Chapter 12: Last Chapter : Elinde.

The carriage wheels rattled over the uneven stones of the Elisian Way, jolting slightly with each dip in the road. A cold, dry wind swept across the path, kicking up swirls of dust. The air stung her cheeks — indifferent to a place untouched by comfort.

Ahead, the walls of Velcarnia loomed, dark and imposing, their stone surfaces coated in a thin layer of glistening frost. The iron-reinforced wooden gates stood open, allowing a steady flow of people and goods to pass through, indifferent to the cold.

Near the entrance, the activity intensified. Merchants called out their wares—wines from Gaulême, fabrics from Elisia, ceramics from Deuterocaria—their voices rising in a rhythmic chorus, their breath visible in the frigid air. Guards patrolled in thick, fur-lined cloaks, boots crunching against the frozen ground. Women carried baskets of bread and fruit, their faces partially hidden beneath scarves, while children darted between them, undeterred by the cold, their laughter piercing through the morning hush. Even near the crowded stalls, the streets remained dry and odorless — a miracle made mundane by Velcarnia's abundance of salum.

Damir had stepped ahead of the carriage, speaking with one of the gate guards. From her seat inside, Ninka watched him carefully. She was grateful he had survived. No one among the remaining men of Lesgrad was more deserving of taking Sir Bõsko's place than him.

Yet whispers followed him. Some of the survivors still murmured behind his back, recalling the moment he had turned away, choosing retreat when the frenzied villagers overpowered their defenses. A coward, they called him. But Ninka knew the truth. Dying with the others would have saved no one.

Damir's actions had, in the end, saved lives. After Numa's sacrifice severed the creature's influence, the villagers who had been hunting them finally returned to their senses. Among the survivors was Danica, now seated beside Ninka in the carriage. Her hair had not yet grown back, and a faint scar still marked her cheek—a lasting reminder of what had transpired. But she was recovering.

Remarkably so.

"Are you all right, Lady Ivanove?"

Danica asked, her voice quiet, hesitant.

"Yes, Danica. I'm just glad to see you getting better with each passing day."

Ninka offered her a gentle smile, watching as the girl's cheeks flushed. Danica lowered her gaze, pressing her hands together in her lap.

"I owe you everything. I will be forever grateful and I promise to serve you with unwavering devotion."

"I know, I know."

Ninka's tone was warm.

"I've heard that more times than I can count."

"Forgive me, my lady, I didn't mean to—"

"There's nothing to apologize for, Danica."

Ninka shook her head, her expression kind.

"Just calm yourself."

"Yes, my lady."

A comfortable silence settled between them before Ninka spoke again.

"And what about you? Have you grown used to the city, or do you still long for Lesgrad?"

Danica hesitated, her gaze drifting to the window.

"Do you think we'll ever be able to return?"

"Of course we will."

Ninka's answer was firm, almost like a promise.

"The Empire won't stand for losing its territory.

They will send more Bellicoriom, and the Hellanians will be driven out—eventually."

It had been just over a month since news of the defeat of the Elisian Bellicoriom and their Rajmirian auxiliaries had reached Lesgrad. The Hellanians' arrival soon became a certainty—And with too few men left to defend the walls, the Ivanove castle had been evacuated.

Most of the Ivanove treasury now circulated through the Elisian banking system. The funerary chests containing the remains of the family—except for Lissa's—had been entrusted to the Apostolic clergy, kept safe from the Hellanian threat.

Lissa's final resting place was an exception. In life, she had told Ninka of her preference for the ancient Rajmirian burial rites, though she had admitted her family would likely disapprove. Despite her doubts, Ninka had chosen to honor that wish.

Considering the circumstances of Lissa's death, and the practicality of assuming her identity to access the Ivanove resources in her search for her father, Ninka felt certain—Lissa would have understood. Over her grave, Ninka had planted an azalea.

Many of the Lesgrad peasants had sought refuge in neighboring fiefdoms, hoping their defenses would hold against the Hellanian advance. Some even considered trying their luck in Elisia. The only exception was the small retinue that had remained with the new Lady Ivanove— Danica, along with six men-at-arms who had chosen to uphold their oaths of loyalty. At first, old Miroslava had traveled with them— But the road was no place for a woman of her age, and she had been left in the care of the Horvat family in Krajmarea, a coastal town in Rajmir and the ancestral seat of Evonia's kin.

"My lady."

Damir's voice drew her attention, his approach firm but measured.

"From what I've gathered, the road to Lady Elinde's residence is fairly straightforward. I know the area well."

"However, the guards warned me about tensions in the city."

"The common folk are furious—there have been disputes between the plebeians and the Magnatari about taxes."

Ninka frowned.

"Why would they be angry with the Magnatari?"

"Isn't it the duke and the feudal lords who set and collect taxes, then pass them to the Empire?"

Damir gave a small nod.

"That is true for most of Rajmir, my lady."

"But this city is different."

"Due to its proximity to Elisios and the Empire's cultural influence, it follows a different system."

"So, here the Magnatari handle taxation?"

"Yes."

"A specific group among them, known as the Pecunios, purchases the right to collect taxes—Then inflates the rates for profit, all with the Empire's approval."

"Their collection methods have grown more violent lately."

"Not that they were ever reasonable."

Damir's expression darkened.

"Your great-aunt's husband, Dominos Tullios, is one of them."

"That's why the gate guard made that remark."

Ninka crossed her arms, frowning.

"I don't know much about economics, but what does the Empire gain from this?"

"I imagine it saves on the logistical costs of tax collection."

"And the Empire receives an advance payment from the Pecunios for the right to collect."

Ninka nodded, thoughtful.

"That makes sense."

"In any case, we won't be staying long enough to be affected by local politics."

Damir raised an eyebrow.

"You don't intend to enjoy your great-aunt's hospitality for long?"

"I only want to meet her, so I can say I have."

Her voice was firm, dismissive.

"We're here for two things—

To learn when the Zora Marin arrived—

And to find Boris."

"Understood."

Ninka's search for her father had led her to a single conclusion—Boris had not traveled by land. It made sense. He would have avoided the Bellicoriom patrols, along with the risks of forced conscription.

The most logical route was by sea. At Casteumaris, the nearest port city to Lesgrad, she had finally found his trail.

Boris had boarded the Zora Marin, working as part of the crew in exchange for passage to Velcarnia, from where he would continue on to Elisia.

"Has it been long since you were last here, Damir?"

"About ten years, my lady."

"Did you miss it?"

Her gaze studied him as she asked—

"Do you feel at home in this city?"

Damir exhaled slowly.

"To be honest, I'm glad our business here will be brief."

"You dislike your hometown? Why?"

A shadow passed over his face.

"This city... these people.

It's all one grand illusion."

"Even the commoners chase superiority over one another.

Social reputation is everything."

"They act petty, yet expect to be treated as heroes."

He paused, hesitant.

"Forgive my words, my lady."

Ninka leaned back, unimpressed.

"It sounds like a massive headache."

Damir blinked, slightly taken aback by his lady's irreverence—then let out a short, amused breath.

"It truly is."

Then, more serious now, he added—

"Just be prepared, my lady."

"The people here are not as honest—nor as direct—

as Northerners."

∞∞∞

As soon as the carriage crossed the gates, the city unfolded before them in all its vibrant complexity. The main street, wide and paved with large stone slabs, was lined with taverns and shops, each displaying their wares in simple stalls.

From the inns, the rich aroma of roasted meats and spiced wine drifted into the cold air, mingling with the sharp scent of iron from the forges. Artisans toiled in their workshops, crafting everything from sandals to marble sculptures.

Ninka had never seen so many Elisians in one place. It was strange to think this city was even part of Rajmir. Every time she saw violet hair or scarlet eyes, Valeria's memory pierced through her—Like the thorns of that cursed tree in Lesgrad, digging into her skin. She, too, was part Elisian, yet she wondered—

How much did she truly have in common with these people?

The Rajmirian eyes inside the carriage flickered from one sight to another, unsure where to focus first. Towering statues of past rulers and warlords loomed even above the rooftops of the insulae—The cramped tenement houses where the poor huddled together. The city was loud, almost deafening—The hammering of blacksmiths, the ceaseless murmur of negotiations, and the competing melodies of street musicians fighting for attention.

For a moment, Ninka's serious demeanor wavered.

She almost smiled.

A religious procession moved solemnly through the avenue, led by an apostle in pale blue robes. Farther ahead, a small crowd had gathered around a fiery orator, his gestures sharp and impassioned as he debated political matters that, to him, must have seemed of the utmost importance. Inside the carriage, Velcarnia unfolded—layered with smoke, stone, and the murmur of thousands. For those who had never set foot beyond the walls of a true metropolis, the city felt like a storm of wonder and chaos—As if every stone, every voice, and every movement whispered of Elisia's lasting imprint on Rajmir.

∞∞∞

When they arrived at the estate, the new captain of the Ivanoves announced his lady's presence to the watchful guards. One of them hurried to open the gates, while the other disappeared into the residence, no doubt to inform the masters of the house. Ninka was the only one to step inside.

She had instructed Damir to take two men with him to the harbor, where they would gather information on the ship they sought. Meanwhile, Danica, under the protection of the remaining guards, would handle the replacement of horses and resupply their provisions for the journey ahead. Damir had protested her decision, concerned for his lady's safety. But in the end— He had reluctantly agreed.

The estate lacked the sheer size of a castle, but it more than compensated with refined splendor. Neatly trimmed pyramidal shrubs lined the stone path to the entrance, standing like silent sentinels. The high exterior walls, built from precisely cut granite blocks, were covered in a smooth coat of white plaster that shimmered under the afternoon sun. The main door, massive and commanding, was crafted from reinforced wood, adorned with bronze fittings and intricately carved depictions of Cerberus. Above it, a portico rested on elegant Elisian columns, striking a balance between simplicity and grandeur. Bathed in the warm glow of twilight, the stone gleamed with a golden hue, giving the entire structure an almost divine aura.

When the guard finally pulled open the heavy door, revealing only half of its width, a figure emerged from within. The sight of the mistress of the house took Ninka by surprise. And yet— She wasn't alone in her astonishment. For Elinde Ivanove, standing in the doorway, was just as struck by the sight of her grandniece.

The resemblance was uncanny. Elinde emerged like a matured reflection of Lissa—not a copy, but a version altered by time and choice. The resemblance was undeniable: the eyes, the contour of the face, the rose-colored hair, but darker, more disciplined. Yet Ninka saw with absolute clarity—The confusion that had clouded Numa's mind, making him mistake Lissa for his beloved Elinde, had not come from reality, but from the lies spun by that creature's web. A deception fed as much by the hunter's longing to believe in the sweet illusion as by Lissa's desperate need to be loved.

Despite being around sixty years old, Elinde appeared decades younger. She wore a stunning red gown with golden embroidery, reminiscent of the style of attire favored by Evonia Ivanove. However, while Evonia had adapted her wardrobe to Rajmirian customs, choosing modest cuts and incorporating local influences, Elinde's garments were purely Elisian—Designed to accentuate a woman's curves with bold, revealing cuts.

"I was told you resembled me, but I thought Lubos was simply exaggerating."

Elinde's gaze lingered on Ninka as she reached out, touching the girl's face with surprising familiarity.

"I never expected to see myself young again."

Ninka stood her ground.

"I am pleased to meet you as well, dear great-aunt."

Elinde's lips curled slightly in amusement.

"Oh, please, do not address me that way. It makes me uncomfortable."

"How would you prefer to be called, then?"

"Signora Elinde will suffice."

"As you wish, Signora Elinde."

The older woman's smile widened.

"I can already tell we will get along splendidly."

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She turned, gesturing for Ninka to follow.

"Come, let me show you my domos."

"You will find it most graceful—

especially compared to the tedious, rustic castles of the North."

Elinde led the way. Inside the house, a Hellanian slave stood by, holding a jar of perfumed water for Ninka to wash her hands and refresh her face. With a gracious motion, Elinde extended her hand, smiling as she spoke in perfect, formal Romancis—

"Welcome. Please, make yourself at home."

"I hope my residence is to your liking."

Ninka hesitated briefly, but quickly understood what was expected of her.

Her hostess likely assumed her experience with the customs of Elisian nobility was limited. She played along. But before long, Elinde's tone shifted.

"Tell me, where is your guard?"

"I assigned them to other tasks in the city."

"They do not seem necessary here, within the walls of your estate."

Elinde's eyes gleamed.

"Certainly, there is no safer or more comfortable place in this city."

She studied Ninka for a moment, then added—

"I must say, your Romancis is impressive.

Though I still hear traces of an accent."

"It took me some time to purge the rusticity of Miravska from my tongue."

Ninka remained composed at the remark.

Valeria had taught her Romancis from an early age, insisting that she pronounce each word perfectly. She had been strict in her lessons, but in those days—her discipline had been softer.

As Ninka stepped into the narrow corridor leading to the heart of the house, she was immediately enveloped by the coolness of the interior air. The high ceiling and walls adorned with vibrant frescoes depicted mythological and pastoral scenes—an overwhelming tapestry of detail, starkly contrasted with the restraint of Rajmirian aesthetics, the carved wood and modest tapestries she had always known.

Elinde led her to the main hall, where a small reflecting pool mirrored the open sky above. Soft, natural light filtered down, highlighting the intricate mosaics that adorned the floor.

"This is where we honor those who have passed from my husband's family."

Elinde's gesture drew Ninka's attention to a domestic altar.

There, luxurious ceramic and gold vessels held the ashes of the deceased. The fragrance of burning herbs mixed with the scent of the garden, visible just beyond the hall. The hostess continued their tour, leading her into a spacious study. There, she spoke of her husband's business dealings, gesturing toward the parchment scrolls meticulously documenting every commercial transaction.

"The office of a Pecunio is a demanding one."

Elinde's tone was smooth, matter-of-fact.

"On one hand, we have the Empire's expectations.

On the other, the ignorance of the plebeians.

Between the two, we must carve out our own advantage."

"But in the end, we succeed."

Ninka studied the room—Her gaze landed on a gold-plated hourglass atop the massive desk.

"I've heard in the city that there's been some tension between the plebeians and the Pecunios."

Elinde laughed—short, almost dismissive.

"There is always some tension where the plebeians are concerned."

"They benefit from the protection and services of the Empire—yet when the time comes to pay what is owed, they behave like dogs guarding a bone they were given."

Elinde's words stirred a memory. Ninka's grandfather had once made the journey to Lesgrad, seeking escape from Elisian taxation—Only to meet his end instead. That had been about twenty years ago. Had anything changed since then? Or had it simply grown worse?

Finally, they reached the dining hall. Finely carved tables and reclining seats stood in quiet anticipation of future banquets. However, the true destination of their tour was the sitting room. There, two comfortable sofas were arranged beside a small table, adorned with bronze goblets and a jug of wine.

"Please, sit. You must be tired from your journey."

"I am. Thank you."

A brief silence settled between them as Elinde raised her goblet, savoring the wine with deliberate ease.

"Your husband is not home?"

"He is tending to some business in the city, but I do not imagine he will be long."

She swirled the wine in her cup.

"Perhaps you will have the opportunity to meet him."

"I hope so."

Ninka lied effortlessly.

"And how are the Ivanoves?"

Elinde's tone was light, as if speaking of distant acquaintances.

"I have heard of battles in the North—

something involving the Hellanians?"

"They are well."

Another lie, delivered with the same composed grace.

"The situation is contained."

"I am glad to hear it."

"Do you miss it?"

Elinde arched a brow.

"Lesgrad, I mean."

A flicker of amusement crossed her face.

"Would you?"

She returned the question with a smirk—a blend of nostalgia and condescension.

"After all this?"

"Hmm, I do have fond memories of the neighboring settlement. I enjoyed myself quite a bit there."

"Kustovka?"

"Yes, that was the name."

She let out a soft laugh, swirling her goblet.

"I used to run away there whenever the castle became too dull for me."

"They still speak of you there, you know."

Ninka took a measured sip of wine.

"There is even a song."

"A song?"

Elinde's amusement deepened.

"About what, exactly?"

"The story with the hunter."

Elinde laughed in earnest, the sound genuine—yet tinged with mockery.

"Oh, that... I suppose I shouldn't be surprised they still tell that tale. What else of interest could possibly happen in the North?"

Ninka studied her carefully.

"The song is told from your father's perspective—about how he saved you."

At this, Elinde let out another laugh, this time outright derisive.

"Well, in a way—he did save me."

"What do you mean?"

A playful glint flickered in Elinde's eyes.

"That whole affair was nothing but a foolish adventure on my part. Do not misunderstand me—at the time, it was all very charming. He was young, handsome, rugged—willing to risk everything for me. But I should have known when to stop. Running away with him into that forest was pure idiocy."

She took another sip, unbothered.

"I was fortunate that old Janko saw my fire."

"They say it was a sign from the Celestial."

Elinde smirked, her lips curling in amusement.

"They say? How very Rajmirian of them."

A touch of sarcasm colored her voice.

"The truth is, it was my own sign—that I had had enough."

She leaned back comfortably, swirling the wine in her goblet.

"I fled from the comfort of tapestries and hearths—only to seek refuge in wilderness! A cave, he said—as if it were acceptable to share a roof with bats and shadows reeking of damp earth."

She gave an exaggerated sigh.

"No mirror, no perfume to mask the stench of wet wood and mold. I had to see my reflection in a murky stream—like a mere peasant girl."

Ninka forced a neutral expression, willing herself to swallow the surge of anger rising in her chest.

"I can scarcely imagine."

Elinde let out a breathy chuckle, sipping her wine.

"That was my reality. But I cannot complain—in the end, it was all for the best."

She tilted her head, as if reflecting on her own words.

"No Rajmirian lord would have accepted a dishonored wife. So my father had to find an Elisian for me—and he found my dear Tullios."

Her fingers traced the rim of her goblet, her expression pleased.

"He brought me back to civilization, kept me in grapes and honey, and has never once looked at me as anything less than a masterpiece."

"Do you even know what happened to Numa?"

Ninka's words came sharper than intended.

Elinde blinked, caught off guard for only a second.

"Numa..."

She repeated the name as if dusting off an old memory, its weight meaningless to her.

"It has been so long since I heard that name. I imagine he has been dead for years. Poor thing."

Ninka felt something tighten in her chest.

"Why... why do you say that? You pleaded with your father, did you not? You asked for his exile."

Elinde gave a small shrug, utterly unbothered.

"I did what I could, of course. But I knew old Janko would never let it go. I managed to buy the poor devil some time—but it was always certain that, sooner or later, my father would avenge what he called a stain upon the family name."

Numa never had 'later,' Ninka thought bitterly.

"You speak of it so trivially."

Elinde arched a brow, as if surprised by the remark.

"Do I?"

She set her goblet down with an amused sigh.

"Well, it was so long ago. He always said he would die for me—I always thought it a figure of speech, not a prophecy. A man of his word, truly."

Ninka's fingers dug into the cushion beneath her, gripping it as though she were strangling someone unseen.

Elinde's voice drifted back to her, silk-smooth and mildly curious.

"Are you quite well, dear?"

"Yes—just a bit of cramping."

The lie slipped out swiftly, steady as her controlled tone.

"Ah, I have just the thing for that."

Elinde raised a hand and snapped her fingers toward the slave.

"Fetch the tonic—the yellow vial—from my chambers. And be careful with it. Take your time."

"Yes, Signora."

The young woman bowed her head before leaving the room.

"Do not worry. My husband has connections among the alchemists of the Thaumaturgic Confraternity. A single drop of their craft, and you will feel better than ever."

"Thank you."

"Now, indulge my curiosity."

Elinde's tone turned playful, her lips curving into a smile.

"Do the Northerners still make a great fuss over our hair color—and about King Milos?"

"I have never been mistreated for it,"

Ninka admitted.

"But yes, those prejudices certainly linger in their minds."

Elinde took a sip of wine.

"Well, you may find yourself even more tempted to stay here when you learn that things are quite the opposite in these parts."

"What do you mean?"

"Elisians have a great fondness for the Milanos. We are something of a mystical beauty standard to them. You see, for the Rajmirians, Milos was a degenerate who divided the nation. But for the Elisians? He was a connoisseur of life's pleasures who—"

The conversation came to an abrupt halt.

The slave returned, breathless, her face marked with urgency.

"Signora, the house is surrounded! They're shouting threats!"

Elinde's brow furrowed, her expression shifting from mild irritation to confusion.

"What are you talking about?

And where is the tonic I asked for?"

Before the slave could respond, another figure entered the room. He was an Elisian of advanced age, his violet hair streaked with white. A yellow tunic, cinched at the waist by a silver-studded belt, draped over his frame. His fingers gleamed with rings of the same precious metal, and a circular leather cap cast a shadow over a face lined with time and the weight of the moment.

"Ah, there you are."

His voice was firm, his gaze fixed on Elinde.

"Elinde, my love, I need you to—"

He cut himself off, his sharp eyes landing on Ninka. His face stiffened in perplexity.

"Who is this?"

"Dearest, this is my niece—the one I told you about."

"She did send word of her visit."

Tullios stared at Ninka, momentarily lost in thought. For a moment, he seemed to forget the urgency that had brought him— Until he straightened with a sharp breath.

"Yes, right."

His tone turned brisk.

"Elinde, my dear, stay in this room.

I will send the servants and slaves here—

and the door must remain locked. "

"Open it only for me."

"Tullios, calm yourself. What is happening?"

A fine crack appeared in Elinde's poise.

"That wretched filth has reverted to savagery,

thinking they can escape the consequences of evading taxes."

"The bastards nearly caught me in the streets."

"There must be something we can—"

Her words died on her lips.

A stone clattered across the floor, flung from outside the residence.

"Here! Inside, quickly!"

Tullios's command rang through the room. A group of eight women—maids and slaves alike—rushed in, their faces anxious. Elinde's displeasure was undeniable. One of the maids bolted the door, while a Hellanian slave, without hesitation, dragged a small sofa against the entrance. Elinde's eyes narrowed at the act— But she did not protest.

The next few minutes felt like an eternity. Sounds from outside invaded the forced silence— Heavy footsteps against the pavement, thudding impacts against the walls, objects clattering to the floor, the clash of metal and a torrent of voices, both frantic and furious. The insults, crude and inventive, unintentionally broadened Ninka's vocabulary.

Yet it was not the chaos, nor the violence, that sealed the reality of what was happening beyond the door.

It was a voice.

"Wait! Let me speak to this worm."

A rough male voice—rasping with contained fury.

"How does it feel, being on the other side of the sword? Completely at the mercy of those who despise you?"

"Madame Narzira would not approve of what you are doing, Lutherio,"

said Tullios.

"Don't say my mother's name with that dirty mouth of yours."

A sharp smack of flesh—then the dull thud of a body hitting the ground.

"You're right. She was too good to desire any kind of violence—but the malice and corruption you exude has ensured that she is not here to intercede for your filthy carcass."

"Do you fools think this will go unpunished? Your heads will roll the moment the Empire puts an end to this madness."

His tone was sharp, unwavering.

"Be smart—let us go. My wife and I."

A pause. Then—

"Oh, do not worry about your lovely wife. We'll take very good care of her."

"A shame you won't be here to see it."

What followed was sickeningly final.

The first impact landed with a dry, cracking force—like wood being split, but infinitely more grotesque. A second blow came swiftly after—the sound of steel meeting bone and flesh, descending with merciless precision—cutting until it met the stone floor. A gurgling noise, deep and wet—the final protest of a defeated body.

Then, silence.

For a mere handful of heartbeats, the house stood still. And then— Cheers. Triumphant voices erupted, flooding the domus like a wave of savage jubilation.

Ninka, despite the rising dread clawing at her chest, forced her mind to remain sharp. Panic was useless. She needed a way out. If they mistook her for a Magnatari, her fate would be sealed. Fortunately, her hosts seemed to have a habit of dressing their servants and slaves in fine-quality fabrics—a display of wealth, no doubt, but now an unexpected advantage. Her attire might blur the lines between herself and the household staff.

Slowly, without drawing attention, she stepped backward, slipping beyond the peripheral vision of the gathered women.

A loud crack jolted the room.

"The women must be in here." A harsh voice rumbled from the other side of the wooden door.

Then—a blow.

And another.

Each blow fed the next, until the frame shuddered and gave in. The door was forced ajar, a thin gap revealing the dimly lit room. In seconds, rough hands shoved aside the sofa that had served as a barricade. The invaders stepped in, facing the group of frightened women.

"Now then,"

said the one Tullios had called Lutherio.

He was a Rajmirian with a hard, weathered face.

"Where is she? Would the lady of the house care to step forward? We have business to discuss."

"There she is!"

A younger man, his voice dripping with hostility, jabbed a finger forward.

"The pink whore."

Elinde gasped.

Then, in a single breath, she transformed. Her posture wilted, her hands trembled, and a single tear slid from the corner of her right eye.

"My good sirs, I have no part in my husband's vulgar dealings!"

"I was forced into this marriage—practically sold like cattle!"

"You cannot imagine how miserable life has been, shackled to such a vile man!"

A low chuckle rumbled from the grimiest among the mob.

"Oh yes, Signora, a truly miserable life."

"One can see it clearly."

His sarcasm cut like a blade.

"You may have never looked my way, but I have watched you countless times."

Lutherio stepped forward, seizing control of the exchange.

"Parading through the market, grinning ear to ear, wrapped in silk, surrounded by guards and slaves."

"The envy of every woman. The desire of every man."

"Not once did you look unhappy as you spent the coins your husband wrung from those he wouldn't even bother to see."

Elinde's lips parted—

"There must be a way—"

"Silence."

His command sliced through the air, the finality in his tone absolute. His gaze swept the room, searching the faces of the remaining women.

"Servants and slaves may leave."

"No harm will come to you."

Some hesitated, their skepticism visible in the tightness of their expressions. But most seized the opportunity, rushing toward the open door without a second glance.

Elinde, still trembling, turned instinctively— Looking for her niece. But Vasilissa was gone. Instead, an elderly Rajmirian woman walked with measured steps, her spine straight, her movement deliberate. Elinde stiffened. Her stomach twisted with something she did not yet understand.

"Who are you!?"

Her voice wavered, laced with fear.

The old woman paused.

Then, slowly, she turned back.

"Numa said he would wait for you in the Celestial's embrace. Unfortunately—if such a place exists, it will not be for you."

∞∞∞

Ninka had no difficulty leaving the residence. She moved with deliberate caution, careful not to glance at the bodies strewn along the path. Yet, the curse of peripheral vision was relentless. She had seen enough death to last a lifetime.

Passing through the collapsed gate, she considered her options.

Finding the port or stables on foot, in the middle of a revolt, was nearly suicidal. Both Damir and Danica had been given explicit instructions to return to the residence once their tasks were complete. If she could wait for them somewhere nearby—but not too close—she might avoid suspicion.

Ninka recalled the route they had taken upon arrival. The house stood at the end of a steep, dead-end street, with only one way in and out. She decided to wait at the intersection, far enough to escape unwanted attention, yet close enough to spot her companions when they returned.

Her boots met the uneven cobblestones with a measured pace. She adjusted her rhythm to the incline, careful not to appear too swift for her disguise. Her posture curved slightly, mimicking the frailty of the old woman whose form she now wore. A makeshift staff in hand—a mere fallen branch from a looted property—she leaned on it with just the right amount of weight, perfecting the illusion.

After several tense minutes, she reached the intersection. It was a circular plaza, centered around a statue— A one-eyed man carved from stone, clad in a toga, clutching a bundle of scrolls. She had no idea who he was. A scholar? A bureaucrat? Perhaps just another pecunio who had bribed his way into imperial favor, now immortalized in marble.

Either way, she doubted the statue would remain standing for long.

Ninka scanned the area, searching for a place to hide. She found refuge behind a dense shrub, nestled within an ornamental grove—a space likely tended with meticulous care by the servants of the magnatari who ruled this district. Here, she was shielded from prying eyes, with ample space to shift her form if necessary. A small gap between the leaves and branches offered a clear vantage point.

From her hiding spot, she could observe much of the world around her: The streets and their distant horizons. The statue at the plaza's center. The grand estates of the magnatari. And fragments of the manicured grove, where she now lay concealed. Her hiding place proved more convenient than expected.

Moments later, a young couple entered the grove, entirely oblivious to her presence. They stopped just a few paces away, near the wide trunk of an elm tree. The man, barely past twenty, wore vibrant linen garments, his fingers and neck adorned with an excess of jewelry.

Beside him stood a young woman in a modest dress, its tones of white and brown stirring in Ninka a distant memory— Her own clothes when she was still just a girl in Lesgrad, her world confined to the village and the shadowed woods of Temni Vozda. Yet, one difference stood out: the deep cut of the young woman's neckline.

It did not take long to understand why they had come. The man slid an arm around her waist, pulling her close. Their lips met in a desperate kiss, charged with urgency.

They had waited for this moment.

They would not waste it.

The difference in their social standing was as clear as daylight. Ninka pondered what she had learned of Elisian culture and its influence over the city. Such pairings were far from scandalous in their world—so why this secrecy?

Velcarnia, for all its grand talk of social progress, felt no different from the rest of the world. She had seen too much to believe otherwise. To love across social orders was always an act of courage—but to sustain such love required sacrifices few were willing to make. When a commoner loved a noble, it was often fueled by dreams of equality, by the longing to defy the barriers set before them. When a noble gave their heart to a commoner, the pull of emotion was often intense, driven by either love or passion and excitement. But in the end, the world always intervened, forcing them to face the true weight of their choices.

By now, the couple had grown bolder in their display of carnal passion, which began to irk Ninka. Picking up a small twig, she aimed carefully and tossed it in a precise arc. The projectile landed right between their heads—so close together they might as well have been sharing the same breath.

The reaction was immediate.

The mere possibility that they were not as alone as they had assumed was enough to make them reconsider their choice of hiding spot. Within minutes, they had gathered themselves and hurried away, leaving Ninka to reclaim her privacy.

Finally, she saw.

The two groups had found each other: Damir rode at the front, his usual grim expression in place, leading the armed men on horseback. Behind them, the carriage followed. Ninka shifted forms and stepped out from her hiding spot, raising a hand to signal them.

"Good. You're all here."

"What the—? My lady, what are you doing here, unguarded? The city is in turmoil!"

Damir's voice was sharp with alarm.

"That's precisely why I'm here. My great-aunt's estate was attacked."

"Were you hurt? Do you need aid?"

Danica asked, hastily climbing down from the carriage, her movements clumsy with urgency.

"I'm fine, Danica. There's no need for concern. Just breathe."

"How did you manage to get out of the residence?"

Damir asked.

"The slaves and servants were released. They only wanted retribution against my great-aunt's husband and his kin. I was lucky—I slipped away with them."

"And Lady Elinde?"

one of the armed men asked.

"Dead."

"I'm deeply sorry, my lady. After so much loss..."

Danica murmured, visibly shaken.

"It's all right, Danica. I appreciate your concern,"

Ninka replied.

"Just give the order, my lady, and we'll see justice done for your great-aunt,"

one of the men said firmly.

"That would be unwise. It would only lead to more bloodshed, and nothing will bring her back. Besides, we have a more urgent and achievable goal ahead of us,"

Ninka said.

"You seem to have become quite the pragmatist,"

Damir observed.

"Have I?"

she said.

"I suppose losing my family has forced some maturity upon me."

"Is that how you show respect to your lady? Questioning her feelings?"

Danica interjected, her voice surprisingly firm.

"I didn't mean—"

Damir started, clearly embarrassed.

"Enough! We're wasting time,"

Ninka cut in, her tone sharp.

"Yes, my lady,"

the two answered in unison.

"Damir, tell me—what did you learn at the port?"

she asked, her voice steady despite the exhaustion pressing down on her.

"The news is grim,"

he admitted.

"From what we've gathered, the Zora Marin was seized by Hellanian pirates. The crew was taken to be sold at the slave markets."

For a moment, Ninka was stunned.

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, before she managed to speak.

"That..."

She swallowed hard.

"Are you certain?"

"We spoke to one of the survivors. Apparently, the man had fallen asleep while relieving himself. When the attack happened, he stayed hidden and managed to slip away unnoticed. He was later found drifting by a passing merchant vessel. From what I could tell, he was telling the truth."

"And where do they usually take these captives to be sold? Any idea?"

Ninka asked, regaining her composure.

"Various coastal cities in Helleim are common destinations, but they could also be taken to foreign lands in the north. There's no way to be certain. At this point, we'd need a miracle to find him."

Ninka fell silent for a few moments, deep in thought.

The weight of the decision was evident in her expression, and the others seemed to hold their breath, waiting for her response. Finally, she lifted her gaze, her resolve solidified.

"If we need a miracle,"

she said, pausing as if to steel herself,

"then perhaps we should go to the one place where we know they happen."

She took a steady breath before delivering her final command.

"We leave immediately for Thaumaturges' Confraternity in Elisia. May the Celestial guide us."