Lara returned to the royal mausoleum, which the netizens called "The Lost Era."
This time she did not arrive as a grieving relic of a lost throne.
She arrived as a witness.
Her face was composed, her movements measured, her eyes sharp and analytical—the gaze of someone dissecting history, not drowning in it.
She stood inside the burial chamber and studied it as a detective would a crime scene.
Not Lara the empress.
Just Lara.
She moved from sarcophagus to sarcophagus, fingers hovering inches above ancient stone, tracing inscriptions without quite touching them.
The tombs held the remains of her great-grandchildren—names she once knew as laughter, as tiny hands clutching her robes, as futures she had believed were secure.
Now they were carved in cold permanence.
Ten generations of Kromwels lay here.
Ten generations… and then silence.
No records. No continuation. No explanation.
It was as if the bloodline had been cut clean off the world.
