Society sees Lyra as living proof of human benevolence. An elf rescued from slavery, married to Elion, the kindest noble in the court, and transformed into the perfect image of gratitude and elegance. She smiles at banquets, shines in the halls, and silently accepts her place in a world that collects her like a rare jewel.

But Aurelian, the feared General of the North and Elion’s cousin, sees something else.
Where everyone else sees adaptation, he sees surrender. Where everyone else sees peace, he sees a trap.

Aurelian knows that the man behind Lyra’s “freedom”, the charismatic and untouchable Curator, hides an empire built on blood beneath the mask of philanthropy. Driven by a protective instinct bordering on obsession, and haunted by feelings his honor forbids him to admit, the General resolves to declare a solitary war to save his cousin’s wife.

Yet, to bring down an enemy who controls both narrative and law, a soldier’s brute strength is useless. As Aurelian tries to break the visible chains with force, he begins to understand that Lyra’s silence is anything but empty.

On a board where a single misstep could mean the death of thousands, Aurelian will have to learn the hardest lesson of his life.

The morning was cold—the way Aurelian preferred it. Cold kept people moving and conversations short.


He was walking through the lower market not for pleasure, but to inspect the patrol routes he paid not to function.


That was when he noticed the disturbance.


The loaf was too large for hands too small. The dirty fabric of his shirt did nothing to hide the bulge, and desperation knows no strategy.


The guard caught him with ridiculous ease.


One hand on the shoulder. The other twisting the thin arm until the bread fell into the mud.


The stall owner arrived right after, red-faced with rage, already gripping a wooden club—one not meant to scare, but to break bones.


A black leather–gloved hand closed around the club.


"What's going on here?" Aurelian asked, without raising his voice.


The guard straightened instantly, recognizing the insignia.


"The boy, General. He stole from the stall."


"That filthy slave," spat the merchant, still trying—and failing—to pull the club free.


Aurelian looked at the boy. Thin. Eyes too large for his face. Shaking.


He shoved the stick away, sending the merchant stumbling back two steps.


Aurelian pulled a gold coin from his pocket—an excessive amount, almost insulting—and placed it in the man's hand.


"For a loaf of bread? Take it. Get out of my sight."


The stall owner stared at the coin. It was enough to buy the entire stall.


He said nothing. Didn't thank him. Just left, dragging the guard by the arm, moving too fast—afraid the "Seravel demon" might change his mind.


The boy remained frozen. The bread still lay in the mud.


"Why did you steal?" Aurelian asked, wiping his glove clean.


The boy hesitated. Then spoke softly, eyes fixed on the General's boots.


"My sister is hungry. Our owner won't feed her… because she's sick. He said she's going to die anyway. That it's a waste."


Aurelian didn't react. His face remained a stone mask.


But inside, the machinery of order turned.


After that, he held out his hand to the boy.


Chapter 12 - Chapter 12: Buying Bread