To the Nacha, the moon is an enemy—a white eye that hunts them across the night.

In distant ages, that silver glow was their faith; the Moon Goddess Isylia lit their road like a lantern, and lunar tides nursed their growth like spring rains.

Until the day Chaos tore sky and sea like cloth.

In the turmoil that ended with humans, elves, and the Nacha united in victory, the Nacha paid the harshest blood-price, stones broken and hearths cold.

The Nacha Tribe’s homelands sat at the heart of the Chaos Uprising; when it ended, most of their cities lay in ash, and their people were scythed to one-third.

Even the Magma Forge beneath Lama City, a dragon’s heart of fire, was seized by a chaos dragon coiled in molten rock.

Before the gods granted them a blessing of flesh and sinew, they were master smiths, guided by the whisper of stars like frost on midnight steel.

Even elves couldn’t match their craft; their Magma Forge, powered by a whole volcano, was their pride, a mountain’s heart beating for their civilization.

Yet the loss of forging and the exile of families were embers before a fallen sun when weighed against their true wound.

Their moon goddess died, her light guttering like a lamp in a storm.

Chaos split the sky and tainted the moon, turning a mirror of night into a poisoned well.

Moonlight wasn’t friendly anymore; the stars’ whispers became a swarm of maddened noise, like wasps in the dark.

Since Isylia’s passing, the moon has worn a frostbitten face to the Nacha.

Silver that once blessed now stings like cold iron; on full-moon nights, one glance forces feral hunger awake, turning them into beasts craving blood and flesh.

So every full moon, the Nacha veil their eyes with thick gauze; they roll sun-dried dreamleaf in thin paper, light it, and breathe sleep-smoke like a fog.

For most Nacha alive, they only see the full moon once—during their coming-of-age, that single white coin in the vault of night.

Without the smithing legacy, their culture rooted in honor; no early romance, no precocious bloom—every childhood drilled like winter wind scouring bone.

At sixteen, they take the rite: that night, they face silver alone, standing in empty trial grounds of stone and wind.

If they cage the urge, pass a night without blood or madness, they prove honor over Chaos, and become adults—warriors of the Nacha Tribe.

Only then do they take on duty, marry, have children, and keep the tribe’s hearth-flame alive through storm and dusk.

No matter gender or station, every Nacha must pass the fire-and-frost of it.

Even Varie, born a Hero by prophecy’s shadow, wasn’t exempt.

When they blindfolded her and left her alone at the trial grounds, the crowd’s murmur faded like a receding tide; only forest chirps and beast-breaths remained.

She felt no panic. Pride warmed under her ribs, and disdain curled like smoke; her pulse stayed calm as a held blade.

Resisting primal desire hurts, but most Nacha say the rite is less pain than childbirth—winter compared to a thunderstorm.

Only the oath-breakers suffer worse—the ones who break precepts: betray clan or family, shatter vows, or lie with outsiders, tasting forbidden fruit like thorns.

Their desire claws harder; on full moons, they writhe as if flayed by moonlight, every breath a thorn in the throat.

But Varie, a Hero of the Nacha Tribe, kept every precept; she had walked hell’s trials without number, fire splitting her shadows clean.

She had never doubted she would pass, her certainty steady as a mountain.

That certainty met its fiercest challenge that night, a sudden storm out of a clear sky.

When her knife slit the blindfold, desire erupted like a geyser and slammed her from within.

One flash of silver—she crumpled to her knees, nails biting into stone, shrieking against rock like whetted steel.

Why?

Varie couldn’t understand. She had never stained the name of Hero, yet this wave hit like venom, hot and sweet.

She couldn’t even tense muscle; a toxic, honey-warmth blossomed in her chest, numbing nerves and mind like fog rolling in.

A woman’s voice seemed to whisper at her ear, a night-breeze on skin, urging her to throw away honor and kneel to hunger.

Impossible. She was the Hero of the Nacha Tribe, the foretold savior born when disaster descends like a black tide.

She—Varie…

Would never bow to base desire, not while breath and bone held.

She told herself that, again and again; even forming the sentence felt like pushing a boulder uphill in rain.

Only then did she notice—her body had risen on its own and walked, like a sleepwalker drawn by tide.

She stood in an ocean of roses.

A boundless field of closed buds breathed around her; a narrow path unfurled ahead like a ribbon of moonlight.

She followed without will; each step opened buds into bloom, leaves and petals brushing, singing a soft, harmonious song.

The song led her to the heart of the sea, to the spring that fed every rose like a clear vein of water.

Varie’s eyes widened.

In the shallow pool lay an Elf.

Her white dress soaked in the stream, curves holy and wicked traced by water and shadow.

Moonlight touched her perfect face, painting blush on skin already pale as snow.

She lay like a sleeper, time held still as a pond under frost.

Varie stared, unable to peel her gaze away; her heart hung suspended like a fruit on the branch.

She stepped into the water, not by choice; she knelt beside the Elf, breath shallow as moth-wings.

An urge surged up like floodwater; though strangers, her hand cupped the Elf’s cheek, gentle and practiced, as if thousands of times before.

A bone-deep grief and regret seeped in, a black ink spreading through calm water, without cause.

Why? Was her skin cold, breath gone, like a flower cut from stem? Then where did this guilt sprout from?

I… I’ve never even seen her…

Hazy, she leaned closer, wind and water holding their breath.

Then the Elf opened her eyes.

Pale green irises, beautiful as new leaves after rain, rare even among elves.

The moment those emeralds met her gaze, Varie froze; her heart tilted toward surrender like grass bending to wind.

The Hero’s instinct pulled her back like a hand at the collar.

She let go in a panic, stepped back, and slipped—water exploded around her like shattered glass.

The holy Elf rose, white dress falling like cloud, fabric brushing close enough to taste the gauze of it.

Don’t come near me! Varie shouted, pushing at air; the Elf’s face softened into puzzled calm.

Why?

Her voice rang like a silver bell, an enchantment in the throat, the same whisper that had brushed Varie’s ear under the moon.

It’s full moon tonight. I—I can’t control myself—mm!

Varie didn’t finish. The Elf cradled her face, closed her eyes, and pressed her lips to hers like a petal on water.

Soft lips met soft; the taste was strawberry-sour and sweet, with mugwort-bitter underneath like a hidden root.

Time stopped, a hawk caught mid-flight over snow.

As a Nacha—and a Hero—Varie was stronger than any Elf, strength coiled like steel cable.

Yet she didn’t fight. Her mind stopped spinning, thoughts frozen like dew on stone.

Only when a lack of air burned her chest did the Elf finally release her, mercy like rain.

A thin silver thread snapped in the air, a moonlit bridge breaking.

Varie saw the perfect Elf’s lips curve into a beautiful, mournful arc—smile like rain on ashes.

If that’s so, let me soothe your pain, Varie—

—CLANG!!

Fuck!

A metallic crunch rang like thunder; her own startled shout cracked the night.

Varie’s back arched like a bow; her fist slammed the tent’s metal pole, bending it into a U like soft clay.

Darkness pooled around her—no spring, no long-eared hussy with wardrobe failures, only canvas and cold air.

She lowered her hand slowly, teeth grinding stone; another curse slid out like smoke.

Damn it. Why am I having that cursed nightmare again?

Long-eared hussy. Shameless. Disgusting. Disgusting!

She worked the bent pole back into shape, metal groaning like an old tree, muttering under breath.

Each curse uglier than the last, as if she could shove that dream—that forced, honey-warm blur—back down like stuffing into a jar.

All because of those finger-players. If not for them…

She finished cursing the long-eared hussy and turned the fire toward those two humans; her ears twitched like cat-tails.

She drew a deep breath, then flopped back under the covers, the fabric heavy as damp moss.

Of course, sleep wouldn’t come; her lids were weights, but the mind kept spinning like a mill in wind.

Close her eyes, and the dream’s unwound part would play, reels snapping into place on their own.

In the end, she sprang out of bed, feet light as a deer’s and heavy as guilt.

Damn it… fine. I’ll take a walk.

She sighed in defeat and lifted the tent flap, night air spilling in like cold water.

Her ears flicked again, little sails catching sound.

From the bathhouse, a few dozen meters away, a newly familiar sound bled through like heat through wood.

Two female breaths, ragged and wrong, rising and falling like waves against rocks.

Her eye twitched; the anger she’d barely smothered flared back up like dry grass catching spark.

Those finger-players… what are they doing in my bathhouse at midnight?!

She stormed toward the bathhouse, heat in every stride, a thunderhead in boots.