Consciousness returned in fits and starts—along with the rhythmic swaying, the smell of dry straw, and a dull ache throughout her entire body.
Lyra opened her eyes.
Above her, the canvas top of a covered wagon swayed. Beside her, face down, lay Corvin—pale to the point of blueness, alive but deeply unconscious.
She listened. Outside was noisy: wheels creaked, carters called to each other, a dog barked. A caravan.
Alive.
Lyra carefully raised herself on one elbow, peered through a gap. Dozens of wagons, people, animals—an ordinary morning on the highway. The perfect place to get lost.
"Don't make a sound," came from outside.
Aina. Lyra froze and lay back down. Strange, but that cold voice had a calming effect. As if, with Aina nearby, you didn't have to expect a strike from the darkness.
The wagon swayed, the horse's hooves clattered, the hum of the caravan enveloped them. A minute, five, ten. Then the creaking of wheels stopped, voices faded—the wagon had turned onto a country road. The caravan had moved on, and they were alone.
The horse stopped.
"You can come out now."
Lyra jumped to the ground, staggered, raised her head—and froze.
Aina sat on the driver's seat. A baggy robe, a wide-brimmed straw hat, gray wig strands, old gloves. And—Lyra blinked—a gray beard, long, shaggy, fake.
Aina with a beard. Aina in the guise of an old carter. Looking closely, the disguise quickly unraveled—too straight a back, too calm hands, smooth skin at the temples. But from a distance, ten meters away, no one would look twice.
Lyra leaned against the wheel, sat on the ground. Her strength was gone.
Aina said shortly:
"Get the bag from the back. Eat. We'll talk later."
Hunger hit instantly. Lyra lunged for the bag, plunged her hand inside. A flask, bread, smoked meat.
She ate greedily, forgetting herself. When a pleasant fullness settled inside, the bag was empty.
I devoured it all. Like an animal.
"Th-thank you... for everything."
"Don't mention it."
A pause. Aina turned her head slightly, and something warm flickered at the corners of her lips.
"Ask away, little star."
Lyra froze. Little star. Hector had called her that. And now—Aina.
She opened her mouth, but Aina raised her hand:
"Quiet."
In the distance, hoofbeats sounded. Many hooves, fast.
Aina adjusted her hat, hunched over, transforming into an old man. Lyra darted into the wagon, buried herself in the straw next to Corvin.
Five riders burst around the bend. Good jackets, swords, two with crossbows. Not the Razors. Someone more serious.
They drew level with the wagon. One reined in his horse slightly, slid his gaze over Aina, over the horse, over the wagon. A second, two—and the riders rode on.
Lyra exhaled.
"So what did you want to ask, little star?" came from outside.
She sank back into the straw. Beside her, Corvin groaned softly in his sleep.
A tail or a coincidence?
Questions were endless.
Lyra climbed onto the driver's seat, settled next to Aina. The road ran away behind them, the wagon swaying. Her mood was complicated. So much had churned up during the night that she didn't know where to begin.
"So it was all a test?" she blurted out. Annoyance slipped into her voice.
Aina turned her head. Her gray eyes were skeptical, but without mockery.
"The assignment was real. As was the danger." A pause. "Besides, pinning all hopes on a skinny girl with no skills would be somewhat unreasonable."
Lyra opened her mouth for a sharp retort—and froze. Because it was the truth. She herself had wondered: why did the Earl entrust her with such a mission? Now it was clearer—she wasn't the main executor, but part of something larger.
"Don't overthink it," Aina added, as if seeing her emotions. "You didn't run. Most would have. You did well."
Boom.
Praise from Aina, from this icy woman, turned everything upside down inside her. The resentment faded, giving way to a warm, ticklish feeling. Lyra smiled—charmingly, almost childishly.
"Um... what kind of person is the Earl?"
Aina was silent for a moment.
"Earl Nowenstein, the ninth Earl of Erlenholm. Head of his house. Warrior, strategist. One of those who thinks first, then acts. One of those who stands by their word."
"Is he kind?"
Aina smirked.
"Don't confuse firmness with kindness. He is just. For his own—protection. For enemies—death. That is honor."
"And for you?" Lyra asked quietly. "What is he to you?"
"My savior," Aina answered shortly and turned back to the road. Topic closed.
Lyra mulled over what had been said. The Earl—warrior, strategist, just. Aina—someone he had once saved. So he knew how to do more than just give orders.
"Curious."
Corvin crawled out from under the canvas, pale, with dark circles under his eyes. Tremors shook him, but wariness sounded in his voice.
"How did a Source mage end up in the service of some earl?"
"Personal business," Aina replied evenly. "Mine and Lord Nowenstein's."
Corvin snorted indignantly but fell silent. He didn't have the strength to argue.
A few minutes later, he called out:
"Lyra, could you give me some water?"
She jumped down from the driver's seat, climbed into the wagon. Corvin tried to take the flask, but his hands shook so badly he couldn't lift them. Looked at her with a crooked smile:
"If it's not too much trouble...?"
Lyra moved closer, lifted his head, brought the flask to his lips. His skin was icy, his body shaking. He couldn't even hold his head up on his own.
After he'd drunk, she was about to leave, but Corvin stopped her:
"Wait."
With a trembling hand, he pulled from his bag a tiny pale-purple stone with a dim light inside. Held it out to Lyra.
She reached out cautiously. Corvin placed the stone in her palm, closed her fingers into a fist.
Lyra flinched, but a voice sounded in her head:
Don't panic.
Clear, distinct, unlike his weak whisper. Lyra froze, staring at his closed mouth.
This is magic. I won't be able to do this for long. Something's clearly not right here. Don't trust them too much.
Them? Who?
Corvin released her fingers. Sweat broke out on his forehead, his eyes closed—consciousness left the mage. He just lay there, pale, barely breathing.
Lyra sat, clutching the stone. The purple light died. In her hand remained a cold, cloudy piece of rock.
What was that? Who shouldn't she trust?
She hid the stone in her pocket, in the same place where the silver raven lay. Climbed out of the wagon, sat on the driver's seat next to Aina.
"Did you give him water?" Aina asked.
"Yeah."
The wagon swayed. The road ran away behind them. Somewhere ahead, Erlenholm, the Earl, and answers waited. Or new questions.
The silver raven and the purple stone warmed against her heart.