The corridor outside Lyra's room was still half-lit by the rising sun, golden rays spilling through the rune-etched windows. Stephen paused before her door, inhaling deeply before knocking.
The door opened almost at once.
Lyra stood there, her crimson hair tumbling freely down her back, the morning light giving it a soft glow. She wore a half-sleeved white shirt and casual shorts with her collarbone fully visible, simple but fresh, the faint scent of spirit blossoms lingering in the air.
For a heartbeat, Stephen froze. His gaze flickered up and down before he caught himself and looked away quickly. "Morning," he said, a little too casually.
Her lips curved into a knowing smirk. "You're right on time."
She stepped aside, letting him in.
The room was warm and bright, sunlight pooling over a small round table set neatly with breakfast — crisp eggs, strips of sizzling bacon, a basket of bread, and a pitcher of spirit fruit juice that shimmered faintly with translucent blue light.
Stephen sat opposite her, the faint hum of the Federation's energy conduits thrumming underfoot. It was strange how even in this foreign place, the sight of food felt so grounding.
Lyra picked up her fork and said with a small grin, "These are all my favorites. Eggs, bacon, spirit juice from northern orchards. Now that I've told you mine, you have to tell me yours."
Stephen smiled, thinking for a moment. "Roasted meat, honeyed bread, and my father's stew. He used to make it after long days at the forge."
Her expression softened. "You talk about him a lot."
"He's the only family I've got," Stephen said quietly.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable — it carried an easy warmth. Then Lyra leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on the table, eyes bright with curiosity. "You've been learning about cultivation, right? About realms, energy control, soul seas?"
He nodded. "I've been reading the books you gave me."
"Good," she said, her tone light but her gaze sharp. "Then you should also know about how the world beyond ."
Stephen listened as she began to speak — her voice steady, almost rhythmic, like a story she'd heard many times but still respected.
"The continent is divided into many powers," she said. "At the top, you have the Royal Parliament and the Federation — the pillars that hold civilization together. The Parliament governs laws, and the Federation oversees hunters and rift defense. They rarely interfere with the internal power struggles between clans… but there are exceptions."
She sipped her juice, the faint shimmer of energy rippling through the glass. "Beneath them are the Clans of the First Hunters. Old bloodlines. Families whose ancestors first fought the beasts that crawled through the rifts. The Blaze Clan is one of them."
Stephen leaned forward. "So the Clans are independent?"
"Independent enough to rule entire provinces," she said with a small shrug. "But every clan has to respect the Federation's decrees and pay its tribute. It keeps the balance."
She traced a finger idly along the rim of her cup as she continued. "Once a cultivator breaks through to the Master Realm, they can establish their own force. It's the lowest recognized rank. To rise higher — to become a recognized Grandmaster force — a clan or sect must produce at least one Grandmaster and complete Federation-sanctioned missions from the Mission Hall. The more merit you earn, the higher your ranking climbs. But you have to maintain it. Fail too many missions, and your rank falls. The system prevents complacency."
Stephen nodded slowly, absorbing each word. "So power and contribution both matter."
"Exactly." Lyra's smile was faint, but there was pride in it. "It also helps with resource allocation. The Federation manages spirit mines, elixirs, rune materials… everything. And the cost to raise a Grandmaster is staggering. So they prioritize the ranked powers first."
Her eyes flickered with something unreadable. "That's why true Rogue Hunters above the Master Realm are rare. Without backing, they burn out early. Most end up joining a high-rank clan — trading freedom for stability and resources."
Stephen tilted his head. "So some join by choice. Others…?"
"Others are offered marriage," she said matter-of-factly. "Strong talents, bloodlines — clans want to secure them. It's common for a wandering Grandmaster or prodigy to marry into a clan and take its surname. The goal is simple: children with stronger bloodlines. Those offspring get the best resources, the best tutors. It's how the great clans keep growing."
Stephen exhaled slowly. "That sounds… calculated."
Lyra smiled faintly. "You get used to it. Power always demands structure."
She paused, her tone dimming slightly. "But not all clans are like ours. Some are reclusive — hidden away in ancient mountains or barrier realms. They intermarry within their lines, keeping their blood pure. If anyone marries outside, they're branded traitors — hunted or exiled unless they're powerful enough to fight back."
Stephen's chest tightened. He didn't know why, but her words struck a chord — a faint echo of a truth he hadn't yet discovered.
He covered it with a quiet question. "And the wilderness? The forbidden areas?"
Lyra's eyes lit up. "Ah, the dangerous part. The continent's wilderness hides forbidden zones— remnants of collapsed rifts, ancient battlefields, and places tainted by beast corruption. Some hide treasures; others swallow even Emperor Realm hunters whole."
Her tone softened as she leaned back. "Once, a Fruit of Enlightenment was found in such a rift — a fruit said to grant a fleeting glimpse into the divine. That discovery alone led to the death of three Emperors before a powerhouse from the capital claimed it."
Stephen whistled under his breath. "Over a single fruit?"
She nodded. "When power is limited, one glimpse of transcendence can drive even the mighty to madness."
They talked for a long time after that. Lyra spoke of the continent's geography — the sprawling Ironveil Dominion they were in, bordered by mountain ranges that shimmered with active runes, and beyond that, the Sundered Plains where ancient beasts still roamed.
Stephen mostly listened, captivated not just by her words but by the quiet conviction in her voice. Now and then, she'd gesture animatedly with her fork or brush a strand of hair away from her face, and he'd catch himself smiling without realizing it.
By the time they finished, two hours had passed. The plates were empty, the spirit juice gone. A soft breeze drifted through the open balcony, stirring her hair.
Stephen stood, pushing his chair back gently. "Thank you," he said. "For telling me all this. You didn't have to."
Lyra looked up, her expression calm but warm. "I did. You're walking into a world that doesn't forgive ignorance. I'd rather you learn from me than from a mistake."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Stephen took a step closer. He hesitated — then reached out and pulled her into a hug.
She stiffened slightly, startled. "Stephen—"
He didn't let go immediately. His voice was soft, almost teasing. "Next time, I'll be the one treating you. I'll cook for you myself."
Lyra blinked, her cheeks coloring faintly. "You… cook?"
He smiled. "Apart from my father, you'll be the first to taste it."
Then, before she could reply, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.
The faint scent of her hair mingled with the warmth of the morning sun.
When he finally stepped back, Lyra was still frozen in place, her eyes wide and lips slightly parted. For once, she had nothing clever to say.
Stephen grinned, walking to the door. "Half an hour, remember? I kept my promise."
As he left, Lyra's hand rose unconsciously to her forehead, her heart pounding.
Outside, the sunlight grew brighter, spilling across the Federation's runic halls — marking the quiet beginning of something neither of them yet understood.