Three days earlier.
The sun still rose with strength — and no one dared imagine what would be destroyed.
That same dawn, in the marquisate hall, Lyra inclined her head in acknowledgment, without submission — a gesture of one who accepts the terms of combat and politics without surrendering anything of what she is.
For a second, she observed Phoebe with that clinical gaze that sees more than the body shows.
Then she turned.
Without looking back, she left the hall with steady steps.
Karna followed soon after, his pace measured; the smile only returned to his face once the shadows of the columns had swallowed him — not the arrogant smile, but the lighter, habitual mask.
Outside, the corridor opened in marble and steel; the echo of footsteps mingled with the crackle of torches.
Ahead, two guards waited beside a small iron table, where the weapons taken from Lyra upon entry now rested.
She approached without haste.
The guard straightened, almost in involuntary reverence, when her eyes met his.
Lyra did not hesitate.
She took the weapons that returned to their rightful hands — and for an instant, the air around her seemed to adjust, as if the world itself once again recognized to whom they belonged.
Karna drew near behind her, his tone light, alert:
"Now what, Little Hurricane? Do we go back and prepare to leave, or are you still planning to tear another promise from the Marquisate of Tiresias?"
Lyra fastened the holster buckle without looking at him.
"I need to speak with Lady Limia before we depart. As requested by Prince Éreon."
He arched a brow, his smile curving in a brief gesture.
"Lady Limia, huh?" — the smile didn't reach his eyes. "So Éreon is moving pieces again."
She met his gaze, restrained and cold.
"I'm here to deliver orders, not to comment on them."
Karna opened his mouth, held the response, and simply nodded.
Together, they disappeared among the columns.
Hours later, before the bronze wall marking the marquisate's border, the field seethed with movement.
Banners with the golden lion crest rippled in the hot noon wind; the metallic rhythm of armor filled the air.
Newly trained youths adjusted helmets, checked blades, repeated commands that still sounded foreign on their tongues.
Karna and Lyra approached through the mounting corridor when Isabela came to meet them, her expression steady and tired.
"Finally," she said, as one who had waited for hours. "Where were you?"
Karna shifted the bow on his shoulder, his voice casual yet weighted.
"In a meeting with the Princess of the North." He paused. "And where are Thalia and Doros?"
Isabela measured him with her gaze.
"Seems plans changed. Only I'll accompany you — along with five hundred soldiers."
Karna nodded.
Behind him, five young figures approached, their cloaks casting shadows over their faces — but their upright stance betrayed the firmness that age had yet to test.
Lyra looked over each one, assessing in silence.
At last, she gave a slight nod.
One of the young men returned the gesture — timid, but steady, with honest respect.
Karna took a breath and spoke, resolute:
"Then I suppose we can move out."
The lion's banner shimmered in the wind.
No one yet knew that the day rising before them would take more than they expected.
The march began slow, paced by the sound of iron against earth.
Boots and hooves cut through the dusty road, which soon narrowed between walls of ancient trees.
The air changed as they advanced — the field's heat giving way to a damp shade, voices dissolving until only the rustle of leaves and the horses' breathing remained.
Karna led at the front, exchanging brief signs with the scouts.
In silence, Lyra drifted to the side of the path, where a brown horse was tied to a tree — its mane tangled, its eyes alert.
She approached slowly, hand extended, as one greeting an old ally.
The animal snorted softly, recognizing her before her touch.
Lyra laid her hand on its neck — a restrained, almost ritualistic gesture.
She loosened the knot, adjusted the reins with precision, checking the saddle and spurs.
Karna watched from a few paces away, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Looks like you didn't fly all the way here," he said, arms crossed.
Lyra mounted with a fluid motion, not answering immediately.
The horse stepped forward twice, impatient, as if it already knew the road.
"As if that were possible," she murmured. "Maybe that's why Prince Éreon can't stand you."
Karna let out a short laugh.
"Well, then we're even. I don't like his evil twin much either."
Lyra kept her gaze forward, but the corner of her mouth threatened a smile — too brief to be noticed by anyone but Karna.
The group resumed pace, entering the forest.
Filtered light fell through the canopy in golden patches across their armor. For a moment, the world seemed suspended — the kind of silence that precedes the inevitable.
The sun had already begun to sink behind the leaves, tinting the forest in orange hues and long shadows.
The rhythm of the march slowed.
Fatigue weighed on them, but no one dared complain — something in the air had shifted.
The wind changed.
Gradually, the sound of hooves became the only noise under the trees.
No birds.
No insects.
Only the muffled rhythm of the march and the distant whisper of leaves.
Karna raised his hand in warning.
The scouts ahead stopped.
He looked around, his expression hardening.
"You felt it too, didn't you?" he asked quietly.
Lyra had felt it — that change in the air, almost imperceptible, like the moment before a storm.
Her eyes searched the shadows — not for something visible, but for something missing.
"Yes," she replied.
Her horse snorted, uneasy.
"Something's wrong," murmured Isabela, adjusting the shield on her arm.
For an instant, only the faint sound of a falling leaf broke the silence.
"Keep moving," said Isabela, her voice firm. "Slowly."
Karna's eyes locked on one of the young men whose cloak hood hung low over his face.
A barely perceptible nod — just a small tilt of the chin — and the boy mirrored the motion.
His horse slowed, the rider beside him gripping the reins steady.
Then, in a motion so swift it seemed a blur, the cloak slipped.
The boy leapt from the saddle and vanished among the trees like a shadow dissolving into the dark.
He moved through the canopy without a sound.
The wind held him, obedient, as if every current recognized his presence.
He vaulted from branch to branch — light, precise — until he reached the tallest trunk overlooking the clearing.
Then he stilled.
The hood hid almost everything — until a turquoise light flared beneath the fabric, faint and pulsing like a submerged beacon.
"Expand," he murmured.
The air answered.
Currents split around him, spreading in concentric circles.
Leaves trembled, dust rose, and a thin, translucent film of wind unfolded before his eyes — a living map, not made of lines, but of sensation.
He didn't see the terrain — he felt it.
Every wingbeat, every breath, every slight shift of air formed a point of awareness.
Within seconds, his mind encompassed everything within three hundred meters — absolute domain, no blind spots.
The main group marched east.
The river's weak course flowed south.
All breathed in order.
Until something broke the balance.
A different vibration — almost imperceptible — came from the west.
Cold, dense, as if the wind itself had drawn back from touching it.
He frowned, eyes glowing beneath the hood.
The air carried a strange whisper, a sound that came from nowhere.
He drew a deep breath, reeling his perception inward, and the map dissolved into a soft swirl.
The turquoise light faded slowly.
"What was that vibration…?"
His voice was low, but steady — like someone feeling the world slip off its path.
With a fluid motion, he leaned forward and vanished into the shadows, the wind guiding him as he moved west.
Lyra remained mounted, her horse still beneath her, gaze fixed on the dimness where the boy had disappeared.
Then she turned to Karna — her eyes asking what her mouth did not.
"No need to worry," murmured Karna, his smile short, restrained. "They were chosen by Éreon… and trained by me."
Those words didn't sound like a promise, but a decree.
There was trust in them — and calculation — and an unspoken warning.
Karna resumed his stride and moved ahead, his easy posture and the faint mask of lightness returning like armor.
As the group advanced east, the wind shifted once more.
The boy landed on a broad branch, a few meters above the ground.
The vibration pulsed closer — like a second heartbeat, out of sync with the world.
The leaf beneath his foot trembled.
Not from the wind — from something moving against it.
He crouched, body still, extending his right hand into the void.
The air vibrated around his fingers, small whirlwinds aligning, like compasses pointing toward one point.
"Four… no." His murmur was too low for any human ear.
A sharp crack — wood breaking.
He closed his eyes.
The sound hadn't come from the ground.
From above.
"…Five."
Turquoise light tore through the darkness in his eyes.
The air before him warped, forming a translucent arc that quivered like living membrane.
One of the shadows dropped from the canopy before sound could follow.
The boy threw himself to the ground, rolling and rising in one motion.
The shadow struck where he had stood a heartbeat earlier.
The impact threw up leaves and dust.
Before him, the figure rose — wrapped in a black suit so deep it seemed to swallow light.
The hood molded to a face hidden behind an angular mask, light, breathable, cut through by narrow slits of pulsing light.
The suit — flexible leather, subtle plates, crossed straps — was made to vanish.Silent.
Lethal.
Unmistakable.
The air around smelled of iron and rain.
The boy stepped back, assessing.
He didn't draw a weapon.
He only breathed.
The figure advanced.
The first strike came horizontal — a blade aimed for the neck.
The boy leaned back, the edge slicing air an inch from his throat.
Before the opponent could withdraw, he countered with a knee to the abdomen — swift and sharp.
The impact thudded — muffled — but the assassin twisted, spinning into an elbow strike.
The boy caught it with his forearm, slid his body aside, and seized the enemy's wrist, twisting it with precision.
A dry crack — the sound of forced joints.
The assassin dropped the blade from his right hand and drew another with the left.
The blade grazed the boy's cloak, cutting a thin line through the fabric.
He kicked the enemy in the chest.
The sound of impact merged with the whisper of leaves.
The assassin stepped back twice, firm, but without losing balance.
They studied each other in silence.
Short breaths, taut muscles, no sound but the forest.