Date: August 5, 541 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The escape plan was honed to perfection. Eliza, having exchanged her embroidered silks for simple canvas trousers and a loose dark shirt, stood frozen by her open bedroom window. The inner radiance that filled her Vessel made her body almost weightless. She was no longer a noble lady—now she was merely a shadow, gliding easily down the wall's ledge into the embrace of the evening garden.
The girl landed softly in the thick grass, making almost no sound. Her physical form, hardened to the Warrior level, instantly absorbed the jump's inertia. Eliza crouched, making her way through a living hedge of jasmine. The scent of the flowers went to her head, promising adventures beyond the estate's wrought-iron gates.
She had almost reached the low stone wall, beyond which the road to the city began, when suddenly from the deep shadow of an ancient chestnut tree came an even, slightly ironic voice:
"My lady, you forgot your traveling cloak. Aurelia's evenings have become cool, and a cold doesn't pair well with your optimism."
Eliza flinched and spun around. A few paces from her, hands clasped behind his back, stood Master Harren—the eldest steward of the house. His immaculate black doublet seemed to absorb light, and on his face, lined with fine wrinkles, was an expression of polite calm. Harren's inner essence, corresponding to the Pillar rank, was so deeply hidden beneath a mask of service that only another practitioner could feel the heavy, unshakeable power emanating from him.
"Harren!" Eliza exhaled, pressing her hand to her heart. "Will you ever stop appearing so suddenly?"
"That is part of my duties, my lady," the steward stepped forward, handing her a simple grey cloak of thick cloth. "The Baroness asked me to remind you that the cook is preparing your favorite apricot pie for dinner. It would be most unfortunate if it had to be reheated because of your... scientific interest in the life of the urban lower classes."
Eliza froze, taking the cloak. There was no reproach in Harren's eyes—only a quiet, barely perceptible warmth. The girl suddenly understood: her mother not only knew about her escapes, she gave her silent blessing. The stern baroness, whose life was dedicated to administering the province, created this window into the real world for her daughter with her own hands, protecting her joy through the loyal Harren.
"Thank you, Harren," Eliza smiled, and the golden glint of her Spirit lit her face for a moment. "Tell Mama I won't be late."
"Try not to stay out until dark, my lady," Harren inclined his head slightly, retreating back into the shadows. "Even in the brightest city, there are corners the sun doesn't reach."
The city greeted Eliza with noise, the smells of fried fish, and the salty sea wind. Aurelia was a living, pulsating organism, where the luxury of balls coexisted with the hard labor of artisans. Eliza walked through the bustling streets, her cloak's hood pulled up. Passersby didn't recognize her as a noble, but involuntarily followed her with their eyes: an odd sense of peace emanated from this girl, as if her presence slightly smoothed the frowns of tired townspeople.
It was the passive echo of her Spirit, the Golden Thread. The finest, invisible connections stretched from her to those around her, momentarily extinguishing flashes of anger in queues and making grumpy traders soften their tone.
In the Artisans' Quarter, in a small square by an old well, they were already waiting for her. It was a group of young people, her peers, just seventeen years old. Despite the hard work in bakeries, workshops, and fishing boats, the fire of youth, which Eliza valued so much, still burned in their eyes.
"Look who finally made it out!" boomed Tim, a burly young man whose hands were covered in burns from bakery ovens.
"We thought the Baroness had locked you in a tower for your latest prank," laughed Sara, who worked at an orphanage. She looked prematurely adult, and her gaze was too serious for seventeen, but beside Eliza, her face always relaxed.
The Fisher brothers, Lucas and Mark, just back from the day's catch, were there too, along with a few other peers. For them, Eliza wasn't "my lady." She was a friend—someone who could support them in difficult times not only with words, but with that inexplicable inner warmth she brought with her.
"Tim says a 'sea firefly' was seen at the old pier today," Lucas adjusted the hemp rope on his shoulder. "If we catch it, we can get a couple of silvers for it at the Institute."
"Or just admire it," Eliza pulled back her hood, and her golden hair spilled over her shoulders. "Well, shall we go? I heard fireflies only appear when the water is very calm."
The group of young people moved towards the port. Eliza walked in the center, listening to their stories about grain prices, the Dynasty's new taxes, and the small joys of their hard lives. She felt every thread connecting her to these people. Her inner Warrior radiance resonated with their simple desires.
In this circle, Eliza felt that her "Better World" wasn't a utopia from books, but this very connection. A world where every Pillar or Adept would use their power not for suppression, but so that guys like Tim or Sara would have a little more time for walks by the sea.
"Last one to the pier pays for the lemonade!" Mark shouted, dashing off.
With laughter and shouts, the seventeen-year-olds raced along the embankment. Eliza ran among them, feeling her Spirit vibrate joyfully within, ready at any moment to manifest as a golden radiance to protect this moment of pure, unclouded happiness.