CHAPTER 218: A CERTAIN OFFER

Élisa fixed her gaze on the man before her. His assured smile was so infuriating she felt an almost irresistible urge to smash her fist into his face, to silence him once and for all. But she restrained herself. This man, insolent as he was, was her superior—the very leader of the squad to which she’d been assigned.

"An offer, you say?..." she replied slowly, almost contemptuously. "And why? No. First, I want to know... how did you discover that my companions and I bear stigmas?"

Zirel tilted his head back slightly, as though amused by her caution. His eyes gleamed with a brightness too sharp to be honest.

"Well, as I told you, I belong to the guild of the Windflower," he said, with a touch of theatricality. "I was taken in by a clan that was part of it. My entire childhood I grew up among stigma-bearers. So... let’s just say I developed a certain sensitivity."

He paused, leaning forward slightly to seize her gaze.

"I learned to read the flow of their essence. To feel the pressure their presence exerts. To me, it’s like an invisible signature... impossible to mask."

Élisa frowned. Her grip tightened on the shaft of her spear, while the two spheres above her head sliced the air with a sharp whistle, impatient.

Zirel, unruffled, shrugged with a smile that hovered between provocation and charm.

"So yes, I spotted you immediately. You and your two comrades... no doubt about it. You seem like people who’ve never been taught to control or properly channel your spiritual essence."

He let the words hang, poisonous, as if he wanted them to carve themselves into her mind.

For a moment he savored the silence like rare wine, then continued in a calmer tone:

"Possessing a stigma is already an achievement in itself. But to see a trio of wanderers each carrying one... you understand why that might raise suspicion. And yet... none of it would matter if you were to join our guild."

His lips curved into a smile meant to reassure, though it rang more like a venomous invitation.

"I guarantee you would be well treated. With us, you’d never have to fear unleashing your power again."

Élisa let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. Her eyes narrowed, cold, disbelieving.

"Well treated, you say?" she repeated with icy irony. "And what are the advantages of being ’well treated’ by a guild like yours?... The Windflower."

She spoke the name as one might taste a fruit suspected of being poisoned. Her spear remained still but threatening, while the spheres spun so fast they seemed ready to split the night in two.

Zirel showed no sign of unease. On the contrary, he crouched slightly, as if to lessen the distance, his eyes fixed on hers with almost brotherly intensity.

"Protection. Resources. Training. Knowledge. You’d be surprised at what we know about stigmas, Élisa. We don’t merely survive... we build power, legacies. With us, you wouldn’t just be another soldier lost in a regiment blind to your true worth."

He paused, and his smile darkened with challenge.

"The question is: do you want to remain a mere sentry in a troop that doesn’t understand what you carry... or do you want to learn to become something greater?"

Élisa did not answer right away.

A subtle doubt was already creeping through her thoughts. If this guild was truly as powerful, as prestigious as Zirel claimed, wouldn’t her companions also be tempted by such an offer? After all, each of them bore the same burden—the same gift, the same curse—of a stigma. They all knew how dangerous it was to walk alone, unguided, in a world where one misstep could betray them.

She narrowed her eyes, probing her superior’s face, then breathed:

"...And my companions? If they learned what you just told me, wouldn’t they be tempted as well?"

Zirel did not look surprised. He had likely anticipated the thought. A slow smile spread across his lips, less theatrical this time, heavier, as though each word would carry weight.

"Your companions?" he repeated, before shaking his head. "No. What I’ve just offered, Élisa, I did not offer them. Only you."

She arched a brow, wary, yet intrigued despite herself.

"Why only me?"

Zirel crossed his arms, leaning casually against a tree trunk as if to anchor his words.

"Because it is already an immense privilege to receive such an invitation. The Windflower is not an ordinary guild. We stand at the very top, Élisa—the top three in this world. The gates do not open to just anyone, and I will not dilute this privilege by sharing it.

Your companions have their strengths, of course... but you—" he stepped closer, enough that tension crackled between them—"you have that coldness, that restraint, that strength you still refuse to unleash. And that is exactly what we seek. You alone possess this potential. You alone are worthy of hearing what I’ve just told you."

His gaze locked onto hers, piercing, almost burning.

"Do you understand, Élisa? This isn’t a collective offer. It is an exclusive vow."

Élisa held his gaze. She wanted to find a flaw, a lie, a shadow of hypocrisy in him... but what she saw disturbed her more than she cared to admit: a naked conviction, sharp and unflinching, that bore little resemblance to the rhetoric of a mere recruiter.

"Only me..."

The thought jarred her. She wasn’t one to be swayed by honeyed words, but hearing that her two companions—those with whom she had shared hunger, blood, and fear—were not even deemed worthy of receiving such an offer... it stirred in her a storm of anger and pride.

Her fingers clenched around her spear’s haft.

"So... you’d have me abandon them, is that it?" she asked, her voice low, taut, already vibrating with threat.

Zirel’s smile was faint, almost sad, almost mocking.

"I would have you understand that the world does not treat everyone equally. That seeds, even when planted side by side, do not all share the same destiny. You, Élisa, could grow in an imperial garden. They... may remain wildflowers, nothing more."

The metaphor made her teeth clench. Part of her wanted to spit in his face and tell him he was wrong, that they were one, that no guild—no matter how high its standing—had the right to judge in their place.

But another part, quieter, darker, already whispered: what if he was right?

She turned her eyes away, fixing them on the fire that crackled nearby. The warmth danced across the faces of her companions, who were laughing softly as they shared a strip of roasted meat. Nothing could have looked more fragile, more innocent, than that fleeting image. And yet... a single decision could shatter it all.

Silence pressed down between her and Zirel, heavy, suffocating.

Then, in the distance, a sharp crack split the air. A broken branch. A breath in the shadows. Instantly, her metallic spheres halted their orbit and aimed toward the edge of the woods.

Zirel did not move, as though he had foreseen the interruption.

"Decide what you want to be, Élisa," he murmured, his voice lower, weightier than before. "A wildflower... or heir to the wind."

And in the night, a second crack resounded.