In times as chaotic as these, the appearance of bandits was no longer rare. They sprouted like weeds through cracked soil, feeding off weakened laws and a frightened populace. And tonight, one of those groups stood blocking the road.

Riven felt his battle instincts stirring. His hand reflexively moved to the hilt of Riftmaker, the sword always sheathed on his back—cold to the touch, but familiar. He prepared himself, knowing he might have to draw it at any moment.

But before he could act, Lyanna was already on her feet. Without a word, she opened the carriage door and stepped out with steady, deliberate movements.

"I'll handle this," she said flatly, her voice cold as the morning mist.

Daphne and Sally glanced at her, then gave small nods. There was no hesitation—they trusted her. Perhaps they knew what she was capable of. Or perhaps they understood something else: Lyanna was in no mood to be trifled with tonight.

Outside, the coachman—a well-built young man with a sword at his waist—was already on guard. As soon as he saw Lyanna approaching, his tone turned sharp, almost anxious.

"My Lady, please return to the carriage. I can handle this. I was given orders by Lord Rathsture to protect all of you."

Lyanna barely spared him a glance. She knew this man wasn't just a driver—he was one of House Rathsture's knights. She also knew he could take down all twelve of those bandits alone.

But tonight, she didn't need protection.

She needed release.

She needed to prove—if only to herself—that she wasn't some little girl to be kept behind palace walls.

"I'll deal with them," she said coldly. "You stay and guard the carriage."

"But my Lady—"

"Do you doubt my abilities as well?" she cut in, eyes sharp and biting.

The coachman quickly bowed, lowering his head. "I wouldn't dare."

Lyanna walked forward, the night wind brushing strands of her hair across her face as she stepped into the moonlight. Her pale blue eyes gleamed with a quiet fury.

In front of her stood about twelve men, their formation loose and disorganized. Their clothes were tattered, some wore makeshift masks. A few held rusted swords, others gripped axes, clubs, or crude spears.

They burst out laughing the moment they saw her—a young, beautiful woman stepping alone from a noble carriage.

One of them, likely the leader, spat on the ground and jeered, "Well, well, what do we have here? A Lady stepping out all on her own? Maybe she's tired of riding and wants a real man's touch?"

The others howled with laughter, their voices shattering the stillness of the night. One man stepped forward, swinging a wooden club lazily.

"Don't worry, miss. We'll treat you real nice. And after we're done with you, we'll make sure to entertain the rest of your carriage friends too…"

Another added, mocking, "What perfect timing. We were just looking for some late-night fun!"

"Soft skin and a pretty face," another sneered, licking his lips. "She'll be a real treat. After we're done, we can take turns."

"How many inside the carriage?" said the one in front. "Three? Four? I hope they're all women. Tonight's gonna be a party!"

"But careful not to damage them too much. Noble girls fetch a high price on the slave market!" another shouted, laughter erupting again.

Their vulgar words poured like sewage—filthy, full of lewd threats, each one worse than the last.

"You're too pretty to resist, Lady. Just give up now, kneel at our feet, and we might be gentle when we take your virtue."

"Look at that dress… fine silk, flawless skin. Untouched. Tonight, you'll learn what it means to belong to us."

Their laughter was vile, perverse. Their words disgusting even by battlefield standards—let alone in front of a noblewoman.

Lyanna stood still, expression unreadable. But her eyes burned.

She was done being underestimated. Done being seen as weak.

These twelve men… were the perfect outlet.

Without warning, she moved.

Her fist slammed into the jaw of the closest bandit—CRACK! The man's feet lifted off the ground before his body crashed down, skull smashing against a rock.

Dead. Instantly.

The rest froze.

Then panic took hold.

"She's not normal!"

"She's a damn monster!"

"All together—KILL HER!"

Three charged from the front. Lyanna spun, avoiding a sword slash, then swept one man's legs from under him. As he hit the ground, she drove her knee into his chest—CRUNCH—ribs shattered. She turned, parried the second attacker's blade with her arm, then smashed her elbow into his nose. Bone crumpled. He dropped.

The third tried stabbing from behind.

Too late.

Lyanna pivoted and kicked him in the chest. He flew three meters before hitting the dirt, motionless.

Nine left.

Two moved in from both sides. Lyanna leapt into the air, spinning. Her heel came down on one man's shoulder—SNAP! He screamed, only to be silenced by a fist to the temple.

The rest attacked together. Blades and clubs swung through the air.

She danced between them like a shadow.

Dodging, deflecting, striking back with bone-breaking precision. A throat crushed. A sternum shattered. A jaw broken with a single punch.

Six… five… four…

The ground turned red.

Three remained.

Two turned to flee.

No chance.

Lyanna dashed after them, impossibly fast. She grabbed one by the collar and slammed him into a tree—CRACK! His skull split on impact. The other was kicked down, then beaten mercilessly.

One left.

The last bandit stood frozen. Pale. Trembling. He dropped his weapon and turned to run.

Too late.

Lyanna lunged, her foot slamming into his back—CRACK! His spine broke. He dropped, lifeless.

.

.

From behind the carriage curtain, Riven watched in silence.

He didn't move. Just stared as Lyanna cut down twelve men in minutes. Efficient. Cold. Relentless.

He was… surprised.

She had come across as an arrogant and refined noble girl—poised and sharp-tongued. But in combat, she became something else entirely. Cold. Precise. Absolutely merciless.

He recalled her affinity: Wrath.

He hadn't known what that meant, what kind of power it implied.

Now he did.

It coursed through her like wildfire. Raw strength. Sharpened instincts. And the will to fight without mercy.

She killed them all. Left none alive.

Not out of cruelty.

But because she understood something vital: letting even one escape could bring disaster.

If word got out about them—if reinforcements came, or someone tracked them—it could turn this quiet journey into a blood-soaked pursuit.

Lyanna wouldn't risk that.

Riven leaned back, gazing through the carriage window at the pale moonlight above.

"…She's not naive at all," he muttered.

Melly still slept soundly on his shoulder, unaware of the carnage just outside.

And there, amid the corpses and blood, Lyanna stood motionless—breathing heavily. Slowly, the fury in her eyes faded. Her heartbeat settled.

.

.

.

From deep in the woods, beyond the light and battle, a pair of eyes had been watching.

He hadn't moved once during the fight. Crouched behind a bush, face hidden beneath a hood, barely breathing as he witnessed his comrades slaughtered in silence.

When the final man fell with a twisted spine, the watcher quietly backed away, careful not to snap a single twig. His hands trembled—not from the cold, but from raw fear.

He swallowed hard, then turned and bolted through the trees without a sound. His feet pounded the earth with desperate speed.

He had to report this.

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