Ancestral Lineage

The war raged outside, a storm of blood and fire, but at this moment, inside the small confines of their tent, there was only warmth. Only the sound of soft breathing. Only the quiet rustle of fabric as Felix pulled Helena closer, his arms wrapping around her like a shield against the chaos of the world beyond.

Helena sighed, resting her head against his chest, her fingers tracing slow patterns along his bare skin. "It's strange, isn't it?" she murmured. "That we can find peace in the middle of all this?"

Felix chuckled, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. "Maybe that's why it matters so much. Because we don't know how long we have."

She lifted her head, looking into his eyes—eyes that had always been her refuge. There was something soft in his gaze, something unspoken. She had seen him fight, had seen the fire in him when he stood on the battlefield, ruthless and unyielding. But here, with her, that fire burned differently.

It was warmth. It was devotion.

"Then let's make this moment last," she whispered, pulling him down for a kiss.

Their lips met slowly at first, hesitant, savoring. But the taste of each other, the heat of their bodies pressed together, soon turned slow into deep, hesitant into desperate. Felix's fingers wove into her hair, pulling her closer as he poured every unsaid emotion into her, into this fleeting night they had carved out for themselves.

Helena sighed into him, her hands moving across his back, feeling every scar, every story his body held. He had always been her warrior, her protector—but tonight, he was just hers. Just Felix. Just the man who had stolen her heart long before war had tried to tear them apart.

The world outside faded. The tent, their small sanctuary, was filled with nothing but the sounds of their love—breathless whispers, hushed laughter, the quiet rustling of fabric as they shed the weight of war, of reality, of everything but each other.

Felix hovered over her, trailing kisses down her collarbone, lingering on every inch of skin as if committing it to memory. Helena arched into him, her body burning with a different kind of fire. "Felix," she breathed, fingers tangling in his hair.

He smiled against her skin, murmuring, "I love you."

"And I love you," she whispered back, her voice barely above a breath.

The air shifted.

It was subtle at first. A cool draft brushing against their bare skin, a soft whistle through the fabric of the tent.

Then, something changed.

The air became heavy. Strange. Wrong.

Felix's body tensed over hers. Helena's fingers stilled against his skin. The warmth that had filled their small space was suddenly stolen, replaced by an eerie chill that didn't belong.

A gust of wind slithered through the tent—not from outside, not natural. It carried no scent, no weight. It was just… there.

Helena shivered. "Did you feel—"

Felix never got the chance to answer.

The air moved.

It wasn't a strike, wasn't a blade or a fireball or any of the horrors war had prepared them for.

It was a whisper. A breath of wind that coiled around them like unseen hands, brushing against their skin with a touch so cold it burned.

Felix gasped. His body arched, a strangled sound escaping his throat. Helena's eyes widened in horror as she watched his skin turn pale—too pale—like the very essence of him was being drained away.

She tried to move, to grab him, to scream—

But then it touched her.

The moment it wrapped around her throat, she understood.

This wasn't an attack.

It was a reaping.

The wind carried no malice, no hatred. It was simply… taking.

And as their fingers reached for each other one last time, as their eyes locked in the dim light of their tent, they faded.

No blood. No struggle.

Just a gust of wind.

And then—

Nothing.

...

The night stretched wide over the land, its silver glow casting long shadows through the dense forest. Leaves rustled gently in the cool breeze, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and blooming nightflowers. Somewhere in the distance, a lone owl hooted—a sound lost to the quiet footfalls of two figures moving gracefully through the underbrush.

Gorick and Sylvia Steil walked side by side, their feline ears twitching at every distant sound, their golden eyes gleaming under the moonlight.

For once, there was no battle. No bloodshed. Just the gentle rhythm of the night and the simple comfort of each other's presence.

Sylvia stretched her arms behind her head, letting out a long sigh. "I needed this," she muttered, her tail swaying lazily behind her. "If I spent one more day listening to those damn strategists arguing, I think I would've started clawing at the walls."

Gorick chuckled, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "You? Clawing at the walls? That's rich coming from someone who can sit in meditation for hours without moving a muscle."

Sylvia shot him a playful glare, her pupils narrowing. "That's different. Meditation is peaceful. Listening to idiots is just torture."

Gorick hummed in agreement, his gaze sweeping across the treetops. "I don't blame you. We've been stuck in that camp for too long. We're warriors, Sylvia. Sitting still doesn't suit us."

She nodded, inhaling the crisp night air. "Exactly."

For a while, they walked in silence, enjoying the sounds of the wild—the distant chirp of crickets, the rustling of unseen creatures in the brush, the soft crunch of leaves beneath their feet. It was easy to forget the war in moments like this.

Sylvia glanced sideways at her brother. Gorick had always been the calmer of the two, the more level-headed one. Where she burned hot, he remained cool, steady. But even now, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his ears twitched just a little too often.

"You're thinking about them again," she said, her voice softer this time.

Gorick exhaled slowly. "Hard not to."

Sylvia sighed, bumping her shoulder against his. "We can't save everyone, you know."

"I know." He tilted his head back, gazing at the stars. "But I still see their faces. The ones we lost."

Sylvia didn't respond right away. She understood. She felt it too.

The weight of survival.

The ghosts of the fallen never truly left.

But that was why they fought, wasn't it? To make sure their people had a future, that their sacrifices meant something?

Sylvia suddenly grinned, baring her fangs. "Well, the good news is, we're still here. And as long as we're breathing, we can make those bastards pay."

Gorick chuckled, shaking his head. "Ever the optimist."

She smirked, flicking her tail against his side. "You know me."

For a moment, the heaviness lifted, replaced by the easy familiarity of siblings who had walked the edge of life and death together more times than they could count.

Then—

A sharp sound.

Gorick's ears perked up instantly. Sylvia's eyes narrowed.

The wind had shifted. The forest, once alive with movement, had stilled.

They weren't alone.

Gorick's hand instinctively moved to the dagger at his belt. Sylvia crouched slightly, her claws extending.

The night had been peaceful.

But peace, they knew, never lasted long.

A whisper in the trees.

A flicker of movement in the darkness.

The feline siblings tensed, their sharp golden eyes scanning the forest. The once soothing rustling of leaves had become eerie, unnatural. The air felt charged, thick with something unseen.

Sylvia's tail flicked, her muscles coiling like a spring. "Gorick—"

"I know." His grip on the dagger tightened, his gaze flicking between the shadows. "It's too quiet."

A predator's instinct. The feeling of being hunted.

Then, it happened.

A gust of wind—cold, razor-sharp—cut through the trees.

Gorick barely had time to react before a phantom force slammed into him, sending him hurtling backward. He crashed against a tree with a sickening crack, his breath leaving him in a choked gasp.

Sylvia's pupils shrank. "Gorick!"

She spun on her heels, claws bared, heart pounding. But there was nothing.

Just the wind.

Moving. Shifting. Watching.

Then—a whisper.

A breath against her ear.

"Found you."

She barely had time to scream before her body froze mid-motion—not from ice, not from magic, but as if something unseen had simply plucked her from existence.

Her lungs burned. Her mind screamed.

Her claws, outstretched, never reached their mark.

The wind took her.

And just like that, the Steil siblings were no more.

...

The forest remained still.

The scent of damp earth and crushed leaves lingered where Gorick and Sylvia had stood only moments ago. The whispering wind had fallen silent, yet something remained—a presence.

At the edge of the clearing, where the moonlight barely touched, a figure stood.

Obscured by the shifting shadows, it was impossible to tell its form. The darkness clung to it like a second skin, writhing and shifting as if it was less a being and more a wound in reality.

Only its eyes were visible.

Two eerie silver orbs, gleaming like cold starlight, unblinking.

And then—

It began to whistle.

A slow, haunting tune, light and careless, yet filled with something ancient. The melody twisted through the trees, curling through the branches like unseen fingers, carrying with it an unshakable wrongness.

A song without words. A song of absence.

As the last note faded, the figure tilted its head slightly, as if listening to something no one else could hear.

Then, it stepped forward.

Not with the sound of boots crushing leaves. Not with the weight of a living thing.

It simply moved.

A shift in space. A distortion of reality.

Where it had once stood, there was only empty air—as if it had never been there at all.

And somewhere, in the vastness of the void where time had no meaning, two lost souls screamed—but no one could hear.