The carriage door slammed shut, sealing the outside world away.
Silence fell heavy.
There were no more screams. No more warehouse stench.
Only the sound of wheels grinding over gravel and Lyra's uneven breathing in the dark of the cabin.
Aurelian sat opposite her, as far away as the space allowed. He was cleaning a dark stain from his leather glove with a handkerchief—methodical, cold, distant. As if he had just come from a tedious meeting, not a massacre.
Lyra was shaking.
The shock was fading, giving way to physical cold. The green dress was torn at the shoulder and along the side, leaving skin exposed to the night air. She hugged herself, teeth chattering softly.
Aurelian stopped wiping the glove.
The sound of her teeth seemed to irritate him.
"Stop that," he said without looking up.
"I–I can't," Lyra stammered. "I'm cold."
He let out an impatient, almost theatrical sigh. With a sharp movement, he unbuckled the heavy cloak from his shoulders—the black cloak with a fur-lined collar and the silver crest of House Seravel embroidered on the clasp.
He didn't offer it gently.
He threw it at her.
The heavy fabric fell over Lyra, covering her completely. The cloak was still warm from his body. It smelled of tobacco, rain, and beneath it all, something metallic. Blood.
But it was warm.
Lyra pulled the fabric up to her chin, sinking into his scent.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For coming for me…"
"Don't confuse things," Aurelian cut in.
His voice was a blade. He finally looked at her, and the expression on his face was hard—rebuilt brick by brick to seal away whatever humanity had leaked out in the cell.
"You are my cousin's property," he said, enunciating each word with deliberate cruelty. "And my cousin has the irritating habit of getting sad when he loses his favorite toys."
The words struck Lyra like a slap.
Moments ago, he had killed for her. Now he reduced it all to a toy.
"You killed those men," she said, challenging his logic. "You took risks. For a toy?"
Aurelian leaned forward. His face was inches from hers in the carriage's dimness.
"I don't like it when someone touches what belongs to my family," he whispered. "It's a matter of principle, not affection. Don't delude yourself, girl. If it had been a prize horse, I'd have done the same."
He leaned back, resting his head against the seat, eyes closed. The matter was settled.
Lyra watched him.
She saw the tension in his jaw. Saw how his bare hand—now without the glove—trembled faintly, just a muscle spasm he restrained through sheer will.
Liar, she thought. You don't cover horses with your own cloak.
But she said nothing. She only curled beneath the black fabric, feeling strangely protected by the monster's scent.
Their arrival at Elion's house was chaos.
The carriage had barely stopped when the mansion's front door flew open.
Elion ran down the steps, pale, hair disheveled, shirt open at the collar. He looked like someone who had aged ten years in three hours.
"Lyra!"
Aurelian stepped down first. Before he could say anything, Elion shoved him aside—an unthinkable gesture on any normal day—and reached the carriage door.
When Lyra emerged, legs unsteady, Elion pulled her into his arms.
"Thank the gods… thank the gods…"
He kissed her hair, her face, checking that she was whole.
"I went to the guard. They said they couldn't do anything without a warrant… I—I thought I'd lost you."
Lyra let herself cry against his shoulder. It was the safe embrace. The right one.
Then Elion froze.
His hands, stroking her back, touched the rough, heavy fabric. He pulled away just enough to see.
Lyra was wrapped in Aurelian's military cloak.
The General's silver insignia gleamed on her chest, marking her.
Elion looked at the cloak.
Then at Aurelian, standing by the carriage, wiping an invisible stain from his sleeve, his face bored.
Elion looked again at his cousin. Saw the dried blood on Aurelian's boot.
He understood.
The guard had done nothing. Elion had done nothing.
Aurelian had done everything.
A shadow crossed Elion's gentle face.
It wasn't pure gratitude.
It was inadequacy. Jealousy.
"Take her inside," Aurelian said, breaking the strained silence. "She needs a bath. She smells like the gutter."
"Aurelian…" Elion began, voice rough. "What did you do?"
"What was necessary," the General replied. "As always."
He didn't wait for thanks.
He turned his back and started toward the gate, cloakless, ignoring the cold night air.
"Wait!" Lyra called, breaking free of Elion's arms.
Aurelian stopped, but did not turn.
"And the others?" she asked. "The elves in the cell. You promised."
Elion looked at Lyra, confused, then at his cousin.
A promise?
Aurelian did not make promises.
The General turned only his head, offering her his profile.
"The city guard will arrive at the warehouse in ten minutes to discover the trafficking ring and free the victims," he said in a flat, uninterested tone. "Anonymously."
Lyra felt her chest tighten.
He had kept his word.
"But don't expect me to give them a ride as well," Aurelian added sharply. "My charity has limits."
He walked off into the darkness, swallowed by the night.
Elion wrapped Lyra in his arms again, guiding her toward the warm light of the house.
"Come, my love. It's over. You're safe now."
Lyra stepped into the heat of home.
But as she climbed the stairs, holding Elion's gentle hand, she realized her other hand was still gripping the edge of the heavy black cloak with desperate force.
And for the first time, the safety of Elion's house felt… insufficient.
Because the monster outside had lied.
He would never save a horse that way.
And that doubt was far too dangerous to be spoken aloud.