The manor was quiet under moonlight.
I moved through its halls without sound. Careful steps. No wasted motion. I avoided the patrols, slipped through blind spots, paused only when I had to.
The sky beyond the windows was clear. Moonlight poured in, cold and bright, casting sharp across the stone floor.
I already knew the way.
While trapped in the sack, I had memorized every shift in the group – every slope, every turn. I tracked the weight of each step, the pauses, the change in light through the cloth.
By the time I escaped the ritual chamber, I knew where the gate would be.
I reached the outer corridor. Beyond it, the trees shimmered silver in the distance.
Then –
Steel met steel.
I turned and summoned my sword in one motion. The blade against his sword, metal ringing in the still air. Sparks flashed, catching briefly in the moonlight.
He stood in full silver armor.
A knight. High-ranking.
"You can't escape," he said.
His pnevma pressed into the space between us – condensed, controlled, heavy.
I recognized it instantly.
S-Class.
Same level. Different form.
His was disciplined, divine, tightly bound. Mine – wild, unstable, forced into a vessel that couldn't contain it.
The ritual had flooded me with more energy than this body could hold. I felt it straining under the surface, bleeding through the cracks in my core. My nose dripped red. My grip tightened around the sword to keep it steady.
I couldn't hold this for long.
So I moved.
The sword crashed into his blade again. He held. Barely shifted.
His pnevma met mine mid-strike. Not aggressive – but weighty. Precise. It wrapped around my flow, slowing it, muting it.
My arms shook. My breath clipped short. I pulled back, staying low.
I had to end this. Now.
I surged forward.
A flurry of strikes – wrist, ribs, neck. Each blow calculated, not wasted. But every swing drained me. My joints screamed. My grip began to falter.
He blocked them all.
Until the end.
I twisted low, shifted my weight, and drove the blade under his guard. Steel met flesh. A shallow cut across the shoulder – barely enough.
But it drew blood.
It proved I could reach him.
He stepped back for half a second. His stance eset, tighter than before.
He wasn't letting me go.
He lunged.
I dodged – barely. His blade grazed my arm. A thin line of pain. Not deep, but it broke my rhythm. My footing slipped.
The pnevma inside me surged – uncontained.
I couldn't breathe.
"Stop this," he said. "You're tearing yourself apart."
I didn't answer.
I couldn't afford to.
He raised his sword again.
This time, I didn't block.
I let go.
The pnevma burst free – raw, unstable. Light split the air, sharp as scream. The backlash hit everything. Walls. Stone. Him.
He flew backward, slamming into the far wall.
I turned.
And ran.
Vision blurred. Lungs burning. I didn't look back to see if he'd recovered.
The blast had shaken the estate. Shouts echoed behind me. Guards yelling. Boots pounding stone.
I kept moving.
Through side halls. Past storage rooms. Out into the rear courtyard.
My sword flickered – then vanished.
The pnevma that sustained it was draining fast. I didn't have much left. Not enough to summon again.
A merchant wagon waited near the gate – half-covered in canvas, ready to depart. The young driver was yelling for someone to hurry.
The guards nearby didn't question it.
Merchant business, probably. Still, strange timing.
I didn't stop to wonder.
I didn't hesitate.
My body moved on instinct.
I reached the wagon's rear, slipped beneath the flap, and dropped into the sacks – grain, or something like it. It didn't matter.
The wagon jolted forward. A second later, the gate cracked open behind us.
I stayed down.
Eyes shut. Breath shallow. I pulled my remaining pnevma in tight – compressed, silenced it. Just enough to disappear.
My fingers shook. My chest tightened. Blood coated the back of my throat.
I couldn't hold it anymore.
The last thing I saw was moonlight bleeding through the canvas.
Then everything went black.
[3rd POV]
Caldris held his head as his eyes opened, vision still reeling from the blast. A sharp ache bloomed behind his temples.
It had only been minutes since he blacked out.
Dust hung in the air. The stone floor around him was scorched. The scent of burning energy lingered – dense, unstable. Not divine.
Definitely not Luma.
He'd been sent to check on the girl. A quiet task. Observe, confirm she was still breathing, then report back to the elders.
But when he arrived, the manor had been too quiet.
Then the flare hit – sudden, raw, unnatural. It tore through the wards like paper.
He hadn't expected that much power.
Not from her.
Caldris rose slowly, steadying himself. His hand tightened on the sword at his side as he scanned the path ahead – bloody prints trailing through the corridor, uneven strides, traces of energy unraveling like threads in her wake.
She was fast. But she wasn't far.
Two guards ran up behind him.
Their eyes widened at the scorched stone and shattered walls – and at the sight of him, the commander of the Seraphic Knights, wounded.
Who could've done this?
"Report," Caldris said, voice flat. As if the impact hadn't touched him.
"Sir, the prisoner escaped through the south wing. Slipped out near the supply carts. We lost track after that."
His gaze shifted slightly.
Supply carts. Convenient. Too convenient.
But who would help her?
She was a prisoner. As far as he knew – she didn't even know anyone on the outside.
The second guard hesitated.
"Also… there's been a death."
Caldris turned slightly. "Who?"
"Baron Elthar's son. We found him in the ritual chamber. His head was… severed."
He didn't speak at first.
The silence stretched. The guards shifted behind him, uneasy. The weight of what they'd said hadn't reached them yet. But it would.
The baron's son was dead.
And that girl had escaped.
She had killed him.
"She won't get far," he said.
He turned slightly. "Seal the ritual chamber. No one enters until I say so. Notify the Church – discreetly. As for the Baron…"
A pause.
"Tell him to remain silent until I've filed my report."
The guards bowed and hurried off.
Caldris turned back to the scorched stone.
She hadn't been in any condition to stand, let alone fight. Malnourished. Shackled for years. By every measure, she should've collapsed long before the flare.
And yet, she moved with precision. Not instinct – training.
She had fought him.
Not like a frightened girl. Like someone who had done it before.
But there was no record of that. No formal combat history. She'd been locked away since childhood.
So where did it come from?
Who taught you to move like that?
He exhaled slowly and walked toward the outer gate, following the faint trail she left behind – blood, and bare traces of footprints.
A merchant caravan had departed not long ago.
He paused at the courtyard's edge and let his senses stretch outward.
There it was.
Faint, but distinct.
Not hers – too steady. But close enough to make him pause.
Rava. It wasn't divine like Luma. It didn't flow with reverence or stillness.
His fingers curled loosely around the hilt at his side.
Either it was a coincidence…
Or someone helped her.
His gaze shifted toward the road where the wagons had gone, eyes narrowing.
"I'll bring you back, Alice."