It was night.

  The fire crackled low, tired, like a chronic smoker on his last drag before collapsing.

  Sitting around it were the two guys with swords—the one still awake, and the one slumped over like a puppet whose batteries had been ripped out—Mark, Antea, and the bound prisoner.

  Asleep or unconscious.

  Hard to tell when someone has spent the last few hours tied up like a salami in a slaughterhouse.

  Antea’s stomach growled.

  Again.

  Always.

  A dull, constant, embarrassing sound—like when your body decides to betray your dignity in the middle of a moment of silence.

  There was no food left.

  Whatever had been saved was gone, and she had given her share to Mark.

  She felt guilty.

  He’d done more—walking ahead, watching the mercenaries, using that fucking psychokinetic whip every time a branch snapped like the Apocalypse itself was coming.

  And it made sense, right?

  Mark’s energy mattered more than hers.

  At least until she became something more useful than a living mannequin with tits.

  But besides the part she gave to Mark, she’d saved a tiny piece for the prisoner.

  A chunk of bread hard as a brick forgotten under the sun.

  A strip of meat that tasted like despair and expired spices.

  Hidden inside her shirt, against her chest—because yeah, at least tits were good for hiding things.

  Mark was trying to rest.

  Eyes closed, back against a trunk, breathing deep but uneven.

  He wasn’t really sleeping.

  Just pretending well enough to keep his body from collapsing entirely.

  Later he’d take Antea’s place and keep watch while she slept.

  If she managed to sleep.

  Which was unlikely.

  Antea stood up.

  Slowly, like she was afraid of waking up a sleeping monster.

  She approached the prisoner.

  The woman was motionless, head tilted to the side, dirty hair covering half her face like a torn curtain.

  She was breathing.

  At least that.

  Antea knelt beside her, pulled out the bread and meat from her shirt.

  She thought: If she’s really an evil enchantress, at least I’ll die having done the right thing. If she’s innocent, at least I won’t die being an asshole.

  Flawless logic.

  Then one of the mercenaries—of course the one who wasn’t passed out after the discount-fantasy-potion high had finally worn off—shot to his feet.

  He yelled.

  Loud.

  Something guttural, sharp, full of that very specific rage that screams: “You’re doing something stupid and I’m going to kill you before you get us all killed!”

  Antea flinched—the piece of bread fell from her hand—but she recovered just as fast.

  Oh, fuck no.

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  Not now.

  She reached toward the woman.

  The mercenary moved.

  Not to talk.

  To attack.

  Antea saw him coming—face twisted, heavy steps, intentions clear as a utility bill—and her body froze.

  Then everything exploded.

  A sound—dry, violent, like someone had opened a window in a pressurized room—and the mercenary flew.

  Literally.

  His body lifted off the ground, was thrown back several meters, and crashed.

  The noise was horrible.

  A deep, wet, wrong thud—like dropping a watermelon from a building and realizing a second too late there was someone underneath.

  Antea stood still.

  Mark was on his feet.

  Hand still raised, like a conductor who just finished a symphony but can’t believe he played it.

  Eyes wide.

  Lips trembling.

  He stepped toward the man.

  Slowly.

  As if moving carefully could somehow change what he’d just done.

  Antea followed him.

  She didn’t want to.

  But she did.

  The mercenary was lying on the ground.

  His face—what was left of it—was crushed.

  The nose was gone.

  The jaw bent at an angle no anatomy manual would ever allow.

  One eye flattened inside the skull, the other still open, staring at nothing.

  Blood everywhere.

  Too much blood to be decorative.

  Mark fell to his knees.

  Stayed there, frozen, staring at the corpse.

  Eyes wide.

  Lips trembling like a kid who broke something priceless and knows he can’t fix it.

  He didn’t say a word.

  Antea looked at him.

  Then at the corpse.

  Then at him again.

  And thought:

  He killed a man for me.

  Not to save himself.

  For me.

  And now he’s falling apart.

  Because it’s the first time he’s realized that “having superpowers” doesn’t mean “being a hero.”

  It just means that when you screw up, you screw up harder.

  Antea freed the woman from the gag first.

  Then she untied her.

  Her hands trembled a little, but not out of fear: it was that surgically precise feeling of “I’m doing something stupid, aren’t I?”. The kind that hits you in the stomach when you know logic says no, but your conscience kicks you forward anyway.

  It didn’t make sense.

  She knew that.

  But after what Mark had done… well, they couldn’t just feed a prisoner tied up like a battered Amazon package. They needed something that at least vaguely resembled redemption.

  A justification.

  Even a stupid one.

  Better than staring at a corpse with a crushed skull and wondering whether karma was real or just spiritual marketing for people in crisis.

  She shook the girl.

  First gently.

  Then harder—because the woman didn’t move an inch.

  When she realized the girl wasn’t going to open her eyes, Antea left the food beside her: bread as hard as failure and dried meat that screamed “expiration date 2014.”

  Then she went back to Mark.

  She knelt beside him.

  The ground was cold, damp, soaked with someone else’s blood—but it felt like having her knees submerged in guilt in liquid form.

  “It was an accident,” she said.

  Her voice came out thinner than expected.

  Awful.

  “She asked for it,” she added.

  Even worse.

  Like the wrong motivational phrase said at the worst possible moment.

  She ran her fingers through his hair, slowly, as if she could erase the scene by rubbing his head.

  Obviously, it didn’t work.

  Her brain was spinning uselessly like an engine coughing imaginary fuel.

  In the end, she hugged him.

  Or rather: pressed herself against him, because she had no idea what else to do.

  Mark’s tears fell onto her in silence. Warm.

  And the thought that crossed her mind was just one:

  Maybe it’s my fault.

  Me, who always needs to feel like I have even the tiniest bit of agency in a life that keeps replying “error 404” to every attempt.

  If I had pretended not to notice, we’d probably be intact.

  Clean.

  Instead?

  A dead man.

  Behind her, a noise.

  The girl moved.

  Slowly.

  Like a puppet whose strings were being reattached.

  Shoulders. Torso. Head.

  Her black, grimy hair slid down her back like a torn curtain.

  A white dress, dirty, stained with dried blood.

  The “enchantress.” The “witch.”

  Or whatever other idiotic word those mercenaries used.

  Assuming they were even telling the truth.

  She started eating, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

  Antea looked at her.

  The girl lifted her gaze and smiled.

  A real smile.

  Sweet.

  Almost grateful.

  The kind of smile that reminds you, for a moment, what it feels like to be a decent human being.

  Antea welcomed it like an IV drip of self-esteem.

  Tiny, but vital.

  On the other side of the camp, the surviving mercenary tried to stand.

  He failed.

  Made a sound like a fish thrown on a boat deck, plus a few insults in a language she didn’t recognize—probably not friendly.

  Mark remained still.

  A statue.

  A statue that only breathed by mistake.

  The girl finished eating and moved toward the man on the ground.

  She rummaged through his things.

  Pockets. Belt. Jacket.

  With an unsettling professionalism, like it was her second job.

  The mercenary looked at her, powerless.

  She found the dagger.

  And used it.

  Seven times.

  Seven sharp, angry, filthy blows.

  No grace.

  No precision.

  Just vengeance.

  Raw.

  Old.

  Maybe deserved.

  The body stopped moving.

  Antea looked away, her stomach twisting.

  Christ almighty.

  There were three of them left.

  And two had dirty hands.

  Or maybe three.

  Depending on how you counted guilt.

  When the girl was done, she turned toward them.

  Antea stood up abruptly.

  “Wait—!”

  Knowing full well the girl wouldn’t understand a word.

  She couldn’t protect Mark.

  She couldn’t drag him.

  She couldn’t do a damn thing.

  Her specialty.

  But the girl didn’t raise the dagger.

  She held it out.

  Offered it.

  A strange, ambiguous gesture, but not a threatening one—almost a I’m not your enemy.

  Antea hesitated.

  The blade was still dripping blood.

  In the end, she took it.

  And immediately threw it far away, as if it had burned her fingers.

  An instinctive gesture.

  The girl smiled.

  A small, calm smile.

  Antea returned it.

  Fragile.

  Tainted with nausea and adrenaline.

  The girl knelt beside Mark and whispered soft, gentle, apologetic words.

  Then she placed a kiss on his cheek.

  Light as a white lie.

  A thank you.

  A you saved me.

  Even if neither of them had wanted anyone to die today.

  Then she went back to the fire.

  Sitting.

  Composed.

  Serene.

  As if she hadn’t just stabbed a man seven times.

  She sure trusts people quickly. No wonder she got captured, Antea thought.

  Then corrected herself: No. That’s not fair. Who knows what she’s been through. Maybe this is the first act of kindness anyone’s shown her… ever.

  She approached Mark and said softly,

  “Come on. Get up. It’s better if we move a little away from here. I’m sure some sleep will help.”

  What bullshit. How is he supposed to sleep after what happened?

  She held out her hand.

  “Please, Mark.”

  He looked at her with dull eyes, an exhausted, devastated expression.

  A direct arrow to Antea’s heart.

  Then he took her hand and stood up.

  She guided him to the spot where they’d eaten earlier, and they sat down.

  “Rest your head on my legs,” Antea said, without even thinking.

  Mark obeyed, and with a broken voice murmured,

  “I killed him… I killed him.”

  Antea opened her mouth, searching for something to say, but nothing came.

  So she just stroked his hair.

  Fuck. What a mess.

  A bit farther away, the girl had settled on the ground, barely touched by the light of the fire. She said something, but Antea didn’t understand a single word.

  The girl tried again, miming a gesture—hand in a fist moving toward and away from her mouth, tongue pressing against her cheek.

  Antea stared at her, horrified.

  What the fuck! I can’t believe that gesture exists here too. Does she want me to blow him to make him feel better? Hell no! Ugh.

  The girl apparently understood from her expression that she didn’t want to do it, so she pointed at herse lf.

  As if to say: I’ll do it.

  Antea’s eyes went wide.

  Look at this slut! Maybe it would make him feel better, but not like this. Not now. It would be like violating him.

  She shook her head.

  The girl shrugged, indifferent, and lay

  down—maybe to sleep.

  Or to try.

  Antea stayed seated, letting her thoughts flow freely: what they would do tomorrow, how Mark’s breakdown would evolve, and whether they’d manage to get even an hour of sleep.