Raven's — POV
The moment I stepped beyond the palace gates, the weight I had been holding inside my chest finally collapsed inward.
It wasn't sudden.
It wasn't dramatic.
It was quiet—like a structure that had been standing far too long on cracked foundations, finally admitting it could no longer hold.
My shoulders sagged, my spine loosening as if my body itself had been waiting for permission to stop pretending. Not from shame. Not from guilt.
From exhaustion.
The kind that seeps into the marrow, that no amount of willpower can fully command.
Elyra walked ahead of me in silence, her back straight, her steps steady and unhurried. She didn't look back. She didn't need to.
That silence was far more terrifying than her anger.
I had known her long enough to understand what it meant—when Elyra stopped lecturing, stopped correcting, stopped snapping orders like blades.
It meant she was thinking.
And when Elyra Voss thought, someone usually bled for it.
I exhaled slowly and followed her, my boots scraping softly against the stone path as we moved farther from the training grounds and into the quieter streets beyond the palace walls. The city sounded different here—less voices, fewer footsteps, more wind slipping between stone and shadow.
"You almost collapsed," Elyra said at last.
Her voice was calm. Too calm.
Sharp as a honed edge.
"Again."
"I didn't collapse," I replied, keeping my tone even, controlled. "I caught myself."
She stopped walking.
So did I.
The space between us felt suddenly heavier, like the air had thickened. Elyra turned to face me, her eyes sharp and unyielding, searching my face the way they always did—like she was looking past skin and bone, past practiced expressions, straight into the fractures beneath.
"That isn't the defense you think it is," she said.
I clenched my jaw.
"I had it under control."
Her gaze hardened.
"You never have it under control when you say that."
She stepped closer. I didn't retreat—but my body tensed anyway, instinctive and automatic, like a prey animal bracing for impact.
"You were drained," she continued. "Your mana was dangerously low. If that had happened during a real fight—"
"I know," I cut in quietly.
"If that had happened during a real fight," she repeated, unmoved, "you'd be dead."
I looked away.
The image came unbidden.
Lyria's hands gripping my face earlier—warm, trembling, unafraid of my edges. Her voice sharp, not commanding, not royal.
Just scared.
Your eyes look unfocused.
I swallowed hard.
"I recovered," I said more softly. " I expected this to happen someday , so I had a plan for that.."
Elyra's eyes narrowed. "Plan how?"
I hesitated.
The truth pressed against my tongue, bitter and unavoidable , then I sighed . " the sword "
Her brow furrowed immediately, "you're using it again."
"It's not like before," I said quickly, too quickly. "I don't let it take from others or from me . I store my own mana in it. I withdraw only what I need."
Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.
Finally, Elyra spoke.
"You're treating your body like a container," she said. "Something expendable."
The words struck deeper than I expected.
I winced , "that's not __"
"That is what you're doing," she cut in sharply. "And you've done it since you were a child."
Her voice didn't rise.
It didn't need to.
We resumed walking, but my steps felt heavier now, each one dragging against invisible resistance.
"I don't have the luxury of caution," I said after a moment. "I have to become stronger as soon as possible."
"So did I," Elyra replied. "And I learned—far too late—that sacrificing yourself doesn't save anyone in the end."
I didn't respond.
Because the truth was—I understood.
I just didn't know how to stop.
I can't stop. Not now.
As we reached the edge of the city, Morivaine's voice slipped into my mind, smooth and observant.
She's right, the entity murmured. You are burning yourself down. Piece by piece.
I didn't answer.
You don't need to rush, Morivaine continued. You have all the time in the world.
If only that were true.
And yet, Morivaine added, almost amused, you let the princess scold you. You didn't even resist.
That made me frown.
"I didn't 'let' her," I muttered under my breath.
You could have pulled away, Morivaine said. You didn't.
The memory returned—Lyria's hands again. The way her fingers trembled. The way her eyes searched mine, not with authority, but fear.
I shook my head, annoyed with myself.
"She's just worried," I said. "She worries too much."
Morivaine chuckled softly. If you say so.
Elyra stopped in front of her home at last, turning to face me one final time.
"I accepted the position," she said. "I'll be training the King's soldiers."
Relief stirred faintly in my chest.
"That is great ," I replied.
She nodded once, then added, "I told him I'll only train his soldiers. I will not participate in wars or battles. Ever."
I respected her even more for that.
"But I'll accept it on one condition," she continued.
I stiffened. "Which is?"
"You stop treating rest like a weakness," she said. "And you stop lying to yourself about how much damage you can endure."
I met her gaze.
For a moment, I wanted to argue.
Then I exhaled slowly.
"…I'll try."
Her expression softened—just a fraction.
"That's all I'm asking."
She turned toward her door, then paused.
"There will be no training today," Elyra added. "Go home. Rest. We'll meet again at the palace."
As I turned to leave, exhaustion finally flooded my limbs in full force. My vision dimmed at the edges—but I forced myself to keep walking, upright, controlled.
Behind me, Elyra's voice followed.
"And Raven?"
I paused.
"Next time the princess looks at you like that," she said quietly, "you should be more afraid of losing her trust than losing your strength."
" What do you mean ." I asked
She didn't answered, she just smiled .
Long after I was alone.
Long after the streets blurred into shadow and dusk.
Long after my body finally admitted what my pride had refused to acknowledge.
I walked away from the city in silence, choosing the longer road back to the orphanage.
Not because it was faster.
Not because it was safer.
But because it was quieter.
The stone-paved streets gradually gave way to packed earth, then to narrow paths softened by moss and fallen leaves. The distant noise of the city—vendors calling, carts rattling, voices overlapping—faded behind me, replaced by the subtle sounds of nature settling into its own rhythm.
A river ran parallel to the path, its presence announced long before it came into view. I heard it first—the low, constant murmur of water moving over stone, patient and unhurried, as if the world itself had decided to slow down here.
Tall trees arched overhead, their branches weaving together like cathedral vaults of living green. Sunlight filtered through the leaves in broken patterns, painting the ground in shifting gold and shadow. The air smelled clean—cool water, damp earth, crushed grass beneath my boots.
For a moment, it felt like stepping into another world entirely.
I followed the path until it narrowed beside the riverbank, then finally stopped.
The river was wide and clear, its water a deep, luminous blue that caught the sunlight and scattered it into rippling reflections. Smooth stones lined the edges, some half-submerged, others warm and dry where the sun touched them. The trees leaned closer here, their roots gripping the earth like ancient hands, as if guarding the water beneath them.
I lowered myself to sit at the edge, boots resting against the cool stones.
The world felt… gentle.
I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath, filling my lungs with the quiet.
"This world is truly beautiful," I murmured.
For once, it wasn't something I said out of politeness or comparison. I meant it.
Morivaine's voice answered within my mind, softer than usual.
I agree, she said. I like this world as well.
I opened my eyes slowly, surprised.
"You never talk about your world," I said. "What was it like?"
There was a brief pause.
Then Morivaine laughed—a low, mocking sound edged with something sharp.
Don't flatter yourself, she said. We are not close enough for me to speak about myself so freely.
I huffed quietly, a tired sort of amusement curling in my chest.
"You wound me," I replied dryly. "We've lived fourteen lives together, and you still say we aren't close?"
I leaned back slightly, bracing my hands against the grass.
"Fine," I continued. "If you don't want to talk, I won't force you. But if you ever do…"
I hesitated, then finished softly, "I'll listen."
Morivaine didn't respond.
No teasing.
No laughter.
No cutting remark.
Just silence.
Minutes passed as the river continued its endless motion, indifferent to my thoughts, my battles, my past. A breeze stirred the leaves overhead, sending a few drifting down to the water's surface, where they were carried away without resistance.
I stayed there a while longer, watching the current, letting the quiet settle into me.
Eventually, I rose to my feet.
The orphanage awaited. Responsibilities awaited. Training, expectations, and the weight of tomorrow.
But for a brief moment—here, by the river—I allowed myself to exist without any of that.
And as I turned back toward the path, I could have sworn the silence behind me felt… less empty than before.
The orphanage came into view just as the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon.
Golden light spilled over the iron fence of the front garden, catching on the chipped paint and the climbing vines that had long since claimed it as their own. The air smelled faintly of bread and herbs—dinner, already being prepared.
I slowed my steps without realizing it.
Beyond the fence, children were scattered across the garden, laughter ringing clear and unrestrained. Some chased one another between the trees, others sat in small clusters, arguing over a game whose rules changed every minute.
For a moment, I simply watched.
Then someone noticed me.
"Raven!"
A small voice rang out, sharp with excitement.
Heads turned. Eyes widened. And suddenly the quiet observation was over.
They came running.
"Raven, you're back!"
"You came early today!"
"You're just in time—we're about to eat!"
Warm hands caught mine before I could even react. Small fingers, tugging insistently, pulling me toward the open doors.
"Come on, come on!"
I let them.
Their grip was clumsy, uneven, but determined. One nearly tripped over their own feet, laughing as another scolded them for pulling too hard. I found myself smiling—just a little—as I was dragged inside, voices overlapping in excited chaos.
The familiar creak of the orphanage doors greeted us, followed by the comforting hum of evening routine.
"Raven's back!" someone announced proudly, as if I had been gone for years instead of hours.
From across the hall, mother Mary looked up.
Her expression softened instantly.
"You're early today," she said, mild surprise in her voice. "I didn't think you'd make it back in time for supper."
"I finished training early," I replied quietly. "So I came straight home."
She approached, her steps measured and calm, eyes scanning me in the way she always did—careful, perceptive.
"That's good," she said gently. "But you don't look well. You're pale."
Her hand rose, hovering near my forehead before she stopped herself.
"You need to eat properly and rest," she continued. "I don't want you falling ill."
I didn't argue.
I didn't reassure her.
I just nodded.
She sighed, not entirely convinced, but didn't push.
"Come," she said instead. "Help Rin and Lira set the table."
I followed her into the dining area, where the long wooden tables bore the marks of countless meals and small hands. Rin was already stacking plates too high, wobbling dangerously, while Lira tried—and failed—to arrange spoons in neat rows.
I stepped in silently, taking half the plates from Rin before they toppled.
"Hey," he protested. "I had it!"
"You definitely didn't," I replied dryly.
Lira grinned.
As we worked, the orphanage settled into its evening rhythm. The kitchen filled with the sound of bubbling pots, soft conversation, the scrape of chairs being dragged into place.
Then mother Mary spoke again, almost casually.
"It's been some time since Princess Lyria visited," she said. "I hope she's doing well."
My hands paused for just a second.
"Yes," I answered after a brief silence. "She's well."
I placed the last spoon down carefully.
"She's just… busy," I added. "As you know, she's the crowned princess now. She has a great deal to learn before she becomes queen."
Mother Mary smiled, warmth shining in her eyes.
"She's a good girl," she said. "Kind-hearted. She'll be a great queen one day."
I didn't respond .
I focused on straightening a plate that was already perfectly aligned.
The truth pressed quietly against my ribs—unspoken, unwelcome.
She was kind.
She would be great.
And people like her weren't meant to linger in places like this… or with people like me.
As the children began to file in, laughter rising once more, I took my seat among them, letting the noise wash over me.
Here, at least, I could pretend the world was simple.
That I was just Raven.
Not a weapon.
Not a vessel.
Not something bound to outlive everyone who mattered.
Just… home.
After dinner, the orphanage settled into a softer kind of noise.
The sharp hunger of the day faded into contentment—chairs scraping gently across the floor, children talking over one another with mouths full of laughter and bread, the steady clink of utensils being gathered .
I stood at the kitchen sink with Rin and Lira, warm water running over our hands as we washed the dishes together. The scent of soap mixed with the lingering aroma of stew, grounding and familiar.
Rin cleared his throat once.
Then again.
I glanced at him briefly but said nothing.
"Raven," he said at last, lowering his voice. His eyes flicked toward the doorway, where the other children were gathered, already drifting back into their games. "Can we… talk for a bit after this?"
Lira stiffened beside him, fingers tightening around the plate she was drying.
"There's something we want to tell you," Rin added. "If you're not busy… could we talk in the garden?"
I studied them quietly.
Their shoulders were tense. Too tense for casual conversation.
"I'm not busy," I said after a moment. "You can wait for me in the garden. I'll be there shortly."
Relief crossed both their faces.
They nodded and slipped out through the side door, their voices low and hurried as they went.
I finished washing the last plate, then prepared tea—three cups, light and fragrant—and poured myself a small cup of coffee. On my way outside, I handed mother Mary a cup of tea. She smiled, surprised but grateful, and squeezed my hand gently before returning to the children.
The night had fully claimed the garden by the time I stepped outside.
The air was cool, carrying the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hum of insects. Moonlight filtered through the branches overhead, casting silver patterns across the grass. A faint breeze stirred the trees, brushing against my skin like a quiet reassurance.
Rin and Lira were seated at the small wooden table beneath the old tree in the front garden—the same tree that had shaded countless afternoons of play and secret conversations. They sat close together, backs straight, hands folded far too neatly.
I approached slowly, cups balanced in my hands.
I set the two mugs of tea in front of them, then took my seat opposite. I lifted my coffee, inhaled the familiar bitterness, took a small sip, and placed it back on the table.
"All right," I said calmly. "What did you want to talk about?"
They exchanged a glance.
Lira was the first to speak.
"Well…" Her voice was quiet. Careful. "Rin and I have been thinking, and we've decided that we want to join a Hunter's Guild."
I said nothing.
I watched them instead—how Rin's jaw tightened, how Lira's fingers trembled slightly against the rim of her cup.
After a long silence, I asked, "Is there a reason you want to join a guild now?"
Rin nodded quickly. "We want to get stronger. Strong enough to help protect our family."
He swallowed.
"And we know you're the one covering most of the orphanage's expenses," he continued. "We want to help carry that burden too."
My expression hardened.
"If you're joining a guild for money," I said flatly, leaning forward, my gaze sharp, "then I won't accept it. I refuse—completely—if the reason you fight is gold."
Lira shook her head immediately.
"No," she said, more firmly now. "That's not why."
Her eyes darkened, pain flickering across her face.
"I can't forget that day," she continued softly. "When the men attacked the orphanage. I was so angry… but I couldn't do anything. No matter how much I wanted to protect everyone, I was helpless. Weak."
Rin nodded, his voice rough. "If I had been even a little stronger, I could've stopped them. I could've stopped them from kidnapping us. From hurting the kids. From hurting mother Mary."
Their words pressed into old scars I never spoke about.
Lira looked at me again. "Training with you has helped. I know I'm getting stronger. But I want to grow faster. In a Hunter's Guild, we'll face real battles—real monsters. That's how we'll improve."
She hesitated.
Then Rin spoke again, more quietly this time.
"We know you're planning to leave again someday," he said. "And we can't force you to stay."
My fingers curled slightly around my cup.
"But when you're gone," he continued, "who will protect the orphanage? Who will protect our family if something happens and you're not here?"
Silence fell heavy between us.
"That responsibility will fall on us," Rin finished. "So we wanted to tell you before joining. We wanted to know what you think."
I stared at them for a long moment.
They had already decided. I could see it in their eyes.
"It sounds like you've made up your minds," I said at last. "Even if I refused, you'd go anyway."
They didn't deny it.
I exhaled slowly.
"All right," I said. "I won't stop you."
Their faces lit up instantly—relief, excitement, hope breaking through all at once.
They laughed softly, almost disbelieving.
But I raised a hand.
Their celebration froze.
"I'll agree," I said coldly, "on one condition."
They straightened immediately, tension returning.
"What is it?" they asked in unison.
My voice did not waver.
"You will never throw your lives away," I said. "No matter the reason. If you face an enemy stronger than you, you run. I don't care what a guild's code says about sacrifice. I don't care about any nonsense that glorifies dying for others."
I leaned closer, eyes burning.
"Your lives matter more than pride. More than reputation. More than missions. You have responsibilities. You have a family that depends on you."
I paused.
"So promise me one thing," I said quietly. "You won't act recklessly. You won't gamble your lives. And if you're outmatched, you will flee—no matter what anyone says about you."
They hesitated.
Then both nodded firmly.
"We promise," they said.
Rin smiled. "You'll still train us, right?"
I nodded once. "Of course. I'll train you."
A faint smile touched my lips. "And once your physical training is complete, we'll begin working on your abilities."
Their excitement returned in full force.
They jumped to their feet, thanked me hurriedly, and rushed back inside to tell mother Mary the news.
I remained where I was.
The night breeze brushed through the leaves overhead, the moonlight spilling softly across the table. I lifted my coffee again, letting the warmth seep into my hands as I sat beneath the tree, listening to the quiet.
For a brief moment—
Just one—
The world felt still.
And that was enough.