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She was the sister Lysara could not save. Now, she wears the name of her killer.
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Naeva Korven's heartbeat was steady as she stepped through the ruined sanctuary beneath Ashengar.
Her boots crunched glass, her cloak trailing blood. Not hers. Never hers.
The heretics had died too easily.
She preferred it when they screamed.
A cracked stained-glass panel, once depicting the Old Saints, now framed her silhouette in hues of red and gold. Beneath her hood, her face bore no expression. Only the faint outline of a burn scar traced her left cheek — delicate, like a kiss from fire.
A whisper stirred behind her. She didn't turn.
"You enjoy killing them," Dren Talovar murmured from the shadows.
She smiled without warmth.
"I enjoy silence more."
He stepped forward, his black coat fluttering as if caught by some wind that didn't touch her. His eyes were gleaming — that unnatural violet that always made her think of poisoned wine and funeral violets.
"They would've told you nothing," Naeva said.
"They weren't meant to," Dren replied. "You were."
She turned now. Slowly. And he could see it — the tension, the rage barely hidden under calm.
"You made me kill again," she said. "After you promised."
Dren only tilted his head. "You asked to forget. Not to be good."
Years ago, there had been a girl named Naeva Korven. She lived in the same monastery as Lysara, trained beside her, bled with her. She had softer hands, a sharper mind. While Lysara ran headlong into battle, Naeva whispered to crows and learned the quiet language of poisons.
But then came the night the monastery burned.
Naeva had stayed behind to hold the gate.
She should have died.
Everyone thought she did.
But in the smoke, something darker found her.
And offered her another way.
Now, Naeva walked with Dren Talovar — his spy, his blade in the dark. The world thought her dead.
That made her powerful.
But inside?
Inside, she still hated him.
She hated how he smiled when she obeyed.
She hated how her scars burned when he touched her.
She hated that he reminded her of Lysara.
And most of all…
She hated that she still dreamed of being saved.
They reached the altar.
Here, the Grimoire had spoken.
Carved into the stone floor were words no priest would ever bless:
THE SAINTS BLEED WHERE LOVERS KNEEL.
Naeva knelt without hesitation, palms flat. "This is the seventh mark," she whispered. "He's leaving a trail."
Dren crouched beside her, fingers brushing the text. "He wants her to follow."
"She will," Naeva muttered. "She always does."
He glanced sideways.
"You sound bitter."
She met his gaze.
"I'm tired."
Later that night, Naeva stood alone atop the broken chapel tower. Below, the world rotted slowly — ash, wind, the scent of old sin.
She removed her gloves.
Her fingers trembled.
She hated that.
Lysara… if you see me again…
Will you recognize me?
She didn't know what she hoped the answer would be.
Somewhere behind her, a voice spoke.
Not Dren's.
"You shouldn't be here."
She turned sharply.
A young man emerged from the fog. Blonde, robed in Inquisitor red, sword strapped lazily to his back. He looked confused. Harmless.
He shouldn't have found this place.
An Inquisitor scout? No — too young. Too soft.
"You're lost," Naeva said, stepping forward. "You should leave."
He narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
She smiled — sad and cruel. "No one."
Then she drove a dagger through his stomach.
He gasped, eyes wide.
She caught him as he fell.
"I didn't want to," she whispered. "But I never get what I want."