The morning was beautiful. Everything around them looked like it had stepped out of a painting: rolling hills brushed with mist, the soft glow of early sunlight, the distant texture of old wood and stone.
And yet, as she gazed at it, she could not shake the thin layer of cold that seemed to wrap around her shoulders. Beauty felt different when seen through the lens of loss.
"Aurelius Cray," she repeated inwardly, tasting the name. "A sword instructor…"
Her eyes lingered on the growing outline of the houses below.
If she wanted to survive here, if she wanted to one day stand on her own like that silver-haired warrior from the night before, then someone like Cray might be her first doorway.
The thought steadied her slightly.
Even so, each time the horse's hooves thudded against the ground, a strange sensation tugged at her.
She knew, rationally, that she was sitting on solid earth. The weight of her body, the sway of the horse, the feel of the reins beneath her hands, all said stability.
But deep inside, a memory of falling refused to release her. The rhythm of the hooves echoed the hollow drop of a plummeting plane, the pull in her stomach, the helplessness of body and sky spinning together.
"Senior…" she thought, eyes narrowing against the light. "If I had died with you then, if we had simply vanished together beneath the ocean, I wouldn't have regretted it. Being by your side at that last moment… that alone would have been enough."
But that hadn't been what Alice wanted.
Keep on living.
Such a simple wish, and yet it felt like the heaviest promise she had ever been given. She clenched her fingers on her gown, nails pressing into the fabric.
"All right," she answered silently. "Then I'll live. I will live with my head held high in this world. I'll protect this body. I'll walk a path that won't shame you."
She lifted her face toward the brightening sky. "And if… no, when… You are here too, somewhere in this land," she continued inside her mind, "I'll find you. I don't know how long it will take. I don't know how far I'll have to travel. Perhaps our souls are switched, and you might be in my body. But even if I have to search every corner, I will do everything to look for you. When I do, we'll go home together."
Under the first rays of the morning sun, with the hillside rising gently behind her and the mist beginning to lift, Nova made that vow in the privacy of her heart.
Darius led the horse down toward the cluster of houses. The Cray dwelling was simple, nestled at the foot of the hill behind a low wooden fence. Two old pines stood like tired guardians on either side of the front gate, their needles sparse, branches twisted from age.
Near the entrance sat a large rock coated in thick green moss, its surface worn smooth by wind and time. The wooden gate was open, not imposing but practical, as if it were used more as a threshold than a barrier.
Nova dismounted, sliding carefully from the horse's back. Her legs wobbled a little after the long ride, but she steadied herself quickly.
As they approached the gate, a sudden shout rang out from within.
"Kill!"
The cry was high and fierce, the kind of shout used to strengthen the spirit rather than declare real murder. Several voices answered in rough chorus, the sound cutting through the quiet morning like the strike of a blade.
Nova stopped for an instant, surprised by the sudden force of it.
Darius glanced back and gave a small nod, wordlessly reassuring her that there was no danger. He stepped through the gate, and she followed.
Inside was an open training yard, the ground mostly bare earth with weeds clinging stubbornly at the edges.
In the center, a middle-aged man with tanned skin and a broad, powerful frame stood barefoot, one shoulder exposed where his robe had been tied back for ease of movement. His muscles bunched and stretched as he moved, voice rising and falling as he called out commands.
Around him, four or five boys swung wooden swords with serious faces and clumsy bodies.
The youngest looked no older than seven or eight, his arms too short to fully control the weapon.
The oldest might have been fifteen or sixteen.
Each wore their hair tied up in a child's topknot, their clothes stained with dirt and sweat. They shouted "kill" with every swing, more to steel themselves than because they understood its weight.
To Nova, the scene felt raw and unsystematic.
There was no slow explanation of basic stances, no gradual drills under careful theory, nothing like the formal martial arts she had heard about in her own world.
Here, it seemed, children learned by doing, even if "doing" meant copying the motions of their elders and stumbling through the path with bruises and cuts. It was rough, direct, and brutally practical.
A small shiver ran down her spine as she wondered whether she would be expected to train like that too, swinging swords alongside these muddy-faced boys.
The contrast between her own delicate appearance and their wild enthusiasm made her feel oddly out of place, like a porcelain ornament dropped in a barnyard.
The middle-aged instructor noticed Darius in the corner of his vision.
His expression shifted immediately to seriousness. He barked a short order to the boys, then jogged toward the veranda near the main house, where Darius was already heading.
The man moved quickly but stayed low, his steps grounded, like someone used to balancing weight and force.
Darius slipped out of his sandals and stepped up onto the raised wooden platform beneath the roof, settling himself cross-legged without ceremony.
The instructor, in contrast, dropped down cross-legged right there in the yard, on the packed earth, lowering his head respectfully.
"Young Master," he greeted, voice deep and measured.
Nova hesitated for a moment, unsure of protocol.
She watched the two men sit, then quietly removed her own sandals and stepped onto the platform. Sitting cross-legged in her current attire was absolutely impossible.
She pictured the chaos that would result and nearly choked on her own breath.
With no chairs or stools around to sit, she folded her legs beneath her in a formal kneeling posture, resting her hands lightly on her thighs as she'd seen gown-clad women do in old dramas.
Neither Darius nor the instructor gave any sign that her posture was strange either. She felt a flicker of relief. At least one thing had gone right today.
Darius wasted no time. "Aurelius," he said, "I encountered this young lady while on night patrol. She has suffered a great misfortune and lost much of her memory. She comes from the distant Stormspire City region, from the Mirror House. I would like her to stay here temporarily."
The instructor, Aurelius Cray, had thick brows, a beard that shadowed his jaw, and a face lined with the marks of hard work and battle. He glanced briefly at Nova, taking in her clothing, her posture, her composed expression, then lowered his eyes again.
"A young lady from the House Mirror of Stormspire City," he said slowly. "I understand. Arranging lodging is a small matter. Please be at ease, Young Master. I will see to it."
So Darius held real authority here. One request, and Aurelius accepted without complaint. The realization eased something in Nova's chest. This house might not be hers, but it would shelter her, at least for a while.
She had barely let herself relax when a loud voice barged into the stillness.
"Wah! This sis is crazy pretty!"
A boy, older than the others, but still clearly in his teens, stomped toward the veranda. He was taller than the rest, broad-shouldered but with the softness of someone who liked to eat well. His eyes were small and narrow, his face rounded. He jabbed a finger in Nova's direction, his accent thick and his manners nonexistent.
"Oswald!" Cray snapped, whipping his head around. "Mind your tongue!"
Nova turned her gaze toward the rude boy, more out of reflex than interest.
In a world of misty hills, ghost parades, and solemn warriors, someone as boorish as this felt almost jarring.
It reminded her that no matter how elegant the surroundings looked to her city-trained eyes, people here were still human.
And people, in any era, came in all kinds: refined, crude, noble, and foolish.
Quietly, she thought, half to herself, that perhaps only someone raised in modern comfort would look upon this rough, simple place and call it beautiful.
The ones born here likely saw only fields, walls, and another day of hard work. It made her awareness of being an outsider even sharper.
On the other hand, Darius's expression darkened. He shot Oswald a cool, assessing glance but chose not to comment. Inwardly, he recognized the boy's features. "Desmond's child, no doubt," he thought. "Just as noisy and full of himself as the rest of that upstart House."
He rose to his feet. "That will be all," he said to Aurelius. "I must return to Drakamor. I will report this matter to my uncle. Miss Mirror will remain in your care."
"Yes," Aurelius answered, bowing deeply. "I will take responsibility."
Darius stepped down from the platform and moved toward the gate. But before leaving, he turned back one more time, his gaze lingering on Nova. "Miss Mirror," he said, voice softer than before, "please stay here for a few days. I will return for you as soon as I can."
The warmth in his tone did not go unnoticed.
Nova felt a stir of unease beneath her gratitude. His concern felt sincere, but there was a hint of something else in the way he looked at her, a faint interest she did not wish to encourage.
Still, he had escorted her safely through the night and found her a place to rest. She had no right to be ungrateful.
She bowed her head slightly, maintaining a respectful distance with her words. "Thank you for your care along the way, Young Master Darius."
Politeness, she hoped, would lay a clear border between them.
Darius nodded once, perhaps a little more stiffly than before, then turned and strode from the courtyard.
As his footsteps faded beyond the gate, Nova let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Alone in this strange world, with no family, no documents, and no past anyone here could know, she had at last found something like a starting point: a simple warrior household, a battle-scarred instructor, a yard full of shouting children, and, somewhere ahead, the promise of a sword in her own hand.
In a quiet corner of her heart, the boy she had once been and the girl she had become both understood the same thing.
From here on, her path as a warrior would begin.