The silence of the corridors was different from the hall.
There were no reunions there, no voices, no relief.
Only stone, low fire in the torches… and the constant sound of the rain outside, striking the castle walls like a distant sound that never ends.
Lyra walked without hurry.
Her steps were firm, controlled, but not light — there was weight in them, as if each movement dragged something that refused to stay behind.
The torchlight passed over her face and revealed only what was necessary: a fixed gaze, without distraction, without deviation… but also without peace.
She didn't think about the path.
Her body already knew where to go.
"— So, besides biting and kicking, the girl also learned how to punch?"
The voice came too clean.
Almost alive.
Almost present.
Lyra didn't stop, but her chest locked for a second, as if the air had grown thicker.
"— Little hurricane…"
There was lightness in that memory.
A provocation that had never been a threat.
Something that… lingered warm.
Her fingers slowly curled at her side.
For a moment, the weight lessened.
But it didn't last.
The window appeared along the way, tall and narrow, cutting through the stone wall.
Rain slid down the glass in crooked lines, distorting whatever lay on the other side.
Lyra stopped before it without realizing exactly when she had decided to do so.
The reflection in the window came first, distorted by the rain that crawled slowly down the glass… but it wasn't her own face that held Lyra's gaze.
It was the eyes.
Heterochromatic.
Red and black.
Still… attentive… as if they had never stopped watching her since that moment.
Her breathing didn't fully fail, but it lost its rhythm, too short to ignore, caught in her chest as if her body recognized something before her mind accepted it.
"— Do you know what the most interesting part is?"
The voice came low, close, carrying a calm that matched nothing human.
It wasn't a scream.
Nor a threat.
It was curiosity.
"— You endure."
Her body answered before thought.
Her shoulders tensed.
Her fingers closed slowly.
The sensation returned without asking permission — not as an image, but as a presence.
The chair.
Cold.
Immovable.
Holding every part of her body in the right place.
No space to escape.
No space to react.
"— Most break too fast… scream, beg, lose the fun."
A low laugh slipped out, almost satisfied.
"— But you…"
A pause.
Slow.
Savoring.
"— You just stay there."
Lyra's jaw clenched hard.
She remembered.
The control.
The silence.
The effort to give nothing.
Not a sound.
Not an expression.
"— It's almost disappointing…"
The voice shifted slightly.
Less light.
More interested.
"— But also…"
Closer.
Lower.
"— …it's what keeps me going."
The air around her seemed heavier.
Not from fear.
But from the memory of insistence.
Of repetition.
Of method.
"— I keep thinking…"
Another laugh, more contained, more dangerous.
"— how long it takes before you forget that beautiful control they taught you…"
The pressure returned along with the memory.
Not physical.
But internal.
Her body, held in place.
Her breathing measured.
Her mind holding everything in place while the pain tried to tear something out of her.
"— …until I can get just a little…"
The voice almost vanished, dragged against her ear.
"— …a single tear."
Lyra's fingers trembled.
Slightly.
But, for an instant… the sound of the rain disappeared.
Almost imperceptible.
But enough to bring back not the pain…
But the feeling of being watched while she endured.
She pulled her gaze away from the window.
The rain kept falling on the other side, indifferent, as if none of it carried any weight.
But inside her, something was no longer in the same place.
Lyra resumed walking without changing her pace, but now there was no trace of hesitation left — what had once been intention had become certainty, solid enough to cut through everything still echoing inside her.
The corridor opened again into the main hall.
The heat of the torches, the low murmur of the survivors, and the smell of iron and damp fabric returned all at once, but none of it held her attention.
The gazes were turned elsewhere — not because of movement, but because of presence.
Leaning against one of the stone pillars, Telvaris remained still.
There was no need for an imposing posture or any gesture.
Even so, the space around him felt too occupied for anyone else to approach without thinking twice.
Some survivors avoided looking at him directly; others glanced too quickly and looked away, as if the mere act of holding his gaze were already a risk.
Lyra did not look away.
The path to him drew itself.
A sword had been left near one of the cloaks scattered across the floor — probably forgotten, perhaps abandoned in haste.
Lyra picked it up without ceremony.
The weight settled in her hand naturally, as if that gesture were only the inevitable continuation of everything that had already been decided before she entered that corridor.
And then she began to walk toward him.
Without hurry.
Without hesitation.
Each step crossed the space between them cleanly, directly, like a line that allowed no deviation.
Some of the survivors noticed.
The murmur diminished.
Someone tried to speak, but gave up before forming sound.
The air changed.
"It's been too long, Lyra."
The voice came before the impact.
Firm, clear, with a controlled cadence that didn't need to rise to be heard.
There was care in the choice of words, as if measuring not only what was said, but the weight each syllable carried when it touched the other.
Lyra stopped.
The movement wasn't abrupt.
It was precise.
She turned her face toward the voice.
Pink hair, slightly disheveled, fell naturally over her shoulders, interrupted here and there by small, still-recent marks of battle.
There were superficial cuts, signs of wear… but nothing in that woman's posture yielded.
Her eyes, firm, attentive, evaluated everything.
Lyra looked at her for a second.
"Isabela."
Isabela held her gaze, unhurried.
Then she glanced briefly at Telvaris.
Then at the sword in Lyra's hand.
When she looked back, there was no surprise.
Only understanding.
"From the looks of it… the news has already reached you."
Lyra didn't answer.
The hand holding the sword didn't move.
Her silence wasn't empty.
It was restraint.
Isabela took a step forward, closing the distance without invading.
Her voice came lower this time.
"I can imagine what's going through you."
A small pause.
"Karna spoke about you."
That was enough.
Lyra hesitated.
Her breathing shifted.
A fraction.
Her mouth began to open—
And then she fell silent.
Her eyes hardened again.
Isabela noticed.
"War takes from everyone… in different ways."
Her voice carried no judgment.
Nor any attempt to soften what could not be softened.
"And there are losses that don't settle with time… they just stay there."
Her gaze stayed on Lyra.
Direct.
Steady.
"I know you have your reasons."
The silence that followed wasn't empty — it was dense, charged with what had not yet been said.
Isabela breathed calmly before continuing, without looking away.
"I believe Zeph has already told you enough to understand the surface of what is happening."
The pause was brief, only what was necessary.
"But there are decisions… that cannot stand on what we feel alone."
Her gaze hardened slightly.
Not from coldness.
But from conviction.
"Prince Éon has reasons that go beyond our losses."
Her words were measured with care.
"And even so, he did not act the way you are about to act."
Lyra remained still.
Isabela took a light step to the side, not to open a path — but to change the angle, like someone allowing the other to see beyond their own impulse.
"If there is something capable of making him reconsider an alliance like this… then it is not hatred."
Her voice lowered a little.
More intimate.
More precise.
"It is the same reason that brought us here."
The rain kept striking the castle walls.
Constant.
Indifferent.
Lyra didn't respond.
But she didn't advance either.
Her silence now wasn't only restraint.
It was calculation.
Isabela watched for another moment.
Then she stepped back a few paces.
Not like someone retreating.
But like someone choosing not to interfere beyond what was necessary.
"Still… I suggest you think carefully about what you intend to do."
She stopped, slightly turned, before finishing.
"I had the opportunity to speak with Éon's other half."
A slight pause.
"It is a rare mind."
There was no exaggeration in her tone.
No empty admiration.
It was a statement.
"He does not move pieces without considering what is lost… and what remains."
Her eyes briefly returned to Lyra.
"And when he decides… he has already accepted the weight of both."
Lyra didn't answer.
But this time… her silence wasn't the same.
Isabela held her gaze for another second.
Then she withdrew completely.
"Still… I would suggest you rest."
Her voice remained firm.
But there was something more subtle beneath it.
"These past days have demanded more than the body usually endures… from all of us."
Her gaze drifted for a moment, resting on the tall windows of the hall, where the rain slid slowly down the dark glass.
"And, it seems… it will cease at dawn."
When she spoke again, the tone didn't change — it only became more definitive.
"And I believe it will be at that moment… that our departure will cease to be a possibility."
Then, before stepping away—
Isabela cast one last look at Lyra.
The hall returned around them.
But Lyra remained still.
The sword still in her hands.
Her gaze… now distant from Telvaris.
For a moment, nothing in her moved.
Then—
She turned her face slightly.
And, on the other side of the hall—
Her eyes met Éon's.
Something was decided there.
Without words.
Dawn finally broke across the sky.
But it brought no lightness.
The light touched the ramparts, crossed the stone… and still, the air remained dense, as if the land itself resisted accepting what was to come.
From atop the ramparts of the Northern Kingdom, the horizon stretched vast.
One of the soldiers on watch narrowed his eyes, raising a hand to his brow to block the light as he stared into the distance.
For a moment, he wasn't sure what he was seeing.
Then the shape defined itself.
A line.
Then several.
Movement.
A caravan.
Too large to be mistaken.
His eyes widened.
"CARAVAN IN SIGHT!"
The voice echoed across the walls, cutting through the silence of the morning.
Other soldiers approached, following his gaze.
"It's huge…!"
"Open the gates!" he shouted again, already turning downward. "OPEN THE GATES!"
The sound began to spread.
Orders being repeated.
Chains being pulled.
The weight of gears echoing through the stone structures as the great gates began to move.
Slow.
Massive.
Irreversible.
When the caravan passed through the gates, the interior of the walls was already in motion.
Soldiers lined up.
Servants ran from one side to the other.
Horses were led.
The wounded received immediate care.
The sound of footsteps, voices, and metal filled the space with an organization that existed only there — firm, disciplined, prepared.
At the center of that movement—
A man wearing black armor stepped forward a few paces.
Without hesitation, he knelt.
His head lowered with absolute respect.
"Prince Éon… it is an honor to see you return."
Silence came soon after.
Not imposed.
Natural.
Éon remained still for a moment.
His gaze moved across the interior of the walls, absorbing every detail — the movement, the faces, the structure… everything.
But there was no relief there.
No pride.
Only calculation.
The soldier slightly raised his face, still kneeling.
"The princess is waiting for you."
A small pause.
"Alongside Lord Cassian."
Éon did not answer.
Not immediately.
Then he took a step forward.
He passed the soldier without looking away.
Without slowing.
As if that information had already been expected… or was inevitable.
Behind him, the black-armored knight rose at once.
His posture returned to firm, active.
"Organize the newcomers!" the voice came loud, precise. "Ensure shelter and food for everyone!"
The soldiers moved without hesitation.
The gears were already turning.
And Éon…
had already moved on.