Consciousness returned slowly, through a thick cottony veil of sleep. Lyra stretched, sweetly, until her shoulders cracked—and then froze.
Where am I?
The question struck sharply, forcing her eyes open. But panic didn't have time to seize her throat—her body felt too good. Warm, relaxed, wrapped in softness. When was the last time she had slept so deeply, so peacefully? She couldn't remember. Perhaps never.
But the pleasure quickly gave way to pain. Her legs—especially her calves and thighs—burned with fire, as if they had been wrung out, twisted, then filled with lead. Lyra winced, carefully bending her knees.
The price for yesterday's forced march.
She sat up, looking around.
The room was small but cozy. The walls were light, whitewashed, with dark wooden beams across the ceiling. A narrow window faced east, and the morning sun was already gilding the windowsill, where stood a clay pot with a young green shoot. The bed she lay on was wide, with a tall carved headboard and a mattress so soft her body still refused to believe it was real. A heavy wool blanket—warm, but not scratchy. On the floor—a homespun rug, faded but clean. Against the wall—a wardrobe, beside it a small table with a pitcher of water and an empty cup.
Nothing superfluous. Nothing that shouted wealth. But everything was sturdy, genuine.
Guest rooms, Lyra remembered. Yesterday, when they had reached the estate, exhausted, the Earl had given a brief order: everyone rest. Aina, still carrying the unconscious Corvin, had nodded and led them here. Lyra remembered the corridors—warm, with carpets, smelling of wood and herbs. Remembered being shown into this room, collapsing onto the bed without even undressing, and falling into darkness.
And she had slept, it seemed, about ten hours. Maybe more.
She stretched again—this time carefully, listening to her body. Everything ached, but it was a pleasant, "right" pain. Pain after work. After something accomplished.
Memories of the previous day surged in fragments: the rooftops of Ebros, the flight, the magical battle, the mage with mismatched eyes crashing through the ceiling, Aina emerging from the darkness like a ghost, and the long, exhausting journey. They had abandoned the wagon after a while. Corvin hadn't regained consciousness then—Aina had hoisted him onto her shoulders and carried him as if he weighed no more than a sack of wool. Lyra had trudged behind, clinging to her last reserves of strength, thinking only of one thing: get there, get there, get there.
She had gotten there.
And now she was here. In a warm room. On a soft bed. Under a clean blanket.
The thought was so incredible that Lyra didn't even know what to do with it. She just sat, staring at the square of sunlight on the floor, waiting for it all to disappear. For the cold, the filth, and the eternal, ingrained danger to return.
But the room did not disappear.
Then came a knock at the door.
Gentle. Two short, even raps.
Lyra started, and her body reacted faster than her mind—muscles tensed, hands clutched the blanket, her gaze darted to the door, seeking escape routes. The window—too narrow. The wardrobe—no hiding place. The bed—no shelter.
"Y-yes," she managed, her voice hoarse, unfamiliar.
The door opened quietly.
In the doorway stood a young woman—short, round-faced, in a strict gray dress and white apron. Dark hair was tucked under a bonnet, hands folded before her. She nodded silently in greeting, and Lyra automatically nodded back, though alertness still hummed inside her.
"I will prepare a bath and clothes, young lady," the maid said calmly, and left, closing the door behind her.
Lyra remained sitting, frowning.
Young lady.
The words sounded foreign, wrong. Like being dressed in someone else's clothes—too big, ill-fitting, pressing somewhere beneath her ribs. But refusing would be foolish. She was a stranger here, in a stranger's house, and the rules here were strange.
Lyra stood, walked around the room, working out her stiff legs. The rug pleasantly tickled her bare feet. She went to the window—beyond it was the courtyard, the stable, further out a field, not yet touched by the plow, but already greening with the first spring grass. And beyond the field, like a dark wall, stood the forest—the very one they had walked through yesterday.
Survived.
The thought was simple and calming. She had survived. Done what she was told.
Another knock. Lyra turned.
"Young lady, the bath and clothes are ready, please follow me."
The maid stood in the doorway with the same calm, businesslike expression. As if every day she led dirty, ragged girls from the street to the bathhouse.
Lyra nodded and followed.
The bathroom turned out to be small, lined with light stone. In the corner stood a large wooden tub, steam rising from it. On a bench nearby—a stack of linen, plain but clean, and a warm robe.
Lyra undressed quickly, not looking at the maid, and climbed into the water.
The heat burned her skin, and she hissed through her teeth, but she didn't get out. Her body itself reached for the warmth, absorbing it, driving the pain from her muscles. She sat, knees drawn to her chest, watching the steam curl above the water.
The maid wasn't looking. She stood with her back turned, arranging something on the bench, then left, leaving Lyra alone.
She washed for a long time, with a kind of frenzy, as if she wanted to wash away not only the dirt but the very memory of who she had been before. Three times she lathered her hair with scented soap, scrubbed her skin until it reddened. And only when the water began to cool did she climb out, wrapping herself in the robe.
On the bench, clothes awaited her—not the old ones, soaked with sweat and blood, but new ones. A simple dark-gray dress, not fitted—too large, but clean, dry, smelling of herbs. Stockings, neatly folded. Even shoes—soft, with thick soles.
Lyra dressed, feeling clumsy, as if she were putting on something other than torn rags for the first time.
When she returned to the room, a tray stood on the table.
Fresh bread, butter, a piece of cheese, a mug of milk, and a small pot of porridge—fragrant, with honey. Lyra sat and ate slowly, almost reverently, catching herself memorizing each bite. Because days like this—when food simply exists, when it doesn't need to be stolen, begged for, fought over—had happened too rarely in her life.
The maid—she said her name was Filana, when Lyra asked—stood by the door, hands folded, waiting patiently.
"How long have you served here?" Lyra asked, putting a piece of cheese in her mouth.
"Seven years, young lady," Filana answered. "Since the Countess arranged it."
"The Countess?"
"Yes," Filana smiled slightly. "Lady Eleonor. She selects the servants herself. She says everyone in the house should be in their proper place."
Lyra nodded, processing the information. So the Earl wasn't the only one in charge here.
"And the Earl?" she asked, trying to keep her voice casual. "Does he... spend much time at the estate?"
"His Lordship travels a great deal," Filana replied. "But when he's home, he's always with his family. And with his work." She paused, then added, "We have a good house here, young lady. A peaceful one. And the Earl is just."
Just, Lyra repeated to herself. That word, spoken by a servant, meant more than any title.
"And the county?" she asked, finishing the porridge. "Is it large?"
"Not the largest," Filana tilted her head slightly, choosing her words. "But an important one. Our borders are here, next to the Empire, next to the Wildlands. The Earl is the kingdom's shield, they say. The lands aren't rich, but the people are strong. And the Earl protects them. That's why our army is the best in these parts."
Lyra listened and felt, inside, beneath her ribs, something warm and strange stirring. The kingdom's shield. Strong people. The best army. A world where there was room for such words—and that world was now becoming her home.
Filana cleared the tray, gathered the dirty dishes, and at the door, she turned.
"The Earl asked me to tell you," she said. "You are free to do as you please. You may explore the estate and its surroundings. But be back at the estate by noon."
Lyra nodded, and the maid left, closing the door.
Free.
The thought struck her head. She could go out. No one was keeping her here.
But she wouldn't leave. She knew that for certain now. Not yet.
Lyra went to the window, looked out at the courtyard, the stable, the dark wall of the forest in the distance, beyond which, somewhere out there, lay the Wildlands and the Empire. Then she shifted her gaze to the door. To the rug. To the pot with the young shoot on the windowsill.
I won't leave, she repeated to herself, and instead of fear, the thought brought... calm.
She decided to take up the offer. The thought of being locked in that room had been pressing on her since she woke up, as if the walls would close in the moment she looked away. No, better to go out. To see. To understand where she was now.
Lyra slipped out of the room, walked quietly down the corridor, trying not to make noise. The house was calm—somewhere in the distance voices sounded, the clink of dishes, but she met no one. She slipped out through a side door, found herself in the courtyard, passed the stable, and without stopping, walked toward the field.
It was easy to breathe. The spring air smelled not of smoke and slops, but of thawing earth, young grass, something green and alive. The sun was already truly warm, chasing the last snow from the fields, and Lyra caught herself walking more slowly, inhaling this unfamiliar but somehow right scent.
A grove appeared ahead—small but dense, with tall trees just beginning to don their first leaves. Young leaflets, still sticky, reached toward the sun, and in that movement was something stubborn, alive.
Lyra dove into the shade, looked around. A few old oaks, birches with swollen buds, hazel. An ideal spot.
She chose an oak—the sturdiest, with wide branches—grabbed a low bough and in a few movements climbed up. Higher, still higher, until she found a comfortable spot—a wide fork where she could sit, leaning her back against the trunk.
From above, the view opened up over the fields, the rooftops of the estate, the winding ribbon of the river in the distance. Everything was green, calm, unhurried. Spring was just coming into its own, but it was already felt—in the warm wind, in the smell of the earth, in the way the sun truly warmed, not like in winter.
Nothing like Ebros.
Lyra sat, knees drawn to her chest, and watched. The wind stirred her hair, somewhere below last year's leaves rustled, birds called to each other in the branches, rejoicing in spring.
In her dress pocket lay two objects. She took them out, opened her palm.
The silver raven. Cold, smooth, with its wing slightly raised. The Earl had said it back on the roof: this was an advance. An advance that had become something more. A sign. A mark. Proof that she was no longer just a wildling from the rooftops.
Beside it—the purple stone. The one Corvin had given her. Dull, cloudy, but with a faint light inside. Don't trust them too much, the mage had whispered then, and his voice still rang in her head.
Lyra clenched both objects in her fist, feeling the cold of the metal and the faint warmth of the stone mixing in her palm.
Who to trust? The one who gave me a chance? Or the one who warns of danger?
She didn't know. But she knew one thing: here, on the branch of an old oak, in this calm, green world that smelled of spring earth and sun, she could at least think. Without hurry. Without fear.
Lyra closed her eyes, pressed her cheek to the rough trunk, and allowed herself simply to breathe.
The wind swayed the branches, and in this rhythmic, lulling motion was something ancient and soothing. She didn't know how long she sat like that—an hour, maybe two. Thoughts flowed slowly, tangled, broke off, one replacing another. The Earl. Aina. Amalia—the Earl's daughter, the very one for whom all this had been set in motion. Corvin with his mismatched eyes and strange warning.
Lost in thought and enjoying the peaceful atmosphere, Lyra began to doze.
Lyra drifted off to the rhythmic swaying of the branches, when something jolted her from her half-sleep. The birds fell silent. The wind died down. And through the silence, footsteps emerged—several pairs, confident, not hiding.
Four men stopped not far below the oak.
"Damn it, squirt, how long do we have to wait for your cat?" a lanky man hissed viciously, cracking his neck.
"D-don't rush me," answered a younger man, stuttering and lisping. "It's a l-long way. She'll b-be here soon."
"She'd better be," the lanky one's voice grew quieter, angrier. "Otherwise I'll break your arms, and then all our arms will be broken by the one who sent us."
"We'll manage," a third, stocky man spoke up. "The cat will pick up the scent, and then it's easy. Luring the girl out of the house—child's play."
"Quiet," the lanky one hissed, looking around. "Not here."
The stocky one spat.
"Who's going to hear us? Woods all around, half a mile to the estate. And after we're done—find us if you can. Main thing is, the cat doesn't let us down."
"She won't," the stutterer said more confidently than before. "I vouch for her."
"You vouch?" The lanky one chuckled, but there was no mockery in his voice. Rather, fear hidden behind malice. "If your creature screws up, they won't even gather our bones. Don't you understand who we're dealing with? He said—no noise. Grab the girl and disappear."
"I understand," the stutterer swallowed.