Sera walked slowly around the field, her steps unhurried, almost reluctant, as though each movement forced her to face what remained of the battle that had just taken place. The earth beneath her feet felt heavy, soaked with the echoes of clashing steel and fallen lives.
Several warriors moved about in grim silence, tidying what could never truly be restored—separating the dead enemy warriors from the fallen of Mort, as if even in death there had to be order.
The entire area was thick with the suffocating stench of blood, metallic and raw, clinging to the air like a cruel memory that refused to fade. Bodies lay scattered—some whole, others broken beyond recognition—but the sight did not frighten her. It never had.
She had long grown accustomed to death's merciless presence. Still, there was something about this battlefield that pressed quietly against her chest.
The bodies were eventually stacked, and her sharp eyes noticed that the number of fallen Mort warriors was far fewer than that of their enemies. They had won decisively. They had not suffered great losses.
And yet, victory did not feel like peace.
Her gaze drifted, drawn toward the wounded gathered in clusters, where warrior physicians moved swiftly, tending to injuries with practiced urgency. Low groans and quiet murmurs filled the spaces between them, fragile sounds that seemed louder in the approaching dusk.
Sera tilted her head slightly, her eyes lifting to the sky as it slowly darkened, the fading light stretching shadows across the land.
Are we going to rest here? she asked herself silently, her thoughts softer than the wind brushing past her. It will be hard for those wounded warriors if they continue traveling now… they need time…
There was a strange tenderness in that thought—one she rarely allowed herself to feel.
She turned, sensing a presence, and saw Pearl following closely behind her. The mule's steady steps mirrored her own, as though bound to her by something unseen. Sera approached him, her hand instinctively reaching out to pat his head, her touch gentle, almost absentminded.
"What are you?" she murmured softly, her voice laced with quiet wonder and confusion. His intelligence unsettled her, as did the undeniable truth that he belonged—heart and soul—to Lord Azron.
Her attention shifted when she noticed the four generals gathered not far away, seated around a small campfire with Azron at its center. The flames flickered between them, casting shadows that danced across their serious expressions. The air around them was heavy with tension, their posture rigid, voices low but firm.
Sera hesitated.
She did not dare approach.
"It was the Vaiels army, led by General Loran," General Wang reported, his tone steady but grim. "It seemed they orchestrated the trouble in the Northern lands, stirring unrest to divert the army commander's attention. And when they learned we were on our way… they planned an ambush to stop us."
"Their troops have taken heavy casualties," General Rin added. "It will take four days for reinforcements to arrive. That gives us enough time to reach the lands tomorrow and prepare in case they strike again."
Azron's presence remained commanding, even in stillness. "Send a squad ahead to the North. Have the commander deploy warriors across every corner of the land to keep watch. Prepare the army. We depart at first light."
"Yes, Lord Azron."
The generals rose and departed, each moving with purpose, their battlefield personas still clinging to them like armor.
Sera watched them go, a faint crease forming between her brows. They were entirely different men in battle—unreachable, untouchable. Not once had they spared her even a glance. Duty had consumed them completely.
Her gaze drifted back to Azron.
He sat alone now, drawing his sword to clean it. The dried blood clung stubbornly to the blade, a dark reminder of what had just passed. As he worked, his eyes lifted—and found her.
Even from several meters away, his gaze locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch.
Sera quickly averted her eyes, her attention snapping back to Pearl as if he could shield her from the weight of Azron's stare.
More than a year. She had been in his presence for more than a year… and yet she still could not grow accustomed to the way he looked at her. His gaze used to send cold shivers down her spine, sharp and unwelcoming.
But now…
Now it stirred something else—something unfamiliar, something dangerously soft.
And she didn't like it.
She had noticed it. The change in him. The shift in the way he treated her. He had once been distant, almost mercilessly cold. But ever since the assassination attempt… there had been moments—small, fleeting, but undeniable—when he had been gentle.
Sometimes even… caring.
He's just thankful that I saved his family, she reminded herself, clinging to logic like a shield. Nothing more. I shouldn't misunderstand his actions.
But the memories betrayed her—the quiet gestures, the unspoken protection.
Meanwhile, Azron's gaze never left her.
He watched her as she absentmindedly stroked Pearl's head, his expression unreadable, yet storming beneath the surface. The image of General Loran from earlier burned vividly in his mind—the way the man had looked at Sera… the way he had laughed… the way he had licked the arrow she had shot.
A dark fury tightened Azron's grip on his sword.
His knuckles whitened.
His face hardened with lethal intent.
Azron realized, perhaps too late, that allowing Sera to ride Pearl had been a mistake. His protection… had marked her.
Made her visible and vulnerable.
Made her a target.
His gaze softened—just slightly—as it lingered on her again.
Before they had set out for the North, he had made a decision. To distance himself from her. To deny what had been quietly growing inside him.
But now…
The threat from Loran had done more than anger him.
It had unsettled him.
It had frightened him.
And that—more than anything—was unfamiliar.
For the first time, a woman had shaken the foundation of his unyielding mind. And in that quiet, dangerous realization, Azron understood the truth he could no longer deny.
He was falling for her.
And with that truth came something far heavier than desire.
Fear.
Fear of the danger that followed him… and now, surrounded her.
Sera sat beneath a tree, drawing her knees slightly inward as she tried to rest. But sleep would not come. The battle replayed endlessly in her mind—the clash of blades, the cries, the blood.
Her chest felt too tight.
Her thoughts too loud.
She lifted her gaze—and saw him.
Azron was walking toward her.
She stood instinctively as he approached, her pulse quickening for reasons she refused to name.
"Come with me," he said.
His voice was soft.
It unsettled her more than any command ever had.
Her brows furrowed in confusion, but she followed him anyway, her steps trailing behind his toward the campfire.
He sat down and handed her a bowl of soup, the simple gesture strangely intimate in the quiet of the night.
"Sit down."
She obeyed, settling across from him. The warmth of the bowl seeped into her hands, grounding her, yet her eyes remained fixed on him—waiting, searching.
Was he going to say something?
But he remained silent.
And somehow… that silence said more than words ever could.
She was just about to ask him about Pearl when the sharp sound of drums and horns pierced the air. Azron stood immediately.
Time to depart.
He gave a soft whistle.
And as if bound by an invisible thread, Pearl appeared at Sera's side.
She stared, speechless—first at the mule, then at Azron, her curiosity deepening into something almost overwhelming.
"Saddle up… and stay close to me," Azron ordered as he mounted his horse.Sera narrowed her eyes slightly, confusion swirling within her.
Why does he need me close?
Why is he acting like this?
Something was shifting.
And she could feel it.
But he wasn't telling her.
The journey resumed beneath a veil of fog, thick and disorienting. Sera could barely see beyond a few steps, the world reduced to shadows and whispers.
Except for him.
Azron rode beside her, steady and silent, his presence the only thing clear in the haze.
They had traveled for a long time without a single word.
She wanted to ask.
She had so many questions.
But one look at his serious expression silenced her every time.
Typical Azron, she thought, exhaling softly. A man of few words…
She closed her eyes briefly, trying to calm the restlessness building inside her.
Then suddenly—the entire army halted.
Her hand flew to her sword, gripping it tightly as her senses sharpened. The fog only made everything worse, feeding her unease.
Another attack?
The fog slowly lifted.
And clarity returned.
Before them stood a massive gate.
They had arrived at Lotus County, a Mort territory.
They entered through the gates toward the army grounds, the sound of hooves echoing against stone and earth. The air here felt different—quieter, yet filled with watchful eyes.
Sera caught fragments of whispers drifting through the crowd, soft yet sharp enough to reach her ears.
"Look… she's riding the Ghosthoof. She must be someone important."
"Is she his Lordship's wife? But why is she wearing a warrior's armor?"
Each word landed on her like a pebble dropped into still water, sending ripples through her thoughts.
Her curiosity stirred again—stronger this time, restless and insistent.
Ghosthoof?
Her gaze slowly lowered to the mule beneath her.
Are they… talking about Pearl?
Before the weight of their stares could settle deeper into her chest, Sera quickly climbed down as they reached the military grounds. The moment her feet touched the earth, she felt strangely exposed, as if the whispers clung to her even more without the height to shield her.
Not far from her, Azron was already being greeted by the military commander, their exchange formal and urgent. Without pause, he moved toward the Officer's Quarters, the four generals following closely behind him, their strides swift and purposeful.
They didn't look back.
Not even once.
Sera remained where she stood, her arms slowly crossing over her chest as her gaze lingered on the closed doors they disappeared behind.
A faint frown formed on her lips.
In a hurry… again.
She began pacing outside the Officer's Quarters, her steps measured at first, then gradually quicker as her patience thinned. Her thoughts circled relentlessly around the same question.
Ghosthoof.
If Shrin were here… she would already have her answers. Shrin had always been the one person who made sense of things inside Mort Mansion—her only thread of clarity in a place filled with silence and secrets.
Sera exhaled sharply.
I need answers… or I'll lose my mind.
Her gaze flickered—and caught sight of a warrior standing at a distance, his presence still yet unmistakably watchful.
She narrowed her eyes slightly.
It was him.
The same warrior who had guarded her the day before.
And just like before, the cavalry warriors lingered nearby, their silent vigilance wrapping around her like an invisible cage.
Sera walked toward him without hesitation. As she stopped in front of him, she had to tilt her head up slightly—his towering frame making her seem smaller than she already was.
"You… Stone warrior."
No response.
Not even a glance.
His face remained steady, disciplined, unmoving.
Sera's lips pressed together.
"Can you tell me about the Ghosthoof?"
Her voice was calm—but beneath it lay a growing impatience.
Still, nothing.
He ignored her as though she were nothing more than air.
Sera inhaled deeply, her chest rising as she fought to keep her composure. But the restraint slipped faster than she expected.
"You know," she began, her tone sharpening, "I'm actually a very impatient person."
Her eyes lifted, locking onto him with intensity.
"And I have a lot of questions."
A beat.
"Please tell me about the Ghosthoof… or I'll go mad and bring trouble to you."
That caught his attention.
His gaze lowered to meet hers.
"I am telling you… you don't want me mad," she added, her voice quieter now—but far more dangerous. Her cheeks flushed faintly, her eyes burning with restrained frustration, as if she were moments away from erupting.
For a brief second, the warrior's composure faltered.
His eyes flicked toward the Officer's Quarters—almost pleading for Azron to appear and save him from her relentless questioning.
He had seen her in battle.
He knew what she was capable of.
But loyalty held him in place like chains.
And chains, no matter how heavy, were not easily broken.
"So… the Ghosthoof?" she pressed again, her brows knitting together.
Silence.
Unyielding.
He straightened, his face returning to its rigid calm.
He said nothing.
Sera stared at him for a long moment, disbelief flickering across her features before hardening into resolve.
"Fine," she said, her voice tight. "I'll find someone else to give me an answer."
She turned sharply and walked toward the gates, her steps fueled by frustration. If the warriors wouldn't speak, then a civilian would.
But before she could leave, the guards moved.
They blocked her path.
Sera stopped.
Then slowly—her lips curved into a smile.
It wasn't warm.
It wasn't kind.
It was the kind of smile that came before trouble.
Her hand moved to her sword, gripping it—but she did not unsheath it. She didn't want to hurt them. Not really.
Then, in a blur of motion, she dashed forward.
The warriors reacted instantly, attempting to restrain her—but they were too slow.
Sera moved like wind slipping through cracks—swift, precise, untouchable. One by one, she struck them down, not with lethal force, but with controlled precision. Bodies hit the ground, unconscious but unharmed.
Before the remaining warriors could react, she leaped—
Her body rising effortlessly as she scaled the closed gate.
And in the next breath—
She was gone.
The sudden commotion rippled through the grounds, pulling Azron and the generals out of the Officer's Quarters.
"What's going on?" General Wang demanded as they approached the fallen warriors.
Azron's eyes scanned the area instantly.
Searching.
But she wasn't there.
A warrior dropped to his knees before him. "Apologies, Lord Azron… we were not able to stop her. She escaped."
For a brief moment, silence stretched.
Azron lifted a hand to his temple, exhaling slowly—though the tension in his expression betrayed him.
"Find her."
It wasn't loud. But it carried weight of urgency.
And something dangerously close to worry.
The generals wasted no time, dispersing immediately.
Meanwhile, Sera wandered into the city, the hum of civilian life surrounding her—a stark contrast to the rigid order of the military grounds. Her eyes scanned the crowd until she spotted a familiar figure—the man who had whispered earlier.
She approached him quickly.
"Excuse me… can you tell me what you know about the Ghosthoof?"
She held out five silver coins, the small fortune glinting between her fingers.
The man's eyes lit up.
"Oh, the Ghosthoof? Who doesn't know the legend?"
"Legend?" Sera blinked, caught off guard. "Well… I didn't know. That's why I'm asking."
The man chuckled lightly before launching into his explanation, his voice animated.
"He was the legendary mule of the Mort Lords. Served three generations. Survived countless brutal battles. Trained for combat support. They say he once saved the current Lord of Mort—carried him across the Black Grand Canyons for seven days without rest after an ambush killed his father and brothers."
Sera's breath stilled.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the coins.
"He doesn't yield to just anyone," the man continued. "Only when the Lord of Mort allows it. Wait… weren't you the one riding him earlier?"
"…Yes," she answered softly.
"Well then," he grinned, "you must be someone important."
Her heart skipped—uneven, uncertain.
"I've even heard General Jidu got kicked when he tried to mount him," the man added with a laugh. "So… are you his Lordship's wife? That would explain it."
Sera let out an awkward laugh, her hand instinctively brushing against her arm.
"No… I'm not."
"Then you're his woman."
Her laughter came again—strained this time.
"Would that be the only implication?" she asked, though her voice felt distant to her own ears.
"What else?" the man shrugged. "The only woman who ever rode him was Lady Clea—his great grandmother. Anyone who saw you would think the same."
The words settled heavily.
Too heavily.
Sera fell silent.
The world around her seemed to dim, the noise fading into something distant and hollow.
"Well… thanks for the silver," the man said, waving a hand in front of her face when she didn't respond. "If you two get married, don't forget to invite me!"
And just like that, he left her standing alone.
Still.
Frozen.
Her thoughts spiraled.
The memory of the enemy general surfaced—the way he had looked at her… laughed… licked her arrow.
A chill ran down her spine.
He thought I was Azron's woman.
Her grip on her sword tightened.
That's why…
Anger flared within her chest, sharp and consuming.
This journey—this was supposed to be her chance. Her chance to breathe. To escape. To finally be free from Azron's walls.
But now—
Now she was marked.
Targeted.
Bound even tighter than before.
Her lips parted—and a laugh escaped her.
Hysterical.
Bitter.
Unrestrained.
"He planned this…" she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief and rising fury. "He made me ride the Ghosthoof… so I would never have a choice but to return."
Her chest rose and fell unevenly.
"So even if I run… his enemies will chase me."
Her laughter broke again, softer now—but far more painful.
"So I'll have no other place to go but Mort City. I'll never truly be free…"
For a fleeting moment, something fragile flickered in her eyes.