Walkyria hadn’t joined the Order by choice.

  She joined because there was nowhere else left to go.

  Living on her own had become an almost losing battle. Completely cast out of the Elite, she began surviving along the margins. But even there, they made sure her life wouldn’t be easy. It wasn’t enough to exile her, they wanted her erased.

  At first, she tried taking small jobs, simple tasks, but Walkyria had no control over the Shrouded traces that marked her. And whenever someone noticed them, she was immediately turned away.

  It was a battle she could hardly win.

  Her last job had been in a brothel, where she worked cleaning rooms. Of course, Barbara, the madam, had offered her a spot among the women who actually worked there, but Walkyria refused. She admired their courage, their iron stomachs, women discarded by society just as she was, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that kind of work.

  After all, if there was one thing she still held on to at twenty-four, it was her virginity. Not as a badge or a weapon, she simply had never found someone who mattered enough to lose it to.

  Jhonny was supposed to be the first, but he never was.

  Not that there hadn’t been... moments. Intense ones, even. Those came easily to her, without her even realizing it.

  But every time the line was about to be crossed, he would pull back, too abruptly for it to be mere caution. Walkyria never knew if it was fear on his part, or if the problem was her own, diving too deep, too soon. Maybe he just couldn’t handle the weight of what she carried without knowing.

  In the years that followed, that didn’t stop her from meeting other men but fate, it seemed, had decided to play games with her.

  The first relationship came a few months later, and collapsed before it even began: faced with her beauty, and perhaps terrified of not measuring up, the poor man simply... failed to perform. As if that weren’t enough, he vanished afterward, like he’d seen a ghost, leaving only the bitter taste of a badly told joke.

  The second was crueler. Months of dating, only for her to discover, in the most painful way possible, that there was another woman in the picture. A banal tragedy, maybe, but it left a scar far too deep for such a short-lived affair.

  The last one almost got there. A beta human who bolted the moment he saw her glyph. He didn’t even bother to hide it: he just ran, like he’d touched fire. Walkyria concluded he was an idiot. Probably a prejudiced one. Not the first, but the last she allowed herself to care about.

  After that, she accepted that she might just die a virgin. Not as a vow or a statement, simply as resignation. Her sex life refused to take off, no matter how much effort she gave it, so she shut that door like one closes off a useless room in the house.

  And even though it wasn’t exactly her dream job, Walkyria found it ironic that here, of all places, a brothel, was where she actually felt a sense of belonging. At least it was comforting to know she wasn’t the only outcast from Shrouded society.

  It was shaping up to be just another ordinary night: chatter and laughter filled the backstage room, half-naked bodies moving lazily back and forth while Walkyria helped one of the girls tighten the ribbons on her corset.

  “Pull it tighter, Wal!”, the woman grumbled, half-laughing. “Don’t want my tits jumping out when I walk.”

  Walkyria laughed, yanking the knot even tighter.

  “You’re gonna choke yourself, that’s what’s gonna happen.” she teased, still smiling as she tied another knot. “Let’s see who can get this off later.”

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  “That’s precisely the idea, Wal.” the woman shot back with a smirk.

  The room was growing livelier by the minute, most of the girls already heading toward the main floor. Word was that a few aristocratic Shrouded figures were expected tonight, which meant better pay, if they played their cards right.

  Luna stood beside Walkyria, running her hands nervously down her body. Like Walkyria, she was a Shrouded, or at least that’s what Walkyria assumed. They seemed about the same age, but Luna’s looks were softer, more fragile. Pale skin, hair so light it was almost translucent, fine as silk. Her eyes were a shade of blue so pale they seemed almost glassy.

  Walkyria had always wondered what had brought Luna to a place like this. Most of the Shrouded women who ended up in this line of work carried visible stories: synthetic scars, cheap prosthetics, uneven skin tones, warped features. Or, like Walkyria, a beauty that was ordinary at best.

  Luna was different. She looked like a porcelain doll, a gem dropped in the mud.

  But Walkyria never asked. There was a quiet understanding among them: nobody asked, nobody told. They simply shared the same air and learned to coexist. And when trouble came, and it always did, they protected each other as best they could. Barbara, the madam, didn’t see much profit in hiring guards, so the girls became their own line of defense.

  Walkyria stood out as one of the strongest there.

  Despite being just under five-seven, she carried both curves and muscle — and she wasn’t shy about using either when needed. Since joining the place, she’d only had to resort to raw, ignorant brute force once. That was when a guy crossed the line and lunged forward, clearly aiming for Luna. He barely had time to understand what was happening before his wrist was seized and a brutal punch landed square across his face. Clean. Direct.

  He hit the ground with a dull thud.

  Luna took a full second to process the scene. Then, without saying a word, she helped Walkyria drag the body to the sidewalk and dump it there, careless and deliberate — a silent warning.

  Once they stepped away, Walkyria moved closer, one hand settling firmly on her colleague’s shoulder. Her eyes scanned Luna’s fragile features, tense with concern.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, clearly worried. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  Luna took a moment to answer. Then, unexpectedly, she let out a soft, crystalline laugh. Walkyria frowned, confused, stepping back slightly. For a second, she wondered if Luna had hit her head.

  What came next froze her in place.

  “You... you knocked a man down, Walkyria,” said, as if testing the words. “With one punch. Just one.”

  Then she laughed again, louder this time. The sound was light, almost delicate — a laugh that didn’t seem to belong in a place like that. Walkyria stared at her for a second… and then the humor caught up with her. She laughed too.

  From that moment on, their friendship only grew stronger.

  Before, Walkyria had shared a room with four other women. Now, she had the unexpected luxury of a smaller space — one shared only with Luna. Her small rolling suitcase and backpack rested by the door as she took in the room, absorbing every detail as if it were something unreal.

  Luna noticed her curious gaze as she finished changing.

  “My old roommate left,” she said casually. “It’s simple, but… I figured it’d be more comfortable than where you were before, right?”

  Walkyria let out a short laugh as she stepped inside.

  “Comfortable doesn’t even cover it,” she whistled, impressed. “This is straight-up luxury.”

  Luna chuckled softly.

  “Consider it an upgrade, Wal,” she said gently. “Seems fair after after you bailed me out back there.”

  Walkyria was about to reply with a joke, but something in Luna’s expression made her stop. There was a deep, sincere gratitude there. For a moment, she felt small again — back in school, helping weaker classmates who were being bullied.

  She simply smiled.

  “I could always offer my services as your personal bodyguard,” she shrugged, teasing. “Probably cheaper, too.”

  Luna laughed and stepped closer. There was warmth in her eyes — familiarity, complicity… and something slightly off, almost imperceptible. Walkyria caught it when Luna’s expression faltered, as if she were debating what to say.

  In the end, Luna closed her eyes briefly and sighed, like she was pushing away a stubborn thought. When she looked back at Walkyria, the genuine smile had returned.

  “You’ve got a good heart, Wal…” she said, her tone carrying a hint of sorrow, of doubt. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  And then she turned away, returning to what she was doing.

  Walkyria stayed where she was, silent.

  Compared to her, Luna’s delicacy almost bordered on the ridiculous. And yet, in that moment, Walkyria had seen something in her that didn’t match the fragile image she projected.

  Her eyes.

  The eyes of someone who had fought bigger battles. There was something steady in them, a presence that didn’t bend easily. A strength that didn’t ask for permission to exist. As if her soul carried more years than her body revealed.

  For a moment, Walkyria considered asking.

  In the end, she didn’t.

  Everyone there carried a story they didn’t want to tell. Scars that didn’t ask for an audience. And that place — crooked, improvised, imperfect — was still a shelter. A strange kind of home for those who had nowhere else to go.

  Luna was no different from her.

  And maybe that was exactly why Walkyria understood her so well.

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