Paola’s laughter rang through the air, her golden-flecked eyes sparkling as she leaned against the side of the porch, holding her stomach from the fit of laughter overtaking her. She could barely keep her composure as she watched Poca’s valiant yet hilariously futile attempts to harness Oso. The young bear, nearly as tall as Paola’s hips, was a force of chaos, rolling and wriggling, growling playfully as he refused to cooperate.
Poca, with her stitched-together frame and her usual carefree attitude, was determined to put Oso to work. Her mismatched eyes gleamed with stubborn resolve as she tugged at the modified ox harness, trying to loop it around Oso’s massive body. But the bear, living up to his chaotic reputation, had other plans. Every time Poca managed to get one side of the harness in place, Oso would twist and roll, sending the straps tumbling off his back.
“I zink I underestimated zis one!” Poca called out, her voice tinged with amusement and mild frustration as she dug her heels into the earth, trying to get Oso to sit still for more than a few seconds.
Paola’s laughter intensified, her cute, naked frame shaking with the effort. She hadn’t bothered putting on her cloak that morning, feeling the freedom of the sun on her bare skin as she stood in the warm air of Poca’s farm. Poca, too, had shed her clothing as soon as she’d realized everyone was comfortable. Her own naked form, stitched together and alive with movement, was as natural to her as breathing, her bright smile wide despite the struggle with Oso.
“Paola, are you just going to stand zere and laugh?” Poca teased, turning to give Paola a mock glare as she once again lost the battle with Oso’s wriggling body. “I zought you were going to ‘elp me train zis beast!”
Paola shook her head, tears of laughter welling up in her eyes as she managed to choke out a response. “You said you wanted to put him to work, Poca! I’m just… enjoying the show!”
Even Yasmin and Selene, who had been sitting quietly on the porch in the distance, paused their lunch to watch the spectacle. Yasmin, always brimming with energy and a sharp tongue, smirked as she leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest.
“Well, this is the best entertainment I’ve seen in a while,” Yasmin remarked with a grin, her fiery red hair catching the sunlight. “I thought she knew Oso was a troublemaker?”
Selene, typically quiet and reserved, sat beside Yasmin, her silvery hair glowing in the soft light of the afternoon. Though her expression was as neutral as ever, Paola caught the faintest hint of a smile on her lips as she watched Poca wrestle with the bear.
“Doesn’t seem like he’s too keen on the harness,” Selene commented softly, her voice barely loud enough to carry over to Paola.
Yasmin chuckled, shaking her head. “No kidding. At this rate, Poca’s gonna need a whole team to get that thing on him.”
Poca, still grappling with Oso’s playful antics, shot Paola another look of mock exasperation. “Well, ma chère, if you’re not going to ‘elp, zen you better get Carter to ‘elp me with zis one!”
Carter, the ever-silent wooden puppet who had been quietly standing off to the side, stepped forward at Poca’s command. His hollow eyes remained fixed in that unsettling smile, but his movements were as precise as always. With a quiet determination, he grabbed one of the harness straps and attempted to assist in getting Oso under control.
Oso, however, was having none of it. With a playful snort, he rolled onto his back again, paws flailing in the air as he tried to wriggle out of Carter’s grip. The sight was too much for Paola, who doubled over with laughter, her tail curling around her thigh as she tried to regain control of herself.
“Okay, okay!” Paola gasped between laughs, stepping forward at last. “I’ll help, I’ll help—before Oso drives you both crazy.”
Poca shot her a grateful smile, though it was clear she was also enjoying the playful struggle. The sun glinted off her stitched-together skin, her naked body moving gracefully as she held onto the harness with one hand and reached for Oso’s scruff with the other.
Paola knelt down beside her, her own bare skin brushing against the soft grass as she reached for Oso’s front paw, trying to coax the bear into a more cooperative position. “Come on, Oso,” she murmured, her voice soothing as she scratched behind his ear. “Let’s make this easy for Poca, huh?”
Oso, sensing the combined efforts of both Paola and Poca, let out a huff of surrender. He rolled onto his side, still wiggling slightly, but at least now within the realm of being manageable. Paola giggled, patting his thick fur as she helped Poca fasten the last of the harness straps around his body.
“There!” Paola said triumphantly, leaning back on her heels as she wiped a hand across her forehead. “I think we did it!”
Poca beamed, her mismatched eyes twinkling as she looked over at Paola. “Ah, mon amour, we make a good team, non?”
Paola blushed slightly at the affectionate tone, her heart fluttering as Poca’s gaze lingered on her. There was something so warm, so easy about being with Poca, even in the midst of chaos like this. The playful banter, the shared laughter—it made everything feel lighter, more joyful.
Oso, now properly harnessed, stood up and shook himself off, his large frame towering over both women. The sight of the bear standing proudly with the harness finally in place sent another wave of laughter through Paola, and she leaned against Poca for support, her body trembling with mirth.
Poca’s arm slipped around Paola’s waist, steadying her as they both watched Oso prance around the yard, clearly proud of his new gear. “He looks ridiculous,” Paola said through her giggles, leaning her head against Poca’s shoulder.
“Ridiculous, maybe,” Poca agreed, her voice filled with affection as she rested her chin on top of Paola’s head. “But zere is beauty in chaos, no?”
Paola smiled softly, feeling the warmth of Poca’s body against her own. The two of them, standing there in the soft sunlight, naked and laughing together—it felt perfect in a way Paola hadn’t expected. She glanced over at Yasmin and Selene, who were still watching from the porch. Even from this distance, she could see the amusement on their faces, though Selene’s smile remained as subtle as ever.
“They’re watching us, you know,” Paola whispered, her tail flicking lightly against Poca’s leg.
Poca grinned, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Let zem watch. Zey’ll only wish zey could ‘ave as much fun as we do.”
Paola chuckled, pressing closer to Poca. “You just don't stop, do you.”
“And you love it,” Poca teased, her voice softening as she leaned down to kiss the top of Paola’s head.
Paola’s heart swelled at the gesture, her laughter fading into a gentle smile. She did love it—she loved the chaos, the freedom, the light that Poca brought into her life. And as she stood there, wrapped in Poca’s arms, she couldn’t help but think about Ayla. How different things were with her, and yet how deeply she loved her too.
For a moment, the weight of those feelings settled in Paola’s chest. She had always been unsure of how to define love, always hesitant to put words to something so vast and complicated. But standing here with Poca, laughing in the sunlight, feeling the bond between them—it was undeniable. She loved Poca. She loved Ayla.
And, for the first time, she allowed herself to admit it fully.
“I love you, Poca,” Paola whispered, her voice barely loud enough to hear over the soft breeze.
Poca’s grip tightened around her waist, and she turned her head slightly to meet Paola’s gaze. There was no surprise in her eyes, only a quiet understanding, the same eyes she gave Paola last night.
“I love you too, ma chère,” Poca replied, her voice filled with warmth. She leaned in, her lips brushing gently against Paola’s, soft and tender, as if sealing the words between them.
The kiss was brief, but it sent a wave of warmth through Paola’s body, her heart fluttering in her chest as she closed her eyes and leaned into it. When they pulled back, Poca’s smile was soft and knowing, and Paola felt the weight of her emotions settle into something comforting, something real.
They stood there for a moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world around them fading into the background. Oso, now happily prancing around with his harness, Carter standing stoically nearby, Yasmin and Selene watching from the porch—it all seemed distant, like a dream.
Paola let out a contented sigh, resting her head on Poca’s shoulder once more. “I’m lucky to have you,” she murmured, her voice soft but filled with certainty.
“And I am lucky to ‘ave you, mon amour,” Poca replied, her voice equally tender as she pressed another soft kiss to Paola’s temple.
***
Ayla stood in the dim light of the bathroom, her breath coming out in shallow, almost imperceptible sighs. The mirror before her was still fogged from the heat of the shower, droplets of water slowly trailing down its surface like tears. With a slow, deliberate motion, she lifted her hand and wiped the fog away, the sound of her skin squeaking against the glass slicing through the quiet. The blurred reflection became sharp, and her eyes met their twin in the mirror—one red, one blue, glowing faintly with the magic that had long been part of her existence.
For a moment, she didn’t move, simply staring into the depths of her own gaze. Her face, framed by strands of damp, golden hair that clung to her skin, looked almost foreign to her. Her cheeks flushed from the heat, her lips slightly parted as if caught between a breath. But her eyes—they were the same. They always were.
Ayla’s gaze drifted down to her body, and she let out a small, nearly inaudible sigh. The years of training, of endless battles, had sculpted her into something that felt more like a weapon than a person. Her muscles, taut and strong beneath her pale skin, were a testament to her skill with a sword. Her medium-sized chest rose and fell slowly with each breath, her toned stomach glistening as rivulets of water trickled down her abdomen. Her hand moved instinctively, brushing across her collarbone, down to her chest, lingering briefly as if trying to feel something more than just skin and muscle. Then, it dropped to her side, fingers brushing her hip, before falling limp against her thigh.
So many battles. So many kills. Not a single scar. Not a mark to show for the endless violence she had wrought.
She stared harder, her reflection staring back just as coldly. Who am I? The question gnawed at her. It had been there for years, lurking in the back of her mind like a shadow she couldn’t shake. A Sword Maiden. That’s all I’ve ever been. A tool. A weapon. An instrument of death at Lady Marcelline’s command.
Her thoughts shifted to Jester, to the time they had spent together—lovers in a way that felt more like comfort than passion. They had laughed at the absurdity of it all, knowing their connection was born of shared circumstance rather than real choice. They were the same birds, trapped in the same gilded cage. But even that had passed, their bond settling into something more like friendship once the illusion of romance had faded. They were never meant to be more than fleeting moments of warmth in an otherwise cold existence.
Her reflection wavered in the mirror, the steam from the shower still clinging to the edges of the glass. Her red and blue eyes looked back at her, and Ayla found herself asking the question again, her lips moving without sound. Who am I? She traced her fingers along her body once more, slower this time, as if searching for the answer in the softness of her skin, the strength of her muscles. But there was no answer. Just the same unyielding image of herself, unscarred, unchanged.
Her heart clenched, the uncertainty tightening in her chest like a vice. For so long, she had believed she wasn’t the lucky one. That she was cursed to live a life of servitude, to be nothing more than a weapon wielded by someone else’s hand. Her mind drifted back to the day when everything changed—the day the Cave Hounds attacked her carriage, when the bridge collapsed behind her, cutting off any chance of return. That moment had been a turning point, the beginning of something new, but also the end of something she hadn’t even realized she was losing.
Her fingers twitched at her side, her hand reaching up to grip the edge of the sink as she leaned forward, staring harder into the mirror. The water around her feet was cool now, pooling on the floor beneath her, but she barely noticed. All she could see was her reflection—Ayla Guinenne, the Sword Maiden, the warrior with no past, no future. Just the endless present of battle, of duty, of being something for someone else.
What does Paola see in me? The thought struck her like a blade, cutting through the haze of self-doubt. Paola, with her wild heart, her fearless spirit, had looked at her—really looked at her—and seen something more. Something worth loving. But what was it? What had Paola seen that Ayla couldn’t?
Her lips parted, and a soft, breathy sound escaped her, frustration tightening her throat as she closed her eyes. She squeezed them shut as hard as she could, as if trying to block out the image in the mirror. Maybe if I close them long enough, I won’t have to see it anymore, she thought, her pulse quickening in the silence. But when she opened them again, the same face greeted her. Her own, but somehow different.
The water on her skin, still dripping from her shower, shimmered like blood in the low light. It trailed down her body in crimson rivulets, turning the pale skin of her chest and stomach a deep, haunting red. She blinked, her breath catching in her throat. The reflection hadn’t changed, but the color—the color was wrong.
The water wasn’t clear anymore. It was red.
Her heart raced, a cold shiver running down her spine as she watched the crimson liquid drip from her fingertips, pooling at her feet in the reflection. The puddles seemed to grow darker, spreading like ink across the tiles. Her chest tightened, and for a moment, she felt like she was drowning in the sight—her body bathed in red, her skin stained with the weight of all the battles, all the deaths.
Is this who I am? The question echoed in her mind, louder now, more insistent. Am I nothing more than blood and death?
Her reflection stared back, unblinking, unfeeling. And for the first time, Ayla felt truly haunted by her own image. There was no escape from it, no way to turn away from the truth staring her in the face. The red water, the unscarred skin, the emptiness in her eyes—it was all there, laid bare before her.
Ayla’s breath quickened, her chest rising and falling more rapidly as panic threatened to take hold. She gripped the edge of the sink harder, her knuckles turning white, the cool porcelain grounding her even as her mind spiraled. She wanted to scream, to shatter the mirror, to break free from the image of herself that felt like a curse. But all she could do was stand there, paralyzed, watching the red water drip, drip, drip.
The silence in the room was deafening, the weight of it pressing down on her. But then, a soft sound broke through the stillness—her own voice, barely above a whisper.
“Who am I?”
The words felt foreign on her tongue, like they didn’t belong to her. But they hung in the air, heavy and unanswered. Her reflection offered no response, no comfort. Just the same hollow gaze, the same haunting image of herself drenched in blood.
And then, as quickly as it had come, the red began to fade. The water, once crimson, turned clear again, the reflection in the mirror shifting back to its normal state. Ayla blinked, her heart still racing, but the panic slowly ebbing away. The blood was gone. The haunting was gone.
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But the question remained.
Who am I?
Ayla’s hand moved to her chest again, her fingers trailing over her skin as if searching for something—anything—that would tell her the answer. But there was nothing. Just the soft, unscarred flesh of a woman who had seen too much, done too much, and yet remained untouched by it all.
Her gaze softened, her red and blue eyes dulling as the weight of her thoughts settled over her like a heavy cloak. She was a Sword Maiden. She was a warrior. But was that all she was?
Paola saw something in her—something worth loving. And maybe, just maybe, Ayla could learn to see it too.
But for now, all she could do was stare into the mirror, searching for the woman behind the sword. The woman who had been lost somewhere along the way.
The woman she wasn’t sure she’d ever truly know.
With a soft sigh, Ayla stepped back from the sink, letting the last of the water drip from her body as she turned away from the mirror. The haunting reflection remained behind her, but she didn’t look back.
Not yet.
Instead, she moved toward the door, the cool air of the bathroom chilling her damp skin as she reached for the handle. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for—what she was hoping to find. But she knew she couldn’t stay here, trapped in the silence of her own mind.
She needed to move forward, even if she didn’t know where she was going.
With one last glance at the fogged mirror, Ayla opened the door and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, leaving the ghost of her reflection behind.
Ayla stood in the cool stillness of her room, the quiet of the early morning pressing in around her like a gentle weight. She had not slept well, not since returning to Valarian, her mind too cluttered with memories of the journey, of Paola, and of Lady Marcelline. The bathroom mirror had reflected a woman torn between her past and her future, but now it was time to face the present.
Her armor, the cold Dragon Guard armor recently upgraded for her protection, lay waiting on the low table at the far end of the room. The polished blackened silver plates gleamed in the low light, and the intricate scales, enchanted with dragon-breath magic, shimmered with an ethereal glow. Ayla stepped toward it with deliberate care, her feet silent against the cold stone floor.
Reaching for the first piece, the breastplate, she felt the cool metal beneath her fingers, a sensation that sent a shiver up her spine. It was heavier now, more protective. She wondered if the added weight was meant to mirror the burden she carried within herself, a burden Lady Marcelline had placed on her long ago.
Slowly, she began the process of putting on her armor. First, the leather undergarments, worn soft from years of use, snug against her skin. Then, the breastplate, securing the straps across her chest with a practiced efficiency. She paused as the cold metal pressed against her, inhaling deeply as her fingers worked the buckles. Each movement was slow, methodical, as if prolonging the ritual would steady her fraying nerves.
Next came the arm guards, their intricate designs of dragons and scales winding up her forearms, locking into place with a satisfying click. She ran her fingers over the surface, tracing the patterns, trying to find strength in the familiar sensation of the armor’s weight. Her gaze drifted to her reflection in the darkened window—her pale skin stark against the shining silver, her wet hair still clinging to her face.
She would need to braid it.
Ayla reached for the comb on the table and began the slow, deliberate process of braiding her golden hair. Each twist of the strands felt like weaving order into chaos, a task that required focus. Her fingers moved with muscle memory, braiding tightly, neatly, as she always had before battle. As she braided, she couldn’t help but think of Paola, how the wild and fiery woman had once playfully unraveled her braids just to see her reaction. A small smile tugged at her lips, but it was fleeting, disappearing as quickly as it had come.
Once her hair was tied back, she finished with the greaves, fastening them securely around her shins. She straightened, feeling the full weight of the armor settle around her. There was something comforting about the cold metal against her skin, something that reminded her she was still strong, still capable. Still a warrior. Yet, deep inside, the uncertainty gnawed at her.
A soft knock at the door broke her thoughts.
Ayla turned to see Gwenore standing in the doorway, her eyes sharp and unreadable.
"Lady Marcelline would like a word," Gwenore said, her voice as neutral as always.
Ayla felt a flicker of something—anticipation, anxiety—rise in her chest. She had expected this, but that didn’t make it any easier. Nodding silently, she followed Gwenore through the quiet halls of the estate, her boots echoing softly against the polished marble floors. The closer they got to Lady Marcelline’s office, the heavier the air felt, as if the very walls were bearing witness to something that had yet to unfold.
When they reached the double doors of the office, Gwenore stepped aside, allowing Ayla to enter alone.
Lady Marcelline’s office overlooked the vast city of Valarian, its towering spires and the arched ribs of the ancient Leviathan rising into the sky. The room was bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, casting long shadows across the intricately carved furniture and shelves filled with arcane tomes. Lady Marcelline herself sat behind her desk, dressed in full robes and gown, the fabric shimmering with subtle motifs of the Leviathan and woven with delicate defensive runes. Her presence was as commanding as ever, regal and composed, yet today, there was something in her gaze that Ayla couldn’t quite place.
"Ayla," Lady Marcelline said, her voice soft, inviting. "Come in, dear."
Ayla stepped forward, the weight of her armor a constant reminder of her role, of her duty. She crossed the room slowly, each step measured, and sat across from Lady Marcelline, doing her best to maintain her composure. Her heart raced, but she met her Lady’s gaze with steady determination.
Lady Marcelline smiled, the gesture graceful and warm, though there was a calculating sharpness in her eyes. "It’s been too long since we’ve had a proper conversation, hasn’t it?" she began, her tone light, almost affectionate. "How have you been, since your return?"
Ayla hesitated for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "I’ve been well, my Lady. The journey was... difficult, but we completed the mission as instructed." She paused, glancing at the window where the ribs of the Leviathan loomed. "Cassian has the Fallen Star. I expected him to return before me, but I’ve heard nothing."
Lady Marcelline’s eyes flickered with something—amusement, perhaps—but she remained calm, composed. "Yes, Cassian will return in due time. His path is... different from yours, Ayla. There are things in motion that you are not yet privy to." She waved her hand dismissively, as if the matter of Cassian was of little consequence. "But tell me, how is Paola? How is your... relationship with her?"
The question caught Ayla off guard, though she quickly recovered. She straightened in her seat, her voice steady, confident. "Paola is doing well, my Lady. Our relationship is... good. Strong."
Lady Marcelline’s expression didn’t change. There was no reaction, no flicker of approval or disapproval. She simply nodded, as if she had already known the answer.
"That’s good to hear," Lady Marcelline said, her voice cool. "You have always been dedicated, Ayla. To your duties, to your role as my Sword Maiden. I expect nothing less when it comes to your personal affairs." Her tone was casual, but there was an underlying tension in her words, something Ayla couldn’t quite place.
Ayla nodded, though the unease in her chest grew. She had wanted to speak of so much—of the journey, of what had happened, of her suspicions—but Lady Marcelline seemed to guide the conversation with effortless grace, keeping Ayla on edge.
"And the journey?" Lady Marcelline continued, her fingers tracing the edge of the desk. "How did it go after the incident with the Fallen Star?"
"It went well," Ayla replied, her voice quieter now. She knew this was the moment, the moment she needed to speak up. To ask the questions that had been plaguing her since they left for the mission. "My Lady... there’s something I need to ask."
Lady Marcelline raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharpening slightly, but she gestured for Ayla to continue.
Ayla took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Ta'huka. The limited supplies. It felt... deliberate. We were left vulnerable. Why?"
The silence that followed was heavy, the air thick with tension. Lady Marcelline’s expression remained calm, unbothered. She tilted her head slightly, as if considering her response carefully.
"Ta'huka," she began, her voice smooth as silk, "was acting of his own accord. His ambitions... clouded his judgment. But you needn’t worry about him now. He is dead, is he not?"
Ayla nodded, though the answer didn’t sit well with her. "Yes. He’s dead. But the supplies—the potions. We were unprepared for the Beaststorm. It wasn’t—"
Lady Marcelline cut her off with a raised hand, her smile never wavering. "Ayla, you are my finest warrior. A Beaststorm is nothing you cannot handle. It disappoints me that so many potions were used. Two greater and two lesser? I had expected more from you."
Ayla’s heart sank. The conversation wasn’t going the way she had hoped. This wasn’t what she had expected from Lady Marcelline. There was a coldness, a distance in her words that stung more than any reprimand ever could.
She looked to Lady Marcelline not as others did, but as something more. A mother figure. The woman who had shaped her, guided her, given her purpose. But now, sitting across from her, Ayla felt the cracks in that image growing wider.
Lady Marcelline stared out the window for a long moment, as if lost in thought. Her hands rested lightly on the desk, her fingers tracing invisible patterns across the wood. The silence stretched on, heavy and oppressive, until finally, she spoke again.
"What is done cannot be undone, Ayla," Lady Marcelline said softly, her voice tinged with sadness. She turned her gaze back to Ayla, her expression gentle, but the weight of her words was undeniable. "Perhaps... it is time I told you the truth."
Ayla’s breath caught in her throat. The truth. The way Lady Marcelline said it, with that faint frown and the sadness in her eyes—it sent a chill down Ayla’s spine.
"What truth?" Ayla asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lady Marcelline sighed, her gaze distant once more. "There are things I have kept from you, Ayla. Things that, once revealed, will change the way you see everything. Including me."
Ayla’s heart raced, her mind spinning with possibilities, with questions that threatened to overwhelm her. She gripped the edge of her seat, her knuckles white.
"What are you talking about?" Ayla demanded, her voice trembling with the weight of her fear and anticipation.
Lady Marcelline’s gaze met hers, unwavering, unflinching.
"This may be hard for you to accept," she said softly, "but you deserve to know. The truth about your contract. The truth about your role here. And the truth... about me."
Ayla blinked, her breath caught in her throat. The air in the room seemed to thicken, as if the very atmosphere was closing in around her. Lady Marcelline's icy blue eyes held her in place, their piercing gaze delving into Ayla’s soul, into the depths of her heart. The weight of those eyes was overwhelming, making her feel small, exposed, vulnerable in a way she hadn’t felt in years. And the sigh that followed—it was the sigh of a disappointed parent, of someone who had hoped for more and was resigned to a bitter truth.
Ayla had faced countless enemies, stood her ground in battles where the odds were stacked against her. But sitting in front of Lady Marcelline now, she felt completely disarmed.
"I imagine you're confused, Ayla," Lady Marcelline said gently, her tone soft but carrying a deep undercurrent of something far more sinister. She gestured gracefully toward the window, where the distant spires of Valarian loomed against the sky. “You always were quick to pick up on things, but some truths... some truths are harder to swallow, even for you."
Ayla didn’t speak. She couldn’t. She felt like she was standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable, and her next step would send her tumbling into an abyss from which there was no escape.
Lady Marcelline continued, her voice unnervingly calm, as though they were simply discussing courtly matters, nothing more. "The Festival of Breath is in two days. The city is preparing, as always, to celebrate the Leviathan’s gift to this land. The Duke and Duchess will take center stage, and I will be with them."
Ayla’s brow furrowed. She couldn’t understand where this was going. What did the festival have to do with anything? Why was Lady Marcelline speaking so casually, yet with such underlying intensity?
Lady Marcelline’s icy blue eyes, piercing and unrelenting, held Ayla captive, like a predator toying with its prey.
"Your job will be to protect me when things go wrong," Lady Marcelline said calmly, her voice steady and matter-of-fact, as if they were discussing the mundane details of some festival, not the sinister implications of what was to come. She gestured slightly to the side, where the city of Valarian stretched out below the grand window, its towering spires and twisting streets gleaming faintly in the evening light.
Ayla opened her mouth, but no words came. What was this about an attack? What was going wrong? The Festival of Breath was just days away, and her duty was always to protect her Lady during such public appearances. It was nothing new, nothing alarming. But there was something more, something in the way Lady Marcelline was speaking that sent a chill crawling up Ayla’s spine.
"Things will go wrong," Lady Marcelline continued, her gaze never wavering. "I already know it. The attack has been planned, though I’m afraid I have yet to uncover exactly who is orchestrating it. I am close. Very close. But time is not on our side."
An attack. Her mind raced, trying to piece together what this all meant. And yet, there was more—there was always more. Lady Marcelline’s calm, composed exterior never gave away everything at once. She was always steps ahead, playing a game that Ayla could only ever hope to understand.
And then, in the same breath, Lady Marcelline uttered the words that made Ayla’s blood turn to ice.
"I’m Voidborne," she said, as casually as one might mention the weather.
The words hung in the air like a dark cloud, suffocating the space between them. Voidborne. From another world, like Paola. Ayla’s heart pounded in her chest, a cold sweat breaking out across her skin. Voidborne—beings who came from beyond Udanara, from a place of mystery and power, a place so far removed from anything Ayla could comprehend. And her Lady was one of them?
"Yes," Lady Marcelline said, as if reading the confusion written across Ayla’s face. "I am from Earth, like your dear Paola. But I’ve been here much longer, and I have learned... things."
Ayla’s mind struggled to grasp what she was hearing. Her Lady—her mentor, the woman she had sworn her loyalty to for years—wasn’t from this world. She wasn’t even of this world. Ayla’s thoughts raced back to Paola, to the day she learned of her Voidborne nature. And now, standing in front of Lady Marcelline, the revelation was almost too much to bear.
Why was she telling her this? Why now?
Before Ayla could ask, Lady Marcelline’s expression shifted, a softness entering her features that sent a ripple of unease through Ayla’s body. "You’re wondering why I’m telling you all this," Lady Marcelline said, her voice quiet and tinged with sorrow. "And I don’t blame you. It must be... difficult to understand."
The Lady’s gaze dropped, as if weighed down by something unspoken, and when she looked back at Ayla, there was a sadness in her eyes that Ayla had never seen before.
"Ayla," Lady Marcelline began, her tone gentle, almost maternal, "I pulled you into a contract that cannot be undone."
Ayla’s heart stopped. She had heard those words before, but never like this. Never with such weight, such finality. Her body tensed, every muscle rigid as the truth began to dawn on her, piece by piece.
"The contract I made with you, Ayla," Lady Marcelline said softly, "is one that binds you to me in ways you do not yet fully understand."
Ayla swallowed hard, her throat tight, her voice barely above a whisper. "I... I don’t understand."
Lady Marcelline’s face softened, her gaze drifting back toward the window, toward the sprawling city below. "It’s called the Leviathan’s Covenant," she said quietly. "A contract of such power that it extends beyond life and death. You’ve felt it before, haven’t you? That pull, that sense that no matter where you are, no matter what happens... you are bound to me."
Ayla’s breath hitched in her throat. Yes. She had felt it. That unshakable loyalty, that need to protect Lady Marcelline at all costs, even when it went against her own desires. But she had always believed it was because of her duty, her sense of honor. She had never imagined it was something more... something supernatural.
"The Leviathan’s Covenant binds your soul to mine," Lady Marcelline explained, her voice barely above a whisper now. "It is a contract that cannot be broken, not by any force in this world or the next. The only way for it to be undone... is through death."
Ayla’s heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to scream, to deny it, but the truth weighed her down, sinking into her bones like cold iron.
"But that’s not what I’m sorry for," Lady Marcelline continued, her voice tinged with regret. "I’m sorry because of what is about to happen, and how you... and Paola... are both tangled in this web of fate."
"Paola?" Ayla’s voice cracked, her mind snapping to attention at the mention of Paola’s name.
"Yes," Lady Marcelline said softly, her gaze locking onto Ayla’s. "Paola will be drawn into the coming conflict. The people planning the attack—Thrix and Nathor—they’ve been scheming for a long time, and their plans will ensnare her as well. Whether you want it or not, Paola is already a part of this."
Ayla’s blood ran cold. Thrix and Nathor—two of the most dangerous figures in Valarian’s underworld. The idea that they were plotting something that involved Paola, that could put her in danger, was more than she could bear.
But Lady Marcelline wasn’t finished. Her eyes darkened, and her voice took on a new edge, something far more ominous.
"You see, Ayla," Lady Marcelline said, "the Leviathan’s Covenant has a price. A price that cannot be avoided. When the attack comes, your job will be simple: you must kill anyone who comes for my head."
Ayla’s breath caught in her throat, her body going rigid. Her job... was to kill. But what if Paola was among them? What if the people coming for Lady Marcelline included the woman she loved?
The silence in the room was deafening, thick and suffocating. Lady Marcelline’s gaze remained steady, her eyes holding Ayla’s with an almost tender sorrow.
"I’m sorry, Ayla," Lady Marcelline said quietly, her voice filled with genuine regret. "I never wanted this for you. I never wanted you to be caught in such a cruel web of fate. But what is done... cannot be undone. You are bound to me, and when the time comes, you will have to make a choice."
Ayla’s world shattered around her. She stared at Lady Marcelline, her heart pounding, her thoughts a tangled mess of fear, anger, and betrayal. The woman she had looked to as a mentor, as a mother figure, had bound her in a contract she hadn’t even understood. A contract that could only be broken through death.
The weight of it all pressed down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. She wanted to run, to scream, to break free of this suffocating bond. But she couldn’t. The Leviathan’s Covenant held her in its unyielding grasp, and there was no escape.
Lady Marcelline’s face softened once more, and she reached out, her hand hovering over Ayla’s shoulder. "You were always my favorite, Ayla. That is why this is so difficult. But no matter what happens, you must remember... you are my Sword Maiden. And your duty is to me."
Ayla felt the tears prick at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She couldn’t afford to be weak. Not now. Not when everything was falling apart.
"I... I can’t," Ayla whispered, her voice trembling.
"You must," Lady Marcelline replied, her voice gentle but firm. "Because when the time comes, the contract will compel you. And you will not have a choice."
Ayla’s chest tightened, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She was trapped. Trapped in a contract she hadn’t fully understood, bound to a woman she had trusted implicitly, and now... now Paola was at risk. The woman she loved was caught in the same web of deception and lies.
"I’m sorry, Ayla," Lady Marcelline said, her voice soft and sorrowful. "I truly am."
The silence that followed felt like the chasm she had once crossed, the one that had made her feel so free when the bridge fell behind her and severed her from her old life. But now, she realized it had never been freedom at all—it was a circle, a trap. She was bound by the Leviathan’s Covenant, destined either to lay down her sword and break the contract, giving up her life… or kill the one person who made her heart beat again. Paola. Her beloved.
There was no escape.