The courtyard lay still in the clear morning air.

  The paving stones were cool with dew, and between the walls hung the scent of damp earth, as though the night hadn't quite said its goodbyes. From the small wood directly beside the estate, the wind carried resin and wet leaves, and somewhere further back—where the barn stood—a trace of hay drifted in the air.

  Over everything lay that quiet crackling that only Krent's blades made when he drew too hard.

  As though he were cutting the air itself.

  Diamant's movements were calm. Precise.

  With a lightness that seemed almost playful, he deflected Krent's strikes to the side—sometimes with a half-turn, sometimes with a short push of his fingers, as though he weren't fighting against steel but against the intent behind it. Every attack fizzled. Not because Diamant was stronger. But because he took the moment before strength could even become a blow.

  It wasn't even real resistance.

  Diamant didn't block with force; he took Krent's tempo away. He never reached for the blades, only for the instant before: the tension in the wrist, the shift in the hips, the minimal lift of the shoulder. As a healer, he knew bodies like maps—knew where to interrupt an impulse before it became a hit.

  Sparks sprayed from the twin blades. Blue tongues ran along the edges, died in the air, were reborn. Krent's breathing was heavy, in bursts, as though he weren't inhaling the air but tearing something from it.

  Fury burned in his eyes.

  His ribs still felt as though they were protesting with every breath. Beneath the fresh skin, yes, it was healing—Diamant had done thorough work. But not fast enough for Krent's pride. Not fast enough for the hole that had been gaping inside him since the forest.

  Krent wasn't thinking about healing.

  He was thinking only about the moment when he had been able to do nothing.

  About the demon's laughter—and about how small he had felt.

  "My friend," Diamant said calmly, almost gently, as though shielding a candle from a draught, "you're too worked up. This isn't the you I know."

  Krent didn't answer.

  He forced the next slash into a gap he thought he saw. A step forward, the steel draws, the magic crackles—and Diamant only half-turned, letting the edge pass by his side as though it were all just a wind blowing too loudly. Then he tapped two fingers against Krent's forearm.

  A short, stinging pressure.

  Krent felt his hand seize for the blink of an eye, as though someone had given it the order to let go. Sparks jumped restlessly. The grip held anyway—but the moment was gone.

  "Breathe," Diamant said quietly. As though teaching a child not to stumble.

  "Shut up!" Krent snarled.

  He struck again, rawer, more unbridled, as though he could cut out by force whatever was poisoning him from the inside.

  I have to get stronger. I can never be that weak again.

  But no matter how fast he swung—Diamant evaded. Always.

  Every dodge seemed almost insulting. No gasping. No sweat. Only that calm, yellow eye watching Krent as though he weren't an opponent but a problem that could be solved.

  And Diamant hadn't met Krent yesterday.

  They had known each other since they were children. Since they had both stood on legs far too small in a world far too large at the age of five, pretending they already knew everything. Krent sometimes forgot that when fury cinched his brain shut. Diamant never did.

  Krent clenched his teeth and wound up again. The blue sparks on his blades grew wilder, leaping like small bolts of lightning across the edges. He put more force into it, more speed, more… something, anything to finally silence the feeling in his stomach.

  An image pushed itself before his eyes:

  Valeria's face in the forest. The first trembling of her hands. Then Krent's own impact, the pain, the feeling of the world discarding him. And above it all—the laughter.

  "Fast… but weak."

  Krent wrenched himself back into the present and struck harder still.

  Diamant merely raised his hand, deflected the blade with a finger push against its flat side—and Krent's own momentum pulled him off balance. The steel cut through empty air, sparks sprayed, and for one embarrassing heartbeat Krent stood crooked, as though he had forgotten how to stay on two feet.

  Diamant didn't press the advantage.

  He didn't need to.

  "You're fighting memory," he said calmly. "Not me."

  Krent gulped for air. His gaze was sharp, but something in it hurt more than the ribs: truth that can't be swallowed.

  "I'm fighting the truth," he forced out.

  Diamant didn't respond immediately. He waited until Krent set up again—and dodged so sparingly it looked as though he were letting Krent's fury pass him by a single centimetre. Then, very quietly:

  "The truth is that you're alive. And that you have to learn to live with it."

  Inside the house, it was warm.

  The air smelled of tea, herbs, and freshly washed blankets. Wood creaked softly somewhere in the beams, as though the estate itself were stretching. Light fell gently through the windows, and in the stillness you could hear things normally missed: the ticking of a clock, the quiet crackling of coals in the fireplace, the occasional clink of glass.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  It felt safe.

  And that was precisely what made Valeria nervous.

  Safety meant time. Time meant thinking. And thinking meant: forest. Demon. Five colours. Flare.

  Valeria sat at the table, a blanket draped over her shoulders. She held a cup of tea as though warmth were something you had to grip so it wouldn't flee. Her hands trembled slightly, even though the cup was pleasantly hot.

  Rubin refilled and sat down beside her.

  Her fiery red hair glowed in the candlelight like a quiet flame, and her blue eyes radiated calm—yet a shadow lay in them. Not panic. More like weariness. The kind that stays when you've only just kept someone alive.

  On Rubin's finger, a simple ring gleamed.

  Valeria knew it. Diamant wore the same one.

  No guild. No rank. No symbol for the world.

  A wedding ring.

  A quiet promise worn not outward but inward. And every time Valeria saw it, it reminded her that Rubin and Diamant were not merely teammates. They were a foundation. The kind that still holds even when everything else breaks.

  "You should still be resting," Rubin said softly.

  Valeria shook her head, took a sip. The tea tasted of herbs and earth—calming, but her body accepted the calm only reluctantly. "I… can't. Not after everything that happened."

  Outside, she could hear Krent's blades.

  Every crackle was like a needle. Not because it hurt—but because she knew what it meant: he was trying to force control where he had none.

  Rubin was silent for a moment. Then she studied Valeria attentively. Not judging. Never judging. More like someone rereading a text they had read many times—and suddenly discovering a new line in it.

  "Your body…" Rubin hesitated, barely noticeably. "It feels different. Your aura is warmer. Softer. Have you noticed it yourself?"

  Valeria frowned. "What… do you mean?"

  She wanted to dismiss it as exhaustion. Four days of sleep. Potions. Healing. Aftershocks. Something.

  But Rubin's gaze was that of an alchemist: not dramatic, merely attentive, as though reading a condition like a formula.

  Rubin placed two fingers on Valeria's wrist.

  Not like a healer closing wounds, but like someone counting rhythms. One breath. Then another. Rubin stayed silent. Valeria felt her own pulse beating beneath the fingertips—and beneath it, very faintly, that second movement she had only ever perceived at the edges since the forest.

  Rubin drew a deep breath.

  "Valeria…" Her voice was soft, but suddenly heavy. "I believe you're pregnant."

  The cup in Valeria's hands went still.

  For a moment her heartbeat stopped—or at least it felt that way. The world contracted, as though someone had taken the air out of the room.

  "I'm… I'm… what?" Valeria's voice sounded as though it were coming from a mouth very far away.

  "Pregnant." Rubin nodded slowly. She gave Valeria time to even hear the word. "You've been on the move so much. You didn't notice. But I know this feeling." Her voice grew even softer, almost like a confession. "When I gave birth to Smaragd… I knew it too, before anyone told me."

  Valeria blinked, as though Rubin had just pulled the lungs from her chest.

  Part of her wanted to laugh. Another part wanted to scream. And deep inside—that delicate second rhythm tapped once, softly and warm, as though in agreement.

  Valeria's hand drifted slowly to her stomach.

  Warmth and cold chased through her body at once. Images flashed. Black flames. The demon's greedy laughter. Krent's blood. And then—the barrier. Crimson. Sapphire blue. Gold. Emerald green. Pitch black.

  Was it… because of this?

  "No…" Valeria's voice trembled. "That… can't be…"

  Rubin laid her hand soothingly over Valeria's. Warm. Steady. That hand had mixed potions, changed bandages, cleaned wounds. That hand had saved more lives than Valeria could count.

  "It's true," Rubin said. "Believe me. I've been through it myself." A brief, firm press. "And no matter what happened: right now, you're both safe."

  Valeria stared at Rubin's hand as though it were the only thing keeping her in the chair.

  Then—outside—every sound suddenly stopped.

  No clashing. No sparks. Nothing.

  Valeria raised her head at the same moment as Rubin. For an instant there was only the quiet crackling of the fireplace. The courtyard—usually filled with steel and breath—was cut off, as though someone had drawn a curtain.

  And then came Diamant's voice.

  It wasn't loud.

  Only clear. And precisely because of that, it carried through walls as though they were paper.

  "Valeria is pregnant."

  Valeria felt the blood rush to her ears.

  A dull crash outside. Metal on stone.

  The twin blades hit the ground.

  Valeria didn't just hear it—she felt it. As though the sound had struck her ribcage. As though it had split Krent in two: the one who is always strong, and the one who has just realised how close he came to losing everything.

  In the window frame, Krent's outline was reflected.

  Tall. Strong. And right now so small it hurt.

  He stood motionless.

  Then he pressed his hands over his face, as though he could tear the word "pregnant" back out of the air. His shoulders shook.

  "What… have I done?" Krent's voice was hoarse, broken. "I put my wife… our child… in mortal danger." A gasping breath. "We could have died…"

  Tears ran down his face.

  Valeria felt her throat tighten. She wanted to go to him. Immediately. She wanted to touch him, shake him, hold him, tell him to breathe.

  But her body wasn't ready yet. Her legs felt as though they didn't belong to her.

  Outside, Diamant stepped closer and placed his hand on Krent's shoulder. His look stern—but warm. Like someone who corrects you because they want to keep you.

  "Don't be so hard on yourself. You didn't know."

  Krent shook his head, as though he couldn't bear the word "didn't." "I should have noticed. I should have—"

  "That's no excuse!" Krent's voice tore apart.

  He didn't sound like a leader. Not like an Iridium fighter.

  He sounded like a man who is realising for the first time that strength means nothing when it comes too late.

  "I should have been more careful. I should have—"

  Diamant interrupted him gently. Not to stop him, but to save him—from himself.

  "Perhaps." A single word. Honest. No sugar-coating. Then, more quietly: "But now you know. And now you'll do everything to protect them. I know that."

  Diamant didn't say it as comfort.

  More as a declaration.

  As though driving a stake into the ground that Krent could cling to when he would otherwise fall.

  Krent fell silent. His breathing came in fits, as though each draw needed approval first. His hands hung beside his face, undecided, as though they didn't know whether to clench into fists again or whether they were allowed to simply give up.

  And deep inside him, beneath shame and fury, beneath the burning need never to lose again, only one thought burned:

  I will protect them. No matter what it costs.

  Valeria laid her hand on her stomach, as though to shelter the new life within before she herself had understood how. Her fingers trembled, but the pressure was firm.

  Rubin and Diamant were silent.

  But in their gazes lay resolve. No hysteria. No romance. Only that sober, hard knowledge: from now on, the world is different.

  Rubin rubbed Valeria's hand once, briefly, like a silent reminder:

  You're not alone. Not anymore. Not now.

  Valeria heard Krent take one deep breath outside. Not the combative drawing in of air. More an attempt not to shatter. And Diamant stood beside him like a rock that doesn't ask whether you're strong—it simply stays until you are again.

  Wolfclaw.

  A name that made the world tremble.

  In taverns it was whispered, in guild halls spoken with respect, in dungeons thought of with hope. To most, they were legends: four Iridium adventurers who appeared where other teams turned back. A shadow that bared its teeth at monster kings.

  But in this moment, Wolfclaw was no myth.

  It was a courtyard that smelled of dew. It was a house that smelled of tea. And it was four people who had understood that strength is worthless if you have no one left to look at after the victory.

  ? Krent Ingrid – Leader, master of the twin blades. "Lightning Blade". Feared. Yet behind the strength: doubt.

  ? Valeria Ingrid – Master markswoman, ruler of the elements. "Berserker Queen". And now: mother.

  ? Diamant Flimmer – Healer without a weapon. "The Uncanny Healer." His hands keep allies alive—and enemies in check.

  ? Rubin Flimmer – Alchemist. "The Hell Alchemist." Her potions and formulas made her unstoppable.

  The strongest adventuring party of the present age.

  And yet—on this morning, they didn't look like legends. They looked like a family. Fragile. Vulnerable.

  In that silence, a vow took shape. Unspoken, but clear as steel:

  This child will change everything.