Chapter 91: Escalating further

Silence.

A long time.

Lyra’s muffled voice came from the floor mat.

“Boss.”

“Yeah.”

“Those rumors…”

She paused.

“Did that crybaby really spread them?”

Freya didn’t answer.

Lyra turned over, lying on her back, her red eyes staring at the ceiling.

“Why would she do that? What’s in it for you?”

Freya was silent for a moment.

Then she spoke.

“She wants to isolate me.”

Lyra frowned.

“Isolate you?”

“Make everyone think I’m improper, make those who might have supported me distance themselves, make me—”

She paused.

“A target for everyone.”

Lyra sat up.

“What do we do then?”

Freya looked at her.

Looked at those red eyes full of worry.

“Nothing.”

Lyra was stunned.

“Nothing?”

“Yeah.”

Freya averted her gaze and opened a book.

“Let her spread it.”

Lyra grew anxious.

“But—”

“The more she spreads it—”

Freya’s voice was calm.

“The more it shows she’s desperate.”

She paused.

“Desperate people make mistakes.”

Lyra blinked.

She didn’t quite understand these intricate schemes.

But watching Freya’s composed demeanor, she suddenly felt less worried.

If the boss said it was fine, then it was fine.

She lay back down on the floor mat, hugged the Monster Bestiary, and flipped to the page on the Snowfield Wolf King.

“Boss.”

“Yeah.”

“When will that crybaby make a mistake?”

Freya’s pen paused.

She didn’t look back.

“Soon.”

Outside the window, the night deepened.

In a distant window, a pink figure stood before the glass.

Irina gazed at the lit window, her pink eyes as deep as a pool.

Today’s rumors had worked better than she’d expected.

Those glances, those whispers, those people gradually distancing themselves from Freya—

Everything was going according to plan.

But…

She felt something was off.

Freya’s reaction was too strange.

No defense, no anger, none of the emotions she’d anticipated.

Just silence.

That silence felt like a wall.

Blocking all her calculations.

Irina tapped lightly on the window frame.

Tap.

Tap.

What are you thinking? she asked silently.

Freya Christo Dale.

What exactly—

Are you waiting for?

The rumors grew like weeds.

At first, they were just whispers—in the corners of the canteen, in the hallways of the classroom, on the benches of the training ground.

Small groups huddled together, voices low, eyes occasionally drifting toward a certain direction.

Then those murmurs grew louder, no longer avoiding the person in question, daring to look Freya up and down with meaningful stares, daring to—

“Freya, how’s Serar’s skills? Is he better than His Highness the Crown Prince?”

That noon, as soon as Freya and Lyra entered the canteen, an older male student blocked their way.

A greasy smile plastered on his face, flanked by similarly grinning companions, a light pink armband pinned to their sleeves.

Lyra’s face changed instantly.

She stepped forward, red eyes flickering with small flames.

But the boy didn’t back down, grinning even wider.

“Don’t be mad, I’m just curious.

Everyone’s talking about it. It’s not just me saying it.”

He tilted his head at Freya.

“Come on, Freya, tell us—who’s better?”

Laughter stabbed around them like needles.

Lyra’s fists were already clenched, her knuckles white.

She stared at that oily face, with only one thought in mind—

Hit him.

Hit him until he couldn’t speak, until those people never dared to look at the boss like that again, until—

A hand caught her wrist.

Lightly, but like an invisible shackle, locking her in place.

Lyra looked down at that hand.

Pale and slender, with distinct knuckles, fingertips cool—it was Freya’s hand.

She looked up at Freya.

Those pale purple eyes held no anger, no grievance, not even a ripple.

Just calmness as she looked at the boy, like looking at something insignificant.

The boy grew uneasy under that gaze, but he forced his smile.

“What? Too scared to say? Or maybe—”

“Your name.”

Freya spoke. Her voice was soft, but it froze the smile on his face.

“Wha… what?”

“Your name.”

Freya repeated, her tone as flat as asking about the weather.

“Since you dare to ask, you dare not give your name?”

The boy’s face changed.

He opened his mouth to say something, but realized the air around them had turned cold.

Not an illusion—

At Freya’s side, fine ice crystals were forming on her fingers, gleaming with a cold light under the sun.

He stepped back, his voice twisting.

“You… what are you doing?”

Freya didn’t speak.

She just looked at him, at his face turning pale, at his eyes starting to panic.

Then she averted her gaze.

“Let’s go, Lyra.”

She turned and walked further into the canteen.

Lyra paused for a second, shot the boy a fierce glare, then quickly followed.

The boy stood there, panting heavily, his back soaked in cold sweat.

For a moment, he’d truly thought—

He didn’t dare finish that thought.

His companions had lost their smiles too, exchanging glances, none daring to speak.

In the corner of the canteen, Freya sat down, picked up a teacup, and took a sip, her movements graceful as ever.

Lyra sat across from her, staring at that calm face, feeling something stuck in her chest.

“Boss…”

“Yeah.”

“They’re… getting worse.”

Freya didn’t answer.

Lyra lowered her head, staring at her own fingers, the wrist Freya had caught still carrying that moment’s chill.

“Why aren’t you angry, boss?”

Her voice was muffled.

“They talk about you like that, why aren’t you angry?”

Freya set down her teacup, looked at her, at those red eyes full of grievance and confusion.

“Does anger help?”

Lyra was stunned.

“Anger—”

Freya’s voice was calm.

“It only makes them happier.

They want to see me angry, see me lose control, see me turn into the person they describe—hysterical.”

In her previous life, wasn’t that how it was?

She paused.

“I won’t let them have that satisfaction.”

Lyra stared at her, at those calm, deep pools of pale purple, and suddenly felt a sting in her nose.

She wasn’t angry, not because she didn’t care, but because she couldn’t afford to care.

“But…”

Lyra’s voice dropped.

“If you’re not angry, I’ll be angry.”

Freya looked at her for a long time.

“I know,” she said softly.

Outside the window, the sun was just right.

The canteen was still buzzing with noise, still whispers, still meaningful glances.

But Freya just sat there, quietly drinking her tea, like an iceberg untouched by any storm.

That night, Freya wrote a letter.

She sat at her desk, the lamplight falling on the paper, illuminating each neat line of characters clearly.

Lyra lay on the floor mat, hugging the Monster Bestiary but not flipping through it. She just silently watched her back, watching the hand holding a feather pen write line after line.

The letter was short, just one page.

When she finished, Freya folded it, placed it in an envelope, and sealed it with wax. On the wax, she pressed her seal—

The crest of House Dale.

She stood, walked to the window, and pushed it open. The night breeze blew in, carrying the chill of deep autumn, stirring her pale purple hair.

“Anke.”

She didn’t look back.

Anke stood downstairs, head tilted, her brown eyes glittering in the moonlight.

She’d been waiting—

During dinner, Freya had slipped her a note with just two words: Wait for me.

“Come up.”

Anke nodded and quickly ran upstairs.

When the knock came, Lyra was already at the door.

Anke entered and saw Freya standing by the window, holding an envelope.

“Send this to my grandfather.”

Freya turned and handed the envelope over.

“Tomorrow morning, as fast as possible.”

Anke took the envelope, looking down at the wax seal. The crest of House Dale—

She knew what it meant.

Freya had never used this seal before. Never.

“What’s wrong?”

She looked up.

Freya paused for a moment.

“Nothing major.

Just… some people need a reminder.”

Anke looked at her, at those pale purple eyes looking especially deep in the night, and asked no further questions.

“Alright. First thing tomorrow, I’ll deliver it myself.”

Freya nodded.

“Thank you.”

Anke shook her head, carefully tucking the envelope away. At the door, she stopped, not turning around.

“Freya.”

“Yeah.”

“No matter what happens—”

Her voice was soft.

“I’m here.”

The door closed behind her.

The next morning, before the sky was fully light, Anke left the academy.

She rode a horse, galloping through streets shrouded in morning mist, through the still-sleeping city.

A little over an hour later, she stopped in front of an ancient mansion.

Duke of Dale’s Mansion.

Anke dismounted, quickly climbed the steps, and pounded the door knocker.

The door opened.

Old butler Aru peered out, startled to see Anke. “Miss Anke?”

“I’m looking for the Old Duke.”

Anke was out of breath.

“Freya’s letter. Urgent.”

Aru’s expression changed.

He stepped aside, leading Anke quickly through long corridors, past the flower hall, through the study, finally stopping before a heavy oak door.

“Master, Miss Anke is here. A letter from the young lady.”

A moment of silence from within. Then, a voice, aged and commanding, rang out.

“Enter.”

Anke pushed the door open.

In the study, Calanso sat resting in an armchair by the window.

But his eyes—

Those pale purple eyes, identical to Freya’s, were still as sharp as an eagle’s.

Anke couldn’t help but marvel.

Duke of Dale, Freya’s grandfather, the former guardian of the empire’s northern territory.

He looked at Anke, at the sealed envelope in her hand, and was silent for a long time.