Memoirs of Your Local Small-time Villainess-Chapter 307 - A forgotten meadow

Scarlett couldn’t explain how she knew, but Arlene had left a trace — a faint, almost intangible connection that pulled at her like a whispered call. It was startlingly easy to follow, a subtle current weaving through the incorporeal spaces that touched the Hall of Echoes. Using the power borrowed—or stolen—from a fragment of her enemy, Scarlett’s flames tore through the immaterial barriers separating her from her destination. The path yielded, parting as though granting passage.

The first thing she found was fractured remnants of a Memory — the same one she had just left. Above, a section of sky was split open by degrading white rifts, casting an uncanny light over the ancient Zuverian city below. The city lingered in static ruin, its edges frayed and smeared in a dark haze that blurred detail and depth as the Memory crumbled into the encroaching void. It wouldn’t last much longer.

Ahead, embedded in the frost-ridden hillside amidst rubble, lay the remains of the Anomalous One’s manifestation: a twisted, winding mass of mottled grey and white, now shifting as if it were some primitive, mindless creature. Towering above it was Olgolzkreh, the massive dragon’s figure standing tall and triumphant. Its scaled form glinted against the fractured Memory, exuding an almost regal menace.

In front of them both, her back turned to Scarlett, was Arlene.

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The woman’s outline blurred into the fading surroundings. She turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder at Scarlett. At the same moment, Scarlett felt the dragon’s gaze pierce through her — a gaze that was powerful and oppressive, radiating an intelligence far beyond the near-savagery it had displayed earlier. Olgolzkreh regarded her as a colossus might regard an insect.

It studied her. Calculating. Threatening. Even as a construct of the Memory, even weakened after its fight, Olgolzkreh was an ancient dragon that could raze cities.

Arlene raised a hand, and the dragon lowered its head to look at her. A silent exchange seemed to pass between them. With a deep, rumbling huff that stirred Scarlett’s hair, Olgolzkreh beat its massive wings and ascended, vanishing into the dissipating edges of the Memory.

As the dragon left, Scarlett shifted her focus to Arlene, who stood watching her in silence. Without a word, Arlene turned, and a fiery rift tore open the air before her as she stepped into it.

Scarlett had no intention of letting her escape, though. As the last remnants of the Memory unravelled, she locked onto that faint connection from before—now knowing for sure it was Arlene—and wrapped herself in flames as she followed.

For a moment, she was engulfed in a dense, viscous darkness, like wading through a heavy mist that thickened with every step. Slowly, the resistance gave way, and her surroundings gradually cleared. A dark, clouded night sky stretched above. Around her, the charred remains of houses rose, jagged silhouettes against the pale moonlight. Smoke curled upward from scattered bodies — bodies she had seen before.

Once again, she was in Freymeadow, where an unnatural silence hung over the ruins.

Her gaze swept over the familiar devastation. The scene laid bare the village’s fate, yet something felt subtly different. It was as though everything was slightly…unfocused, for lack of a better word. Like a memory viewed through frosted glass — just slightly removed.

Looking down the desolate streets towards the village center, Scarlett hesitated.

…Had Arlene brought her here intentionally? How? This place didn’t feel quite like a Memory.

A few seconds passed, then Scarlett started moving, her steps deliberate as she took in the ghostly remains of Freymeadow. This was the village’s end, as it had once played out in reality, and as it might have played out in the Memories she’d experienced had Vail not intervened. She’d always found the scene itself distasteful, even though it had never really stirred strong emotions in her — a fact she’d found both comforting and disconcerting.

But this time, faint traces of emotion seemed to linger in the air itself. They weren’t hers—she was pretty sure—and rather than feel them, it was as if she could discern them: a simmering rage, haunting regret, and an overpowering numb disbelief.

Eventually, she reached the village center. There, at the heart of the ruins, stood the burnt remnants of a wooden platform. Atop it rested a melted Sanctumbrum, and in front of that, amidst a sea of scorched corpses, stood Arlene.

Scarlett stopped, her gaze narrowing. The woman stood rigid, her robes stained with her own blood, as if trapped in a trance. Even so, Scarlett knew instinctively that calling out to her would accomplish nothing.

After a long moment, Scarlett approached, circling to stand before her.

This wasn’t the same Arlene who had just fought beside her against the Anomalous One. This was the younger Arlene she’d encountered in earlier Memories. Her vacant eyes stared down at the ground, her expression devoid of the grief and guilt Scarlett remembered. All that remained was a hollow apathy.

…Was this how it had actually happened, once upon a time?

Footsteps echoed from behind. Scarlett turned as Arlene shifted her attention to the sound. A figure in pristine white robes approached, their face obscured by a deep hood.

Meneth.

“So much death…” the woman’s voice was soft but carried an unnatural weight as she absorbed the surroundings. Her gaze fell on Arlene. “Regardless of their allegiances, did these children truly deserve such a fate?”

A flicker of anger twisted across Arlene’s face. She raised a hand, a spark of flame igniting in her palm — but she hesitated.

Behind Meneth, clutching at the hem of the Zuver woman’s robes, stood a small girl covered in ash. Wide, terrified eyes peeked out at Arlene. The child’s raw fear seemed to jolt something in Arlene, as though snapping her back to reality. Arlene said nothing, but her eyes stayed locked on the girl, the storm of emotions within her clear: pure horror mingling with irrational anger.

“War, hatred, vengeance — they are paths too easily walked,” Meneth murmured. “I have seen many consumed by the ease with which such fury and despair justify themselves. They scar the soul deeper than any blade. Blindness sets in, until even those you call enemies are no longer truly seen.”

Arlene remained silent, her hand frozen mid-motion.

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Meneth’s gaze lingered on her before drifting to the girl behind her. “In a perfect world, such conflict would not exist to sow these hatreds in you. In a half-perfect one, there would be justice for the pain that you endured tonight.” Her hooded eyes returned to Arlene. “…And were these any of those worlds, perhaps you would not be as mired in the wranglings of Fate.”

Arlene met the woman’s gaze.

“Will you kill us both here?” Meneth’s voice was calm.

The silence stretched. Then, haltingly, Arlene lowered her hand, the flames in her palm snuffed out. As her arm fell, the world around Scarlett wavered, melting into another vision. Now, Arlene stood alone in the same square. The acrid scent of charred wood and flesh clung less to the air, the stillness of night replaced by the oppressive weight of the hot summer sun.

Scarlett watched on as Meneth appeared again, alone this time. She spoke softly, asking Arlene if this was how she intended to leave things. Arlene gave no reply. Meneth departed, only to return the next day, and the day after.

This cycle repeated before Scarlett’s eyes like a faded reel of memories. Each time, Arlene’s appearance grew more worn, more haggard, but somehow she remained standing, unmoving. Scarlett felt a rising frustration watching her—a woman she genuinely respected—adrift and indifferent, but there was nothing she could do.

Finally, one day, when Meneth returned, Arlene did something different. She studied Meneth with a distant, searching look before asking, “Who are you?”

Meneth only smiled. “A memory of those forgotten by fate,” she answered.

“Fate, you say…” Arlene muttered, almost to herself.

It wasn’t clear why, but after that exchange, Arlene followed Meneth in silence, and together, they left Freymeadow behind. Their journey led to a settlement hidden in a rugged valley. It was less a village and more a makeshift refuge: patched shelters scattered across the uneven terrain, cobbled together from scraps of wood, stone, and whatever other materials were at hand. Many of the people were thin, their faces lined with strain, yet some still offered Arlene food and water despite their hardships.

For a time, Arlene seemed to drift through the settlement, aiding with menial tasks and using her magic in practical, unremarkable ways, as if deliberating her own purpose. From what Scarlett could tell, Arlene was still at war with herself, still kindling a deep-seated rage that clashed with her conscience and values. For who knows how many years, this Arlene had been driven by her loyalty to the empire and a burning desire for revenge, to the point where it had come to define much of her identity. Her actions in Freymeadow had irrevocably shaken that foundation, whether fully intentional or not.

Scarlett couldn’t fully relate, but she understood the frustration that came with losing control.

One day, the settlement came under attack. Men and women bearing the colours of the Graenal Empire descended upon it, targeting anyone who might pose a threat. Scarlett recognised the brutality of the assault—it mirrored the chaos of previous Memories she’d seen—but this assault felt even more ruthless, as though the soldiers were commanded only to sow destruction.

Arlene watched in shocked indecision, wavering between resignation and dismay. Finally, she intervened. It did not take much for her to defeat every single soldier, their ranks shattered. Yet Arlene did not kill them, even as it left her conflicted and uneasy.

When Meneth returned days later—her periodic absences often ended with new refugees in tow—she helped the settlement relocate, using magic uncannily similar to that of the Tribe of Sin.

Soon after, the Tribe itself made an appearance. Men and women in dark clothing with distinctive facial markings arrived near the new settlement, accusing Meneth and the people there of cowardice and betrayal. They threatened to bring them ‘back to the right path’ by force.

This time, Arlene stepped in with little hesitation. But, once again, she refrained from killing, even as it became evident that the settlement’s residents were themselves members of the Tribe. Arlene simply remained in the background, quietly performing tasks. Even when Meneth brought the young girl from Freymeadow—now among a group of orphaned children—and the girl’s fearful reaction to Arlene spread whispers of unease, the woman’s behaviour did not change.

Scarlett observed this subdued version of Arlene: a woman living in relative isolation, defending the settlement from threats yet remaining apart from its people. The residents no longer spoke to her as they once had. Her only real interactions seemed to be with Meneth, and gradually, Arlene began joining the Zuver on her travels. Scarlett glimpsed fragments of these trips: Arlene aiding Meneth in visiting Tribe settlements ravaged by war, offering relief to survivors and extending a hand to those who had lost their will to fight, few as they were. Arlene clashed with imperial soldiers and mages on more than one occasion, often showing mercy even as tales of her actions spread within the empire, painting her as a figure of infamy.

In one vision, Arlene slipped into the Hartford estate in Freybrook to speak with her siblings, only to have Liane, consumed by rage, attempt—and fail—to kill her, hurling blame for the ruin of their family name. Only Delmont had bothered to listen.

Over time, a handful of the Tribe refugees did come to accept Arlene, though only those she had personally saved. Alongside Meneth, they eventually established a new, permanent refuge for these people—a new Heartlands, as it was called—beyond the empire’s reach. Within this sanctuary, they found some semblance of peace, though Scarlett doubted Arlene ever truly shared in it. The more the woman interacted with the people she had once fought, the heavier the weight she seemed to bear. Plagued by dreams and memories, haunted by the extreme prejudice she’d once wielded against the Tribe’s warriors regardless of the circumstances, disillusioned by her own country’s intentions, and, most of all, tormented by Freymeadow, Arlene carried her burdens in silence. Outwardly, she maintained an unnatural detachment, her dispassion shielding her from the world.

Then, one morning, Arlene awoke to find the young girl from Freymeadow—now older—trying to kill her.

It was the last day Arlene spent in that place.

Scarlett did not see what led to the confrontation, nor its aftermath. She only knew that Arlene neither harmed nor condemned the girl.

Afterwards, Arlene wandered. She moved through towns, cities, and wilderness, her path seemingly aimless. Sometimes, she lent her aid to strangers. Other times, she merely roamed, as though passing time.

Eventually, her journey brought her back to Freymeadow. By then, nature had reclaimed the village. Ivy and wildflowers climbed over crumbled houses, and a forest of saplings grew between ruins. Arlene stood alone in the heart of the village, her face unreadable, her mind lost in deep thought. After some time, footsteps echoed behind her.

Scarlett didn’t get to see what followed. She heard only the faint meowing of a cat before the scene dissolved, melting into a vibrant green.

Suddenly, Scarlett stood in a small clearing. The scent of fresh grass mingled with the aroma of damp soil and budding leaves. Above her, sunlight filtered through the canopy, bathing the forest in golden light.

She blinked, taking in the change. It was like waking from a long reverie. Those previous visions felt like something distant, memories bound to someone else’s story. But this place, this sensation — this was a true Memory.

To be exact, it was Arlene’s Memory.

A surge of vigour welled up inside Scarlett as she realised her mana reserves had been completely restored. Her gaze swept over the forest, its familiar trails almost beckoning her forward.

A determined glint crossed her eyes. After what she’d seen, she thought she understood what this all meant.

She started walking, her steps taking her out of the clearing and into the dense woods. The gentle sound of a river grew louder as she followed the trails, winding deeper into the forest. At last, she emerged into a wide glade hidden from the outside world. There, untouched by fire, Freymeadow awaited her.

Crossing the glade, Scarlett entered the village. She did not spare a glance at the villagers who watched her with a blend of curiosity and caution. Her stride was purposeful, her focus unbroken even as children played in the village square. She walked past them, stopping before a porch where a raven-haired woman sat, her focus fixed distantly on the children.

Eventually, Arlene turned her head, her gaze settling on Scarlett.

“Oh? A visitor?” the woman said, her voice soft and steady.

Scarlett studied her quietly for several moments, meeting her pale green eyes. “…Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she began, echoing words she had spoken countless times before — and perhaps would never speak again. “I am Scarlett Hartford. I have come to receive your tutelage.”