Then, a faint blink.
A flash of color in the darkness.
Issa's eyes slowly opened.
Green. Intense. Full of confusion... and a spark that promised to awaken.
Then. The dull thud of Issa's body hitting the ground echoed against the stone.
Eliza didn't let go of her.
"Breathe... please, breathe," she murmured, not knowing who she was really talking to.
Issa's eyelids trembled for a moment before closing again. Her breathing was shallow, ragged, as if each breath were a separate battle. Eliza slid her hand down her abdomen... and then she saw it clearly.
The wound.
A deep, cruel gash, opened by a merciless sword.
Dried blood stained the torn fabric, and beneath her fingers, the skin was stiff with cold.
"No...no..." she whispered, taking a step back. "This can't be happening."
Terror shot down her spine.
Eliza had received lessons in politics, etiquette, dance, and subtle poisons... but she didn't know how to save a life on the brink of death.
Much less a life she believed to be Lior's.
A faint sound broke the silence.
Something fell to the ground at her feet.
Eliza looked up abruptly, her heart racing.
There was no one there.
Only a small, worn, dark leather bag, closed with a red cord.
She hadn't heard footsteps.
No breathing.
Nothing.
"Who...?" Her voice trailed off into the darkness.
She bent down slowly and picked up the bag. It was light. Inside was carefully prepared medicine: small, sealed glass vials, thick ointments, and a greenish powder with a bitter aroma, used to close wounds and reduce fever. It wasn't elegant palace magic, but raw, practical knowledge... made for survival.
Among the jars, a note written in black ink, the handwriting firm, almost aggressive.
"If you want me to live, don't ask questions. Don't look back."
A chill ran through her.
"Live..." she repeated, looking at Issa. "Who are you to decide that?"
She clutched the bag to her chest. She had no choice.
Far away, the bells began to ring.
One.
Two.
Three.
They didn't herald war.
They didn't herald a coronation.
They announced death... and the disappearance of someone whose name was not spoken.
The people didn't know if it had been a man or a woman.
They only knew that someone had disappeared, and with that inexplicable absence, hope itself vanished from the hearts of the kingdom.
The streets filled with silence, a thick silence, heavy with disbelief.
In a garden where nothing bloomed anymore, a man stood motionless.
His boots trod on withered petals as if they didn't exist. Before him, dry rosebushes stood like skeletons.
His gray eyes, dark and sharp, didn't look at the flowers.
They looked at the past.
"This time..." he said, clenching his fist until blood oozed between his fingers, "I won't be late."
The wind stirred up ashes.
"I will find you," he continued, with a terrifying calm. "And when I do..."
A cold smile crossed his face.
"I'll kill the bastard who dared to touch you."
In the darkness, he heard something.
And he smiled first.