The night held them in a loving embraced. They were the darkness and all the life it held. Feared and forgotten warriors of old. Not good, not bad, but somewhere in the grey.
BTS X READER | based/ inspired of Ryan Kirks Nightblade trilogy. You DON'T...
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Jungkook and (Y/n) were led back to the same tent in the morning. This time, the tables that once cluttered the centre had been pushed to the side, clearing the way for a larger, more open space. The air was thick with the scent of incense and crushed herbs, their pungency laced with the earthy undertone of damp canvas and the ever-present mildew that crept in during the wet season. The flickering lanterns cast a warm but unsteady glow, their flames dancing with every gust of wind that slipped through the tent's seams. Shadows flickered across the fabric walls, elongating and distorting, creating an eerie display.
Four people awaited them in the dimly lit interior. At the head of the tent, the leader sat with the same unyielding presence they had come to expect from him. His sharp, calculating eyes followed their every move, his stern expression revealing nothing of what he might be thinking. To his left, three new faces sat in silence.
The first was an older woman with grey hair slicked back into a severe, tight knot at the nape of her neck. Her face was impassive, cold like stone, her eyes sharp and calculating beneath heavy lids. She wore dark, unadorned robes that draped loosely around her frail frame, yet her posture remained unyielding, as if age had not bent her will.
The other two women, seated beside her, were younger—perhaps in their thirtieth cycle. The woman to the left had a striking presence. Her long, golden hair flowed in soft waves down her back, gleaming like spun sunlight in the low lantern light.
The third woman sat with an air of quiet composure, her tightly coiled curls framing her face. Flecks of gold jewellery adorned her, delicate chains and earrings that caught the light, casting brief flashes of warmth across her rich bronze skin. Her robes were finely crafted and carefully woven like the woman beside her. The fabric was a rich, deep blue, but unlike the other, hers was accented with intricate gold thread that shimmered as she moved, giving her an almost regal presence.
All three women wore the unmistakable robes of the dayblades, their style and cut identical to those (y/n) had worn during her time in the monastery. While the colours and fabrics differed—sleeker, finer, more luxurious than the simple garments of the monastery—the design marked them unmistakably as dayblades—that and the golden presence that emitted from them.
The leader, seated at the head of the tent, broke the silence with his low, commanding voice. "Welcome back," he said, his gaze flicking between the two newcomers and the dayblades.
"These are the leaders of some close tribes," he continued, gesturing toward the three women seated with him. "They will be assisting us moving forward." His eyes locked onto the newcomers, a flicker of something illegible passing through them. "I trust you understand the gravity of the situation."
The dayblades, silent and watchful, remained statuesque in their seats.
They offered no further explanation, waiting for the right moment to speak. The old woman finally broke the suspense, her sharp cough slicing through the heavy air like a blade. She straightened in her seat, her cold eyes sweeping over the pair as though assessing their souls.
