"Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking for you! Why did you run away, create such a fuss, and delay the affairs of the soldiers?"
A man in his early twenties, with unruly curls and sweat glistening on his forehead, emerged from a narrow alley. His breath was ragged, as if he’d run a great distance. His arm draped over the young woman’s shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh.
To the onlookers, the gesture might have seemed affectionate. But Lara saw the truth—the tight grip, the sharp flinch of pain, the way the woman’s eyes darted, seeking escape.
"Sirs, I deeply apologize for my wife’s behavior." The man’s voice was laced with an artificial charm, but the smugness beneath it was unmistakable. "She was flirting with our neighbor, and in my jealousy, I struck her. Of course, I might have hit her too hard, and she ran off in a tantrum. But can you blame me? A man can’t be expected to tolerate other men lusting after his beautiful wife, can he?"
The woman barely said a word before the man’s glare silenced her. Her lips trembled, her eyes darkened with resignation, and she lowered her head.
Lara clenched her fists.
"How can you prove she is your wife?" Lara’s voice was calm, but her eyes burned with defiance. In a world where women were treated as property, she had to tread carefully.
The man scoffed. "What? Has this wretch bewitched you as well?" He reached into his tunic and yanked out a crumpled piece of parchment, shoving it toward Lara with a sneer. "Here! Look for yourself!"
Lara caught the paper as it was flung at her. Her fingers brushed over the inked names, but it meant nothing. How could she confirm that the document was genuine?
Her gaze flickered to the woman’s face. There was no hope in her eyes, only silent pleading.
Lara hesitated. She had spent years being forged into a weapon, taught that kindness was weakness. But since she had found her new family, the ruthless conditioning of her past had started to crack.
Reya’s warmth had shown her the love of a mother. Despite being simple-minded, her bubbly personality made them share things that only best friends would. Yes, Reya has become both a mother and friend to her, never a servant.
Sandoz’s wide-eyed admiration had given her the role of an older sister, a protector. Something she had never experienced with her siblings. And her master... he had become the father she never had, nurturing her without cruelty.
Lara exhaled sharply and forced those thoughts away. Now was not the time for sentiment.
"Aren’t you an idiot?" she said with a slow, deliberate smirk. "I don’t even know either of you, so how could I tell if the names on this paper are real?"
Laughter rippled through the soldiers on horseback.
The curly-haired man’s face darkened. His grip on the woman tightened until she bit her lip to stifle a cry.
"Young man, I can attest that they are married." An elderly man with a head full of gray hair stepped forward.
"Yes," a woman in her forties added. "She is indeed his wife."
Lara’s stomach churned. Liars. Cowards. Just one look and Lara knew that the three people were conniving with each other.
She met the woman’s eyes one more time, frustration gnawing at her insides. She was powerless to act, not without drawing unwanted attention.
For some reason, her gaze drifted back to the leader of the soldiers. She was startled to find him already studying her, his sharp eyes dissecting her every reaction.
Lara was hoping that the soldiers would sense that something was amiss and help the woman, but it looked like, with two witnesses, there was nothing more they could do.
Lara’s heart sank. If even the soldiers wouldn’t intervene, then the woman’s fate was sealed.
"In that case," she said coolly, her piercing stare locking onto the two so-called witnesses, "there is nothing more I can say."
The two elders shifted uncomfortably. They knew she saw through their deception.
The curly-haired man wasted no time. He yanked the woman by her hair, dragging her away like a stray animal.
She cried out, her swollen face twisting in agony, but she didn’t resist. She only turned back for one last, desperate look at Lara.
And Lara could do nothing but watch.
Her expression remained blank, unreadable, but her fingers moved swiftly. From within the folds of her jacket, she palmed a small, smooth object—then, with a flick of her wrist, sent it flying.
The sharp crack of impact was instant.
"AHHH!" The curly-haired man staggered forward, clutching the back of his head. His fingers came away slick with blood. His eyes darted wildly, seeking the culprit.
"Who did that?!" he bellowed, his voice thick with rage.
A little beggar boy crouched nearby, his grubby hands closing around the small thing —a greenish-purple fruit. He wiped it clean on his tattered clothes and passed it to his sister, who accepted it eagerly.
"Sis, look! Seriguelas! You eat it." The thin boy who looked to be the same age as Sandoz urged his sister.
The girl took a joyful bite before handing half back to her brother.
"You eat too, brother." The little girl who looked sallow handed the tiny fruit back to the boy. It was obvious that she was so hungry but still thought of her brother.
The boy’s eyes reddened. He wanted to refuse but did not want to disappoint his sister. After hesitating, he took a bite, savoring the rare taste of sweetness.
"Brother," the little girl whispered, eyes sparkling with childish wonder, "do you think more fruit will fall from the sky and hit that bad guy?"
The boy didn’t answer. His gaze drifted toward the crowd.
And there, standing in plain sight, with the horses and soldiers as a backdrop, was Lara—expression calm, posture relaxed, hands tucked into her jacket.
Her eyes gleamed with cold calculation.
She wasn’t finished yet.