The Pale Company sits gathered again at their table in the Ember Tankard, though none of them quite meet each other’s eyes.
Their mugs steam quietly.
No one’s drinking.
Kaer is the first to break the silence, voice flat as usual, but lacking its usual bite.
“If anyone ever says ‘let’s play cards with a devil’ again, I’ll personally throw them into the Nine Hells myself.”
Borin gives a half-hearted grunt of agreement. Garruk only mutters, “Aye,” and rubs his temples.
Arden stares into her cup, lips pressed tight.
The twins — Vex and Laz — exchange a rare, subdued look. Their usual sly humor gone. Both of them can still feel it: the infernal thread that snapped when the contract shifted ownership. They’ve known many deals with the Hells, but this one tasted of something different — older, more personal.
Their gazes drift to Sereth.
She sits quieter than normal, her bow resting against the chair. Her posture is straight, but her eyes are far away — still fixed somewhere in the shadow Valthrix left behind.
When Elaris walks in from the back room, there’s a flicker in her chest — not warmth, but a painful spark that feels like a burn.
She hides it, quickly, smiling just enough to seem herself.
“Morning,” she says softly. Her tone sounds slightly off, like a lute string just a touch too loose.
Elaris nods, his expression unreadable as he settles beside her. The infernal mark on his wrist still faintly glows beneath his sleeve, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
He speaks, measured and calm.
“We’re through the worst of it. For now. But… if she bound it to me, then that means the debt is paid.”
“To her maybe,” Kaer mutters, “but not to us.”
No one laughs.
The group moves through the market square, the ordinary sounds of life slowly stitching reality back together. Garruk and Borin bicker half-heartedly about the price of ale. Arden pretends to scold them just to hear herself speak again.
And then, during an idle moment, Sereth tests her bow.
She draws Heartstring — the familiar hum of power still there, but different. A faint hesitation in the pull. She looses an arrow at a distant post.
The shaft misses.
Not by much — but by enough.
Her hand trembles faintly when she lowers it. She hides the motion quickly, glancing around to see if anyone noticed.
Vex did.
Laz too.
They exchange a silent look. Both of them know that kind of flaw — the price of an Infernal’s bargain.
But they say nothing.
That night, at camp, Sereth sits apart from the fire, bow across her knees, her fingers tracing the silver runes along the limb.
Each one hums faintly when she touches it — and each hum makes her chest ache, a dull, emotional sting that feels like grief.
Elaris walks by quietly, glancing at her before tending to the fire.
The flamelight catches the faint glimmer of the mark on his wrist.
And when he looks at her — even for a heartbeat — that same warmth and pain collide inside her chest like thunder.
She quickly looks away, whispering under her breath:
“Not now. Please, not now.”
A faint tear slides down her cheek — not of sadness, but of confusion and guilt.
Behind her, Vex sighs quietly to Laz.
“She made a deal.”
He nods grimly.
“And she’s not the only one paying for it.”
The next few days, the changes grow clearer.
Her balance falters when she climbs or runs, the ground feeling subtly off under her boots.
Her precision with Heartstring dips — not by skill, but by something deeper, a fracture in confidence she can’t explain.
The mark on her hand glows faintly whenever Elaris speaks to her — a reminder that she traded part of her soul for that moment of speech.
Elaris notices the change, of course. The slight tremor in her hands. The flicker in her aim. The forced smile she wears.
But she brushes him off every time.
“I’m fine, Bones. Just tired.”
“No, really, I’m fine.”
She isn’t.
Each of the others bears their own scars from that encounter — mental, not physical.
Kaer has started sleeping lighter. He twitches at every whisper, every creak.
Borin drinks more than usual, muttering about hearing his old war cries in the silence.
Arden prays longer, her eyes distant, her faith shaken but unbroken.
The twins laugh again, but it’s brittle — an echo of their usual chaos. They avoid mirrors now; too easy to see Hell looking back.
Garruk has taken to carving small wooden animals by the fire, saying it “keeps his hands busy.” It also keeps him from thinking.
And Elaris — the weight sits differently on him. His silence isn’t emptiness; it’s focus. A quiet, grinding tension that feels like calculation.
One evening, as the group sets camp along the edge of the Thornmere woods, Sereth sits near the fire again, fletching arrows.
Her hands slip. The shaft splinters.
She winces.
Elaris glances up.
“You’re losing your touch.”
She forces a laugh that almost sounds real.
“Guess I’ll have to practice.”
But when she meets his eyes, the pain flares again — deep, burning, infernal.
She grips her chest and smiles through it.
He frowns slightly, as though something deep inside him feels it too.
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And for a heartbeat, both of them feel the faintest echo of laughter — not from this world, but from somewhere deeper, darker.
Valthrix’s voice, faint and mocking, just a whisper at the edge of their bond:
“A bargain’s a bargain, my little flame.”
The forest at dusk holds its breath.
That soft, amber quiet just before the world turns black.
Sereth moves through it like she always has — light, measured steps, her cloak blending into the treeline. Only tonight, she’s aware of something she’s never felt before: hesitation.
The bowstring doesn’t hum right. Her draw feels heavy, like there’s a hitch in the rhythm between heart and hand. The breeze that used to whisper to her where to aim is now just wind.
She exhales, steadying herself. A lone stag stands at the clearing’s edge — no threat, just a test. She nocks an arrow. The silver runes along Heartstring shimmer faintly, answering her pull with cold light.
She looses.
The arrow sails — clean, straight—
Then dips.
A miss.
It thuds into the dirt, a few inches short of its mark.
Sereth blinks. Confused.
She’s missed before, but not like this. Not… off-balance. Not wrong.
She sets another arrow, draws, breathes—
Miss.
The stag bolts. Leaves scatter in its wake, and she’s left in silence with the echo of her heartbeat and the faint ache in her palm where the infernal sigil burns cold.
She lowers the bow slowly, staring at her trembling hand.
“What’s wrong with me?”
Her voice is barely a whisper. It disappears into the trees like smoke.
She laughs once — dry, empty.
“Maybe if I tell someone…”
She looks down the forest path, back toward the faint glow of camp.
“Elaris?”
Nothing. No flutter in her chest. No quiet warmth that always answered his name. Just a sharp, sudden pain — like a knife behind the ribs. She staggers a little, clutching her side.
“Ow—!”
The pain lingers a few seconds, then fades.
And then—
A voice.
Silken, familiar, wrong.
Valthrix: “Ahhh… there we are, darling.”
Sereth freezes.
The trees bend inward, shadows stretching too far. Her breath fogs though the air isn’t cold.
Valthrix (smiling in her mind): “How’s the hunting going? Missed your mark, did you?”
Sereth grits her teeth.
“Get out of my head.”
Valthrix: “Oh, but it’s my favorite place to be. So warm. So full of thoughts you try so hard not to think.”
Sereth’s grip tightens on the bow.
“You said the deal was done.”
Valthrix (mock sympathy): “It is, sweet thing. But debts have ripples, you see. The Shepherd signed, yes — brave little martyr — but you…”
A pause, soft laughter like a caress of silk.
“You gave me something far more interesting.”
Sereth’s throat tightens.
“I don’t remember—”
Valthrix: “Of course you don’t. Mortals never do. But tell me… when you think of him now, does it hurt?”
The sharp pain flares again in her chest. She winces.
“What did you do to me?”
Valthrix: “You did it, darling. I only accepted the offer.”
The words slither around her thoughts, coiling tighter.
“You wanted to speak. You needed to speak. And now you have your voice, in exchange for a tiny, beautiful piece of yourself.”
“Your grace. Your poise. Your precision. All those little things that made you you.”
The bow hums faintly — discordant. The runes flicker like candlelight in a storm.
Valthrix (whispering): “Every time you reach for him, every time you let yourself feel, you’ll remember me. That’s what you gave up, little flame — the safety of love.”
Sereth’s eyes water — with fury, with shame, she doesn’t know which.
“I’ll find a way to take it back.”
Valthrix: “Oh, I hope you try. It’ll be delicious watching you fail.”
A faint echo of laughter fades through the trees, leaving only the rustle of leaves and the hollow thump of Sereth’s heartbeat.
She drops to one knee, gripping Heartstring. The bow hums again — faint, silver — trying to remind her of what’s left.
“I’ll fix this,” she whispers.
“I’ll fix me.”
She draws one last arrow, aims at the nearest tree, and fires.
It hits. Not perfect, but closer.
Sereth wipes a tear from her cheek and breathes out slowly, forcing herself to her feet.
The faintest glow pulses once along the bowstring — not infernal, but something softer, familiar.
And somewhere back at camp, Elaris pauses mid-sentence, his hand unconsciously brushing over the faintly glowing mark on his wrist —
a small flicker of warmth through the ache.
He doesn’t know why.
But he whispers anyway.
“Sereth…?”
Sereth had always been light on her feet—every motion a dance, every breath aligned with the rhythm of bowstring and wind.
But now, under the pale breath of the moon, she looks like a ghost chasing her own shadow.
Arrow after arrow flies from Heartstring, each one just off.
Some drift wide, some fall short.
Every time she tries to correct—
her foot catches,
her balance slips,
her landing rolls an inch too far or a heartbeat too soon.
The forest begins to sound like mockery.
Twigs snapping where her feet used to land silent.
Leaves rustling with every step.
Every miss feels heavier than the last.
“What’s wrong with me…”
She breathes it out between clenched teeth, chest heaving, hands shaking.
One more arrow.
She draws, looses—
and it whips past the tree, grazing bark instead of striking true.
Her shoulders slump.
Her knees hit the soil.
By the time Elaris finds her, she’s standing there motionless, staring at a single arrow lodged crookedly in a stump.
The faint silver glow of Heartstring flickers and fades, like an ember trying to remember what it was to burn.
He approaches quietly.
“You’ve been out here a while.”
She turns, forcing a grin that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Practice makes perfect, right?”
Elaris’s gaze lingers on the pattern of missed arrows.
“Perfection isn’t the problem, Sereth.”
He steps closer. She doesn’t step back.
When his hand brushes hers—
nothing.
No spark, no warmth, no heartbeat skipping like before.
Just the hollow realization that she feels nothing.
And that hurts more than any pain could.
She hides it instantly, retreating behind her smile.
“Guess I’m tired, that’s all.”
He studies her for a long moment, then nods slowly, clearly unconvinced.
“Rest, then. We’ll train again tomorrow.”
“Sure, Boss Bones.”
The nickname feels flat even as she says it. He leaves with a faint frown, his silhouette swallowed by firelight through the trees.
That evening, as the others drift around camp, Vex finds her sitting apart, bow across her knees. The Tiefling’s tail flicks nervously as she sits beside her.
“You’ve been quiet. Too quiet. Even for you.”
Sereth looks up, smiling faintly.
“Guess I’m just thinking.”
“Thinking about her?”
At the name, Sereth stiffens.
“Valthrix?”
Vex shudders visibly.
“Gods, don’t even say it. Gives me heartburn in places I didn’t know I had.”
She tries to smile, but her tone darkens.
“Sereth… did you make any deals?”
Sereth’s throat tightens.
The words hover—just at the edge of confession.
But before she can answer—
that voice slides into her head again.
Valthrix (purring): “Oh, little flame… here’s your chance. But why don’t you ask our little princess what she learned about defying the Hells?”
Sereth freezes. Her pulse thunders.
She looks at Vex, trying to read her expression.
“Vex… what happens if someone does defy the Hells?”
Vex doesn’t answer.
Her mouth opens, but no words come.
Then Laz, standing nearby with his arms crossed, says quietly:
“They adjust the deal. You can’t break it.”
His eyes don’t rise to meet hers.
“Once made, it’s made. The Hells always get their due.”
Sereth’s hands curl into fists. Her breath trembles.
“So there’s no way out?”
Valthrix’s laugh curls around her like smoke, unseen but felt.
Valthrix: “See? You’re learning. Consequences, darling. They make you interesting.”
Vex reaches toward her, sensing something wrong, but Sereth stands abruptly and walks away.
She finds Arden kneeling by the dying fire, polishing her holy symbol.
The cleric looks up immediately, reading her face like an open book.
“Sereth? What is it?”
Sereth hesitates — lips parting, trembling. The words I made a deal hover on her tongue.
Then—
that velvet whisper again, sliding between her thoughts:
Valthrix: “Go on, tell her. Tell your radiant little saint what you did. But remember…”
The voice turns sharp, sweet venom dripping from every syllable.
“…if you do, we might have to amend our arrangement. What more can you give me, little ranger? Your aim? Your grace? Or maybe…”
The voice drifts lower, almost tender.
“…the part of you that still remembers what he feels like when he smiles?”
Sereth’s breath catches.
She shakes her head subtly, trying to block it out. Arden frowns.
“Sereth?”
“It’s nothing,” she forces out, voice shaking. “Just… tired.”
Arden doesn’t believe her. But she doesn’t press. She only reaches forward and squeezes her shoulder.
“Then rest. Whatever it is — you don’t have to carry it alone.”
Sereth swallows hard, nodding.
“Yeah,” she whispers. “I know.”
As she turns away, Valthrix’s laughter ripples through her mind again, soft and smug.
Valthrix: “Yes, you do. You carry it beautifully.”
The laughter fades, leaving only the steady, uneven beat of Sereth’s heart —
and the faint, aching hollow where her warmth used to be.