Her voice grew lower and lower until it was almost inaudible.
But Freya understood.
Lyra was longing for a “normal,” recognized identity and a way of existing that could “stand in the light.”
Her experiences in the Black Market had made her like a ghost in the shadows. What Freya brought to her was not just a job or shelter, but a possibility to touch the “normal” world and gain a sense of “belonging.”
To Lyra, learning etiquette and dancing was perhaps a clumsy way of trying to integrate and prove herself.
A string in Freya’s heart was gently plucked.
She looked at the girl before her, dressed in pajamas, barefoot, with a trace of imperceptible anxiety and expectation in her eyes.
She was powerful, mysterious, and wild, yet in some ways, she was like a child desperate to be accepted.
“You don’t need to learn these things to prove anything, Lyra.”
Freya’s voice was a bit softer than before.
“Your value lies in your abilities and the contract between us. As for where you stand…”
She paused.
“Light or shadow, it is merely a difference in position. What matters is whether you are clear about your goals and your stance.”
Lyra looked up, her red eyes fixed on Freya as if she were processing her words.
Then, she suddenly grinned. That smile regained its usual brightness, yet there seemed to be something more to it.
“I understand, Boss. My goal is to follow you, and your stance is my stance!”
She leaned in a little closer, her eyes sparkling.
“So… Boss, are we still dancing? I think I’ve finally caught the rhythm!”
Seeing her instantly regain her vitality, Freya felt somewhat helpless but also found it a little amusing.
“… One last time. Then go back to sleep; you have to wake up early tomorrow.”
“Understood!”
The waltz under the moonlight quietly resumed.
This time, Lyra’s movements were noticeably much smoother. Although they still couldn’t be called elegant, she could at least keep up with the beat and stop stepping on Freya’s feet.
The shadows of the two girls gently swirled, interlaced, separated, and drew close again on the carpet.
In this deep night filled with danger and an uncertain future, inside this bedroom so quiet that only their breathing and the friction of their footsteps could be heard, this brief and clumsy dance seemed to become a form of silent communication and comfort.
There were no conspiracies or calculations, no hatred or pressure—only two teenage girls who had temporarily laid down their heavy burdens, stepping through simple dance moves under the moonlight.
As the song ended (silently), both were breathing slightly hard.
Small beads of sweat appeared on Lyra’s forehead, but a satisfied smile hung on her face.
“Thank you, Boss!”
She said with a giggle, and then she suddenly remembered something.
“Right, Boss, when I was ‘Observing’ today, besides those other things, I noticed a small detail…”
“What is it?”
Freya tidied her slightly messy hair with her fingertips.
“That crybaby Irina… when the Crown Prince was demonstrating the Holy Sword, besides having a feverish look in her eyes, I think I saw a very, very faint golden mark on the inside of her right wrist. It flashed and disappeared, like… a tattoo? Or a scar? But it didn’t quite feel like either.”
Lyra recalled the memory, describing it carefully.
‘The inside of the wrist?’
‘A golden mark?’
Freya’s gaze sharpened.
‘Could this be… a “Stigma”?’
Irina had indeed come into contact with something at the core of the Holy Temple!
“Very good. This information is very important.”
Freya nodded, committing it to memory.
“Go back and rest. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”
“Okay! You should sleep early too, Boss!”
Lyra nodded obediently and then walked lightly to the window. She flipped out nimbly like a nocturnal cat and quickly disappeared into the shadows of the balcony.
Freya closed the window and drew the curtains.
A bit of the lively atmosphere Lyra brought seemed to linger in the room.
She sat back down on the edge of the bed. Her palm still seemed to hold the warm sensation of their hands joined during the dance.
Lyra…
This unexpected variable seemed to be permeating her cold and guarded world little by little, in a way she had never anticipated.
She shook her head, suppressing these cluttered thoughts.
She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes.
The moonlight was blocked out by the curtains, leaving the room in darkness.
But tonight, she might be able to sleep a little more soundly.
At least she knew that on this lonely road of revenge, she was not entirely alone.
There was a noisy, unpredictable “assistant” who would run to her in the middle of the night to invite her to a clumsy waltz, walking right beside her.
This feeling… didn’t seem too bad.
With a trace of complex and indescribable emotion, Freya gradually drifted into sleep.
Tomorrow would be the start of another battle.
At the break of dawn, the Dale Mansion woke up in the thin mist. The air was filled with a stillness different from usual, one that was almost stagnant.
Freya stood before the dressing mirror, looking at herself in the standard uniform of the Central Magic Academy.
Her long purple hair was meticulously tied up, her light purple eyes were calm and waveless, and her chin was slightly tucked, showing a near-chilly determination.
She carefully checked every detail—the cuffs, the bow tie, the pleats of her skirt—as if she were headed for a grueling battle rather than a simple “homecoming.”
Light footsteps came from outside the door, followed by Lyra’s voice, which was intentionally lowered but still carried a hint of excitement.
“Boss, are you ready? The carriage is prepared!”
Freya pulled the door open.
Lyra had also changed into a relatively formal, dark-colored assistant’s uniform. Her long white hair was rarely braided neatly behind her head, and she wore the disguised Ceremonial Short Sword at her waist.
There was a smile on her face, but in the depths of those red eyes, there also flickered a predator-like alertness similar to Freya’s.
“Do I look good, Boss?”
Lyra did a light pirouette.
Freya nodded and then immediately turned to leave.
“Let’s go.”
The two of them walked down the stairs.
Grandpa Aru, the butler, was already waiting in the foyer, his elderly face carrying obvious worry.
“Miss, please be careful.”
He spoke softly, handing a small, inconspicuous leather pouch to Freya.
“Inside are some emergency potions and… a few trinkets that might come in handy. Master Calanso instructed that if anything happens, contact us at any time.”
“Thank you, Grandpa Aru.”
Freya took the pouch. Feeling the faint fluctuations of the magical items inside, her heart warmed slightly.
Grandpa Calanso stood under the porch. He didn’t say much; he only gave Freya’s shoulder a firm pat and nodded to Lyra.
In his silver-gray eyes were wordless support and a heavy entrustment.
The carriage slowly pulled away from the Dale Mansion, passing through the quiet morning streets and heading toward Earl Elwin’s Mansion on the other end of the Upper District.
The sound of the wheels rolling over the cobblestone road was exceptionally clear in the silence.
Lyra sat opposite Freya, unusually quiet. Her fingers unconsciously rubbed the hilt of the short sword at her waist, and her gaze looked through the carriage window, observing the gradually changing scenery.
It went from the relatively sparse estates near the House Dale to increasingly dense and luxurious mansions. The magical fluctuations permeating the air also seemed to become more complex and… oppressive.
“Boss—”
Lyra suddenly spoke, her voice very soft.
“Is your father… really that strict?”
She didn’t understand why Freya’s father would treat her this way.
Freya looked out the window. Earl Elwin’s Mansion’s signature black iron gate with an Iris Relief had already appeared at the end of her vision.
“He values rules, prizes family interests, and is accustomed to control. That is all.”
Her tone was flat, devoid of emotion.
“In front of him, speak little, observe much, and stay close to me. No matter what he says or does, stay calm.”
“Understood.”
Lyra nodded, her gaze turning sharp.
“As long as he doesn’t hurt you.”
The carriage stopped before the grand gates of the manor. The guards at the gate had clearly been instructed beforehand; they bowed respectfully but distantly and opened the carriage door for them.
Stepping through the gates of Earl Elwin’s Mansion, a completely different atmosphere from House Dale rushed toward them.
Everything here appeared more “standard” and “orderly.”
The decorations were magnificent yet carried a hint of rigidity. The servants moved in an organized fashion, their gazes respectful and cautious. The air was filled with an invisible, oppressive sense of solemnity.
The butler was already waiting in the foyer—a middle-aged man with a serious expression and hair combed meticulously.
“Miss Freya, welcome back. The Master is waiting for you in the study.”
His gaze swept over Lyra with undisguised scrutiny.
“This person is…”
“My assistant, Lyra.”
Freya did not stop her pace, heading straight toward the study with a tone that brooked no questioning.
“She will stay by my side.”
The butler’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, but he said no more and silently led the way.
The study door was pushed open. Earl Hezdi Elwin stood with his back to the door in front of a giant floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the garden.
Hearing the sound, he turned around.
His face appeared a few years older and more exhausted than when they had met at the banquet a few days ago. The dark circles under his eyes were clearly visible.
Yet, the look he gave Freya held no softening; it was still that same mix of disappointment, annoyance, and an unyielding severity.
“You’ve returned.”
His voice was dry, making it hard to tell if it was a statement or a questioning.
“Father.”
Freya curtsied slightly, her etiquette impeccable.
Hezdi’s gaze swept over her like a hawk and then landed on Lyra behind her. His brow immediately tightened.
“Is this that so-called ‘assistant’ of yours? Freya, do you have any idea—”
“Father—”
Freya calmly interrupted him, looking up to meet his eyes with her light purple gaze.
“Regarding my assistant, I believe I explained clearly enough in my letter and at the banquet. If you summoned me back only to repeat these doubts, then I don’t believe there is any need for us to continue talking. I have complied with your command to return and am prepared to attend the dinner; this has already shown my stance. As for anything else, it is my private business.”
Her words were clear, cold, and even carried a sense of near-arrogant detachment.
It was completely different from any hint of softening or explanation Hezdi had expected from his daughter upon her return.
Hezdi’s face instantly darkened, and his chest heaved noticeably, seemingly provoked by her attitude.