Scene 1: Reflections in the Dark
The study greeted him with silence and the smell of old paper.
Carl closed the door and leaned his back against it for a moment—just a moment, allowing himself this weakness while no one could see. The night outside was deep, moonless, with only rare lights in the distant wing reminding him that the estate was not asleep. There, beyond those windows, Amalia slept. There, in the orangery, light probably still burned—Eleonor sometimes lost track of time among her flowers.
But here, in the study, it was dark.
He lit a single candle on the desk, though he could have lit them all. The flame wavered, snatching familiar shapes from the darkness: the heavy, high-backed armchair, stacks of papers arranged with frightening neatness, the inkwell polished to a gleam, quills sharpened and waiting.
And a bouquet of lavender in a simple ceramic vase.
Carl's gaze lingered on it. Eleonor put fresh ones there every week. He had never asked, never thanked her aloud—but every time he entered the study, this subtle, slightly bitter scent reminded him: you are not alone. Even here, even at night, even when the whole world shrinks to the size of a desktop.
He sank into the armchair and allowed himself to close his eyes. Just for a minute.
And immediately he saw that other study.
Not this one—orderly, breathing calm. Another. The one that remained in another life. Cluttered with papers no one had touched for months. With dusty piles of dispatches that all said the same thing: "no evidence found," "investigation yielded no results," "case closed for lack of evidence." With empty bottles that Frederick would take away, but they would reappear. With the smell not of lavender—but of mustiness and despair.
That study had been a grave. This one—a fortress.
Carl opened his eyes. The lavender smelled of life.
He reached for the stack of papers—the ones Frederick had left on the corner of the desk before his departure for the capital. Budget approvals. Stewards' reports. Tax summaries. The ordinary, routine work of a head of house, which in his previous life he had often shirked, shifting it onto the shoulders of those he paid.
Now he read carefully. Every figure. Every signature.
Income from the mills increased by three percent. Good. Timber from the eastern slopes sold below market price—who signed off on that? Ah, the old steward, hired by my father still. Time to replace him. Taxes from three villages arrived late—find out why.
He made notes in the margins in small, cramped handwriting. Trifles. But in his position, there are no trifles.
His fingers encountered a thick sheet, folded in four. Carl unfolded it.
"List of knights summoned for personal report. 15th day of the autumn month."
Seven names. Seven men holding lands from his house. Each had received their holding for service—some from his father, some from his grandfather, some quite recently. Each had their own retinue, their own people, their own interests. Formally, they answered to him. In reality…
Carl looked at the names and saw not just a list. He saw seven men with whom, in his previous life, he had spoken only when necessary. He didn't know what had motivated each of them then, in that war. Who had betrayed, who had hesitated, who had remained loyal to the end, who had simply waited to see how it would end. That knowledge remained in that other life—blurred, fragmentary, unreliable.
But one thing he knew for certain: if he didn't secure the loyal ones and eliminate the traitors, his already shaky plan would fall apart before it even began.
This needs work. Soon. But not now.
He set the list aside, on the edge of the desk where the paper would be visible. A reminder to himself: these people exist. They will arrive in a few weeks. And this time, he would speak with them differently.
Right now, he had Lyra, carrying beneath her clothes a letter to the mage he had once already lost. He had the mage, who needed to be found before others found him. He had Aina, who knew more about shadows than anyone else in the estate. He had Eleonor, who awaited answers he could not yet give.
First—the urgent. Then—the important. Then—everything else.
He raised his eyes to the door and said quietly but distinctly:
"Frederick."
The door opened almost instantly. The butler stood on the threshold as if he hadn't been waiting behind it all this time, but had simply been passing by—with an absolutely impassive face and perfectly straight back. Carl knew this habit of his: Frederick knew how to wait. For hours. In silence. So that no one noticed his presence.
"Summon Aina," Carl said. "Have her come now."
Frederick inclined his head.
"At once, your lordship."
The door closed silently. Carl was alone again in the circle of candlelight.
He looked at the list of knights—seven names, a reminder that formal duty does not equal loyalty. At the bouquet of lavender—his wife's quiet presence in his space. At his own hands, resting on the desk—calm, still, ready.
Somewhere out there, beyond the study walls, his daughter slept. His wife worked in the orangery. In the attic above the stable, a girl from the rooftops sat, clutching a silver raven in her pocket. Beyond the estate gates, shadows crept—the ones he had already heard in the night.
The war had begun. For now—silent. For now—invisible.
But he would not lose again.
Carl took up his quill and began writing orders for the morning.
End of Scene 1.
Scene 2: The Road at Dawn
Morning dawned gray, joyless, with heavy layered clouds promising rain by midday but for now merely clinging to the skin with dampness. Lyra stood by the eastern wall, where behind the smithy the path to the highway began. A secluded spot—no guards, no extra eyes. Only old apple trees, stretching bare branches toward the sky, and the distant barking of dogs from the kennels.
She was waiting for the caravan.
Carl had said: small traders, carters, hauling goods to the capital. She could tag along with them if she kept out of sight. A few coppers—and a place on a cart all the way to Ebros. The least conspicuous movement for one whom no one had yet begun to search for.
Lyra shifted from foot to foot, getting used to the clothes.
She wore a jacket of thick, slightly shiny leather—not new, but sturdy, with scuffs that didn't spoil it but made it less noticeable. Under the jacket—a simple shirt of gray linen, without lace or embroidery, the kind worn in villages. Trousers tucked into low boots with worn-down heels. All of it hung on her loosely, hiding her figure, making her look from a distance like who-knows-what—perhaps a young apprentice boy, perhaps a skinny farmhand.
Lyra ran her hand over the sleeve. The leather was rough but soft—good work. Fitted hastily, but skillfully: she didn't feel the clothes hindered her movement.
In the morning, when she had come down from the attic, Frederick had silently nodded and pointed to this bundle. No questions, no explanations. Just clothes left by the door, as if by themselves.
Everyone here does things silently, Lyra thought. As if they've conspired.
She moved under an apple tree, leaning her back against the trunk. From here, she could see both the highway and the turn to the estate gates. The caravan should appear any minute—Carl had said they set out before dawn, would be here by sunrise.
Lyra waited and thought about what had seemed important yesterday, but today simply was.
She wouldn't run. She knew that for certain. Not because she was afraid, not because she liked it here. But because for the first time in many years, she had a purpose. Not stealing for food. Not fleeing for life. But a task for which she was paid—and paid not just in coppers.
A tool, she remembered the Earl's words. A good tool is cared for.
She smirked to herself. A tool, then. In Ebros, she had been a tool of survival—dull, rusty, but tenacious. Here, it seemed, she had been given a chance to become something better.
She heard the footsteps behind her thirty paces away. Not because they were loud—but because she was used to hearing everything. The faint crunch of gravel, breathing, the rustle of fabric.
Lyra turned.
Aina.
The woman in a gray dress and dark kerchief covering her hair was approaching along the path from the smithy. In her hands, she carried a small leather bag—worn, with a long strap for wearing over the shoulder.
"You," Lyra said. Not a question—a statement.
Aina stopped two paces away, held out the bag.
"Take it."
Lyra took it. The bag was heavier than it looked. She flipped open the flap, peered inside.
Neat packets. She pulled one out, unfolded the edge of the cloth: hardtack, jerky, a piece of cheese in oiled paper. Rations for several days.
Beneath the rations—a sturdy leather pouch with tinder and flint. Beside it—a small dark glass bottle, stoppered. Another beside that. The bottles had no labels.
"For fever and for pain," Aina said, nodding at the glass. "Two. Red stopper—drink if you go down. White stopper—if you're wounded. Powder for the wound, not to be taken internally."
Lyra stared at the bottles as if they might explode. Medicine. Real medicine, not the herbal brews of the slums where half the "healers" just poisoned people with cheap rotgut.
She reached deeper. Something clinked at the bottom of the bag—and she pulled out a small pouch, tightly packed. Untied the strings. Silver. Small, worn, various—but silver. Twenty coins, at least.
Lyra raised her eyes to Aina. The woman's face was calm, as always. Not a trace of a smile, no hint of warmth.
"Aren't you afraid?" Lyra asked. Her voice came out hoarse; she didn't recognize it herself.
"Of what?" Aina tilted her head slightly.
"That I'll run. Take all this and…" Lyra nodded at the bag, at the clothes, at herself. "And not come back."
Aina looked at her for a long time. Several heartbeats. Then the corner of her lips twitched—just a little, almost imperceptibly.
"You're not stupid," she said. "And what's in your hands"—she nodded at the bag—"for the Earl, it's a drop. Consumables. Run—we'll find another. But you won't run."
"How can you be so sure?"
Aina was silent for a moment.
"Because I was once 'another' too. And they also gave me a bag and sent me on the road." She turned toward the highway, where the first wagons of the caravan were already appearing. "I came back."
Lyra looked at her and suddenly noticed something she hadn't seen before: in Aina's face, in her eyes, in the way she held her back, there was something familiar. Elusive, but real.
She's the same as me. She was.
Aina shifted her gaze back. For a moment—just a moment—something warm flickered in her eyes. Not a smile, no. Something else. Almost… care?
Lyra blinked. And the warmth was gone. Aina's face was again cold, impenetrable, like a mask.
"Come back," Aina said. Her voice was even, as if she were giving an order. "The Earl invested time and money in you. It wouldn't be good if that investment went to waste."
She turned and walked back toward the smithy, without looking back.
Lyra watched her go. The bag hung on her shoulder, heavy and unfamiliar. Inside lay rations, medicine, silver, and a strange feeling she couldn't name.
She's just afraid for the Earl's money, Lyra thought. Of course. Why else?
But deep down, somewhere beneath her ribs, where that little girl who remembered the warmth of a hearth still lived, something else stirred. Doubt.
And if not?
The caravan was approaching. Wheels creaked, horses snorted, carters called to each other in hoarse voices.
Lyra adjusted the bag, pulled her jacket closed, and stepped toward the road.
She would come back. She knew that already.
Not because she was afraid of the Earl. Not because she had been paid.
But because for the first time in many years, someone had looked at her and seen not prey, not an enemy, not garbage.
Seen someone who could return.