Chapter 4: Lady Aeternum.

The stabbing pain in Elara's shoulder jolted her awake, sharp enough to drag her from the haze of uneasy dreams. She sucked in a breath, her eyes fluttering open as the pale light streaming into the cave confirmed it was still daylight. The sight brought a groan of frustration. She hadn't rested long enough, and her body was still far from recovered. Yet, the biting cold from before had abated, replaced by a dull ache in her limbs and a small, tenuous warmth in her core.

As she shifted to sit up, her shoulder throbbed violently, forcing her to stifle a cry. The crude bandage she had fashioned earlier was soaked through, its poor state mocking her desperate efforts. Now that her body was no longer as stiff and cold, the full extent of her injuries made itself known. Her ribs ached with every breath, her muscles protested each movement, and the stinging cuts on her hands reminded her of the skirmish that had nearly cost her everything. She pressed her palm against the jagged wall for support, shivering slightly as her damp clothes clung to her skin.

The memory of the wolf flashed through her mind again. Its blue eyes, watching and observing her carefully with human intelligence, still sent goosebumps racing across her skin. The question remained lodged in her thoughts like a sticky note she couldn't peel off, no matter how hard she tried: Why did it carry her here instead of attacking? It had chosen to protect her from the harsh cold when it could have ended her like any beast would. Why? But, the question loomed, heavy and unsettling, without an answer.

A loud growl from her stomach shattered her train of thought, dragging her attention to more immediate concerns. Hunger clawed at her, insistent and unignorable. She cast a wary glance around the semi-dark cave, its jagged walls looming overhead. The faint light seeping in from the entrance was just enough to navigate without tripping, but not enough to reveal every nook and cranny. A steady drip echoed somewhere in the corner, water pooling slowly onto the cold stone floor. Her eyes lingered on the water, and her brother's words echoed in her mind: "Never drink water from an unknown source unless you're certain it's safe. No matter how desperate you are, it's better to endure thirst than to risk bacteria or poison—it could cost you your life." Shaking off the memory, she refocused her gaze. There was nothing else here—no food, no supplies, just her and the occasional howl of the wind outside.

She needed to move.

"Food first," she murmured under her breath. Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper in the cavernous space. "Then… a way out."

The idea of a hospital briefly crossed her mind. Her injuries were severe—far beyond what she could handle with her limited resources. But hospitals meant questions. Questions about where she had been, what had happened to her, and why she was alone and battered in the middle of nowhere. And questions meant attention. She could still see the faces of the men who had pursued her, their cold, calculating eyes promising they would finish what they had started if given the chance. No, a hospital wasn't an option. Not yet.

Elara exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Home," she decided. "I just need to get home." Once there, she could patch herself up, plan her next steps, and try to make sense of… everything. But first, she had to survive the day.

Her hands instinctively patted the ground, searching for her jacket. When her fingers brushed against fabric, she lifted it eagerly, but the sight that met her eyes made her freeze. It wasn't her jacket. Instead, it was a grey, almost black cloak now bloodied and unfamiliar. She didn't remember ever owning or using such a thing. The fur on the topmost area was intact, but the bottom was frayed and stained, reasons for its state remaining a mystery to Elara. One thing, however, was certain—this didn't belong to her. Her eyes then moved to her attire.

Gone were the black tights and button-up shirt she had worn just a day ago. Instead, she now wore sturdy grey pants, fitted with a belt around her thigh that held a dagger snugly in place. Another belt wrapped around her waist, its design suggesting a loop for a long stick—or perhaps a sword. Her grey shirt was patched with stains of dried blood, torn at the edges, and worn thin in places. The epaulets on her shoulders bore markings she didn't recognize, but their placement suggested they were meant to secure a cloak.

Then her eyes met the most bizarre thing... Her hair.

Elara's heart skipped a beat. Her hands trembled as they reached up, fingers brushing against locks of shimmering silver and blue. It was unmistakable, the way the strands glinted faintly even in the dim light. This wasn't her hair. Her hair had always been black, as dark as the midnight sky. The reflection of her hands in the metallic strands sent a wave of unease rolling through her.

"What… what happened to me?" she whispered, her voice cracking. She tugged at a strand, as if to prove it wasn't real, but the tug sent a brief, stinging pain rippling through her scalp, grounding her in the reality of the change. It wasn't just her imagination—this hair was hers now, as alien as it felt.

Then her eyes moved to her attire. Had someone changed her clothes? Had someone… done this to her? The state of her shirt—the rips and wear—told a different story. These clothes had seen battle.

Before she could make sense of anything, faint voices echoed from outside the cave. The sound was distant, muffled by the wind, but unmistakable. Her pulse quickened as every muscle in her body tensed. Someone was out there. Slowly, she crept toward the cave entrance, the cold stone beneath her hands grounding her with every cautious movement. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she knew she needed to be closer to hear better.

"How much longer do we need to keep searching for her?" a man's voice reached her, faint but clear enough to make her breath hitch. They were looking for someone—for her. Were they sent by that man to finish her?

Another voice, exasperated, followed. "We've searched the entire mountain in just two days, when it takes a week for a proper expedition. I just want to rest!"

Elara's mind raced. Two days? She'd been unconscious for two days?

A third voice, deep and commanding, silenced the complaint. "We rest when we find the lady. The energy you're using to whine would be better spent searching. Keep moving."

The first man's voice rose again, uncertain. "How is he so sure she's on this side of the mountain? This side is…"

"Enough," the deep voice interrupted sharply. "If he says she's here, then she is. There may be hidden caves. Search thoroughly."

Their way of speaking was strange, archaic, as if they had stepped out of another time. Elara pressed herself against the wall, her grip tightening on the dagger. Something pricked at her mind. When had she picked it up? She had lost it when she fell unconscious in the jungle. Had someone… retrieved it for her? The memory of the wolf's blue eyes flashed again along with the strange man, but she shook her head. There was no time for that. The men were coming closer.

The exasperated voice sounded again, this time much nearer. "We've checked every crevice. If she's here, it has to be somewhere impossible to see. Or maybe… she's already entered the—"

"Quiet," the deep voice commanded. "Did you hear that? There was a sound."

Elara froze, her breath catching in her throat. She could hear the crunch of their footsteps in the snow. Her instincts screamed at her to run, but there was nowhere to go. The deep voice spoke again, closer than ever. "The wind? No… it's off. It's coming from below the ridge."

She stepped back, pressing herself into the shadows of the cave as the sound of their footsteps grew louder.

"Here," one of them said. "The wind is whistling around here. There's an opening."

Three figures appeared at the cave's entrance. They were dressed in what could only be described as medieval attire—black cloaks draped over leather armor and long-boots, swords strapped to their belts. Elara blinked, convinced her injuries were making her hallucinate. Who the hell wears costumes like this in the middle of nowhere? Some kind of reenactment? She pushed the thought aside as they stepped into the cave.

"Check inside," one of them barked.

Her grip tightened on the dagger, her eyes narrowing. They moved with precision and caution, their postures tense but not hostile. Still, she wasn't about to take chances.

The first man spotted her. "There!" he shouted.

Elara didn't hesitate. The moment the figures spotted her, her instincts flared. her battered body reacted before her mind could catch up, her dagger already raised, her arm swinging in a quick, brutal arc toward the first man.

Without a word, her blade cut through the air, aiming straight for his throat. The tall man barely had time to react, but his sword was there, blocking her attack with a resounding clang. He stumbled back a few steps, clearly surprised, but his training took over. The moment his sword deflected her strike, the other two men rushed forward, their eyes wide with a mix of confusion and concern.

"My lady, stop!" the one closest to her called, but Elara didn't hear him. Her world had narrowed to the raw fury and fear that kept her moving—this was her only chance. She was a fighter, not a victim. She wouldn't be taken easily.

The man in front of her stepped back, raising his sword to defend himself as she launched another strike, this time aiming for his side. The cut on her shoulder sent a violent shock of pain through her arm, but she ignored it, pushing forward. Her movements were wild, fueled by the chaos in her chest and the desperation to protect herself, but the men were skilled. They parried her strikes easily, their swords moving in a fluid, coordinated defense.

"You don't need to fight us," one of them said, his voice soft but urgent, as he deflected her blow and attempted to grab her wrist. "We mean you no harm. We're here to help."

But Elara was beyond reason, the pain of her injuries clouding her judgment. Her dagger danced in the air, slashing at anything within reach. The tall man blocked another blow, but she quickly spun, striking toward the second man. The cut in her shoulder flared again, nearly making her falter, but she pressed on. Her body was weakening, but her resolve remained.

A third man stepped forward, his sword raised in both hands. He didn't swing immediately; instead, he moved to block her path. "My lady, stop! We're not your enemies," he said, his voice deeper, more commanding. He tried to maneuver to her side to disarm her without harm.

Elara felt the tight grip of desperation, the weight of her injuries slowing her movements, exhaustion creeping into her limbs. Her vision blurred for a brief moment, but she shook it off, her dagger slashing in an erratic arc toward the third man. She refused to listen, refused to believe any of them. The world had taught her one brutal lesson: trust no one.

The third man sidestepped her attack with practiced ease, his movements precise yet cautious. He wasn't trying to harm her—his stance was defensive, his strikes calculated to disarm, not injure. "Please, my lady," he said again, his tone firm but almost pleading. "We're under orders to ensure your safety."

"Lies!" Elara spat, her voice rough with pain and fury. She feinted left before lunging to the right, aiming for the exposed side of his armor. But her body betrayed her—her injured shoulder gave out mid-strike, and she stumbled forward. The man seized the moment, stepping into her space and catching her wrist with a firm grip.

"Enough," he said quietly, his strength overpowering her weakened state. His hand closed around her other arm, trapping her in place. "You're injured. Fighting us will only make it worse."

Elara struggled against his hold, her breaths ragged and labored. "Let go of me," she snarled, thrashing in his grip, but her strength was failing fast. She could feel the heat of her blood soaking into the bandage on her shoulder, the relentless throbbing in her body a cruel reminder of her vulnerability.

The air around Elara crackled with tension as she fought against the group holding her. Their reassurances fell on deaf ears—her survival instincts screamed louder than their words. Every muscle in her body strained against their grip, her mind racing to find an escape.

"Calm down! You are only going to make your injuries worse!" one of the men said urgently, but Elara only glared, her movements growing more erratic.

"Calm down?" she snapped. "You expect me to trust a group of armed strangers dragging me off against my will?"

One of the men stepped forward cautiously, hands raised in a gesture of peace. "We're not here to hurt you! We were sent to find you."

"By who?" she demanded, her tone sharp, distrust burning in her eyes.

The man hesitated for a moment before answering, "House Aeternum."

Elara froze, her thrashing momentarily ceasing. The name should have meant something, but it didn't. She'd never heard of any House Aeternum, and her confusion only deepened. Still, she wasn't about to let them know that. Masking her bewilderment with hostility, she spat, "House Aeternum? Never heard of it. Why would anyone from there care about me?"

The man's brow furrowed, visibly caught off guard by her response. Before he could reply, another of the group—a lean figure with a sharp gaze—interjected. "We're mercenaries," he said curtly, as if trying to clarify. "Hired to find you."

The word hit her like a jolt. Mercenaries? Mercenaries were hired just to find her? It made no sense. Their presence only added to her suspicion. Her eyes narrowed as her struggles renewed.

"So now I'm supposed to believe a pack of sell-swords was sent for me?" she sneered. "What house hires mercenaries to do their work? And that too only to find a single person? You expect me to trust that?"

"Even mercenaries have honor," the lean man shot back, though there was a faint edge to his voice, like he was holding back frustration.

"Honor?" she bit out. "You'll forgive me if I don't take you at your word."

Her captors exchanged uneasy glances, clearly realizing their explanations weren't getting through. As Elara continued to struggle, one of them—a stocky man with piercing eyes—stepped forward. His gaze swept over her, scrutinizing her battered state.

"Lady Aeternum," he said firmly, his tone both commanding and exasperated, "are you seriously planning to go after your brother into the jungle in this condition? Look at yourself! What in the world made you look like this?"

The words slammed into her like a blow. She froze mid-struggle, her breath catching in her throat. Her brother. The words hung in the air, louder than everything else they'd said.

Her reaction wasn't lost on the men. The stocky man exchanged a look with his companions before muttering, "So it's true, then. You really were planning to go there." He turned back to her, his expression hardening. "You can't throw your life away like that, have you no consideration of the people you left behind. What are they going to do in your absence?"

Elara barely registered his words. Her thoughts had latched onto the single thread that mattered—her brother. How did they know about him? What else did they know? Her mind raced with questions, but she stayed silent, her sharp gaze locked on the group as she struggled to make sense of their words.

House Aeternum, mercenaries, my brother. The pieces didn't fit, but she wasn't about to trust anyone until she uncovered the truth.