[Timeline: Year 2 of the Intermission]

[Location: The Borderlands – Between the Human Empire and the Silver Woods]

The forest here was a graveyard.

It wasn't dead in the natural sense; trees still grew, and rivers still ran. But the spirit of the land was broken.

This was the Lawless Zone, a stretch of territory abandoned by the Human Empire after the war and too corrupted for the Elves to reclaim.

The sky was permanently overcast, choked by a swirling grey mist that dampened sound and mana alike.

Through the fog, a group of figures moved silently.

They were Elves. Twelve of them.

But they were not the proud, pristine warriors of the Silver Woods.

Their clothes were rags, their feet were wrapped in bloody bandages, and their eyes were hollow with the kind of terror that never truly fades. They were escaped slaves.

Leading them was a figure wrapped in a tattered black cloak.

She moved differently from the rest. While they stumbled over roots and shivered in the cold, she glided. She didn't seem to step on the ground so much as float over it.

Soon she stopped.

The twelve refugees froze instantly, like startled deer.

"What is it?" one of the elves whispered, clutching a rusty dagger. "Did they find us?"

The hooded figure didn't answer. She raised a hand, her fingers slender and pale grey, the color of the mist itself.

She pointed to the ridge ahead.

[Divine Interference Zone Detected]

Lyra narrowed her eyes beneath her hood. She could feel it, the static in the air that tasted like copper.

It was a jamming field, high-grade and ancient. It was similar to the barrier that protected the even forest, only more evil.

Her hand drifted to the pocket of her cloak, where a communication crystal lay cold and dormant.

'I can't use it,' she thought, the realization bitter on her tongue. '

If I activate the crystal inside this field, the signal will bounce. It will create a beacon. And the Association will trace it back to the receiver.'

Muttering inwardly, she withdrew her hand.

She had spent two years in these woods, hunting the hunters, and she had learned one hard truth: Silence was survival.

"Ambush," Lyra whispered.

The refugees panicked. "Where? We don't see—"

THWIP.

An arrow, black fletched and glowing with purple mana slammed into the tree trunk right next to the lead refugee's head.

"Run!" Lyra ordered.

But it was too late.

From the mist ahead, shapes emerged. They were not human soldiers.

They were clad in white robes stained with mud, wearing silver masks that had been scratched and dented.

The Twilight Association.

A patrol of twenty men. Inquisitors.

"Well, well," the leader chuckled, his voice distorted by his mask. He held a heavy crossbow aimed at the group.

"Looks like we found some strays."

The refugees huddled together, sobbing. They had no weapons, no armour, and no mana. They were meat.

"Bag them," the leader commanded.

"The Master needs fresh components for the stitching."

The Inquisitors advanced, pulling chains and manacles from their belts.

However, in the face of their moves, Lyra remained tall, not a single ounce of fear in her eyes

She simply stepped forward, placing herself between the patrol and the refugees.

"Look at that," the leader sneered.

"A little Elf wants to play hero. Get on your knees, filth."

Lyra looked at him. Her hood fell back, revealing her short, silver hair and violet eyes. Her skin, once creamy and fair, was now the colour of ash.

She took a deep breath. She inhaled the mist, the fear, and the mana.

"I am not a hero," Lyra said softly.

The leader scoffed. "Then what are you?"

Lyra's eyes began to glow.

"I'm your worst nightmare."

Whispering this, the condesned a mana bow in her hands, pulling it back instantly

[Phantom Wind: Vacuum Slice]

The air in front of her vanished.

What shot out next wasn't an ordinary arrow; rather, it was a localised vacuum that collapsed instantly with the force of a thunderclap.

BOOM.

The three Inquisitors in the front row didn't even have time to scream. Their chest cavities imploded, ribs shattering inward under the sudden pressure change.

One by one, they dropped like puppets with cut strings.

The leader stumbled back, his eyes wide behind his mask.

"What... what kind of magic is that?!"

"Fire!" he screamed.

Crossbows twanged. Bolts flew toward her.

However, to all that, Lyra easily stepped sideways, as her body seemed to blur, leaving a grey afterimage that the bolts passed harmlessly through.

[Shadow Weave: Mirage]

She appeared behind a sniper on the ridge. Before he could turn, she drove her hand into his neck.

In her hands, not a dagger, but a blade formed of compressed wind around her fingers.

SQUELCH.

Blood sprayed into the mist.

"Demon!" one of the Inquisitors shrieked, dropping his weapon and running.

Lyra looked at him. She felt no pity. She felt no thrill. She felt only the cold, mechanical efficiency Aelinor had taught her over the years.

'Mercy to the enemy is cruelty to yourself.'

She drew her phantom bow, a construct of swirling grey wind, and fired without even looking.

The arrow curved through the air, weaving between the trees like a snake, and struck the fleeing Inquisitor in the back of the knee. He fell screaming.

In thirty seconds, nineteen Inquisitors were dead.

The leader was the only one left. He was crawling backwards through the mud, his crossbow broken.

"Stay back!" he gasped.

"You don't know who we serve! You don't know what we're building in the valley!"

Lyra walked toward him. She moved silently, her boots making no sound on the dead leaves.

She stopped and looked down at him.

"What are you building?" she asked.

The leader laughed, a manic, terrified sound.

"The future! We are building the God that will eat the world whole! The Flesh-Crafters... they have found the way! Biology! Not magic! Biology!"

Lyra frowned. "Flesh-Crafters?"

The leader grinned, blood bubbling from his lips.

"As expected of a stupid elf, what do you know about the greatness of my God? Go down the ravine and despair for your future."

Laughing manically, he knew this was the end for him; however, he still showed no fear.

He only wished he could see the despair on this elf's face when she found out the truth

And Lyra, seeing him like this, knew this conversation was over.

She didn't ask another question, flicking her wrist, a blade of wind severed his neck.

Silence returned to the forest.

The refugee elves stared at her in horror and awe.

They had never seen an elf kill like that. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't noble. It was a brutal execution.

Lyra turned to them. Her eyes were dull, the violet glow fading.

"Go north," she pointed. "Follow the river. Do not stop until you see the white Lion banner. Tell them Lyra sent you."

"Where... where are you going?" one of them asked timidly.

Lyra looked toward the ravine the Inquisitor had mentioned. She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mist.

"Confirm something," she whispered.

She pulled her hood back up and vanished into the gray fog, leaving the dead behind.

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