The journeys that followed became routine.
Simple. Bureaucratic. Efficient.
This time, there was no invitation for her to accompany them. No long explanation. Just a message left on her breakfast table, written in the same precise handwriting as always:
The Alvorada departs with the morning tide. Everything is prepared.
Lyra reached the harbor before the sun had fully risen. The air still carried the cold scent of saltwater and old wood, now mingled with the smoke from industrial chimneys waking for the day. There were fewer people this time. Fewer emotional voices. Less desperate urgency.
The freed elves—a group of forty, rescued from an illegal mine in the west—stood in line near the pier.
Clean.
Dressed in gray travel clothes provided by the Institute.
Silent.
Not shackled.
Not bound.
That mattered. It was on that detail that Lyra fixed her gaze, trying to steady her conscience.
The Curator was already there.
He wasn't waiting for her—he simply existed in the space, as though the port belonged to him by administrative right. He was speaking with a short man holding a cargo ledger on a clipboard.
"Everything is in order," Cassian said when he noticed her approach, dismissing the man with a small wave. "Just as we agreed."
Lyra stopped beside him. She didn't look the elves in the eye. The memory of the man at the shelter—the quiet rejection in his gaze—still burned. She focused instead on the papers.
"I brought the documents," she said, opening the leather folder she carried. "Nussion's Department approved the funds last night."
She handed him a sealed envelope bearing the official seal of the Treasury.
"This covers travel expenses, supplies, and docking fees in Ilinea. I managed to convince the Council that repatriation is, in the long term, cheaper for the State than maintaining overcrowded shelters in the capital."
Cassian took the envelope.
Weighed it in his hand for a moment, as though judging Lyra's soul rather than the gold inside.
A slow, almost proud smile curved his lips.
"'Cheaper than maintaining shelters,'" he repeated, amused. "You're learning their language quickly, Lyra. Valerius must be delighted. You've turned charity into fiscal calculation."
Lyra stiffened.
"It's the only way to ensure this continues," she said. "Donation money runs out. State funding is law."
"Oh, I'm not criticizing," he replied, slipping the envelope into the inner pocket of his immaculate coat. "On the contrary. It's music to my ears. Idealism builds causes, Lyra—but gold builds ships."
He gestured briefly, and the line of elves began moving toward the gangplank.
"It's all been incorporated into the total cost," he added. "You don't need to worry about the financial logistics. The Institute covers any excess."
That phrase again.
You don't need to worry.
Lyra watched the group boarding.
"Do they know where they're going?"
"They know enough."
The answer came too quickly.
Lyra frowned, watching a mother adjust her child's hood.
"Enough?"
"They know they're leaving this place," Cassian corrected gently. "For somewhere they won't be hunted. For most of them, that's all that matters."
The ship began its preparations for departure.
Ropes loosened.
Sails snapped as they were raised into the wind.
No long goodbyes. No ceremony. Just human cargo being moved with administrative dignity.
"They'll arrive before the next rainy cycle," Cassian said, consulting a gold pocket watch. "Safely."
"And after that?" Lyra asked, feeling the need to confirm the destination.
"After…" He smiled, choosing the word carefully, looking toward the horizon instead of at her. "The world goes on. And we prepare the next shipment."
Lyra nodded.
Everything seemed correct.
The papers were signed. The money legalized. The people freed of chains.
It was a clean operation, financed by the very government that had once enslaved them.
It was a victory.
She remained on the pier until the hull of the Alvorada became nothing more than a thin, dark line against the rising sun.
When she turned to offer her thanks, the Curator was already walking away, accompanied by the men in gray—moving with the lightness of someone who had just been paid twice for the same service.
Everything seemed perfect.
And it was precisely that bureaucratic perfection
that made it impossible to notice the most important detail of all:
that this time,
she had not gone with them.
And no one on deck waved back.