Rava perched on Layla's shoulder, a tiny, dark-clad sprite, fiddling impatiently with a loose thread on Layla's worn armor. The moonlight, filtering through the leaves of the big tree overhead in somewhere in the wilderness, caught the faint red glow emanating from the black, bat-like wings folded on her back. "Honestly, bloodling," she grumbled, her voice a low, exasperated hum in Layla's ear, "this rusted hunk of metal you call a sword is going to get us killed. We need proper weaponry. And armor that doesn't scream 'fresh meat for the grinder!'" She mumbled on, complaining about the dilapidated goblin sword, seemingly oblivious to the seismic shift in Layla's world just moments before.
"Can't you like sell me a new sword, like the system". Layla looked at her, with inquiries in her eyes.
"What you dare compare me to that cold, inanimate..." She was obviously trying to hide her embarrassment.
"So you can't," mumbling a little 'useless' underneath her breath.
Rava face grew dark but with her size she just seems cuter.
"Me useless, all your families are useless " Layla won't surely debate that, her father really is useless. " Wait till you find yourself in danger, I'm a warrior spirit, a proud vampire, I thrive in battle"
Rava 'humph'ed turning away from Layla, giving her the silent treatment. A sense of melancholy slowly came over Layla. She knows she is still resistant to killing people.
"You know," she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, "up until the moment you summoned me, I saw into your memories. I saw what monsters those people were." Rava floated from Layla's shoulder, the red glow from her wings intensifying slightly as she moved, rising until she was directly in front of Layla's face. Her small form was clad in a black dress, with hints of deep red in its design. Her gaze, framed by striking violet eyes, was intense and piercing. "They really don't deserve your pity." A hint of two sharp fangs flashed as she spoke.
The words struck Layla with the force of a physical blow. The faces of the villagers, her father, the fear and helplessness as they pay whatever little they made from their crops as protection fee– they flashed before her. And then, the other faces: the leering thugs.They do not deserve to live, those parasites. These people wouldn't pity her. Rava held a small, closed umbrella in one hand, and a glint of gold caught the faint light on her wrist. Her skin, the color of rich ebony, seemed to absorb the darkness around them. There was a wildness about her, a hint of something not quite right behind those violet eyes.
A slow, agonizing internal debate raged. Every instinct screamed against it, yet the raw power thrumming beneath her skin, the memory of her helplessness, and Rava's cold logic began to chip away at her resolve. They don't deserve pity. The words resonated with the burgeoning beast inside. It wasn't about right or wrong anymore. It was about survival. About strength. About not being weak again.
Finally, with a shuddering breath, Layla gave in. The internal struggle left her drained but resolute. "People say," she rasped, her voice rough, "to the east." She looked out from under the tree. The last traces of light had vanished, leaving only the darkness of the Nigerian night. "Okay, let's camp here till morning. It's getting late." Layla picked up her sword, testing its familiar weight. "I'll keep watch. Get your beauty sleep."
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Hours later, in the dead of night, a group of silent figures slipped into a sleeping village. Like shadows, they began their cruel work, setting fire to homes. Flames quickly burst, painting the dark night orange. Screams ripped through the air as villagers woke up, scrambling out of their burning houses, running in terror. Those who weren't cut down by the raiders were rounded up, huddled together in a central spot, shaking with fear.
These raiders were pros. The brutal way they moved showed they'd done this many times. They clearly enjoyed it, finding dark satisfaction in the screams and the destruction. This was their life: the feeling of total power, of lives ending, of everything falling apart.
Layla's father, dear old Baba, was among the captured, kneeling with the rest. His face was terrified, his lips moving in a silent prayer. He looked up through the smoke-filled air and saw a man approaching, probably in his late thirties, with a smug, satisfied look on his face.
Elijah was very happy with how the night was going. He'd gotten to this obscure village first. The dead bodies scattered among the burning embers and the huddled, shivering villagers filled him with triumph. This was a win.
"Did anyone get struck by lightning in this village lately?" he asked, his voice calm, almost polite. The villagers, still in shock and numb with fear, didn't answer right away. A flicker of anger started to burn in Elijah's heart. Was he in the wrong place? Was this all a waste of time?
Then, a small, barely audible "Yes" broke the silence.
Elijah's head snapped up, his eyes scanning the terrified faces. "Who said that?" he demanded, sharper now.
Slowly, hesitantly, Yusuf got to his feet.
"Good," Elijah said, a hungry smile spreading across his face. "I promise not to hurt you if you tell me everything." And Yusuf told him everything. He talked about Layla, the strange light, her disappearing and coming back. He made sure to make her sound as bad as possible, conveniently leaving out his own part in her misery. He also didn't leave out how she left, claiming he drove her away himself hoping to suck up to Elijah, this enigma.
However, this only made Elijah angry. This stupid village hick drove his target away. Now who knows where she might be. To express his anger Elijah slapped Yussuf across the face. He screamed like a little pig as he kicked him. Elijah only stopped when Yussuf started to grow unresponsive, he still needs him alive and all those who know her. He will squeeze out every last drop of information about where she might go next from them.
Layla's father stayed on his knees with the group, head bowed. He offered the only thing his cowardly, broken mind could: silent, fervent prayers for his scorned daughter.
"Drag them all away, we return at dawn"