The morning of the seventh day rose like a prelude to the end.
The sun still fought to be born, its first lines of light staining the horizon in pale copper — like ancient blood refusing to dry.
And then they appeared.
Nine hundred and ninety soldiers.
Divided into three perfect columns of three hundred and thirty, advancing as if each step were a sentence.
At the front, three figures that needed no announcement — the very horizon seemed to open the way for them:
Éreon, mounted on a horse black as the night, muscles in constant tension, eyes burning with contained fire.
Absolute silence in him — the terrible calm of one who has already decided the fate of empires and needs no voice to be heard.
Éon, beside him, posture upright, hands steady on the reins.
That rare mixture of faith and cold calculation shone in his eyes.
He didn't follow Éreon out of submission — he followed because he knew the future would collapse if he didn't.
Marcus, the veteran — dark brown horse breathing heavy, scars on leather and on man alike.
His gaze swept terrain, lines, wind — everything.
Not a servant.
Not a noble.
He was the seasoned blade that keeps warriors alive and wars won.
And by the steady rhythm he set, every soldier behind him knew that error did not exist that morning.
Behind them, the riders — black armor, heavy shields, lances raised like divine decrees. Swords at their waists, posture rigid, gaze forged to tame kingdoms.
Then came the second formation: men and women of steady steps, rifles crossed over their chests, pistols at their sides, blades tied to their thighs.
It was modern war without the vulgarity of excess — only what was necessary to kill, subdue, take.
And finally, like a silent shadow, the third row: archers dressed in black, hoods lowered, fingers restless as if already feeling the string pull someone's throat.
No song of glory.
No drum.
Only the unison cadence of boots upon earth, and the low murmur of breaths that knew: the world was not yet ready for them… and that was irrelevant.
They did not march to war.
They marched to dominion.
The Eastern Viscounty was not an enemy — it was neutral ground, too fertile to be ignored, too proud to kneel without warning.
And on that dawn, beneath a banner that gleamed like a fallen moon and an ancient dragon, neutrality ceased to exist.
It was the day the East would learn an old truth:
War doesn't always knock. Sometimes, it enters — and sits upon the empty throne.
While Éreon's army advanced like a shadow ready to swallow the East, one of his pieces was already moving on the board.
On the silent road before the bronze walls of the Marquisate, a lone figure walked.
A girl.
5'2".
Tight black clothes hugging her body, a dagger strapped near her ankle, two pistols resting at her waist.
Calm steps, almost lazy — like someone who saw not walls, but doors that hadn't opened yet.
The wind lifted dust around her, but she didn't blink.
Above, on the battlements, a knight raised his voice:
"Hold! This is the territory of the Golden Lions! Who dares approach without announcing themselves?!"
The girl lifted her chin, a small, sharp smile curving her lips.
"Lyra Varen. Messenger of those marching eastward. I seek audience with the lords of this territory."
The knight laughed — short, dry, dripping arrogance.
"We received no such notice! Go back and tell your leader to come in person and kneel before the Golden Lions!"
Lyra sighed, not in fear, but in boredom.
"My orders were clear. If they denied me entry, I was to knock."
She lifted her hands slowly.
"So… from this moment on… I apologize."
Silence.
That heavy kind — the kind that comes before thunder and the fall of kingdoms.
Lyra raised her hands, fingers relaxing as if releasing a thought.
The ground beneath her feet trembled — first a whisper, then a contained roar, deep, almost organic.
The ancient metal of the gates vibrated.
Thin cracks spread like glass webs across the entire structure.
The knight above widened his eyes.
"Wha—"
He didn't finish.
The impact came with a dry, brutal snap.
An invisible wave ripped through the air and struck the gates with precise, surgical force.
They didn't explode.
They collapsed — bending, twisting, tearing into plates and fragments before falling inward, as if pulled by the earth itself.
Dust rose slowly.
Lyra lowered her hands.
"In the end, I had to knock."
And then she took her first step into the territory of the Golden Lion — without looking up, without looking back — like someone who never learned to ask permission.
Five guards descended from the battlements as one body of steel — rhythmic steps, swords raised, the confidence of men who believe numbers equal victory.
They advanced together.
Lyra didn't move until the first entered her reach.
He lifted his sword — she slipped beneath his guard, left hand deflecting his wrist, right hand snapping upward in a palm strike to the chin.
The impact locked his legs; he dropped to his knees before blacking out.
The second came with shield raised.
Lyra twisted, kicked the side of his knee — sharp crack.
Before he fell, she yanked his helmet by the rim and drove her knee into his face.
He dropped, limp.
The third attacked from the side.
Lyra ducked, blocked with her forearm, and executed a hip toss — short, surgical, his body slamming against stone with a hollow sound.
The fourth tried to grab her from behind.
She stepped forward, trapped his arm in hers, pivoted her hip, and threw him cleanly over her shoulder.
The ground took the heavy body with a thud that echoed against the walls.
The fifth hesitated.
Fatal mistake.
Lyra moved before he could lift his sword — locked his arm, slipped behind him, and applied a modified rear-naked choke — quick, efficient pressure.
Seconds.
He passed out without even falling — she controlled his weight, laying him down with the precision of one who wastes neither strength nor violence.
The dust hadn't even settled.
Lyra exhaled slowly, posture steady, gaze impassive, breathing calm — trained to win without showing effort.
She murmured, remembering Marcus as if he still stood beside her:
"Numbers don't win fights. Awareness does."
And she kept walking.
As if five armed men had never existed.
Lyra's boots touched the ground in light, measured, almost casual steps — and still, the men on the wall trembled as if each step carried an ancient warning.
"ALARM!" someone shouted from above.
The bell rang out — deep, metallic, cutting the air like a sentence.
More knights poured from the inner gate, shields raised, lances leveled at her.
Thirty meters, twenty, fifteen — forming a semicircle, rigid posture, fear disguised as honor.
Lyra stopped.
Breathed in.
Her right hand touched the ground, fingers spread.
The air trembled.
At first subtle — a hum beneath the earth, vibrating as if the soil itself were holding its breath with her.
The knights exchanged uncertain glances.
The vibration grew — not like a wild earthquake, but a heartbeat under control.
Marcus used to say: Brute force destroys. Precise force decides who lives.
The men's armor rattled.
The ground groaned low.
"Oh no…" one of them murmured.
Lyra exploded.
She didn't fly — the ground tore itself open beneath her, hurling her upward in a seismic burst, as if the earth had rejected her into the air with controlled violence.
Stones leapt, dust swirled, lances bent.
The shockwave knocked the nearest knights down. Some rolled, others clung to shields, as if the ground had turned liquid for an instant.
She crossed the space between walls like a living projectile, body extended, gaze cold, hair snapping in the wind of ascent.
She rose, slicing through the air — absolute silence at the height of her arc, like a divine pause before the strike.
And then she fell.
She landed inside the inner walls — the golden heart of the Marquisate — knee bent, hand on the ground, fine cracks spreading in a circle from the point of impact.
No exaggerated explosion.
A firm sound.
Lethal precision.
Absolute control.
She rose slowly.
The nearest guards froze — some with swords raised, others simply unable to breathe.
Eyes wide.
Pure fear.
Lyra merely dusted her fingers with calm, as if finishing a stretch.
She looked at the men before her.
"I'm here to talk," she said, voice calm, unshaken. "Not to repeat requests."
One guard swallowed hard.
Another took a step back.
And everyone understood, in that moment:
She hadn't entered the Marquisate.
She had decided the territory would open the way.
An arrow cut through the air toward Lyra.
She turned, dodging lightly — almost casual, almost taunting.
A voice echoed from afar, laced with mockery:
"So, besides biting and kicking, the little girl learned how to punch too?" — his smile could be heard in the words. "And apparently, how to fly."
Lyra lifted her gaze.
Blue eyes met light brown.
He emerged from the shadows, lazy steps, posture relaxed as if war didn't exist around him.
"Well, it's been a while, hasn't it?" he said. "Last time I saw you was when I pulled you out of that temple. Remember me?"
Lyra smiled. Not sweet — sharp, knowing, dangerous.
"Light brown eyes," she began, walking toward him. "Short white hair. Bronze skin. And a smile… absurdly irritating. Just like the humor."
He widened his grin, as if accepting a compliment.
She stopped a few feet away, smile still curling her lips.
"Then you must be Karna."
He lifted his chin, expression satisfied — almost proud of himself.
"My reputation precedes me, it seems."
The amused gleam in his eyes lasted half a second.
The next instant, his body shifted — ease vanished, tension emerging like a blade drawn from its sheath.
In one quick, fluid movement, Karna spun the bow.
The air vibrated.
Lyra barely saw the attack — a horizontal strike, clean, cutting through space with enough force to make the wind snap.
She raised her forearm by instinct.
The impact echoed like a contained thunderclap.
Blue flames flickered along the bow for a brief second — enough to make clear he wasn't testing.
He was striking for real.
Karna's grin widened — electric, exhilarated, like someone who'd just found a new and deadly toy.
"Let's see if you learned anything else besides biting and kicking, Little Hurricane."
Lyra narrowed her eyes — the ground beneath her feet trembled with a silent promise.
"I learned to take down men who talk too much."
Karna raised the bow slowly, not aiming — just reminding her he could.
"Little Hurricane…" he said with a half-smile. "Let's find out whether your bite is fire… or smoke."
Lyra's hand hovered over her holster, barely touching — just enough to be seen.
"If it's not bulletproof, this will be quick. If it is… it'll be fun."
They faced each other, smiles still on their lips, while everyone around them froze — as if at any moment, a wildfire could ignite between them.