By the time Roxanne is certain that every assassin had been slain, including the infamous leader of the Black Covenant, Lord Umbra, the battlefield had already fallen into a chilling silence. Only then did Vivianne push open the carriage door, and the heavy air outside rushed in at once.
The iron-sharp stench of blood clung to the wind and slipped quickly into the carriage, thick enough to sting the nose. Vivianne calmly instructed the viscountess to close her eyes, then called upon Tempest’s wind to swirl gently through the carriage, carrying away the worst of the metallic scent so that it would not suffocate those within.
"Vivian!" Roxanne’s voice broke the silence as she rushed toward her before Vivianne’s feet could even touch the blood-soaked earth. Follow current novels on novel·fire·net
Without hesitation, Roxanne swept Vivianne into her arms. Her embrace, however, brought Vivianne’s gown into the blood that coated her body, staining the fabric deep crimson. Yet Vivianne did not flinch or recoil. Instead, she gazed at Roxanne with tender warmth, her smile gentle, even as Roxanne still stood in her full demonoid form, wings spread wide, horns curved like obsidian, and her skin darkened as though forged from shadow itself.
Vivianne leaned forward, closing the space between them, and pressed her lips to Roxanne’s rough and battle-hardened mouth. Her voice is soft, but her words carry all the weight of her heart. "Thank you for being alive," she whispered, her lips brushing against Roxanne’s as she spoke.
Slowly, the storm inside Roxanne began to quiet. The blackness that had wrapped around her body faded away, her vast wings folding into nothingness, her horns retreating, and the dark hue of her skin melting back into its natural, pale white glow. The terrible visage of the demon faded, leaving only the woman Vivianne loved standing before her, human once more.
"You smell and taste like blood," Vivianne murmured softly, her lips still close enough to Roxanne’s that her words carried a tender, teasing weight.
Roxanne let out a low chuckle, unable to hold it back, and tightened her arms around Vivianne as though she could never let her go. Before either of them could move, Undine drifted closer, her expression tight with irritation at the sight of the pair embracing while still drenched in gore. Without asking, she lifted her hands, and a veil of crystalline water rushed over both Roxanne and Vivianne. The blood is washed away in a single sweeping tide, though it left the two of them dripping wet from head to toe.
Vivianne laughed softly, pressing closer against Roxanne’s chest as Tempest stirred in response. A playful gust of warm wind swirled around them, tugging at their clothes and hair until every drop of water vanished into the air. By the time the wind stilled, their bodies were dry, and instead of the metallic tang of blood, the two of them smelt like roses and lavender.
Roxanne’s horse is led forward by Mara, who reined the animal in with ease. She guided the great beast close enough for Roxanne to mount, still keeping Vivianne safe in her arms. "We’ll continue our journey tomorrow," Roxanne said, her voice steady but gentle. "Tonight, we’ll make camp and give the knights time to clean the field. And themselves." She settled onto the saddle, holding Vivianne close against her, unwilling to loosen her grip for even a moment.
Mara cast her eyes toward the top of the carriage, where Marvessa lingered. With a sly grin, Mara tapped the empty space on the front of her own saddle and called out, "Why don’t you come here too, little wolf?"
Marvessa crossed her arms and shook her head firmly, her dark purple eyes narrowing as she sniffed the air. "Your fur is wet with blood. "I don’t want to," she replied with blunt stubbornness, refusing to budge from her perch on the carriage.
But Mara’s grin only widened. She leaned down in her saddle, her voice carrying a playful edge as she added, "Then I suppose I’ll just have to ride closer to the Grand Duchess instead." Knowing exactly how to play into Marvessa’s head.
"Tch." Marvessa clicked her tongue in irritation before leaping down with ease, landing lightly on Mara’s horse. She slid into the space in front of Mara, her arms crossed as though she was still defying her, even though she had given in. "Now, ride closer to the Grand Duchess," she commanded in a sharp tone.
"Aye, aye, little wolf," Mara replied, her voice full of satisfaction. There’s a smug curl at the edge of her lips, a victory far sweeter than any duel she had ever fought.
The other Borgia Knights, watching the scene unfold, exchanged glances. They could hardly believe what they were seeing. Mara, known for her silence and her love of battle, is now openly scheming like a mischievous trickster, all for the sake of coaxing a single stubborn werewolf female onto her horse. They shook their heads in disbelief, some even smirking at the sight.
"She’s losing her mind," Red muttered, his tone a mixture of amusement and exasperation.
Maxim snorted and shot back without missing a beat. "No, you just need a mate."
"And we’ll see you’re acting like that too." Another knight added, and the rest of the knights roared with laughter at that, their rough voices echoing across the ruined field.
Their laughter rang sharp against the backdrop of the aftermath: the ground was still littered with bodies of the Black Covenant assassins, armour and weapons scattered in the mud, and the smell of iron thick in the air. Knights moved through the field, dragging corpses or what’s left of them into piles and guiding horses still restless from the chaos of battle.
And yet, the Borgia Knights laughed—loud, unrestrained, and alive. To the Wyndham Knights, who stood pale and stiff with shock, it’s something unthinkable. They could not grasp how their allies could joke so easily, so soon after a fight where death had walked among them. To them, the battlefield was still a graveyard, heavy with ghosts. But for the Borgias, laughter is a survival; it’s a defiance in the face of fear.
As the last bodies were cleared and the earth finally began to still, the camp came to life. Rows of tents rose one after another, their pale canvas shapes dotting the field like muted lanterns beneath the fading sky. Waggons were unloaded, crates stacked, and banners fixed into the soil. Small bonfires flickered to life between the tents, their warm glow driving back the darkness.
Knights sat by the flames, some roasting strips of meat, others quietly sharpening bloodstained swords. The fires cracked and hissed, filling the night with a steady rhythm that was both grounding and familiar.
At the heart of the camp stood the two great tents, larger than all the others, set side by side like twin pillars of command. Their canvas was trimmed with banners—one bearing the crest of House Borgia, the other the sigil of House Wyndham—both fluttering faintly in the night wind.
These tents are reserved for the highest ranks: the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess occupied the first, while the Viscount and Viscountess are quartered in the second, close enough to confer swiftly should urgent matters arise. Torches burnt brightly before each entrance, their flames dancing against the fabric walls and throwing long shadows across the trampled earth.
Around the tents, guards stood in steady watch; they rotated in careful shifts, ensuring that the leaders could rest without fear of a blade or arrow finding its way past the perimeter. Smaller tents stretched outward in neat rows, some for knights, others for squires and servants.
A section was reserved for the wounded, where healers worked under the glow of lanterns, their hands steady despite fatigue. The air is heavy with the mingled scents of smoke, leather, and faint herbs burning in clay bowls to ward off sickness.
From a distance, the camp looked alive, with firelight gleaming against the dark wall of the forest. Though the blood of battle lingered in the soil, the camp’s rhythm of laughter, fire, and quiet labour gave the weary knights a place to rest. The Wyndham’s servants help the knights to prepare a meal, a stew with soft bread.
Not long after the command tents were secured and the campfires began to burn steadily, Mara and Maxim strode back into camp, each carrying two massive boars slung across their shoulders. Their arrival drew immediate attention, their boots muddy, their armour still damp from washing, and yet their grins are as wide as children sneaking back with stolen treasures.
"We shall eat a feast tonight!" Mara declared loudly, throwing her quarry down near the largest bonfire. Her voice carried across the camp like a rallying cry.
The Borgia Knights erupted into cheers and roars of approval, the sound rising high above the crackle of the flames. Laughter echoed as squires and soldiers rushed forward to help, knives flashing in the firelight as they began to skin and dress the beasts. The promise of fresh meat after such a day sent a wave of excitement through the men, their earlier weariness momentarily forgotten.
Marvessa, now back in her human form, her fur and claws gone, stepped out from the shadows of a nearby tent. She narrowed her eyes at Mara, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "I thought you went to bathe," she said flatly, disbelief written all over her face.
Mara tossed back her head and laughed, utterly unbothered by the accusation. "I was on my way," she admitted with a smirk, "but then the captain passed me, chasing after a boar. So I followed him." She spread her arms proudly, as if displaying a trophy. "And instead of one, we brought back four."
Her grin was infectious, and Maxim, standing beside her, gave a grunt of agreement as he dropped his own pair of boars with a heavy thud. The knights cheered again, already calling out jokes and praise, while the Wyndham Knights looked on in disbelief. To them, it’s really strange how quickly the Borgias could swing from blood-soaked battle to laughter and feasting, as though neither fear nor grief lingered in their bones.
But for the Borgia Knights, this is their way—facing death in one moment, and in the next, grabbing life by the throat and refusing to let go. Tonight, they would eat, drink, and laugh loudly under the stars, proving once again that no battlefield, no assassin, and no covenant of shadows could take their spirit from them.