Aeloria set the knife down beside the half-skinned rabbit and crossed the room in a few steps.
"Leave the buckets there," she said softly.
Rya didn't argue. She collapsed into the nearest dining chair as though her bones had turned to water, her chest heaving, sweat dripping from her chin onto the floorboards.
Aeloria lifted the larger bucket Enoch had carried as if it were empty, walked to the big clay cistern built into the corner, and waited while Enoch hurried over and pushed the heavy lid aside with both hands. She tipped the water in one smooth motion, the clear stream glugging into the cool darkness below. She repeated the process with the second bucket, her muscles moving easy and sure, not a drop spilled.
Enoch stacked the empty buckets together, then turned to Rya with bright, expectant eyes.
"Elder sister, let's go."
Rya's head snapped up. "Huh? Go where?" Her voice was filled with exhaustion; the very thought of moving again looked painful.
"Two buckets won't last us," Enoch explained patiently, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Since it's your first time, Mom only made us do three rounds instead of the usual ten. Ten buckets last a whole week. We still have two more rounds to go."
"What? Two… two more rounds?" Rya repeated with wide eyes, as if another trip to the river terrified her more than the soldiers who had chased her through the forest.
"You don't have to," Aeloria said quickly, wiping her hands on a rag and stepping closer. "You should rest. I'll finish the meal and go myself after."
Enoch's face fell; the disappointment was plain. He had been looking forward to walking with his new elder sister.
Rya saw it. She drew a shaky breath, pushed herself upright, and took the smallest bucket again even though her arms trembled.
"No," she said with a steadier voice but her legs disagreed. "I told you I would help, and that's what I'll do."
She forced a tired smile for Enoch. "Come on, little brother. The water isn't going to fill the cistern by itself."
Enoch's disappointment vanished in an instant; his grin lit the room. He seized his own bucket and darted for the door. Rya followed, moving like someone twice her age, yet she didn't complain once.
The door closed behind them.
Aeloria stood alone in the sudden quiet, the scent of fresh rabbit and dried herbs was thick in the air. She returned to the table, picked up the knife, and began slicing onions with slow, deliberate strokes.
"I wonder why I'm remembering something from more than twenty years ago," she murmured to the empty room. "Is it because I saw the soldiers of Runevale again today… or because I met a girl who is just as helpless and stubborn as I once was?"
The words Rya had spoken moments ago echoed in her mind—
I said I would do it, and that's what I'll do—
and they carried her back, swift and merciless, to a morning long buried.
The great doors of the throne hall in Runevale had swung open with a low, mournful groan.
Orin had stepped through alone, his boots ringing against polished floor.
At the required distance he dropped to one knee, right fist planted against the floor, head bowed in perfect deference.
"Good morning, my lady," he said, his voice low and humbled. "You called for me."
Queen Nyxelene sat upon the throne exactly where she always sat, spine straight. Today she wore a gown the colour of fresh blood trimmed in silver thread that caught the torchlight like moonlight on steel. A thick, ancient book lay open across her lap; she had been reading the same volume for over a year, turning one page every few days as though drawing poison slowly from its words.
Her crimson eyes lifted from the page and settled on the commander kneeling before her.
"Come closer, Orin."
The command was soft, yet the air itself seemed to freeze at the sound of it.
Orin rose and walked forward with the confident stride of a man who had faced death a thousand times, climbed the three shallow steps, and stopped two paces from the throne. He met her gaze without flinching—until she stood.
The book slid from her lap and settled on the armrest with a soft thud.
Nyxelene closed the distance that separated them and came to stand directly in front of him. Even though he towered over her by more than a head, something in those eyes made the floor feel suddenly unsteady.
She stared back at him.
Orin's knees buckled as though an invisible hand had struck him behind the legs. Both knees slammed into the floor so hard the impact echoed through the hall. Cold dread poured through his veins like iced water.
The queen reached out with deliberate gentleness and lifted his chin so he would look at her. Orin's gaze dropped instantly to the floor; he could not hold those crimson eyes for even a heartbeat.
With the same slow care she brushed her fingertips across the small scars that crisscrossed his cheek, then traced the long, pale line that ran from his jaw down the side of his neck, wiping them away as though they were nothing more than specks of dust on a treasured blade.
Orin's skin prickled where her fingers brushed it.
'Why is her hand so cold? Her fingers are even colder,' he thought, a chill crawling up his arm.
When Nyxelene finally drew her hand away, every scar that had ever marked him, old shrapnel lines from the border wars, the pale burn across his jaw from a fire arrow, the fresh cut he had taken only yesterday, all had vanished. His skin was smooth and unmarked, as though the years of violence had never touched him.
"Sorry," she said lightly, almost playfully, "you had something on your face."
She extended her hand. Orin took it without hesitation and rose to his full height.
Nyxelene turned, the blood-and-silver gown dragging across the floor, and walked back to the platinum-and-gold throne. She settled into it with the same effortless grace she used for everything, lifted the ancient book from the armrest, and placed it once more across her lap.
"Three years ago," she began, "I sent you a recruit. Her name was Aeloria. Tell me, how is she doing?"
Orin took one deliberate step backward, as though the air itself grew thinner the closer he stood to her.
"Your insight knows no bounds, my lady. She is as exceptional as the only other recruit you ever personally recommended—and she may yet surpass even him. Inside the kingdom and beyond our borders, the name Aeloria the Cannibal is already feared."
Nyxelene's crimson eyes flicked up from the page for a heartbeat.
"I see."
She turned another page with deliberate slowness.
"Then I grant you full permission to teach her Šërēĺįťh."
Orin froze—just slightly, just enough for someone listening closely to notice.
"Are you certain, my lady? I do not mean to object, but… teaching her the language would place her among the very few who know it."
"I am certain," Nyxelene answered without looking up. "I asked you how she was doing, but even I have heard how she held the eastern border alone against the Namesh invasion. She has more than earned the right to enter the circle."
She turned another page, the parchment rustling like dry leaves.
"I know what you are thinking, Orin. You fear that giving her this power will only sharpen her hunger for revenge against the Almon family. Let her choose what she will. It changes nothing. I judge all equally, and I punish equally. If she ever commits treason, she will be dealt with like any other. Dismissed."
She waved one pale hand in a lazy arc, already returning to her book.
Orin bowed, turned to leave, then paused at the top of the steps.
"Even without knowing Šërēĺįťh, she is unnaturally strong," he said, curiosity finally overriding procedure. "Do you happen to know why, my lady?"
Nyxelene did not raise her eyes from the page.
"Before a child is born, some say its soul lingers near the mother, watching, protecting. At least… that is what I choose to believe."
Her voice softened, almost wistful.
"That little girl saw every struggle her mother endured, every impossible choice. If I had to guess, I would say the child's spirit refused to leave her mother defenceless in the dead lands of Squora. It reshaped her—turned her into something feral, something that could survive anything. But I do not know for certain. This is the first time such a transformation has ever happened in exactly this way."
Orin bowed again, deeper this time.
"I see. Thank you, my lady."
He strode toward the towering doors.
"You are headed to the training fields of Ohlm, are you not?" her voice drifted after him.
Orin stopped and turned.
"That is correct, my lady."
"Then see Ramius before you leave."
He nodded once and stepped into the corridor.
The massive doors thudded shut behind him.
The moment they closed, Orin let out a long, slow breath and rolled his shoulders.
"Gods, it's suffocating trying to keep up that noble speech around her," he muttered under his breath. "But I have to endure it though. She is Lady Nyxelene, after all."
A lazy, amused voice came from his left.
"What are you complaining about now? You are a noble, if my memory serves me correctly? Or did the title of Tyrant wash all that pretty etiquette away?"
The palace guards flanking the doors snapped to perfect attention.
Orin's head whipped toward the speaker—a tall man leaning against a pillar, his arms were folded and had a long blond hair falling in golden waves over his shoulders, his eyes were the colour of summer sky and twice as mocking.
"I thought you were supposed to be the smartest mind in Runevale, Ramius," Orin growled, cracking his knuckles. "So tell me, are you truly trying to pick a fight with me this early in the morning? Do you want to die?"
Ramius pushed off the pillar with a lazy grin.
"Oh please. As if you could ever beat me in a fair duel."