Part 1: A Cage with a Lock
The attic above the stable smelled. It smelled of horse sweat, old hay, mold, and that particular scent of an enclosed space where dust had soaked up the life from below for decades. For Lyra, this smell was almost luxurious. There was no stench of rotting refuse, no sour odor of fear and urine. It was the smell of a roof over her head. And it frightened her almost as much as the dark alleys of Ebros.
The silent man with a face like an old oak knot—the butler, Frederick—had led her here with a lantern. He said nothing unnecessary.
"Here. The door bolts from the inside. Water and food will be brought shortly."
His gaze slid over her, not with judgment, but with cold professional assessment, as if he were taking delivery of new, questionable goods. He set the lantern on a crate and left, his footsteps dissolving silently on the stairs.
Lyra was alone in the circle of flickering light. She instantly surveyed the space: sloping rafters, a pile of old saddles in the corner, a narrow dormer window webbed with cobwebs, and in the center—an old bed. With an equally old mattress and blanket. But despite the wear, they were quality and warm.
I'm no longer on the street.
The thought was strange, echoing in the hollow space beneath her ribs. But not home, either.
Home was out there, on the rooftops, where you knew every ledge, where every creaking board warned of strangers. Here, everything was foreign. Quiet. Enclosed. She approached the door. A simple wooden plank door with an iron bolt on the inside. She touched it. The metal was cold, rough. She slid the bolt shut. The dull, final click sounded louder than any shout in the marketplace. She was safe. From the outside world.
From herself—no.
Part 2: Hot Water and a Cold Stranger
The knock at the door made her start—she had already begun to get used to the silence.
"I'm coming in," a woman's voice said. Even, calm, without a hint of question.
Lyra didn't answer. She was already in her corner, gripping the shank she had miraculously kept from being taken on the way. A habit honed to an almost animal reflex. Remembering that someone was supposed to be sent to her, she hid the shank and, approaching quietly, opened the door.
In the doorway stood a woman. About twenty-five, dark hair cut in a sharp bob framing a face with chiseled, almost sculptural features. Beautiful. But the beauty was cold, like a blade that had lain long in the frost. The black-and-white, strict uniform of a maid sat on her with unnatural precision—not a single crease, not one stray lock.
Her gray eyes calmly and slowly studied her new charge. In her hands, the woman held a stack of clean clothes, and behind her, Lyra saw a copper basin and several sealed jugs.
"My name is Aina," the woman said, entering and closing the door behind her. She didn't touch the bolt. "The Earl ordered me to settle you in."
She walked in calmly, placed the clean things on the bed, set the basin on the floor, and the jugs beside it. Two large, tightly stoppered ones, still steaming. A third, smaller one, with cool water.
"Undress," Aina nodded toward the basin. "The water's hot. There's soap. Clothes are clean. While you wash, I'll take your rags—to burn."
Lyra pressed herself against the wall.
"No."
Aina didn't even blink. She busily opened the jugs, pouring hot water into the basin, added cold, tested it with her elbow—a gesture so ordinary and maternal that it momentarily threw Lyra off balance.
"I'm not asking," Aina said without turning around. "This isn't the Earl's order. This is hygiene. You smell of the street. No one walks around the house like that. Or in the attic, for that matter."
"I'm not going into the house."
"Which is why I'm here." Aina straightened, wiping her hands on a small towel she had brought. "The water is hot. In ten minutes, it'll cool. The choice is yours."
Lyra stared at her, trying to read her. Threat? Pity? Disgust? Nothing. Aina's face was as motionless as a statue's. Only her eyes—dark, almost black—watched Lyra's every move carefully.
The same as me? A strange thought flickered. No. Different. She doesn't survive—she serves. But the cold is the same.
"Turn around," Lyra said.
Aina turned. Without mockery, without comment. She simply complied with the request, now looking towards the window.
Lyra stripped off her rags. The body beneath was thin, covered in bruises and scrapes, ribs clearly visible. She stepped towards the basin, scooped water in her hand, splashed it on herself—quickly, so as not to stand naked before a stranger's back.
The water burned. Not with fire—with life. Lyra couldn't remember the last time she had washed with hot water. In Ebros, it was a luxury only for the rich or the dead.
"Your hair too," Aina's voice came from the window. She stood with her back turned but seemed to see everything. "Twice. The soap is on the floor, by the basin."
Lyra silently took the soap. It smelled of herbs and a cleanliness that made her head spin slightly. She washed quickly, awkwardly, glancing at the door—habit wouldn't let her relax even here.
"How long have you served here?" she asked, to break the silence. And to understand.
"A long time."
"And you wash everyone like this?"
Aina turned her head slightly. Lyra couldn't see her face, but she sensed—a shadow of a smirk touched her thin lips.
"Only the valuable ones."
Lyra froze, soap in hand.
"I'm not valuable. I'm…" She faltered. Who was she? A hireling? A weapon? A tool?
"The Earl brought you himself. Personally." Aina paused. "He doesn't bring people like that. No one. Five years—no one. Wash. The water's getting cold."
Lyra obeyed. Something about this woman prevented her from snapping back, from clinging to defenses. Perhaps it was this icy calm. Perhaps it was that Aina looked at her not as a "wildling," not as a "child," not as a "beggar." But as a... task. One that needed completing.
Finished, she wrapped herself in the worn but clean towel that Aina had thoughtfully left on the edge of the basin.
"I'm ready," Lyra managed.
Aina turned. Her gaze slid over her—quick, professional, assessing not beauty but condition. Lingered on her wet hair, on her pale skin, on the way she held her shoulders—slightly hunched, as if expecting a blow.
"Clothes on the bed," Aina nodded. "Dry. Clean."
She busily gathered Lyra's rags with two fingers, like a dead rat, and stuffed them into a linen sack.
"Food on the tray," she added, cinching the sack. "There's meat, bread, water, and some vegetables. Eat it all. I'll bring more tomorrow."
Lyra looked at the tray. Meat stew, bread, vegetables, and greens. Only now did she suddenly realize how hungry she was. Truly, ravenously, to the point of a cramp.
"Here…" Lyra swallowed, crumpling the edge of the towel in her fingers. "Here they really don't…?" She immediately fell silent.
Foolish. Bring an orphan, wash her, and then take back the food you gave?
Aina had already picked up the sacks and empty jugs. She paused for a second at the door, turning around.
"This isn't Ebros," she said quietly. "Here, they don't take food away. As long as you do your job."
"And if I don't?"
Aina looked at her with a long gaze. And for the first time, something alive flickered in her eyes. A warning, perhaps. Or a strange, almost imperceptible respect.
"Then we'll meet again. But under different circumstances."
She left. The door closed. Once again, there was no bolt.
Lyra was alone. Clean, warm, in a stranger's towel, smelling of stranger's soap.
She slowly pulled on the clean clothes—a bit too big, soft, smelling of lavender, like everything in this strange place. Went to the tray. Sat on the floor, cross-legged. Picked up the spoon.
The stew was hot. The meat—tender, melting on her tongue. The bread—fresh, with a crusty exterior. And the vegetables and greens—crunchy and juicy.
She ate slowly, almost not believing it wouldn't be taken away. Each swallow echoed in her chest with a strange, unfamiliar weight. Not pain. Not fear.
Calm.
Dangerous, she thought, putting another piece in her mouth. Very dangerous—to get used to this.
But she couldn't stop.
Part 3: The First Order—A Shadow for a Shadow
Lyra didn't know how much time had passed—an hour, two. The lantern was beginning to smoke when the door quietly creaked open. There was no knock. Just a strip of light from the corridor appearing in the crack, and then he entered. The Earl. Carl Nowenstein.
He was without his cloak, in a simple dark doublet. In his hands, he carried no weapon. Only a rolled-up sheet of paper, a small leather pouch, and something oblong wrapped in dark cloth. He entered as if he had always known where she would be: not in bed, but by the window, from where she could see both the door and the approaches.
"You're not sleeping. And you ate," he said. It wasn't a question. A statement.
Lyra was silent. His amber eyes in the dim light looked flat, like coins. They surveyed the room, lingered for a second on the empty bowl, on her damp hair, on the clean clothes.
"Aina managed," he said. Not asked—affirmed.
"Who is she?" Lyra's voice came out hoarse after the long silence.
Carl tilted his head slightly.
"Mine. As you are now."
He didn't explain. Lyra understood: he wouldn't. Not yet.
"Tomorrow, you'll leave before dawn," his voice became quieter, but each word was still hammered out like a nail. "Not through the gate. Through a gap in the eastern wall, behind the smithy. You'll find it. Your task is to go to Ebros."
Lyra blinked. This was unexpected. She had expected surveillance of the walls, watching the roads. Returning to the stone jungle? Just a day after she had clawed her way out?
Carl handed her the sheet. On it, sketched in charcoal, was a plan—not of the estate, but of part of the lower city. Winding street lines, forks, landmark buildings. One point was circled heavily.
"Here, in the slums, in the Old Abattoir district, a man is hiding," Carl said. "A young mage. About twenty. His name is Corvin. He was expelled from the Academy six months ago. After that, he wandered the underbelly, drank, scraped by on small jobs, even became a local celebrity among the dregs. And then he disappeared."
"Dead?" Lyra asked.
"If only," a shadow of something like weariness flickered in Carl's voice. "He's alive. But no one can find him. Except you."
She took the paper, studying the lines. The Old Abattoir slums—a hole worse than her native rooftops. Even the Razors tried not to venture there without need.
"What does he need?"
Carl paused, choosing his words. For the first time in this conversation, he seemed unsure of his phrasing.
"He needs help. He won't accept it. He trusts no one—after the Academy, he has his reasons. But if he learns that I…" Carl broke off, corrected himself: "That one man is willing to offer him work. Protection. A chance to do what he was expelled for."
"Magic?"
"Research." Carl looked her straight in the eye. "He's a genius. In a few years, his discoveries will change everything. But if he isn't found sooner…" He didn't finish.
Lyra waited.
"In the pouch is money." Carl nodded towards the leather pouch he had placed on the crate. "Not for him. For those who saw him, know him, fed him, rented him corners. Pay for information."
He unwrapped the dark cloth. Inside was a dagger. Short, with a slightly curved blade, fitting comfortably in the palm. Not ceremonial—functional. The grip was worn but sturdy leather, no ornaments. Only on the guard was a barely noticeable engraving—a raven with spread wings.
"This is for you." Carl held out the weapon, hilt first. "Not for show. For business."
Lyra took it. The dagger was heavier than she expected. And sharper—she ran her finger along the blade, and a thin line of blood immediately beaded on her skin. She licked it, not taking her eyes off the Earl.
"Recognizable," she said, nodding at the engraving.
"None like it in Ebros. If someone sees it on you, they'll know you didn't come empty-handed." Carl paused. "But if they see it, it means you've already failed. Then it doesn't matter."
She understood. A weapon for a last resort. For a final blow. Or for herself.
"I need you alive, Lyra," Carl added. His voice remained even, without a trace of warmth. "Time has been spent on you. Aina spent soap and water on you. I spent an evening on you. You've seen my face, heard my voice, know where I live. You are now an asset. Valuable. Assets aren't lost without necessity."
"A tool," Lyra corrected. Not offended. Stating a fact.
"A tool," Carl agreed. "A good tool is cared for. A bad one is discarded and a new one sought. The choice is yours."
He drew from inside his coat a thick sheet, folded several times.
"Here is a letter. If you find him—give it to him. If you don't—burn it. If someone tries to take it—kill them and burn it."
Lyra took the letter. Ordinary paper, ordinary wax. But in the way the Earl held it, she sensed—this was more than just words. This was a key.
"What's in it?"
"An explanation of why he should trust me." Carl smirked, but the smirk was bitter. "And a promise of truth. The truth he deserves."
Lyra hid the letter under her clothes, in the same place where the silver raven had recently lain. Now there were two treasures there—and the dagger at her belt.
"How will I recognize him?" she asked. "Distinguishing marks?"
Carl hesitated.
"Thin. Pale. His eyes... strange. One light, one dark. Natural, not from injury. A scar on his left arm—from the expulsion ritual. And the main thing—he doesn't drink. At all. In the slums, where everyone drowns their sorrow in cheap swill, that stands out."
"Why doesn't he drink?"
"He's afraid." Carl looked at her intently. "Afraid that in his cups, he'll talk. About what he knows. And he knows a lot. Too much for a man being hunted."
Lyra nodded. She understood that fear. In Ebros, secrets were worth more than money.
"Deadline?" she asked.
"A week. If you don't find him in a week—come back. We'll search differently. But better you find him."
Carl turned to the door, but paused on the threshold.
"Lyra."
She looked up.
"There was a man," he said, not turning around. His voice sounded strange—hollow, as if he were speaking not to her but to the wall. "Whom I also searched for. Later. Much later. Found him—and nothing could be changed anymore. For him. For many."
A pause. The silence pressed down.
"Don't put it off until the day after tomorrow. If you pick up a trail—go immediately. Don't wait for the right moment. There are no right moments."
The door closed. There was no click of the bolt. He had left her in a cage with an open door. And in that was the most terrifying challenge.
Lyra unfolded the map, peering at the crooked lines of the Old Abattoir. Her fingers automatically stroked the leather grip of the dagger.
She didn't understand the whole picture. Didn't know who this mage was, why the Earl was so desperately searching for him, what "discoveries" would change the world. But she felt it in her bones: this was more than just searching for a man. This was searching for a key. To something bigger than a war with neighbors. To something the Earl carried inside himself, like an old, unhealed wound.
There was a man, whom I also searched for. Later.
Whose words were those? Of a man who had already been too late once? Or of one who had returned, to be in time?
She tucked the map with the letter, with the money, with the silver raven. All of it now lay against her heart—cold, hard, real. The dagger hung at her belt—heavy, sharp, ready to work.
Don't put it off until the day after tomorrow.
She didn't intend to.
Her war had begun. Not with the clash of swords, but with whispers in the slums, with the search for a man with different-colored eyes, with a promise written on a scrap of paper that she must deliver at any cost.
And with a dagger engraved with a raven.
Lyra "Forsaken Star" drew her head into her shoulders and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, she would return to Ebros. But now—not as a wildling fleeing the Razors. Now, she was a huntress. With a map, money, a letter, a dagger, and a secret hidden beneath her clothes.
Let's see who finds whom in these stone jungles.
Part 4: The Raven Under the Skin
The night dragged on, endless and ringing with silence. Lyra didn't lie down on the cot. She settled in her corner, arms wrapped around her knees. The lantern burned out and went dark, plunging the attic into blackness broken only by the pale moonlight from the window.
She was clean. Fed. Warm.
This frightened her more than cold and hunger.
Her fingers found the pin. The silver raven. She pulled it out from under the mattress, where she had hidden it before Aina's arrival, and stared at it for a long time in the moonlight. The raven seemed ghostly, ready to take flight.
A symbol. An advance. A promise of a place.
And also—a question. Who was the woman with the ice-chip eyes, who washed the "valuable" ones and spoke in riddles? What did "mine" mean? And why did the Earl, when giving orders, look as if he saw not her, Lyra, but someone else—someone not there, but very important?
She pressed the point against the pad of her thumb. The slight, sharp pain was clear and real. She clenched the pin in her fist, feeling the pattern bite into her palm.
Then, after long deliberation, she didn't pin it back onto her clothes. And didn't hide it under the mattress. She slipped the pin into the pocket of her clean shirt—closer to her body than to sleep.
Tomorrow I'll go hunting, she thought. We'll see who the real shadow is here.
She closed her eyes, listening to the night. The stable lived its own life: the snorting of horses, the creak of wood, the rustle of straw. And through it—other sounds. Distant footsteps in the main house corridor. The bang of a shutter. The voice of the night watch somewhere far off.
And then she heard it. Not in the stable. Outside. A quiet, almost inaudible shuffling on the gravel right under the wall. One step. Pause. Another. Not the heavy step of a guard. Not the confident stride of the Earl. A creeping, cautious step. Like her own.
Lyra froze, turning into pure hearing. The steps halted, as if someone was also listening. Then they quietly retreated and dissolved into the night.
She opened her eyes and stared into the darkness where the uninvited guest had just been. Her heart beat steadily and loudly. Not with fear. With realization.
They might come for me—not just the Razors.
She had chosen a side. And the night, quiet and full of shadows, was already confirming that choice, sending the first scouts to the walls of her new "place."
She had food in hiding places, clean clothes on her body, a warm cage at her back, and a first order for tomorrow. And the silver raven in her pocket—closer to her heart than any weapon.
But there was no safety. There never would be.
Lyra "Forsaken Star" drew her head into her shoulders, like an animal in ambush, and prepared to wait for dawn.
Her war had begun. Not with the clash of swords, but with the whisper of footsteps in the dark, with the scent of clean soap on strange skin, and with the cold touch of silver beneath her fingers.