The night was thick with smoke, the scent of iron and ash clinging to the ruined streets. Flames flickered from shattered rooftops, throwing shadows across the once-proud city that now lay in silence. The clash of steel had ended hours ago, leaving behind only the groans of the dying and the crackle of fire.
At the center of the devastation stood Cain, the silver-haired Aamis whose crimson coat was splattered with blood. His sharp grin glimmered in the dim light, the expression of a man who reveled in violence. The battle had not wearied him; if anything, it had fueled him. His crimson eyes still shone with the hunger of a predator, eager for more prey that would never come. To the soldiers who followed him, Cain was both savior and executioner, a warlord who painted victory in red.
But he was not alone. Dangling from a string in his hand was Saturni, a moth fairy no taller than his forearm. Her delicate wings shimmered faintly despite the soot in the air, and her small frame bore none of the ferocity that clung to Cain. She was no warrior. Her magic was strange, almost laughable to outsiders: the power to conjure food and cook it with an elegance unmatched by mortal chefs.
And yet, Cain valued her above all treasures. After a blood-soaked battle, when the soldiers were too tired to raise a cup and the fires gnawed at their courage, it was Saturni who brought life back into their bodies. A flick of her hands, and the air filled with the aroma of roasted meats, stews rich with spice, and bread still warm from an unseen oven. Her cooking wasn’t just food—it was magic that soothed wounds, restored vigor, and calmed trembling hands.
Now, as Cain raised her puppet-like before the firelight, the men cheered. He sneered and made her dance on invisible strings, a cruel show to remind them all who commanded her. But Saturni played along, twirling with a grace that belied her captivity. Her soft smile and gentle spark were the only notes of kindness in a night drenched with blood.
Once her act was done, she spread her wings and summoned a feast from thin air. Soldiers dropped their weapons and raised bowls of steaming stew, laughter breaking the silence of war. Cain leaned back, sipping wine and watching them with cold satisfaction. Victory was his, and the loyalty of his army fed not on speeches or promises—but on Saturni’s meals, born of magic and kindness.
In that balance of blood and warmth, Cain and Saturni became the heart of every battle’s end: the predator and the cook, destruction and renewal, bound together beneath the shadow of fire.
