Lyria examined her belongings with careful attention. Her fingers moved quickly and methodically, folding and arranging without hesitation, as though everything had already been decided from the very beginning.
At the doorway, two maids stood in silence. Their gazes briefly met, then quickly shifted away. There were questions they wished to ask, yet none were voiced.
Once she finished, Lyria lifted the two large suitcases. Her steps were steady, as though their weight was not something worth considering.
She had not gone far before the two maids stepped forward and took them from her hands without being asked. Their movements were smooth, like a habit that required no instruction.
Lyria did not stop them. She simply allowed the space, then continued walking.
In the corridor, a young knight was already waiting. The moment he saw her, he bowed respectfully.
"Marchioness."
Lyria approached, her steps light.
"Is the carriage ready, Sir Corvin?"
"It is, my lady."
He hesitated for a moment before asking,
"Will… Captain Alaric not be accompanying you?"
Lyria seemed to think briefly, then gave a small shake of her head.
"There is no need," she answered calmly. "I am only going to the northern castle."
She walked past him, then added, as though it were nothing out of the ordinary—
"Besides, Captain Alaric is more needed here."
The knight fell silent.
Lyria continued forward without looking back.
"Soon enough… everything will return to how it should be."
Her steps remained light, without burden.
Behind her, the two maids followed in silence. No one dared to ask—but this time, they no longer felt as though they were accompanying someone on a departure… but rather, being left behind.
Inside the carriage, Lyria sat quietly, looking out through the window. The estate had long disappeared from view, replaced by rows of trees that grew denser the further they went. The road narrowed as they entered the forest leading toward the northern border of Orness territory.
The carriage wheels creaked softly. The horses' pace slowed, then eventually came to a stop.
Ahead, a fallen tree lay across the road, completely blocking the path.
Footsteps sounded from outside, followed by a light knock.
"Marchioness."
Sir Corvin's voice carried a restrained tone.
"My apologies. The path is obstructed. We will need time to clear it."
Lyria did not respond immediately. Her gaze remained fixed outside, on the fallen trunk lying still in the middle of the road—as though it had stood for a long time, only to collapse at a moment that could not be determined.
"It is fine," she said at last, softly.
Outside, the knights began their work. The sounds of wood being dragged, branches snapping, and short commands calling back and forth broke the silence of the forest.
The carriage remained still.
And for a moment, the journey felt as though it did not truly wish to continue.
Then suddenly, from between the silent trees, something moved.
An arrow shot forward, almost without sound.
Several knights who had been clearing the fallen trunk collapsed instantly, before they could even comprehend what had happened. The forest that had once been still changed in a single breath.
"Ambush—!"
The warning came too late.
At the side of the carriage, Sir Corvin pulled sharply on his horse's reins, avoiding an arrow that nearly struck him. Another knight nearby did the same—the two of them still holding their positions to guard Lyria.
But the sudden chaos startled the carriage horses. They neighed loudly, striking the ground, pulling the carriage without direction.
The coachman tried to calm them—too late.
His body was thrown to the side, hitting the ground hard.
"—!"
Without a second thought, Sir Corvin leapt down, seizing the reins. His hands pulled tight, forcing the horses to halt with what strength remained.
For a brief moment—they obeyed.
But that moment was enough.
From behind the trees, an attacker surged forward. Steel flashed briefly—then struck.
Sir Corvin did not fully evade in time.
The blow pierced through, leaving a deep wound that caused his steps to falter.
"Sir Corvin!"
The remaining knight rushed forward, intercepting the next attack. Their blades clashed—blocking, then countering. In a single motion, he brought the attacker down.
But it was not over.
More shadows began to emerge from between the trees.
Sir Corvin remained at his side, his breathing growing heavier, yet his sword still raised.
Together with the last remaining knight, he held back the advancing wave—long enough to not retreat, but not enough to truly win.
Lyria was jolted by the sound that shattered the stillness. She shifted immediately, trying to look outside through the carriage window.
But everything felt as though it was happening too quickly.
Shadows flickered past, metal clashed, and cries were cut off midway. The forest outside seemed to move without pattern, making it difficult to grasp what was truly happening.
When her gaze finally steadied, something felt wrong.
The reins were empty.
The horses that had pulled the carriage were gone—leaving only broken traces disappearing between the trees.
The carriage stood still.
Too suddenly.
Lyria remained where she was.
Through the window, she saw two figures on the ground.
Sir Corvin.
And the last remaining knight.
Both lay there, no longer standing as they had before. Their movements were barely visible from that distance—just enough to show that the battle had ended… or nearly ended.
There were no longer any clear sounds.
The forest returned to silence, as though it had swallowed whatever had just occurred.
And from behind the glass window, Lyria could only watch—without truly knowing when everything had changed.
Several shadows appeared—fast, almost soundless.
The carriage door burst open with a heavy force.
Light from outside rushed in suddenly, followed by the unmistakable points of weapons directed toward her.
Lyria did not have time to move.
Rough hands seized her, dragging her down. Her footing slipped, her body hitting the cold ground. Dry leaves crunched beneath her.
As she tried to steady herself, a circle had already formed.
Nine people.
Their black cloaks blended into the forest's shadows. Their faces were hidden beneath their hoods, leaving only the intent behind them unmistakably clear.
One of them stepped forward.
Slowly, the hood was pulled back.
The face that appeared was not entirely shaped by time. Its surface was uneven, as though something had once failed to form it properly. Rough protrusions marked the skin, casting strange shadows beneath the dim light.
Lyria looked—not because she wished to, but because she had no time to look away.
The man's hand rose, reaching for Lyria's pink hair. His grip was rough, pulling her head slightly upward.
Lyria's green eyes narrowed—not entirely out of fear, but more from something that came too suddenly to be named.
"Marchioness," he murmured softly, almost like a prayer that had lost its meaning.
"Your death… will be a blessing to many."
No one moved to stop him.
The air itself seemed to halt.
Something cold touched her—then pierced through.
Lyria's body jerked slightly. Her breath caught—not a scream, only a pause too long to be called silence.
A dagger had been driven beneath her navel, too low—into a place that should never have been touched.
The man let out a quiet laugh.
His hand moved upward, unhurried, as though savoring something only he understood. The fabric of her dress tore along the path of his motion, revealing more than needed to be said.
The light remained on his face, fractured into thin lines.
And beneath it, something continued to move—slow, certain—tearing through boundaries she had never imagined could be crossed.
The pain finally took form.
Too late, and impossible to avoid.
The last thing Lyria saw was the branches above, intertwined, closing off the sky into narrow slits that never truly allowed the light through.
The light fell in fragments, tracing thin lines across her face—coming and going, as though it had never intended to stay.
Around her, the forest remained still.
No one turned.
No one resisted.
As though what had happened there… was not something disturbing—
but something that had finally arrived at its appointed time.