(Lyria's POV)
Lyria entered the orphanage courtyard with a quiet, polite smile—
and immediately stopped.
Raven was there.
And she wasn't alone.
Ayla stood beside her, holding Raven's wrist, examining her palm like she was checking for injuries. They were standing very close. Far too close.
Lyria's breath caught.
What… what was this feeling in her chest?
Sharp. Heavy. Bitter.
Jealousy.
Ayla noticed Lyria first and stepped back, bowing politely.
"Your Highness," she said.
Raven turned only after Ayla released her hand.
"Princess," Raven murmured, neutral.
Too neutral.
Lyria forced a bright smile.
"Oh! I didn't expect to… interrupt."
Ayla quickly shook her hands. "N-no, not at all! I just came to check on Raven. I wanted to make sure she wasn't hurt."
Lyria's eye twitched.
She came all the way here?
For Raven?
Raven glanced at Ayla, confused by her fluster, then shrugged.
"I'm fine."
Ayla laughed nervously.
Lyria hated how cute that laugh sounded.
Cara leaned closer to Lyria and whispered:
"You're glaring , again ."
Lyria jerked. "I—I'm not!"
"You're absolutely glaring," Cara whispered.
"Like someone just tried to steal your dessert."
Lyria hissed under her breath, "I don't glare."
"You do when Raven's talking to a pretty girl," Cara replied with a grin.
Lyria's heart stopped.
"I—It's not like that!"
Cara raised an eyebrow.
"You're blushing."
Lyria slapped a hand to her cheek.
Oh gods, she was.
Cara crossed her arms, studying her princess.
"You like her," she said simply.
Not accusatory. Not teasing.
Just… stating a fact.
Lyria sputtered, "I— I don't— I just—"
"Well, if you don't," Cara said, tilting her head toward Raven and Ayla,
"then why do you look like you're about to challenge that blacksmith girl to a duel?"
Lyria froze.
She did.
Oh gods, she absolutely did.
"Cara…" she whispered painfully.
"What is wrong with me?"
Cara softened.
"You care about her. More than you want to admit."
Lyria swallowed hard.
"But would Raven ever care about me… that way?"
Cara's expression turned unreadable.
"Maybe," she said.
"But she's broken, Lyria. And she's afraid to let people close."
Lyria's chest tightened.
"I know…"
A sudden, sharp scream echoed from the street outside.
All four of them froze.
Another scream.
A crash.
Panicked footsteps.
Cara drew her blade instantly.
"What was that?"
Raven had already moved, slipping past them like a shadow.
Lyria's heart lurched— but she followed, skirts gathered in her hands.
Ayla stayed behind with the children.
They reached the market road in seconds.
And froze.
A creature—twisted, gaunt, with too-long limbs and black veins glowing faintly—
was ripping apart a vendor stall.
People scattered in terror.
Lyria whispered, horrified, "That's… a Hollowborn. But inside the city? That shouldn't be possible…"
Cara cursed.
"We need guards , We cannot handle this alone.—"
But Raven had already stepped forward.
Lyria choked out, "Raven, wait—even you can't fight him, he's too strong . "
The Hollowborn snapped its head toward Raven, letting out a rasping shriek.
Its eyes—if they could be called eyes—locked onto her sword.
Like it recognized it.
Raven tightened her grip.
Morivaine's voice coiled in her mind:
"It senses the blade.
It senses you."
The Hollowborn lunged.
Raven didn't hesitate.
And Lyria felt the world tilt.
Her fear for the civilians—
for Cara—
for the city—
vanished beneath one overwhelming, unbearable truth:
She was terrified of losing Raven.
More than anything.
The Hollowborn screamed—
Not a sound meant for ears, but for bones.
The street shuddered as if recoiling from its existence. Windows rattled violently, glass fracturing in spiderweb patterns, and a metallic taste filled the air.
Raven moved before thought could catch her.
"Cara—take her. Now."
Cara didn't hesitate. She dragged Lyria backward just as the creature's claws tore into the ground. Stone burst upward, shards flying like shrapnel. The place where Lyria had stood was reduced to rubble.
Lyria's breath locked in her chest.
She tasted dust.
Fear.
Blood—though she wasn't yet bleeding.
Raven stepped forward alone.
She did not rush.
She did not hesitate.
She claimed the space between the monster and the living.
The sword at her hip stirred.
Not metal.
Never just metal.
It pulsed once, slow and deliberate, like the first beat of a heart long dead and now awakening.
A low, predatory hum seeped into the air, vibrating beneath the skin, rattling teeth. It was the sound of hunger remembering itself.
When Raven drew the blade—
The world buckled.
Air screamed as a shockwave tore outward, slamming into walls and sending dust spiraling into choking clouds. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, bending toward the weapon as if drawn by gravity.
Dark smoke coiled around the black hilt and crawled up Raven's arm, wrapping her skin in living night. It did not burn.
It recognized her.
Cara swore, the word torn from her throat.
Lyria felt something twist painfully inside her chest.
This power did not feel borrowed.
It felt claimed.
The Hollowborn hissed, its body jerking in broken, insect-like motions. Its voice vibrated like shattered glass dragged across stone.
Then—
It spoke.
Not words.
A presence forcing meaning directly into flesh and bone.
"Raven."
Her spine locked.
The creature's jaw split wider than nature allowed, blackness pouring from its mouth like oil.
"I have crossed death to find you."
Lyria's blood turned to ice.
"What—what is it saying?" she whispered, panic cracking her voice.
Cara shook her head slowly. "I hear nothing. Just noise."
But Raven heard everything.
Every syllable struck her like a remembered wound.
"Why?" Raven answered in the same ancient, brutal tongue—each word tasting of ash and old blood.
The Hollowborn convulsed.
"Commanded."
"Chosen."
"By Seraphielle."
The name split Raven open.
Fire.
Stone.
A temple collapsing in on itself.
White wings unfolding like knives against a burning sky.
Hands pressed into scorched marble.
A scream—hers—ripped raw from her throat.
Pain so vast it hollowed her soul and left something else in its place.
Lyria watched Raven change.
Fear flickered.
Recognition struck.
Fury erupted.
Then rage—pure and endless—flooded her expression.
A black aura poured from Raven like a funeral fog, heavy enough to bow the air, thick enough to suffocate light. Even the Hollowborn hesitated.
Lyria trembled.
What did they do to her?
Who is Seraphielle?
What kind of past could carve this much darkness into a person?
The Hollowborn lunged.
Raven met it head-on.
Steel collided with corrupted flesh in a deafening impact that rang down the street like a bell for the dead. Black energy erupted along the blade, searing into the creature's body.
It screamed—not in defiance, but in agony.
The sword drank deeply.
Every strike fed it.
Every wound awakened it.
It pulsed harder, hotter, alive in Raven's hands.
She vanished.
One moment she was there—the next she was behind it.
The Hollowborn spun, claws shrieking through empty air.
Raven moved with impossible grace.
She cut tendons.
Split joints.
Carved precise lines of destruction through unnatural flesh.
Not mercy.
Execution.
This was not a duel.
This was slaughter refined into art.
"Gods…" Lyria breathed.
Cara stepped in front of her without looking away.
"Do not look too long, Your Highness."
But Lyria couldn't stop.
There was beauty in it.
A terrible, mesmerizing beauty.
The Hollowborn gathered itself, desperation twisting its form. With a final roar, it hurled itself at Raven, claws extended, body unraveling.
Raven did not step aside.
She stepped forward.
The blade ignited.
Black fire roared to life, screaming silently as it devoured the air around it. Shadows bent inward, collapsing toward the weapon.
Raven's swing was flawless.
A single arc.
Perfect.
Final.
SHHHK—
The Hollowborn came apart mid-motion, its body unraveling into ash and drifting fragments before it could even hit the ground.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Absolute.
The sword hummed in satisfaction, a low purr of completion, before the darkness slowly withdrew back into the steel.
Raven stood unmoving.
Unmarked.
Unbroken.
Lyria exhaled shakily, her legs threatening to fail her.
Raven turned.
Her face was a mask—empty, distant, as if something essential had been pulled far away.
Lyria met her gaze and felt fear coil around her heart—
Alongside awe.
Alongside something dangerously close to devotion.
Cara approached carefully.
"Raven… what did it say to you?"
Raven cleaned the blade with methodical precision.
"Nothing that matters."
A lie.
Lyria felt it settle in her bones.
She stepped forward despite the fear.
"Raven… why did it know your name?"
Raven sheathed the sword.
"For the same reason it died," she said quietly.
"Because it was sent for me."
Lyria's breath hitched.
Raven walked past them, shoulders tight, footsteps heavy.
As she passed, the sword at her hip pulsed faintly—once… twice…
And in a voice barely louder than the whisper of ash, Raven said:
"More will come."