Chapter 419 Daughter of the Ninth Wound. Bound in steel and ash. One of the last-born of the Screaming Reaches.

The wind had become a thing with teeth.

It bit at their cheeks, hissed through the folds of Hermit's pelt coat, gnawed at the edges of the hatchlings’ crate. Snow flurried sideways now, not falling but slashing, pulled by cruel fingers across the white-scoured mountainside.

Hermit squinted through the gale, following the direction his father had murmured.

 “Past the stone spine, then left. Look for the crooked pine. That’s the edge.”

He could barely see the tree now. Everything was white on white, grey on white, wind on white. Only his father’s quiet voice guided his steps.

Then, without warning, Kaka went rigid against his back.

Hermit stopped, boots crunching into a fresh drift.

Kaka’s voice had gone tight, brittle like ice cracking under the weight.

“…No. Oh no.”

Suzuka trudged up behind them, shielding her face with one arm.

“What is it now?! If this is about your knees again, I swear—”

Kaka whispered, “Run.”

Hermit’s stomach twisted.

“What…?”

Kaka slowly turned his head as far as his stiff neck allowed, speaking low, like the sound might attract it.

“It’s here. The thing. The shadow.”

Suzuka frowned. 

“What ‘thing’? Speak like a person.”

Kaka didn’t blink. 

“It killed them. All of them. In the pits. In the halls. It came in silence. The overseers, the breeders—everyone. Torn. Gone. It didn’t ask. It didn’t shout. It just watched. Then it killed.”

Hermit looked forward again. At first, he saw nothing—just snow and stone and storm. Then it flickered. A patch of dark. Motionless. Wrong. Not behind a rock. Not in front. It was on the path. A figure.

Its shape was barely visible—just a tall blur against the white—but it stood with a stillness that froze the blood. Humanoid, but... off. Too narrow at the joints. Too long in the arms. No face.

Just two pinpricks of red. Eyes. Burning, yet cold. Watching. And waiting. A single hatchling gave a squeak from inside the crate, then shoved hay over its own head.

Kaka wheezed sharply, each breath now frantic. 

“It doesn’t leave survivors. It didn’t even look at me before. I was just part of the floor. But now we’re on the path. It’s blocking the way.”

A voice slithered through the storm—too smooth, too slow, curling around syllables like silk soaked in blood.

“Well, well…” it purred, feminine and amused.

 “And here I was… missing my little beasts.”

Hermit froze mid-step. Even the hatchlings whimpered under the hay.

The voice continued, syrupy with false sweetness.

“And now you come to me. Out of the storm. Out of hiding. So eager, so brave.”

A low laugh drifted through the air—light and playful, but bone-deep wrong.

“You’ve saved me the trouble of hunting. That was very sweet of you. But I do hope you’ll run faster than the last ones did. I like a little chase.”

The snow thinned for a breath—just long enough for the voice to drift through again, softer now. Closer.

“Oh… but don’t go yet,” it whispered, like a lover murmuring into a dream.

 “We’ve only just met.”

Hermit stumbled, nearly dropping the crate.

Kaka muttered something in goblin tongue—an old plea, half-prayer, half-apology.

The voice sighed, aching and wistful.

“You don’t even recognize me, do you? That hurts. After everything we’ve shared… all the beautiful screams I gave your kin. All the silence I gave after.”

The wind howled, and with it came the faintest echo—wet, heavy, like breath caught in a throat.

“I waited. I waited so long for more of you. For something soft. Something scared. And look what you’ve brought me—so many small, wriggling gifts. Little mouths, little hearts. All for me. But I won’t hurt you right away,” the voice promised.

 “No, no. I’ll cherish you. I’ll stretch every heartbeat like silk. You’ll last. I love when they last.”

The snow danced violently, but the voice cut through with silk-smooth precision, low and syrupy.

“I see you… I see your soul colors.”

Hermit clutched the box of hatchlings close to his chest. Even Kaka’s breathing hitched. 

“Ohh… your soul, little goblin… it’s a strange one.”

The voice stretched the word like it was tasting it.

“Green, of course… and gray, sick with fear… but there’s something else in you. A flicker. Pink? No—peach. Human skin… human guilt…”

Hermit’s lips trembled.

 “I—I’m not—”

“Shhh. Don’t speak. I like it better when you’re afraid. You smell like confusion. You look like prey… but your soul doesn’t know what you are.”

A long pause. Then she sighed, almost affectionately.

“You poor, ugly little thing. You don't even know what you are.”

Suzuka stepped between Hermit and the wind, hand on the hilt of her blade. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

The shadow inhaled, and when it spoke again, it was in a reverent hush.

“…And look at you. Oh, what is that? That soul… black, red, pink, violet and crimson—knotted, layered... screaming.”

The shadow sounded puzzled, delighted, obsessed.

“There’s magic in you. Magic from the box. I know the taste. It runs through you like molten glass. But you… you’re not human. You can’t be. But no monster has that color. That taste. Only humans can be touched by the box. And yet… you’re tainted. You’ve been given magic box power."

The shadow’s voice coiled around them like smoke.

“Most souls are dull. Smeared in dirt. Sad little grays and spoiled greens. But you…”

A breathless pause.

“You burn. Black like the edge of sleep… red like hunger, and dark purple. That one’s rare. That’s… delicious. What are you hiding in that little body of yours, halfbreed? It’s leaking. That dark purple thing of yours. It stains your soul like spilled ink. Oh, I like that mess. I love wrong.”

Hermit swallowed hard, too afraid to speak.

The shadow whispered closer now—though still no shape moved, no footfall in the snow.

“I didn’t expect such flavor up here. A shattered monsters with a bleeding soul. A half-thing with stolen hope. And all these squeaking morsels in your crate…”

A sound—something between a purr and a breathless gasp.

“You’re dripping with stories. I should carve them out of you. Letter by letter.”

Suzuka’s eye twitched. Her voice came sharp through her teeth.

“Are you done yapping? You talk a lot. All this soul-staring, color-blabbing nonsense. You don’t even sound like a monster. You sound like a drunk priest with a poetry hobby.”

She tilted her head toward the looming figure in the white blur of the blizzard.

“So? Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

Behind her, Hermit whimpered and ducked lower behind the crate. Even Kaka turned his head, eyes wide.

But Suzuka didn’t blink.

“Because if you’re just here to monologue about feelings and stare at people’s auras like it’s a date, then I’ve got better things to do. Like not turning into a snowman in a blizzard.”

She took one step forward, deliberately.

“Well?”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then the voice returned, softer now. Almost… affectionate.

“Human voice… A woman? I couldn’t tell. The storm’s so thick… you’re just shapes in the snow. But that voice…”

A sigh followed, full of amused wonder.

“And here I thought I’d stumbled onto some goblin trash pile with a few meat-stripped bones left twitching. But no… no no no. A human woman. Bold. Sharp-tongued. Alive. Like honey poured over a blade. What a lovely surprise.”

Then, with a breathless chuckle, she added, "Tell me, darling—are you the cruel one? The one with the red soul that stings like a whip? Mm. Yes. That must be you.”

The air grew heavier, colder, like the blizzard itself was leaning in to listen.

“I think I’m in love,” she cooed. 

“Or very, very hungry.”

Suzuka scoffed and shifted her weight, hand still resting lazily on her hip.

“Yeah, no. I’m already taken. Her name’s Olivia. She’s got better hair, less drama, and doesn’t monologue like she’s auditioning for a villain play in a wet cave.”

Another step forward. She raised her chin slightly, just enough to make sure the figure could hear the smirk in her tone.

“So, unless you plan on sobbing into the snow about how I broke your heart, save it. I’m not looking for a side chick. Especially not one who talk like a cursed diary looking for a quill. Try the next village over. Plenty of desperate bards and goat herders who’d love your theatrics.”

The storm thinned—not because it died down, but because something pushed it aside.

Snow parted around the approaching figure as though unwilling to touch her.

She stepped forward with a slow, deliberate grace. The sway of her hips was regal, almost theatrical. Her lavender-hued skin glowed faintly even beneath the ashen sky, each step disturbing the snow like ripples on still water.

Her horns curved elegantly back from her brow, bone-white and gleaming in the faint light, like twisted ivory. Long black hair billowed around her shoulders like ink in water. She looked nothing like the twisted beast Hermit or Kaka had imagined—no, this was beauty carved from nightmare and spellfire.

Her eyes met Suzuka’s. Deep black sclerae, with pupils like twin embers burning inside.

A voice followed, rich with age and perfectly measured.

“You may call me Zylithia,” she said, bowing her head with a subtle flourish—just enough to honor Suzuka without lowering herself.

“Daughter of the Ninth Wound. Bound in steel and ash. One of the last-born of the Screaming Reaches.”

The snow swirled behind her, curling unnaturally as if kept at bay by her mere presence.

“I am demoness… and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Her mouth curled into a smirk that might’ve been a smile… or a promise.