[???]
Lyra exhaled sharply, standing at the center of an enormous crater—her crater. The earth lay devastated around her, blackened and lifeless, a violent imprint of her power. Scorched stone, shattered ground. And yet, amidst this, a single unblemished sight remained, untarnished.
A blade.
Half-buried in the deadened soil, Sabre rested—pristine and resplendent, a thing that did not belong here. Its radiant red hue gleamed beneath the dull, ashen sky, an anomaly among devastation. The contrast was unsettling, a wound of color in a world devoid of life. It was almost offensive in its presence, its unnatural brilliance so absolute that it seemed more concept than creation, more principle than mere weapon.
Lyra frowned, her eyes narrowing.
"This took much too long to find."
She had scoured the wastes, torn apart the land, and yet this was how it presented itself to her? Not entombed in barriers, not hidden behind seals, but simply... resting here, as though waiting, she had assumed Mikoto had cleverly hid it, but this was almost comical.
Though its existence alone made her breath hitch.
Lyra had seen many weapons—too many weapons. Artifacts forged in divine flame, blades imbued with curses that could level empires, spears wielded by Gods, instruments of war created to end worlds. As an Ancestor, she had watched the rise and fall of such things, had studied them, had understood them, reduced them to their most fundamental truths with her Ultra Vires: Mind's Eye.
To her, weapons were simple.
No matter how complex, no matter how ancient, no matter how powerful—she could always see.
But not this time.
As Lyra fixed her piercing gaze upon Sabre, a strange, paralyzing silence filled her mind.
There was... nothing.
Her ability—the sight that had dissected even the fundamentals of Death itself—yielded nothing.
Nothing.
As though the blade simply wasn't there.
No weave of magical craftsmanship, no trace of divine forging, no lingering will imbued into its steel. Nothing. It was as though her Ultra Vires had gone blind, as though her understanding of reality itself had been denied access to this one, singular absurd anomaly.
Her fingers twitched.
This was... wrong.
Sabre's appearance was grand—its design immaculate, its presence so potent it seemed to thrum against the fabric of existence—and yet, in her vision, it may as well have been a discarded piece of metal.
Was this truly the weapon that Mikoto claimed could kill an immortal? The key to unraveling Aelfric's eternal existence?
Lyra slowly descended to one knee, her slender, pale fingers hesitantly stretching forward, reaching for the hilt as if drawn.
Mikoto had been so certain.
If his words were true, then this was it. This was the blade that would end Aelfric. That would save Alyssia. That would undo the mark of Death itself.
This was the moment.
Her fingertips grazed the hilt—
And then the world shifted.
The ashen wasteland vanished.
Lyra's stomach lurched, her breath caught in her throat as her entire reality twisted in the blink of an eye.
Cold.
The sensation hit her immediately. Her body plummeted, air ripped from her lungs as she nearly crashed into a vast, crystalline body of water—one that should not have been there.
But her instincts was swift, her mind sharper than most.
With a thought, a pulse of magic halted her descent, stabilizing her midair before she could be swallowed by the lake below.
She blinked.
The desolate world was gone. Sabre was gone.
She floated above the still, mirror-like expanse of an endless lake, the water beneath her so eerily clear that she could see deep, deep below—where the vague outline of something immense loomed in the depths.
A structure.
And above her, a sky of infinite darkness, a night unmarked by stars, stretching beyond perception.
("Forceful teleportation... so swift, I did not even sense a power being invoked.")
Her brows furrowed, and for the first time in a long time, uncertainty crept into her mind.
"Honestly, it quite irks me how this blade is being handed around so willy-nilly."
A voice.
Feminine.
Smooth and unhurried. Neither angry nor annoyed, but carrying the tone of someone who had seen far too much and grown tired of it all.
Lyra turned.
She saw her.
A woman slowly raising from the lake, then poised upon the water's surface as if standing upon solid ground.
She was stunning, yet unearthly.
A dark, headpiece crowned her long, raven-black hair, the metallic accents faintly glowing with an ethereal blue light. Her luminescent, dull blue eyes—glowing just enough to be unnatural—held a gaze so unreadable, so unfathomably ancient, that it sent a pulse of unease through even Lyra's spine.
Her garments were odd—flowing like shadows, yet solid, shifting as though they were both fabric and something beyond material. They draped around her effortlessly, revealing milky-white skin that seemed untouched by everything.
And when she moved, it was graceful, each step upon the water more akin to the gliding of a suburb being than the movement of a mortal form.
Lyra's lips parted slightly.
("This... is no mere mortal.")
"Who are you?"
The woman, unbothered by the scrutiny, tilted her head slightly, observing Lyra as if appraising something of vague interest.
Lyra's eyes remained gaze sharp, dissecting the woman before her with an intensity only she could wield. Ultra Vires—her mind's eye, the ability to understand the fundamental truths of all things—was active, relentless and prying, yet it yielded nothing.
No name. No history. No origin.
The woman existed, yet she did not.
This was an impossibility.
Her voice, however, did not betray the unease tightening in her chest.
"Are you the one who brought me here?" she asked, though the answer had already settled in the marrow of her bones.
"Indeed," came the unhurried reply.
There was no grand gesture, no shift in atmosphere, no tension thickening the air—only a simple confirmation, spoken as if the act of wrenching someone from reality and placing them in an entirely new realm was as effortless as breathing.
The woman moved, stepping away from the lake's edge with a grace that was almost unnatural in its perfection. Her bare feet kissed the surface of the water, not disturbing it in the slightest, and with an air of disinterest, she approached a large, smooth boulder.
She lowered herself onto it, the motion fluid, entirely unbothered by Lyra's presence. One milky-white leg draped over the other. Her dull blue eyes watched Lyra with an unreadable expression.
"I am, after all, still connected to that blade," she said, resting an elegant hand against her cheek, tilting her head ever so slightly. "Whether I reside in this realm or another matters little. It will always remain... tethered to me."
Lyra's expression did not change, but something in her chest twisted.
"You speak of Sabre?"
The moment the name left her lips, the woman blinked, then exhaled through her nose—a sound caught between amusement and disappointment.
"Sabre?" she echoed, the word rolling from her tongue as if it left an unpleasant taste behind. She gave a slow shake of her head. "Is that what you lot have chosen to call it?"
Her voice did not rise, but there was a subtle shift in its cadence—something akin to disapproval, as if she were listening to a child butcher the name of a God.
"Hm. How... insulting."
Her delicate fingers traced the air absentmindedly, as if contemplating something, yet her expression did not falter. There was no anger. No disdain. Simply a quiet, lingering melancholy.
Lyra noted that.
A name so ill-fitting that it was beneath acknowledgement.
She did not press further.
Instead, she crossed her arms, her tone measured.
"You said you're connected to the blade," Lyra stated. "Then tell me—was there a purpose to dragging me here? Or was this merely a display of power? If so, I must warn you, my patience is finite, and I am quite occupied at the moment."
The woman's lips curved, not quite into a smirk, but something close.
"Worry not," she said, her voice carrying amusement, as if Lyra's irritation was entertaining rather than offensive. She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her dainty palm, her other arm draped over her knee.
"Time passes differently here," she assured. "What might seem an eternity in this place will amount to mere seconds in your world."
Lyra's eyes narrowed.
That was not an answer.
She remained silent, waiting.
The woman exhaled, shifting slightly, and at last, she revealed her reasoning.
"I merely wished to see the one who would take up the blade. I sensed that it was not Mikoto Yukio who grasped it, and so I acted."
There was no warmth in her voice when she spoke his name. Only curiosity, as though he were something to be studied.
"I had presumed another fool had come to steal it—much like that wretched harlot before—but alas, it seems that is not the case."
Lyra's brows furrowed.
Harlot?
The weight of the word, the venom woven into its casual delivery, made her stomach churn. There was history behind it, something deeply personal, but before she could ask—
The woman continued.
"You," she murmured, her gaze piercing. "You hold no ill intentions toward the blade. More importantly, you seek to aid Mikoto Yukio."
Her lips curled slightly.
"How... interesting."
She did not like the way this woman spoke. As if she was peering into more than just her words. As if she was peeling back layers, gazing upon the exposed truth of Lyra's very existence.
This woman was dangerous.
But before Lyra could respond, the woman raised a hand, signaling that she was not yet finished.
"I shall send you back in a moment," she said, unbothered, as if she held absolute dominion over Lyra's presence here. "But first, I have a request."
A request? Lyra's red eyes narrowed slightly, though she gave no outward sign of alarm. Her mind was already running through possible angles, hidden motives.
"A request?" she repeated. A gesture invited the woman to elaborate, though Lyra's body remained coiled with tension, ready to snap at the slightest misstep.
The woman exhaled, resting her delicate chin upon the curve of her knuckles. "Many hands have grasped that blade… many hands deemed worthy. Each followed the well-worn path of ruler or hero, believing themselves fated to greatness. And yet, the first among them—the one who should have set the standard for all others—was a fool of a king who, in his ignorance, cast the blade aside, rejecting the burden of its truth." Her voice barely shifted, but there was something deeply weighted in those words. "Now, the latest to wield it… is Mikoto Yukio."
She paused as if testing his name upon her tongue. There was neither disdain nor reverence in her tone, only contemplation. "As the one who bestows this blade, I cannot help but find myself intrigued by him. Unlike the others, he is something… different. And so, my request is simple." Her pale fingers curled against her palm. "I ask that you preserve him."
A strange sort of silence settled between them, vast as trench.
Lyra's response was immediate, not even the briefest hesitation before she spoke. "That was always my intention."
And it was the truth.
She barely knew Mikoto. And yet he had already done more for her than anyone had in a long time. He was risking his very life for her sake. And that mattered.
Her gaze did not waver. "I have not known Mikoto for long, but at this moment, he is fighting for me. He is throwing himself into danger, knowingly, willingly. Were he to die, were he to perish because of it—" A rare flicker of something edged her words, something resolute. "I could not live with myself."
The woman regarded her for a long moment before the corners of her lips curved, a slow smile unfurling. It was neither warm nor cold, neither approving nor mocking—simply there, as if she had already foreseen Lyra's response.
Still, Lyra was not so easily satisfied.
Her gaze remained sharp. "Is mere intrigue truly enough for you to concern yourself with Mikoto's fate?"
For the first time, the woman let out a quiet chuckle. It was not mirthful. "Perhaps not," she admitted, eyes half-lidded, gaze drifting as if peering into something far beyond Lyra's comprehension. "But that boy… he will be great one day."
She sat forward slightly. "He is tainted, yet he holds fast. I can feel it—his rage, his disgust, his animosity. All of it, a storm raging beneath his skin, pressing against the edges of his restraint. Do you have any idea the scale of his emotions? They do not merely simmer. They do not merely burn. They seethe. They consume. They shimmer like molten iron, ever-expanding, ever-growing. By all accounts, he should have lost himself long ago."
Her voice was a whisper.
"And yet… he has not."
Lyra's lips parted, because she had seen it too. She had sensed it, felt the rage roiling beneath Mikoto's skin, the barely contained fury, the weight of his burdens. Even so, for all of that…
"He's different," she murmured, the words slipping out almost unbidden. "But even so…"
Mikoto had attained Arcane Ascendance. She had always known that was part of his goal. By all logic, he should have abandoned the festival as soon as he had the chance. The contract he had made with Aelfric could have been severed with ease. He could have run. He could have vanished. He had every reason to turn away from this path.
Even so… he had not.
Even now, even after the immense change he had undergone, even as the seething mass of emotions threatened to swallow him whole—he was still fighting. He was still trying.
"See now?" The woman's voice was quiet. "I have seen many fall to their emotions. I have seen many succumb. But Mikoto Yukio… he is different. He has grown cruel, yes. But he has not been undone by it. He has not shattered beneath the weight of it. He remains… intact. Altered, perhaps. Sharpened. But not lost."
Her eyes gleamed with something distant. "I find that more intriguing than the foolish king of old."
Lyra inhaled slowly.
"So you say," she murmured, more to herself than to the woman before her.
But still.
Her gaze flickered back up, piercing and demanding. "But you've yet to answer my question." A beat. "Who are you?"
The woman only smiled.
"A simple lady of the lake."