Yzavynne sat cross-legged on her bed, a small, cracked hand mirror resting in her palm. 

She traced a finger over its jagged edge, her thoughts far removed from the quiet hum of the night. 

Across the cabin, Leeani was busy folding clothes, humming a soft tune under her breath. 

The warmth of the lantern cast long shadows across the room, flickering like ghosts of a past Yzavynne could never escape.

"Yzavynne," Leeani called softly, drawing her gaze. 

"You've been staring at that mirror for a while. What are you thinking about?"

Yzavynne blinked, startled. 

"Oh, nothing. Just... memories."

Leeani paused, her hands lingering on a scarf. 

"Memories, huh? Good ones or bad ones?"

Yzavynne hesitated. 

"A bit of both."

Leeani smiled faintly, sensing Yzavynne's reluctance to elaborate. 

She yawned, stretching her arms lazily. 

"Well, don't dwell on the bad too much, okay? Sleep's better medicine than thoughts." 

She moved toward her room, her steps light but unhurried. 

As she opened the door, she glanced back with a teasing grin. 

"And don't stay up too late, okay? A monster might tickle you in your sleep."

Yzavynne chuckled softly, shaking her head. 

"Goodnight, Leeani."

"Goodnight." 

The door closed with a quiet click.

Left alone, Yzavynne set the mirror aside and stood, pacing the small living room. 

The quiet cabin seemed to magnify her thoughts, each one louder and more piercing than the last. 

She sank onto the sofa near the dimming fireplace, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

The faces of Evelori and Selene loomed in her mind—two reminders of how cruel and chaotic the world could be. 

But it wasn't just them. 

It was everything. 

Every fight. 

Every loss. 

Every moment of doubt that whispered she was never enough.

Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her skirt as memories surfaced unbidden. 

Not the battles or the victories, but the years before. 

Aurelia. 

The endless streets of the kingdom. 

The cold, unyielding stone of alleyways where she, Kazaks, Andhur, Leeani, Qarek, Nert, and Jiighual huddled together for warmth. 

She could still feel the sting of a stranger's hand striking her face when she was caught stealing bread. 

Still hear the jeers and accusations as townsfolk chased them away like rats. 

Still taste the bitter shame of begging for scraps, only to be met with scorn.

Her chest tightened as tears pricked at her eyes. 

"We were just kids," she whispered to the flickering flames. 

"Just kids trying to survive. And no one cared."

She thought of Zach and Gargeal, the day they'd found them. 

For the first time, someone had looked at her—not with disgust, but with compassion. 

They had saved her, saved all of them, from a fate she didn't even want to imagine. 

And yet—

Even now—

Years later—

She wondered if she'd truly escaped.

"I've spent so long pretending," she murmured, her voice barely audible. 

"Pretending that I'm strong, that I'm confident, that I don't need anyone. But... it's a lie, isn't it?"

Her gaze dropped to her hands, trembling in her lap. 

"I've built this persona—the Warrior of Lust, charming, untouchable, always in control. But that's not who I am. Not really. I'm just... Yzavynne. A girl who's still scared, still unsure, still trying to figure out who she's supposed to be."

The fire crackled softly, as if in response. 

She leaned back, her head resting against the sofa. 

The title "Warrior of Lust" felt like a chain around her neck, a label that didn't fit but one she wore anyway. 

She used it as a shield, a way to hide her vulnerabilities, to push people away before they could hurt her. 

But tonight, sitting in the quiet, she couldn't help but wonder: 

Was it worth it? 

Was being untouchable worth feeling so alone?

"I don't want to pretend anymore," she said aloud, her voice steady despite the tears slipping down her cheeks. 

"I don't want to hide. I don't want to be the person everyone expects me to be. I just... I just want to be me."

She wiped her tears away, though more quickly followed. 

Her heart ached with the weight of her thoughts, but there was a strange sense of relief in admitting them, even if only to herself. 

For the first time in a long time—

She felt like she could breathe.

The firelight flickered lower, casting the room into deeper shadows. 

Yzavynne curled up on the sofa, pulling a blanket over herself. 

The soft fabric brushed against her skin, a faint comfort amidst the storm of thoughts in her mind. 

She stared at the dim glow of the dying fire of the fireplace, its embers crackling softly, as if they too were fighting to hold on.

Her hands instinctively traced the edges of the blanket, but her focus was elsewhere. 

Her mind wandered, unbidden, to the body that lay beneath the fabric. 

The body that so many had noticed, commented on, desired. 

Her fingers paused mid-motion, and she let out a shaky breath. 

She whispered to the room, her voice trembling with vulnerability.

"Why do I care so much?"

Her hands wandered instinctively, tracing the lines of her figure beneath the blanket. 

Her shoulders, lean but strong; her waist, where curves had always drawn unwanted attention; her legs, muscular from years of fighting. 

They had carried her through countless battles, yet she could never look at herself without feeling conflicted.

Was she beautiful because others said so? 

Or because she had no choice but to be?

She lifted a strand of her long hair, letting it fall between her fingers. 

It shimmered faintly in the dim light, as perfect as it had been since she was a child. 

How often had she seen her reflection and felt the pressure to make every strand fall perfectly? 

How often had she caught someone staring at her and wondered if they were seeing her or just the image she presented?

Her fingers paused as they reached her face. Her jaw tightened, a bitter thought surfacing. 

They say the face is everything. 

It's how people remember you, how they judge you. 

So what happens when all they ever see is... this?

She thought about the looks she had received over the years—looks of admiration, envy, desire. 

They weren't all bad. 

Sometimes, they made her feel powerful, like she could control the way the world saw her. 

But other times, they felt like shackles, like a weight pressing down on her chest.

Her voice trembled as she spoke to the silence. 

"Isn't it exhausting? To always care about how you look... to always wonder if it's enough? Or if it's too much?"

Her words lingered in the air, echoing in the quiet cabin. 

She thought of the countless moments she had spent checking her reflection, smoothing out her hair, adjusting her clothes. 

It had become second nature—a habit she couldn't break, even when no one was watching.

And yet—

She couldn't blame herself. 

She had learned young that appearances mattered, sometimes more than anything else. 

Back in Aurelia, when food was scarce and safety even scarcer, her face had been her ticket to survival. Her looks had drawn sympathy from strangers, earned her a little extra bread, maybe a kinder word. But they had also made her a target. 

A pretty child was an easy mark—easy to dismiss, easy to exploit.

Her chest tightened as she remembered those days. 

The cold nights, huddled with the others, hungry and afraid. 

The times she had stolen food, only to be caught and beaten. 

The whispered promises she had made to herself in the dark. 

I'll be strong. 

I'll be clever. 

I'll make them see more than this face... 

More than this body.

But even now, years later, she wasn't sure she had succeeded.

She pressed her palms against her cheeks, her voice cracking as she whispered.

"Is this all I am? A face? A body? Is this why they call me Lust?"

The word felt heavy on her tongue, like a label she couldn't escape. 

It wasn't just about desire—it was about expectation. 

She was expected to be alluring, confident, perfect. 

To wield her beauty like a weapon.

And sometimes she did. 

But other times, she wished she could disappear, just for a while, and not be seen at all.

She thought of the people who might feel the same. The ones who checked their reflections every morning, wondering if they were enough. The ones who compared themselves to others, who avoided mirrors because they didn't like what they saw. The ones who were told to love themselves, but never taught how.

Her hands dropped to her lap, her gaze fixed on the fire. 

"Maybe it's not just me," she murmured. 

"Maybe we all feel like this... like we're trapped in a version of ourselves we didn't choose. Like we're supposed to be proud of what we have, but not too proud. Confident, but not too confident. Like no matter what we do, it's never enough."

Her thoughts turned to the battles she had fought—the literal ones, with swords and blood and pain, and the quieter ones, the ones that happened inside her. 

The fight to be seen, not just for her beauty, but for her strength. 

Her courage. 

Her worth.

She stared at her hands, calloused and scarred from years of fighting. 

They told a story that her face never could. 

"This," she said softly.

"This is who I am. Not the girl they see. Not the warrior they call Lust. Just... me."

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she didn't bother to wipe it away. 

For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to feel vulnerable, to feel human. 

Because maybe that was the point. 

Maybe it wasn't about being perfect. 

Maybe it was about being real.

She pulled the blanket tighter around her, her voice barely audible. 

"I'm still here. And that has to mean something."

The fire crackled in response, its warmth wrapping around her like an embrace. 

She let her tears fall, one by one, each one carrying away a piece of the weight she had been holding for so long. 

And as she closed her eyes, she allowed herself a single, hopeful thought.

Tomorrow, I'll try again.

Then came the knock.

It startled her, a soft rapping against the wooden door that seemed to echo louder in the silence of the night. 

For a moment, she hesitated. 

Her first instinct was to fix herself: to straighten her hair, wipe her face, and mask the evidence of her tears. 

But something deep within her resisted. 

This was who she was now. 

This was her.

She rose slowly, her blanket falling to the sofa, and made her way to the door. 

The air felt heavier with each step, as though she were walking into something unknown. 

When she opened the door, she was met with a figure silhouetted against the soft glow of the moonlight.

Kazaks.

His presence felt both familiar and distant. 

His broad frame cast a shadow over the cabin's entrance, but it was the empty sleeve where his left arm used to be that drew her eyes. 

The sight still stung, even after all this time. 

Yet, what surprised her most wasn't the missing limb but the way his gaze softened when it landed on her.

"Yzavynne," he said, his voice low, carrying an edge of concern. 

"Your face..."

Her hand instinctively moved to her cheek, brushing against the tear-streaked skin she hadn't bothered to wipe clean. 

She blinked at him, caught between embarrassment and the raw honesty of the moment. 

She asked, her voice quiet but steady.

"What is it?"

Kazaks hesitated. 

"You've been crying."

She didn't answer right away, didn't explain herself. 

Instead, she tilted her head slightly and asked.

"What brings you here?"

Kazaks exhaled deeply, his breath visible in the cool night air. 

"I needed someone to talk to... and I thought of you."

Her brows knitted together, a flicker of the past passing between them. 

They had once been inseparable as children in Aurelia, leaning on each other in their darkest moments. 

She stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. 

"Come in. It's cold out there."

He hesitated for a moment but then stepped inside, the warmth of the cabin embracing him as Yzavynne closed the door behind him. 

They moved to the sofa, sitting side by side, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable.

Yzavynne finally asked, her tone softer now, less guarded.

"What's on your mind?" 

Kazaks stared at the floor, his remaining hand gripping his knee. 

"It's Nert." 

The name came out like a whisper, but the weight of it hit Yzavynne like a hammer.

Her chest tightened. 

"What about him?"

Kazaks shook his head, his jaw clenched. 

"I can't stop thinking about how helpless I was. Andhur and I... we were captured by Selene before the fight even began. By the time we escaped, it was over. He was gone." 

His voice cracked, and he looked away, his profile etched with pain. 

"I wasn't there to help him. I couldn't do anything."

Yzavynne's throat tightened as she listened. 

The loss of Nert had been a wound that none of them had fully healed from, but hearing Kazaks' guilt brought her back to her own thoughts—her own battles with inadequacy and self-worth.

She began, but he shook his head.

"Kazaks..." 

"You know what the worst part is?" he continued, his voice trembling. 

"He died thinking we were still fighting by his side. That's what Nert was like—always believing in us, even when we couldn't be there for him."

Yzavynne felt her heart break for him, for Nert, for all of them. 

She leaned back against the sofa, her eyes drifting to the window where the moonlight filtered in like a silver thread through the curtains. 

"We've all carried guilt," she said softly. 

"It's a weight we bear, not because we failed but because we cared."

Kazaks turned to her, his gaze searching hers. 

"How do you live with it?"

Yzavynne looked down at her hands, her fingers clasped tightly in her lap. 

"I don't know if I do," she admitted. 

"Not yet. I've spent so much of my life hiding—behind my looks, my charm, this title of 'Warrior of Lust.' But tonight, I realized... none of that matters if I can't face who I really am. And who I am is someone who's flawed, who's scared, and who's trying to be better."

She paused, her eyes glancing toward his missing arm. 

"We've all lost something, Kazaks. You lost your arm. We lost Nert. But we're still here. And maybe that's what matters—that we're still here to carry their memory forward."

Kazaks swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to his lap. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the silence filled only by the faint crackle of the fire.

Yzavynne reached out then, her hand hesitating for a moment before resting gently on his. 

"You said you thought of me tonight," she said. 

"Why?"

Kazaks looked up, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. 

"Because you've always been stronger than you let on. Back in Aurelia, when we were kids, you were the one who kept us all together. And I guess... I needed to feel that strength again."

Her heart ached at his words, the weight of their shared past pressing down on her. 

She said quietly.

"I don't feel strong."

"But you are," he insisted. 

"Even now, sitting here, messy hair, tear-streaked face... you're the strongest person I know."

Yzavynne let out a shaky breath, her own tears threatening to spill over. 

She glanced at his arm again, or rather, where it used to be, and something in her chest cracked open. 

"When I look at you," she said, her voice trembling. 

"I don't see someone who's missing something. I see someone who's survived. And if you can survive, Kazaks, then maybe... maybe I can, too."

Yzavynne glanced at Kazaks' remaining arm, the war hammer scarred calluses on his fingers, the empty sleeve pinned neatly at his shoulder where his left arm used to be. 

She had seen him fight with relentless ferocity, endure pain that would break others, but here he was now—just a man, exhausted, grieving, and searching for something he could barely put into words.

She murmured, breaking the quiet.

"I hate that I didn't notice it before."

Kazaks turned his head, brow furrowing. 

"Notice what?"

She hesitated, running her fingers along the edge of the blanket draped over her lap. 

"How much you carry. How much you've lost. I think... maybe I've been too caught up in my own battles to really see yours. And now... now I don't even know how to help." 

Her voice cracked slightly at the end, betraying the weight of her guilt.

Kazaks let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. 

"You think there's a way to help? Yzavynne, look at me. Look at this." 

He gestured with his right hand toward his empty sleeve, his voice trembling. 

"I don't even recognize myself anymore. I was supposed to protect everyone. That's what I've always done. And now, without this arm—without Nert—I feel useless."

She reached out without thinking, covering his hand with hers. 

His skin was rough, calloused, but his fingers trembled slightly beneath her touch.

"You're not useless," she said firmly, her voice low but steady. 

"Kazaks, do you even hear yourself? You've fought battles that would've killed most people. You've lost more than anyone should ever have to, and yet here you are. You're still here. That's not useless—that's strength."

He shook his head, leaning forward, his hand still beneath hers. 

"Strength?" he said bitterly. 

"Strength would've been saving Nert. Strength would've been keeping Thorne from taking my arm in the first place. All I have is regret, Yzavynne. It's like this endless knot in my chest, and no matter how hard I try to untangle it, it just tightens."

Yzavynne felt her throat tighten at his words. 

She thought of their childhood in Aurelia—how they'd scavenged scraps of bread together, stolen coins from merchants when their stomachs ached too much to think straight, and leaned on each other just to survive. 

She thought of the moments when Kazaks had shielded her from the beatings they'd both received when caught, how he'd always placed himself in front of her like a human wall. 

And now here he was—

Broken in ways she didn't know how to fix.

"Kazaks," she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. 

"Do you remember what we used to say, back then? When the guards would chase us through the alleys, and we'd hide behind those crates?"

He blinked, looking at her as if searching for the memory.

"'If we make it to tomorrow,'" she continued, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. 

"'If we make it to tomorrow, we win.' That's what you always told me."

He let out a shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a little. 

"Yeah. I remember."

"You still believe that?" she asked, her voice trembling. 

"Because I do. I believe in tomorrow, Kazaks. Even when it feels impossible. Even when everything feels like it's falling apart. And I believe in you. With or without an arm, with or without a weapon, you're still you. And that's enough."

Kazaks closed his eyes, the weight of her words settling over him. When he opened them again, there was a sheen of tears he didn't bother to wipe away.

"I don't know how you can say that," he admitted, his voice hoarse. 

"I look at myself, and all I see is what's missing. What I've failed to do."

Yzavynne leaned closer, her hand gripping his tighter now. 

"Because I know you, Kazaks. I've known you since we were kids. And you've always been more than the things you've lost. You think Nert would call you useless? You think he'd want you to give up because of this?" 

She gestured to his arm, her voice rising with emotion. 

"You're more than your losses. You always have been."

The tears that had been welling up finally spilled over, and Kazaks dropped his head into his hand, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. 

Yzavynne didn't move, didn't let go of his hand.

After a long moment, he whispered.

"How do you manage to think of something to say?"

She smiled faintly, a tear slipping down her own cheek. 

"I don't. I just say what's in my heart. And what's in my heart, Kazaks, is that I'll always believe in you, even when you can't."

The words seemed to break something inside him, and he let himself cry freely, the weight of years of pain and guilt finally finding release.

Yzavynne stayed with him, her head eventually resting lightly against his shoulder. 

They didn't need more words. 

The silence that followed was enough—a shared understanding, a shared pain, and a shared determination to make it to tomorrow, no matter how broken they felt tonight.

A moment between two broken souls.

═════ ◆ TO BE CONTINUED ◆ ═════