A Coward

The rhythmic clatter of hooves quickened, as Elara urged the coachman to return to the castle in haste, piercing the stillness of the night.

The carriage jolted over the cobblestone road, swaying with every bump, sending a wave of dizziness through Lyla. She forced her eyes to squint at the papers in her hands, the dim flicker of the carriage lantern casting shadows that twisted over the words.

"Why are you so certain these letters and papers were left by Seer Nuntius for you, Your Grace?" Lyla asked, her eyes still glued to the pages in her hands.

"The blood arrow sign… and these herbs are worth enough for a year," Elara replied, her brow furrowing as she focused, her hands deftly opening each letter on her lap, reading them one by one.

"But... could it not just point to these herbs for you, Your Grace?" Lyla protested. "Look, this stack only holds his shrine's tab, financial reports, and a bunch of words I don't even understand," she muttered, pressing her temple to ease the dizziness swirling in her head.

For the past four years, Lyla had been Elara's most trusted confidante, the one she relied on to help her navigate life in the castle. 

In return, Elara had taught her to read and write in the Valloria language, grateful for Lyla's quick wit. But this had to remain a secret—maids in the palace were forbidden from literacy to prevent them from becoming spies. 

"If he only meant to leave the herbs for me, he could've just put them in the front compartment," Elara muttered, narrowing her eyes as she sorted a few sheets onto the carriage seat. "Lyla, separate the papers with Valloria's words from the ones you can't understand." 

Lyla pouted but obeyed. "Oh my goodness, why couldn't he just leave the herbs with a letter meant for you? That way, you wouldn't have to trouble yourself with all of this," she grumbled. 

Elara paused, turning to Lyla as she processed her words. "The ghost in there told me to take everything from the hidden compartment." 

Lyla froze mid-motion, furrowing her brows as she met Elara's gaze. They stared at each other for a moment before a small, knowing smile tugged at their lips—Her Grace was jesting.

Lyla had long learned to tell, at a single glance, whether Her Grace was being serious or jesting—even if, at times, her humor wasn't particularly amusing. 

They were only a year apart, and deep down, Lyla saw Her Grace Elara as an older sister, though she'd never dared to voice it aloud. 

"Perhaps he feared someone else would find the letter if my name was on it. This way, the pile disguises the real one," Elara reasoned as she continued sifting through the stack of letters and papers. "If that's the case, I have no idea why he thought I'd be able to find the actual letter." She furrowed her brow, sorting through the pages in her grasp. 

The carriage jolted over the rough, jagged path, throwing both Elara and Lyla off balance as several sheets slipped from their hands, scattering onto the floor. Lyla let out a weary sigh, gathering the fallen papers. "I hope the ghost told you which one is the real letter too." 

As Elara picked up a few scattered papers from the damp wooden floor of the carriage—moistened by the lingering humidity of late autumn—she furrowed her brow, bringing them closer to the swaying lantern's glow. Then, a faint smile tugged her lips.

"The ghost won't, but you are, Lyla." Her smile deepened. "The papers with words you don't understand—that's where the real letter is. Keep sorting."

"How do you know, Your Grace?"

"I'll explain later. Just keep separating them."

Lyla fell silent, obeying without further protest, though her mind refused to settle. The memory of the ruined shrine, the splattered blood—it clung to her thoughts like a shadow.

"But, Your Grace… why did something so brutal happen there? Where do you think Seer Nuntius might be? Is he still alive?" she asked cautiously.

Elara hesitated, her mind sifting through the possibilities of what she'd seen in the shrine. Her brows knitted.

"There was no one there, so we can't be sure if he's alive or not. But judging by the blood, the thick iron scent, the way it hasn't fully dried, it must've happened three to five days ago. And considering how he tried to leave a trace for me to notice… it has to be connected to me or my... Agatha."

While still focused on reorganizing the papers, Lyla nodded repeatedly, absorbing Elara's words. She wouldn't question further—when Her Grace spoke of smell, there was no doubt about it. The Marchioness never spoke nonsense about a scent.

"I need to find the letter first," Elara added, her expression hollow as she kept working through the scattered pages.

The shaking of the carriage lessened as it entered the smooth main road of Ravenswood. But the steady path that stabilized the carriage couldn't quiet the storm inside Elara's mind. 

She might've kept her composure because she needed to stand tall for Agatha, but what she'd witnessed at the shrine earlier still made her blood race. She could only hope that the dark feelings wouldn't prove true.

***

Reynand swung his sword in smooth arcs, his fingers grazing the steel as his lips moved in a hushed murmur. A faint white aura curled around the blade. 

With a single slash through the empty air, a sharp gust rippled forward, striking the wooden mannequins twenty feet ahead. 

They wavered, as if something unseen had brushed past them. Thin, precise cuts marred the wood—not deep enough to split, but enough to mark his intent. 

He approached them, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the wounds. Not sharp enough. Not clean enough. His grip tightened. 

Without hesitation, he drove his sword into the mannequins with brute force, slashing through them in a violent, final strike. 

Wood splintered, fragments crashing onto the ground of his private garden. The clattering sound dragged his memories back to the battlefield. 

The sight of his comrades collapsing, their bodies torn apart, still vividly haunted him. His fingers curled tighter around the hilt and clenched his jaw.

'The force is still too weak,' he thought, his gaze drifting over the shattered wood. A smirk tugged at his lips. 

'Perhaps the binder is a coward, that's why the spell weakens.' His smirk deepened, the thought amused him. 

Reynand couldn't really sleep since Elara left earlier. He should have told her—made it clear that their first night together, four years ago, was never a mistake he regretted. 

That night had fueled his will to survive this war. But seeing the shift in her demeanor, and the way she never once mentioned in her letters that she had borne his daughter, made him suspect she loathed him. 

And now, with the marriage alliance he carried home, the odds seemed stacked against him. Reynand exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He wasn't sure how to bring that matter to Elara—or if she ever cared at all.

"Whoaaaaa…!" A bubbly, loud voice echoed through the garden, followed by the gentle patter of claps that made Reynand turn his head.