Riven approached the woman with slow, measured steps, his breath caught in his throat, and his dagger raised high in his right hand. The moon peeked through scattered clouds, its light reflecting faintly off the blade still damp with blood and the night’s humid air. His shadow loomed over the woman sprawled before the door of their home.
He knelt.
One hand reached out, trembling, to touch her shoulder—cold, like a stone that had long forgotten warmth. He pressed gently, pushing her with deliberate care to avoid any sudden sound.
The woman rolled weakly to the side.
Her hair—long and crimson like embers left to smolder in silence—spilled over her face. Yet the moon, as if showing rare mercy, parted the clouds and cast its light upon her features.
And the world stopped.
Riven’s heartbeat, quick and alert until that moment, froze. The hand gripping his dagger halted mid-air. His eyes widened in disbelief at the sight before him.
This woman...
She wasn’t just beautiful. She was beauty itself—an existence that should not belong to this cruel world. Her skin was pale, like polished marble, yet still held a faint touch of life. Her face was soft, but not fragile—like a god’s painting forgotten and left in reach of mortals. Her lashes curled delicately over closed eyelids, and her lips... crimson, moist, as if they had just whispered a final word the world was never meant to hear.
Her hair, a wild cascade of blood-red waves, shimmered with the illusion of rose petals and scattered gems. Though torn and stained with blood, her elegant black gown still clung gracefully to her form. Her necklace and earrings—chains laced with red stones—glimmered faintly in the moonlight and the stained-glass glow of their modest home’s window.
Riven couldn’t look away. His gaze was trapped, caught in a web of awe.
Never—neither in this life nor the one before—had he seen anyone like her. Not even the most renowned actresses on Earth, nor the noblewomen glimpsed from palace windows, could compare.
His hand trembled.
"Who... is she...?"
Then he saw it—the wound.
Blood soaked the lower part of her dress. A deep stab wound marred her abdomen, still leaking slowly. It was a grave wound, nearly fatal, and only the remnants of her strength kept her from succumbing fully to the darkness.
That beauty... was draped in suffering.
Riven clenched his jaw. He drew a deep breath, forcing himself to suppress the strange stirrings in his chest. This wasn’t the time for awe. He couldn’t afford to feel like this. He shouldn’t.
His eyes sharpened again. The hand that had faltered began to rise once more.
"Should I kill her?"
The thought slithered into his mind like a poisonous whisper.
He knew he could do it now, easily. She couldn’t even open her eyes. He could end it—ensure his and Mira’s safety from whatever danger had followed this woman. That wound... it was from a trained attacker. Someone had tried to kill her, and she had escaped—all the way to their doorstep.
That meant someone was still hunting her.
And if they came here... if they found Riven harboring her—
He and Mira would be dead.
"Kill her," his mind urged. "Save Mira. Dump the body. Pretend this never happened."
But something held his hand back. Something foreign. Something... not logical.
A feeling he hadn’t known since becoming a war scavenger.
A gut instinct—no, a voice in his soul—that told him he must not kill this woman.
That if he did... a part of him would die with her.
"How stupid," he cursed inwardly.
He stared at her face again, searching for justification. Looking for a hint, a sign—some magic trick, a trap, an illusion.
But all he saw... was a dying woman at his doorstep. Wounded, but graceful. Silent, yet full of unspoken stories.
And then—
"Riven!"
That voice.
It struck like lightning, banishing his spiraling thoughts.
Riven turned instantly—and there, in the dim glow from the house, stood Mira.
She was at the open window. Barefoot, her ragged clothes fluttering slightly in the night breeze, her breath ragged and her eyes wide with fear.
She rushed toward him despite her trembling legs. Silent, pale-faced, she stared at the motionless body near their door.
Then her eyes shifted to Riven.
To the brother standing rigid, dagger raised, aimed at the chest of a defenseless stranger.
Time seemed to stop again.
Riven saw himself through Mira’s eyes—a brother ready to kill a woman who hadn’t even opened her eyes. A man with blood-stained hands standing above a helpless soul.
He saw the fear in Mira’s face.
Mira stood just a few steps away, her eyes locked onto the dagger.
"What are you doing?!" she screamed, panic bursting from her small voice.
Riven instinctively lowered the blade. "Don’t yell," he hissed, his voice tight and urgent. "Keep your voice down."
But the tone—so cold, so unlike him—made Mira freeze.
"W-what do you mean...?" she stammered, her voice trembling.
Riven stepped toward her, his eyes wild. "This place isn’t safe. We have to go. Now," he said in a low, desperate tone. "Someone tried to kill her. If they come looking—if they find her here—"
He didn’t finish.
Mira’s shoulders shook. "Then... what about her?" she asked, barely audible. "We can’t just leave her..."
"We’re leaving her," Riven snapped, faster and harsher than he meant to. "She’s not our problem. We don’t know who she is or why she came here. We need to survive, Mira. That comes first."
Silence.
And then—
SLAP!
The sound echoed in the stillness of night.
Riven’s head snapped to the side, his eyes widening in disbelief.
Mira stood with her hand still raised, her body trembling.
"You’re not like this," she whispered, voice cracking. "You’re not the kind of person who leaves someone to die..."
Riven didn’t respond.
For the first time that night, he stood still.
Not out of fear. Not out of doubt.
But because that slap hadn’t just stopped his hand—it had struck something deeper.
Something he wasn’t ready to face.