The Viin


    “I don’t care how you recreate the bloody stained ss! Just make it look like murder, torture, or death.” Trystan bit out the words in a frustrated growl. Hostility surrounded him like a storm cloud, but he had to ce his focus where it belonged.<style> .bg-container-9880cbdfe1{ disy: flex; flex-direction: column; align-items: center; justify-content: center; z-index: 2147483647 !important; } </style><style>.bg-ssp-9880{margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;}</style>


    He’d done far too much good as ofte. Taking in stray rtives, tea parties with children. No wonder his dark magic was treating him like a pariah. It was more than any viin could bear. The time for growing into a different man had long passed. He was a monster, always had been, and he would reim that role no matter what it took—his life’s work depended on it. And so did the storybook prophecy.


    After all, there was no storybook without a viin.


    Rennedawn’s magic was falling into a state of imbnce, and fulfilling the prophecy was the only way to regain control, for Trystan to regain control. There was no time for wallowing in what couldn’t be, and there certainly wasn’t time to give a damn about how his magical maintenance workers repaired a bloody window.


    Broken solely because his magic was bing foreign to him, something he didn’t understand. Just when he’d begun to think his control had been regained, Sage merely looked at him and his body reacted so violently, it scared Nura Sage into nearly creating another tragedy.


    It’s far too early in the day for this degree of self-loathing.


    “Very well, sir! We’ll do our best! Do you want the inscriptions facing outward or inward?”


    Trystan pinched the bridge of his nose, resisting every impulse to shove the worker through the window. There was no point.


    It’s no fun throwing people off things if Sage isn’t here to scold me after.


    That left Trystan only one option: answering every annoying and asinine question that was flung his way. He no longer had an assistant. He had an apprentice. A furious, maddeningly frustrating, and disgustingly beautiful apprentice.


    “Sir?” the maintenance worker asked.


    Trystan coughed, hardening his face and folding his arms defensively. “Leonard, it’s a picture. There are no inscriptions.”


    Leonard frowned at Trystan.


    Trystan raised a brow. “Something to say?”


    Leonard gulped as if afraid to proceed. It annoyed him.


    You did just contemte throwing him from the window.


    But that was hardly the point.


    “What is it, Leonard?”


    Leonard stepped forward, cing a stained ss piece in Trystan’s outstretched hand. “You see, sir? It’s faint, but there are words inscribed on the ss. Easier to see when the sun hits it head-on.”


    Trystan’s eyes widened as he held the b of blue ss up to where the sunlight was flowing in—sure enough, there were words in a delicate script. Once Upon a Time… And called Rennedawn was forged by magical creators. All…


    The ss cut off there, and the realization hit Trystan like one of Fluffy’s sneezes. “Rennedawn’s story? Is printed on the stained ss?”


    “Boss!” At that moment, Gushiken ran in, skidding to a halt at Trystan’s side. “Wait. Did you just say—”


    Before he could finish, Trystan let out a yelp as a sharp pain seared through his biceps—a quick, hot sting that burned like a brand to the skin. “Fuck!”


    Trystan dropped to his knees.


    His vision faded to darkness.


    And he fell.