The crisp, pine-scented air of the Swedish woodlands was replaced almost overnight by the dense, ancient canopy of the Białowieża Primeval Forest in eastern Poland.
Garrik Vane’s obsession with the codex had reached a fever pitch.
Ever since the raid on the underwater ruins of the Caribbean, the leader of the Wyrm-Breakers had spent hours locked inside his command pavilion, tracing dark, pulsating runes and muttering in forgotten tongues.
His skin had grown increasingly sallow, the veins around his scarred temple turning a sickly, ink-black hue.
The blood sacrifice demanded by the ancient magic required a rare catalyst: the blood of sacred creatures, untainted and steeped in primordial magic.
When Garrik’s advance scouts returned with rough coordinates pointing toward an ancient, uncharted Unicorn sanctuary hidden deep within the Polish wilderness, Vane did not hesitate.
The entire mobile camp was uprooted and relocated.
For four days, small advance squads of Wyrm-Breakers scoured the misty valleys and isolated villages surrounding the coordinates.
Leon, who had been tasked with overseeing the camp’s perimeter defense and logistical supplies alongside Vanya, was not present when the forward team made contact.
The battle took place in a sunlit glade where the dense Polish canopy gave way to a carpet of fallen golden leaves, bathed in the crisp, amber light of an early autumn afternoon.
Ten hardened Wyrm-Breakers, led by the ruthless Torstein, had cornered three figures near a moss-covered stone archway.
They were the sworn guardians of the sanctuary—an ancient bloodline of wizards who had bound their very souls to the land to protect the magical beasts within.
There were only three of them: a middle-aged wizard with broad shoulders and a weathered face, a tall, graceful witch with sharp gray eyes, and a young girl no older than fourteen.
What caught the poachers off guard was their style of combat.
The guardians did not fight like conventional wizards.
In their hands, they wielded physical steel—the man holding a heavy arming sword, the women wielding elegant, long-handled bastard swords.
But the steel was merely an extension of their magic.
As they swung, the blades hummed with radiant, silver-white light, channeling cutting curses, kinetic bursts, and elemental barriers directly through the metal.
Their magic was pure, noble, and deeply tied to the natural world.
Vines whipped from the earth to bind the poachers’ ankles; shockwaves of condensed light shattered shield charms; and the man’s longsword carved through a heavy dragon-hide breastplate as if it were parchment.
Despite being outnumbered three to one, the three guardians fought with a terrifying, synchronized grace.
Within minutes, four Wyrm-Breakers lay dead or horribly wounded on the forest floor.
But raw, unyielding numbers and dark, underhanded tactics eventually tilted the scales.
Torstein and his men unleashed a barrage of dark curses, blinding powder, and heavy iron nets.
The father took a piercing curse straight through his chest, his sword falling from his bloodied fingers.
Realizing all was lost, the dying couple enacted a final, desperate ritual—a surge of ancestral magic designed to blast back the attackers and buy their daughter a chance to flee into the deep woods.
The burst of light obliterated two more poachers, but the girl was not fast enough.
A heavy entangling jinx caught her ankle, dragging her down into the dirt.
Before she could raise her bastard sword, Torstein struck her with a powerful Stupefy at point-blank range.
When the surviving squad dragged her back to the camp, her parents lay dead in the clearing, their blood soaking into the roots of the ancient trees.
Leon was standing outside the alchemy tent, inspecting a crate of newly brewed Pepperup potions with Finn, when the hunting party returned.
The mood in the camp was sour.
Four dead and two crippled for a single prisoner was an embarrassing toll for an advance squad.
Torstein dumped the girl roughly onto the mud before Garrik Vane’s tent.
Leon’s gaze immediately took in her appearance.
She was around fourteen years old.
She was lean and athletic, though currently battered and covered in soot and dried blood.
Her long, striking silver-ash hair was gathered into a loose, messy bun resting at the nape of her neck.
Stray, rebellious locks escaped to brush against her forehead, while soft tendrils framed her face and fell down to her neck.
Her features were remarkably refined—sharp cheekbones, a small, straight nose, and wide, deep emerald-green eyes that burned with a mixture of raw terror and fierce defiance.
She was dressed in an oversized white linen shirt that slipped casually off one shoulder, paired with form-fitting dark brown leather pants and tall leather riding boots.
A sturdy belt pouch hung at her waist alongside a pair of swordsman’s gloves, completing her rugged gear.
An empty leather scabbard hung at her hip, her bastard sword having been claimed as a trophy by Torstein.
“Is this the guardian?” Garrik Vane demanded, stepping out of his tent, his dark eyes gleaming with unholy fervor.
“Where is the sanctuary? Where are the beasts?”
The girl remained silent, her jaw clenched tight, her eyes fixed on Vane with absolute hatred.
“Speak, girl, and you might live to see tomorrow,” Torstein spat, kicking her side.
She gasped, coiling her body in the dirt, before slowly forcing herself up onto her elbows.
Through the bloody strands of silver hair hanging over her face, her emerald-green eyes glared up at Garrik Vane with unyielding defiance.
“Save your breath, poacher,” she rasped, spat blood onto the mud, and forced a bitter smile.
“You can kill me, but you will get nothing. The guardians of the Silver Forest bind themselves with a soul-forged oath at birth. I physically cannot speak the path, nor lead you to the sanctuary. My heart would burst before the words could ever cross my lips.”
Garrik Vane’s face contorted into a monstrous scowl, his dark eyes flashing with unholy fury at her defiance.
“We’ll see about that,” Vane snarled.
“Crucio.”
The red beam of light struck the girl dead-center in the chest.
An agonizing, blood-curdling scream tore from her throat.
Her body arched violently off the damp earth, every muscle seizing as the dark curse flooded her nervous system with absolute agony.
The poachers gathered around, some laughing, others watching with dull indifference.
Leon stood frozen near his tent.
His mind, usually cold, precise, and detached, felt an unexpected, sharp pang in his chest.
Over the past four years, he had seen violence, execution, and death.
He had killed men himself in cold blood to survive.
But watching an innocent girl his own age—someone who had just watched her family slaughtered—being tortured for information she literally could not give, pushed against the core of his humanity.
The screams echoed through the canopy, sharp and visceral.
Leon’s knuckles turned white against the hilt of his hunting knife.
Beside him, Finn looked away, his jaw working as he clenched his fists, unable to watch.
For three agonizing minutes, Vane kept the curse active.
When he finally lowered his wand, the girl collapsed onto her stomach, gasping for breath, her whole frame shivering violently, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on her cheeks.
Yet, through the agony, her lips remained sealed.
The ancient oath held.
“Useless,” Vane spat, turning on his heel.
“Throw her in the iron cage behind the supply tent. If she won’t talk, we’ll use her blood for the ritual later. We’ll find that sanctuary, one way or another”
Night fell over the Polish woods.
A cold, damp mist rolled between the tents.
Leon was sitting near the central fire, sharpening his daggers, when he heard raised, coarse voices near the back of the camp.
His sharp ears picked up the sound of a tearful struggle and the sharp clinking of heavy iron chains.
He stood up immediately, his eyes narrowing.
Walking silently around the perimeter of the supply tents, he spotted three low-ranking poachers—including Jad, the brutal brute who had tormented Leon and Finn during their first months at the camp.
Jad and his two cronies were standing outside the iron cage.
The heavy lock had been picked.
Jad had his thick, scarred hand wrapped around the silver-haired girl’s throat, pinning her against the iron bars while one of the other men held her wrists.
Her linen top was partially torn at the shoulder, and she was fighting with every ounce of strength left in her battered frame, biting and kicking.
“Hold still, you little wildcat,” Jad growled, a repulsive grin on his face.
“Your parents are dead and Vane’s going to bleed you dry anyway. Might as well give the boys some fun first—”
“Reducto.”
A crimson streak of magic slammed into the ground right between Jad’s boots.
The earth exploded in a shower of dirt and sparks, the force of the blast throwing all three men backward onto their rears.
Jad scrambled up, reaching for his wand, his face red with fury.
“Who the fuck—!”
He froze.
Leon stepped out of the shadows.
His wand held loosely in his right hand, pointing directly at Jad’s throat.
“L-Lieutenant…” Jad stammered, his bravado instantly evaporating.
Ever since Leon’s promotion and his public display of power alongside Vanya, the lower-level thugs lived in mortal terror of the young wizard.
“The prisoner is property of the command circle,” Leon said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.
“Garrik explicitly stated she is to be kept intact for the ritual. If you touch her again, Jad, I won’t use a warning shot. I will carve your throat out and leave you for the crows. Am I clear?”
Jad swallowed hard.
“C-Clear, Lieutenant,” Jad muttered, scrambling to his feet.
“We were just… testing the guards.”
“Get out of my sight. All three of you.”
The poachers practically tripped over themselves as they hurried away into the darkness.
Leon waited until their footsteps faded before turning toward the cage.
The girl had collapsed back into the corner of the iron enclosure, clutching her torn collar to her chest.
She was trembling, her emerald-green eyes wide with terror, glaring at Leon like a cornered animal.
To her, he was just another monster in the dark—he wore the dark leather of the Wyrm-Breakers, carried their weapons, and commanded their respect.
Leon sighed softly.
He walked over to the cage, pulled the iron door shut, and cast a heavy Colloportus to seal it, followed by a subtle alarm ward tuned exclusively to his own magic.
“I am not going to hurt you,” Leon said quietly in Polish, matching her native tongue.
The girl didn’t answer.
She only shrank further into the shadow of the bars, her knuckles white as she held her breath.
Over the next two weeks, the camp remained stalled.
The ancient magic protecting the Unicorn sanctuary was dense, shifting its physical coordinates whenever Garrik’s tracking arrays got close.
During those fourteen days, Leon took it upon himself to handle the prisoner.
Every evening, after the camp settled down and Garrik retreated to his inner sanctum, Leon walked to the iron cage.
He brought clean water, fresh bread, roasted meat, and clean blankets.
He also brought ointment and healing salves he had brewed himself in his tent.
The first few days were defined by hostility and silence.
The girl refused to eat while he was watching.
She refused to let him touch her wounds.
Whenever he approached the bars, she would scramble to the farthest corner, her jaw set, her silver hair falling like a veil over her pale face.
“You’re wasting your time,” she finally spoke on the fourth night.
Her voice was surprisingly melodic, though raspy from disuse and dry throat.
“I will not speak. My soul belongs to the sanctuary. You can torture me until my heart stops, poacher.”
Leon sat down on an overturned wooden crate a few paces away from the cage, keeping his hands visible and empty.
“I know,” Leon replied calmly in clear, smooth Polish.
“I saw the magic binding you. And I’m not asking for your secrets.”
She blinked, her icy eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“Then why do you bring food? Why did you stop those men?”
“Because there is a difference between survival and pointless cruelty,” Leon said evenly.
“My name is Leon. What’s yours?”
She stared at him for a long moment, searching his face for any sign of deceit.
Finding none, she turned her head away.
“Names have power. I won’t give mine to a murderer.”
“Fair enough,” Leon said without anger.
He placed a jar of soothing burn ointment and a clean cloth near the edge of the bars.
“Apply this to your wrists. The irons are causing an infection. If you don’t treat it, you won’t have the strength to survive whatever comes next.”
He stood up and walked away, leaving her alone in the dark.
By the second week, a quiet, fragile understanding began to form between them.
The girl realized that Leon was indeed different from the rest of the scum in the camp.
He never raised his voice, he never threatened her, and he ensured that no other poacher came within ten yards of her cage.
When she finally used the salve, the painful chemical burns from the Cruciatus curse and the iron chafing began to heal.
One rainy evening, as the downpour drummed loudly against the canvas tents, Leon brought her a thick, wool-lined cloak and a hot bowl of stew.
She accepted the bowl through the bars, her fingers brushing against his for a fraction of a second.
She flinched, but she did not pull away.
“Why do you stay with them?” she asked quietly, wrapping the warm cloak around her shoulders.
She was eating slowly, her refined upbringing evident even in the way she held the wooden spoon despite her starvation.
“You don’t look like them. You don’t speak like them. You have… honor. Yet you wear their skin.”
Leon looked out over the muddy camp, his expression unreadable.
‘Because when I was eleven, I was taken just like you,’ he thought, though he didn’t voice the full truth.
“In this world, power decides who lives and who dies,” Leon answered softly.
“Sometimes, you have to walk through the mud until you are strong enough to clean off the dirt. If I had tried to be a hero four years ago, I would be six feet under a tree in Norway.”
The girl looked at him, her eyes softening slightly.
For the first time, she saw the heavy burden behind his sharp looks.
He wasn’t a monster; he was a survivor who had adapted to a cruel world.
“My name is Liliana,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the patter of the rain.
Leon turned his head to look at her.
“Liliana.”
“My family… we have guarded the Silver Forest for six generations,” she continued, a faint tear slipping down her cheek, though her chin remained held high with pride.
“My mother… my father… they died protecting the bloodline. I am the last.”
“I am sorry for your loss, Liliana,” Leon said genuinely.
“I cannot undo what happened. But I promise you this: as long as I am in this camp, no one will lay a hand on you again.”
Liliana looked into his eyes, sensing the absolute truth in his words.
The wall of cold hostility she had erected around her heart didn’t shatter, but a small, resilient crack appeared.
In the heart of an enemy camp, surrounded by murderers, this blond boy had become her sole anchor.
While a quiet, subtle bond was forming between Leon and Liliana, it did not go unnoticed.
Vanya watched the interaction from afar, leaning against the wooden pole of Leon’s tent, her arms crossed over her chest.
Her hazel eyes were dark, a fiery mixture of possessiveness, jealousy, and pride.
She had accepted Leon’s ambitious nature—and his intent to claim other women alongside her—ever since losing their fierce duel to him.
She knew the terms, and she respected his strength enough to yield to his grand vision.
Yet, theory was very different from reality.
Seeing him spend hours talking softly to the young, silver-haired witch still stirred an intense, primal possessiveness within the Czech witch, stoking the embers of a wild, unyielding jealousy she couldn’t fully contain.
That night, when Leon returned to his private quarters, Vanya was waiting for him.
The moment the tent flap closed, she lunged.
She pinned him against the central wooden support beam, her lips crashing onto his in a fierce, demanding kiss that tasted of iron and heat.
Her hands buried themselves in his blond hair, pulling him flush against her body.
“You’re spending a lot of time with our captive, my little bird,” Vanya purred against his lips, her breath hot and ragged as her fingers tore at his belt.
“She’s a prisoner, Vanya. And a child who lost everything,” Leon replied, his voice calm, though his body reacted instinctively to her heat, his hands coming up to grip her waist tightly.
“I don’t care what she is,” Vanya growled, her hazel eyes flashing with dark passion.
She bit his lower lip hard enough to draw a tiny drop of blood, licking it away with a wicked smirk.
“You belong to me. Every thought, every touch, every drop of power. If you want to play the savior out there, fine. But in here… you burn all that energy on me.”
She pushed him down onto the heavy furs covering the bed, straddling his waist with aggressive grace.
That night, Vanya channeled every ounce of her jealousy, possessiveness, and fiery pride into their physical passion.
It was wild, intense, and uninhibited—a chaotic storm of dark desire where she sought to mark her territory and remind Leon of the unbreakable, feral bond they shared.
And as Leon held her tight, matching her intensity in the dark, his mind remained sharp, calculating the days ahead.
He knew time was running out.
Garrik Vane was getting closer to breaking the sanctuary’s wards, and when he did, Liliana’s life would be forfeit.