cradled in his arms like something sacred—something worth protecting, even in death. The firelight danced on Xin's face, highlighting the storm that twisted behind his eyes. He hadn't said another word after that final blow, hadn't looked back.
Belial didn't blame Xin. He couldn't.
As the shadows swallowed Xin's figure, something twisted in Belial's chest—a feeling so foreign it took him a second to realize it was guilt.
Crap… I messed up.
He let out a breath, shallow and slow, trying to suppress the ache that had been building in his leg ever since Xin's outburst. A fresh wave of pain surged up from his thigh, biting like a burning brand. He clenched his teeth. That hit hadn't been verbal.
Belial slowly lowered himself to sit against a wall near the camp's edge, out of sight from the others. He rolled up the blood-darkened edge of his pants, revealing the clean, angled slice through his leg. Shallow, but deep enough to throb with every movement. He hadn't even registered the blow in the moment. All he could think about was keeping his composure—keeping Xin from seeing the limp, the weakness.
I didn't mean to say it like that...
His voice barely escaped his lips, a whisper carried away by the wind. He'd been trying to keep his distance, to make sure no one noticed just how much pain he was in. Xin especially. If he had, he would've never let it go.
So Belial had done what he doesn't normally do—put up the walls, played the part. Cold. Detached. Practical. The survivor. He'd spoken not out of habit, not intent. It was easier that way. Easier than admitting how helpless he'd felt when he saw Xin holding that girl.
Easier than saying, _I Didn't have choice...
The words had come out like blades—he didn't mean to day those words he dint want to say those words he just wanted to push Xin away temporarily so he can heal.
"It hurts," he muttered again, staring at the wound. But it wasn't the gash that made his hands tremble—it was the look on Xin's face.
Disappointment.
No...no it was worse.
Betrayal.
Belial leaned his head back against the rock and closed his eyes, trying to push it all away. But the moment replayed itself, looping over and over again—the fury in Xin's voice, the fire behind his words.
You don't get it! She was just a kid!
Belial did get it. Far too well. That was the problem. He remembered too many faces like hers. Too many bodies that didn't make it. Too many times he'd had to move on, because stopping meant dying. He'd learned to bury the pain before it ever reached the surface.
But Xin hadn't. Not yet. And now… maybe he never would.
"Damn it," he hissed, slamming a fist into the wall. The pain from his leg flared again, and this time, he welcomed it. Physical pain was easier to manage—it bled, it healed. Words? Trust?
Those left scars no one could see.
He hadn't wanted things to go sour between them. Xin was—no, is—his friend. One of the only people he trusted, even if he never said it. Belial respected Xin's heart, his fire. Hell, he admired it. That refusal to accept death, to accept the rules of this world. Belial had once felt the same. Before knowing the veiled truth. Before everything.
But somewhere along the line, he'd stopped believing in that kind of hope.
He wasn't sure when it happened—just that it had. And now he was left staring at the damage he'd caused, watching Xin disappear into the darkness with a dead girl in his arms and fury in his chest.
Belial closed his eyes again. I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't want to say those words.
But he had.
What was worse
He wasn't sure Xin would ever forgive him for it...
The wind shifted, and he heard soft footsteps from the camp. Someone was approaching. Belial quickly rolled his pant leg down, wiped the blood from his fingers, and hardened his expression again. By the time the figure rounded the entrance, he was back to being unreadable.
He was still bleeding but this time it was on the inside.
The room was dimly lit, the flickering fire casting long shadows on the stone walls. Outside, the muffled sound of makeshift shovels digging into the rock and crystalline, broken only by the low murmurs of soldiers honoring the fallen. The mood was somber, heavy. Inside, where the chill couldn't quite reach, a small figure slipped in through the canvas flap and sat down quietly in the corner.
She looked no older than fifteen.
The girl pulled her knees close to her chest and hugged them tightly, her chin resting on her arms. Her face was quite unassuming her eyes, wide and hollow, stared out through the small opening of the tent at the line of soldiers outside. They were burying the dead girl—the one Xin had carried back, the one with claw marks and blood-soaked clothes. The cave was filled with a weird emotion, but the girl said nothing. She just watched, her silence louder than any cry.
Belial sat nearby, leaning against a wooden post, half-hidden in the shadow. He glanced at her, then at his own hand, fingers still stained faintly with dried blood. He hadn't cleaned them yet. His sword stood by the wall—curved, worn, and filthy. The once-dark steel was now dulled and streaked with old blood, its surface sticky with violence and time. The stench clung to it like memory—rotted, metallic, and unwashed.
"Why are you not with the others?" Belial asked, his voice low and tired.
The girl didn't answer. Her gaze shifted slowly toward the sound of his movements. She studied him with careful, guarded eyes—like an animal unsure if the creature before her was predator or prey.
He wasn't much to look at. A dark, bloodstained yellow shirt hung loosely from his frame, torn at the sleeves, the hem frayed. His black pants were ragged and patched, the fabric near the knees ripped open from too many fights, too many days spent crawling through debris. His hair was unkempt, falling just over his eyes. The scent of blood clung to him, just like the blade that rested silently by his side.
she stared, then stopped.
Belial turned his head slightly, watching her from the corner of his eye. Her mouth had barely moved. Whatever she'd been about to say faded before it reached the air.
She didn't look at him. Just stared—eyes wide, distant. Not with fear exactly, but with something heavier. Something quieter. Her arms wrapped around her knees, pulling them closer to her chest like she could fold into herself and disappear.
He waited, thinking she might try again. But she didn't. She just watched him, saying nothing.
Belial exhaled and leaned back, his gaze drifting toward the entrance of the room. The noise outside was a dull roar, laughter and conversation muffled by stone and distance.
"Yeah," he said finally. "Too many people. Too much noise."
No answer. Only the crackle of the fire.
She kept watching him, eyes glassy but dry. Still not crying. Still silent. Just breathing, still and small, like she was trying not to take up space.
Belial didn't push it. He wasn't good at this—whatever this was. But something about her stillness, the weight in her gaze, stirred something in him. Maybe a memory. Maybe the way Xin had looked earlier, torn apart by grief and fury and silence.
He looked back at her. Fragile. Quiet. Alone.
Like the one they were burying.
And he wondered if maybe he should've said something more. Something meaningful. Something human.
But the words never came.
So he just stayed there beside her, saying nothing, and let the fire speak for them both.