By Vega’s read on the Shadow’s ripples, the first peace pact drew only a few Demon Kings—me, Kadula, Daviya, and Qing—like scant lanterns in winter fog, signing with humans.

After Vega declared how grave the otherworld invasion was, he offered a second peace pact, loose as a silk ribbon in rain, ten years of peace at most.

Even if I tricked them, it only bound them to live beside humans for a decade; Demonfolk don’t count years, their lives are deep rivers.

So many Demon Kings fell into the pit—no, signed—the pact that it was almost everyone, a field of banners settling in the wind.

That was almost the best I’d hoped for; with the tide laid flat like sand in low surf, the road ahead would be steadier, closer to my goal.

Almost—always that word like grit between teeth.

Of all present, only Anna gave a cold laugh, flipped the table like a storm flipping boats, tore both pacts, and strode off like a blade’s shadow.

I don’t think that makes her some hot‑headed fool who can’t weigh the scales; later I found Anna had quietly, coolly drifted to our side.

She beat Abigail, Elina, and Raven black and blue, held her hand from killing, spoke no harsh words, and left—oddly gentle for her flamboyant blaze.

Before leaving, she watched Stini cross blades with the Deity of Justice, a sword duel like snow and fire colliding; the deity felt her there, but let it be.

A bold thought stirred like a fish under ice: if we return to the Hero Academy and hear the Demon King of Slaughter thrashed the Colonna Empire’s third princess—

Then my thought might be proven; for now, it’s just a reed floating on water.

Fine. We’ll sift all this with Vega later, and bring Daviya and Kadula to the table; the anti‑war faction has its bones, I needn’t think alone.

My first task now was to care for Stini, weakened to a candle guttering in a draft.

We carried her to the Broad‑Domain Temple; a Divine Healer cast preliminary healing Divine Art, then suggested we should start funeral preparations, like frost laid on wheat.

Stini’s internal injuries were severe, carved into her by trading blows with the Deity of Justice; her right arm was almost spent, rotting like wood in rain.

Bone and muscle both were failing; to regrow them would be no easier than growing a new limb from spring soil; that was the lesser trouble.

Worse was a mark on her body; when we undressed her, a blood‑red sigil burned on her back like a sealed wound.

The Godslayer Mark—proof she had slain a Divine Being, and the gods recoiled like starlings from a hawk.

Whatever she wore, within a day, cloth would slowly bloom into blood‑red, no garment spared, like white silk dipped in dusk.

All her blessings fell silent; the gods accepted Stini had “done no wrong,” spared her punishment, yet their hearts refused a killer of their kin.

They withdrew their grace like a river pulled back at low tide; Stini stood as nothing more than a gentle, ordinary girl.

Healing Divine Art failed on her utterly; it didn’t worsen the wounds, but Elina, tear‑bright and sweat‑soaked, layered high Divine Art to no effect.

Death’s pall deepened on Stini’s face, settling like ash on snow.

In the end, Raven saved her life, not with some cure from the Ocean of Darkness, but with hands and steel and grit.

She amputated the dying right hand, opened the abdomen like a seam in canvas, repaired torn organs, and brewed magic tinctures to press back inner bleeding.

It might be the first surgery of the Silver Era, a lamp held against night.

Now Stini is in post‑op recovery, sleeping quiet as meadow fog; Elina was just summoned out by the Temple Head.

The walls drink noise like moss drinks dew; even so, I can guess the Temple Head is politely saying the Broad‑Domain Deity won’t host Stini here.

Elina will blow up like summer thunder, insisting Stini did nothing wrong, that she’s a Hero, and so on, words like arrows loosed in a storm.

I kept peeling an apple, a small joy, coiling skins long and thin, beautiful as river ribbons.

It means my hands are deft; if no Divine Healer came to chase us out, I could keep shaving curls of red and white till dusk.

The walls keep voices out, but not force; a muffled thud bulged a slab of plaster, like a fist waking stone—Elina’s rage, no doubt.

The jolt stirred Stini awake, hazy as dawn; she saw me at her bedside, and the small‑animal fear in her eyes eased like rain easing.

“Rest easy,” I said. “There are always places where you can sleep without fear—one is beside your father, the other is beside me.”

“Andor…”

“Apple. Want a bite?”

“Did I do wrong?”

I sighed; those expectant eyes were bright as spring water. Have I been playing someone people lean on?

I’m supposed to be the Hero Squad’s deputy—sometimes warn, sometimes watch, help with logistics, nothing more than a steady hand at the helm.

It doesn’t include heart‑to‑hearts, building her worldview with bricks of pain; those blades she must carry herself.

I only warn her not to blindfold herself; I won’t preach about right and wrong; that was the plan, clear as glass.

I sliced a small crescent of apple, held it to her lips, then slipped it away and ate it; her pout was a cloud, soft and bruised.

I did a little trick, palmed a second slice, pressed it to her lips; the girl’s smile bloomed like a lantern lit.

I let out another lazy sigh, wind through pine needles.

“I stopped you from striking first so revenge’s fire wouldn’t eat you; so you’d think with your own head, cool as moonlight.”

“But if you had killed Justin outright, none of this would’ve sprawled; offer the Divine Being’s remains to the temple, they know the rites.”

“They’d even give you a reward, and your legend would gain one more star.”

“But you didn’t; you let Justin revive a Divine Being.”

“Mm.” Stini’s voice was clear as a bell in winter air; I wanted to tug her cheeks till the worry wrinkled like paper.

“You knew Justin wanted to revive the Deity of Justice; even if he could, it couldn’t stay true—what was justice then is wrong now.”

I doubt a speech that smooth comes from the heat of the moment; she must’ve prepared, knew what the Deity of Justice truly was.

Whether she checked scrolls or asked the Deity of Wisdom doesn’t matter; the roots are the same.

“Yeah, that’s right, Andor.”

She answered like a stream over pebbles.

“Even facing a great sinner, I wanted his obsession to end with a close; Hero, you’re kind to the bone.”

“I knew what would come for me.”

“Good to have resolve. Now the second point—did you think a Divine Being wouldn’t kill you?”

“Did you think being a Hero buys mercy? Early on, sure, there was no killing intent.”

“But in the last sword duel, if you lost, you died; did you know that? The blade was a gate, win or perish.”

“To be honest, I was ready to die when I faced the deity; and in that last duel…”

Stini’s gaze fell into memory like a leaf into a well.

“The deity showed me those old… heroes of yesterday; their legacy was cultured and fierce.”

“If I lost, I wasn’t fit to bear their blood and soul; being killed would be right as rain.”

“I fought knowing everything, and still stepped forward.”

“All right. But did you guess you’d lose every blessing, be rejected by the gods?”

“No…” Her voice dropped, a shadow curling at dusk.

We didn’t even reach this: if the Deity of Justice, Justus, had died holding a scepter, he’d have died as a Divine Being in symbol.

No matter intent, Stini would’ve been struck by divine wrath, sky‑fire on a lone tree, for unmaking part of this world.

Thankfully he was holding a greatsword and died as a Hero; he cared for Stini in that last courtesy, sparing her heaven’s lash.

I carved apple into little rabbits, feeding them one by one to the downcast girl, white boats crossing a red sea.

“They were his kin, after all…”

“Mm…”

“If…”

“What?”

“I mean… if there were another chance, would you still…”

“I would.”

I have always admired this in Stini: she never regrets her choice, steady as north.

“I wanted Justin to die fulfilled, cradling his ideal, not in bitterness.”

“So you were willing to pay with your right hand, with all your blessings, and leave the Holy Sword with barely a third of its blade?”

“Ah…” She tried to slap my hand, then remembered—no right hand now; her smile turned wry as a bent reed.

“I’m a Hero; I want to save everyone; that foolish blood runs hot all day and night.”

I snorted in pretend disdain, a cat’s huff.

“A grand, noble hero’s bloodline indeed.”

“My family’s like this, generation after generation; our child with you will be like this too!”

“If you could just say, ‘I’m glad you’re here for me,’ it’d be great… wait, you’re way too frank!”

“You skipped the step and jumped to children already?!”

“Hahaha.”

“Hahahahaha.”

Another wall‑thump sounded outside, like thunder trapped in clay, but our laughter didn’t break.

“Hey, Stini,” I said.

“What is it?”

“Remember the time we first met?”

“Sure. I get so excited remembering those evenings that I can’t sleep.”

“Liar. You sleep the moment your head hits the pillow; even Vega can’t wake you when there’s work.”

“Just kidding. But yeah, I remember.”

“You said, ‘If my husband is caught by Demonfolk to threaten me, I won’t save you. I hope you save yourself.’”

“Compared to what you did for Justin, why so cold to the ones close to you?”

Stini tilted her head on the pillow, playful as a sparrow.

“Because close people understand me. I can be willful, ask more.”

“A Hero can be spoiled too, like those who beg heroes for help.”

No… that’s not the bond I want.

I want Stini to accept the dark by reason, not by favors or love’s warmth.

Still…

“You’re hurt this bad… fine. For now, I’ll allow you to be spoiled with me,” I said, reluctant like rain giving way to sun.

“Hurray!”

I stroked her small head and green hair; warm as grass in spring, the touch soft and bright.

“Ah, by the way, if Demonfolk catch me, would you…”

“No! Andor is absurdly strong, unmatched under heaven.”

“And I’ll stick to it—my husband should save himself.”

Her firm tone was hammered iron, and adorable to me.

“But…”

“But?”

“But if you kiss me, I might rescue you in my spare time. Lips only!”

The little rascal made me laugh, like wind bells in a doorway.

I leaned down, gentle as falling petals—