Hattie loved chasing Victor through the streets like wind chasing leaves, and she loved sprinting off alone like a wild sparrow. That habit was a thorn in her parents’ sides, a worry that beat like a muffled drum. Yet because of that same habit, she slipped past the Demonfolk’s slaughter like a fish through reeds. Because of that same habit, she crossed paths with Victor, like a drifting feather finding its current.

The masked big brother said she was a lively kid, born to run with the horizon like a foal on spring grass. He said she might become a great adventurer someday, and he gifted her a pair of pretty shoes like twin shells.

Hattie never knew why Victor went taut as a bowstring whenever that big brother’s hand ruffled her hair like passing rain.

The big brother even grumbled, "What are you scared of? Do I look like some pervert who collects heads?" Victor could only look embarrassed, like a cat caught in sunbeams.

To Hattie, Victor was her beloved—the one she’d marry when she came of age—like a promise tied with a red thread. Victor saw himself more as a guardian, a steady lantern in a storm. But Hattie believed that once she filled out a little, even Victor would be bewitched like a moth by a blossom at dusk.

"Miss Vega said the crepes here are great. I should bring one back for Victor," she thought, sweet as mulled sugar. "He’ll fall for me for sure. But... which stall is it?"

She scanned the stalls like a bird peering for crumbs; then she saw a woman in a white dress seated on a bench, head bowed like a wilted lily, face paper-pale, hands pressed to her belly, retching in dry gusts.

Is she hurting, like a tide turned sour?

With that thought, Hattie drifted along the line like a leaf in a stream, and asked the vendor for two crepes, warm as little suns.

On her way back, her gaze kept circling the woman like a moth to a lantern.

She went a dozen steps past the bench, then let out a small huff like a sparrow scolding the wind, pivoted, and ran back. She sat beside the woman and held out a crepe, the steam curling like morning mist. Mid-gesture she stalled, swallowed a lump like a pebble, then pushed the crepe forward.

"What are you—"

"Hattie brought this for you. Hattie and Victor can share the other."

"Ah... thank you."

Her hands shook like leaves in cold rain; she snatched the crepe as if it might fly away. She ate while tears fell like a sudden shower.

"But why are you crying?"

"Thank you... I really... really... haven’t eaten real food in so long..." she whispered, voice scraping like rust. "Mold... maggots... hearts... I don’t want to eat those—!"

Hattie didn’t catch the mutter, only felt the woman was fragile as wet paper, and those eyes empty as winter fields—eyes she knew from the mirror of her past.

The woman curled around the crepe on the bench, crying and eating as if drowning. Her sobs swelled like waves; her mouth packed dry as dust, the sight both absurd and heart-splitting, blurring who was adult and who was child.

Hattie laid a palm on her head like shade from a small tree, the way her mother used to soothe her. The way Victor did when they first met—no words, only a hand like warm light, telling her someone still waited by her side.

"Feeling better now? Hattie will stay with you."

"Mm. Thank you, Little Hattie."

She dabbed her tears away, smiled through the drizzle, and ate the last crumb like a sparrow pecking seed.

"It’s really good."

"It’s cheap, see? Just ten coppers, light as buttons."

"But... I don’t have a single coin, not even a dried leaf."

"Then Auntie can take a job; the masked big brother keeps griping his shop is empty as a winter stall. You could work for him."

At the word "mask" she flinched like a bird at a shadow, then let out a small laugh, as if scolding her own skittish heart.

"No, Little Hattie, I can’t. My road is a cracked one."

"Why?"

"Because I’m wanted. If they catch me, I die," she said, voice thin as smoke. "So I run and run and run, like a hare before hounds, never living under the sun the way you do."

"Mm... Auntie’s not a bad person! You won’t hurt Hattie," she said, firm as a small drum.

"Ha, Little Hattie, how do you know?" Her laugh skittered like pebbles.

"Hattie just knows!" Her certainty shone like a candle.

"Even if you know... forget it. I’m already an unforgivable villain," she murmured, words sinking like stones.

She rose from the bench and reached toward Hattie, as if to pat her head like a breeze ruffling wheat.

In that instant, something changed, as if someone flipped the world’s hidden switch and the air clicked.

A wind passed, thin with a rancid tang. Hattie knew that scent. The night her parents died, the night the little girl was saved by Victor: it had hung over earth and corpses and Victor’s coat—the scent of blood.

The woman’s eyes narrowed into feral slits; her mouth split near to the ears, packed with pale knives. Two twisted horns pushed through her hair, growing askew like thorned branches.

The hand reaching for Hattie boiled off all gentleness; its shape unchanged, yet the bones, the will, the hunger inside had shifted like iron under fire.

"No!"

She roared, grief like a torn drumskin. She clamped her spasming hand, sprang back like a deer, shot Hattie a terrified glance, then hugged her skull and covered her ears as if to dam a flood.

"No! That’s not it! I didn’t... I only... believe me! Please! Don’t look at me with those winter eyes!"

She squatted and broke into sobs again, like rain starting up after a brief sunbreak.

Onlookers turned like a field of sunflowers, and saw only a weeping woman—no horns, no fangs, no claws. The bloody wind vanished like a mirage.

"Please... believe me..."

She cried, voice hollow as a broken shell. She said the words, yet hoped for nothing; that, truly, was despair, a well with no rope.

Hattie stepped close and cradled her head, gentle as warm bread.

"Hattie believes you."

For a heartbeat, even her tears forgot to fall, stunned like birds silenced by thunder.

"Victor has eyes like that too," Hattie said, voice soft as dusk. "He knows there’s a side of him, and he’s scared to show it, scared people will turn away. But that side is his instinct, and sometimes it slips out like a wolf’s shadow."

"But I hold him anyway, no matter how bad he smells, I hold him. Little by little, Victor started bathing and changing clothes more; the smell faded like smoke, and that scary look came out less."

"Like I’m holding you now, Hattie believes you. Don’t lose to your instincts."

The woman hugged her back, pressing her face to Hattie’s little dress like a tear-soaked petal.

"...Hattie, you could die."

"I won’t. Hattie believes you won’t."

"Ha... how ridiculous. I crave this trust, yet I try to warn you not to give it. I’m a knot I can’t untie."

She patted Hattie’s hand like tapping a small drum, telling her to let go.

But Hattie stubbornly held on, arms like a ribbon.

That blood-tinged wind swept by again. Hattie squeezed her eyes shut against it, and her arms cradled nothing but air, like hugging fog.

When she opened them, the woman leaned on the railing, staring at the sea of clouds beneath SkywardCity, all of it aflame with sunset.

Her white dress, freckled with a few crimson dots, fluttered like a flag—pure and wicked, gentle and terrible.

"I’ve killed thirty. I still have sixty-nine to kill. When I’m done, Hattie, will you still hold me?"

"I will! And then Hattie will make you surrender, like a kite gently reeled home!"

She turned and smiled at her, tears spilling like beads, yet smiling from the root of her heart.

"If the world had turned as it should, my child would be about your age. If... if..."

"What’s your name?" Hattie asked, voice as clear as a bell.

"Little Hattie, head back. The nights in Atland bite like cold wolves."

"Your name. You still haven’t told me your name," she insisted, steady as rain.

"Don’t trust people too much. I don’t know when my hunting instincts will burst. Stay away—go where my claws and teeth can’t reach. When I kill, fear with the crowd; when I die, cheer with them. If I can watch from far away and see you live, bright as today, I’m satisfied."

"You won’t be satisfied! Live well! And tell me your name!"

She gave a light laugh, a bubble-dream of a smile.

Another bloody wind blew.

The sun slipped past the edge of sight, and night pooled like ink.

Hattie hurried to the railing; no one outside or in. The crepe in her hand was crushed a little, and cold as a forgotten stone.

"...I’ll buy another and bring it back," she murmured.

She sat on the bench to eat alone. It was still delicious, but without someone to share it, the sweetness thinned like watered tea.

Victor had almost burst from cover like a loosed arrow, but the bone-deep habits of an assassin cooled him like night dew.

An assassin lives for the single, killing stroke; every motion must land like a hammer on a nail. Anything wasted only splinters the board.

He knew how intoxicating love was; he’d baited targets with it and cut them down, like luring moths to a lamp. He’d mocked love as useless, a tangle of gauze. Only when he held it did he learn how beautiful and sharp it could be, a rose with thorns under the skin.

When Kairi left, the clenched fist of his heart finally unfurled, and he noticed his nails had bit his palm till blood slicked his hand like crimson ink.

"Hattie’s dulled your knife," Andor said, stepping from the brush like shade sliding over sand. "Back when you were only a killer, that blood-scent could have ruined your strike."

Andor emerged from the shrub where Victor lay hidden. The Demon King wore beachwear and a cowboy hat, holding three crepes, lazy as a cat in sun.

He’d even taken off his usual mask; only a pair of oversized sunglasses shaded his eyes like black lakes.

"You promised to protect her! That was my only term for joining the Demon King Army!" Victor’s voice cracked like ice.

"I don’t joke about that," Andor said. "We keep our promises. If Raven were here, she wouldn’t have risked letting Hattie meet Kairi. But I’m the one on duty today."

He gestured for Victor to release his collar and took another bite of crepe, casual as wind.

"Even if Kairi’s teeth touched Hattie’s throat, I could pull her back," he said, voice lazy but edged like a knife in silk. "Talking to Kairi was Hattie’s choice. If I’m sure it won’t end in the worst, why not give her some sky? Or do you want to keep Hattie like a canary in a gilded cage? That, to me, is what ‘protecting Hattie’ means."

"I want her to live in sunlight too, but..." Victor’s words trailed like smoke.

"I can give more than you can imagine, and guard more than you can clutch," Andor said, tone calm as deep water.

Even through the black lenses, Victor felt the Demon King’s gaze settle on him like a hand on a shoulder.

Andor handed him a crepe, patted his shoulder like tapping dust from cloth, and turned to go.

"Rest easy. You chose my side; trust it a little," he said, words soft as a hammock.

His figure slipped behind the shrubs, then popped back like a jack-in-the-box.

"Oh, right—Victor, you grabbed my collar. You’re working overtime tonight!"

Victor gave a crooked smile, looked at the spicy crepe in his hand, heat pricking like pepper sparks, and said, "Of course, boss."