I woke up… floating. Literally.

  A cold breeze brushed against my face. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was the ceiling—but it was way too close, way too out of place. Vertigo hit me all of a sudden, and without thinking, I tried to sit up like I would from the floor.

  Big mistake.

  —“Aaagh!”

  My scream probably woke up the entire complex as I fell from the makeshift bed like a training sack, landing with a loud thud. I barely had time to groan before I heard a THUMP!—the improvised mattress we had all shared crashed down too, shaking the floor like a mini earthquake.

  —“What the hell was that?!” Velka shouted, already half-sitting up with a strand of hair covering her eyes.

  —“It was your fault! You messed up the balance!” Neyra protested, her face still half-squished into the pillow.

  —“My fault?! Your arm was cutting off my circulation!”

  Before I could step in, Neyra’s sleepy hand flailed out in a reflexive motion and—SMACK!—landed a completely accidental slap on Velka’s cheek.

  —“ARGH!” Velka yelped, throwing herself to the side. “What was that?!”

  —“Ah! Sorry!” Neyra said, and the two of them started laughing foolishly while I remained on the floor, trying to decide whether to cry, laugh, or sleep five more minutes.

  “So begins a serious day,” I thought.

  This squad is either destined for glory… or disaster.

  One hour later…

  Hurriedly dressed and with barely brushed hair, we reported to the special briefing room located just beneath the academy’s east wing. Two figures were already inside: Commander Elore Stryvann—imposing and armed even in a diplomatic setting—and Minister Sael Vynther, whose expression looked more calculated than ever, with a stack of documents already laid out before us.

  —“Shadow of the Crown Squad,” Elore said without any preamble. “As of today, your unit is officially part of Operation Inner Shadow. Your objective: identify and neutralize any Eiswacht agents infiltrated in the capital.”

  Sael continued, her voice soft but clear:

  —“To accomplish this, you’ll integrate as civilians into three key sectors. Each of you will live in a separate apartment within the same complex, under false identities. New appearances, new records, new stories. No one must suspect a thing.”

  They handed us sealed folders containing our new credentials. Velka flipped through hers and let out a whistle.

  —“So I’m a librarian now?”

  —“Industrial calibration mechanic,” Elore corrected, arms crossed.

  —“Much better,” she grinned.

  Sael handed me my folder. “Lyria Wren,” it said. Assistant professor of advanced tactical bibliography at the military academy. Interesting. Of all the covers… this one kept me dangerously close to my old self.

  —“You three still appear relatively green in the public eye,” Sael continued. “But your appearance will be adjusted to support your cover. Hair, clothing, style, and so on.”

  —“Are you cutting my hair?!” Neyra asked, clutching her braid in horror.

  —“It won’t be permanent,” Sael replied. “Only what’s necessary.”

  Velka sighed, glancing at me.

  —“Well, Lyss… I mean, Lyria… ready to get dolled up like tactical fashionistas?”

  I nodded, swallowing hard. This was real. This was espionage.

  And so, between folders and new identities, we became ghosts with borrowed faces.

  —“I never thought the scariest part of a mission would be a spinning chair in front of a mirror,” I muttered, arms crossed.

  —“They haven’t taken your eyebrows yet,” Velka chimed in from her own station. “That comes later.”

  —“What?!” I gasped, just as the beautician assigned to me began laughing silently, scissors in hand.

  —“Kidding, goddess,” the woman said, winking.

  Neyra snorted from the third chair, while her hair was pulled back into a ponytail she would never have allowed under normal circumstances.

  —“I’d kill for a mission where no one’s shooting at me,” she muttered. “This is practically a spa.”

  —“Says the one clinging to the chair like it’s a public execution,” Velka teased.

  The stylist began trimming my hair with soft, precise movements. They had told me it would just be a minor adjustment, but it felt like they were cutting off a part of me I hadn’t yet understood.

  They applied a special eyeliner under my eyes, a new tint to darken my lashes slightly. Then came the makeup. Real makeup. Not combat paint, not camouflage. This was something… social. Feminine.

  After about half an hour, the stylist slowly turned my chair toward the mirror.

  And for a second, I didn’t recognize myself.

  The person looking back had my eyes, but something about her felt… detached from Lyssandra Velcrux.

  Maybe it was the new hairstyle, now falling to the side in a more refined shape. Maybe it was the civilian jacket with silver accents, the fitted black silk blouse, the way it highlighted my curves in a way that felt elegant rather than provocative.

  But there she was. A new me. One who, if she wanted to, could disappear from the world and live as someone else.

  “If I ran away now…” I thought. “If I slipped into the shadows with this face… would I be free?”

  The idea lasted barely three seconds. Then I saw my squadmates.

  Velka was standing, spinning around dramatically, her hair now slightly shorter, with a diagonal fringe framing her face in a surprisingly soft way.

  —“Who is that deadly beauty in civilian mode? Oh, it’s me!” she said, blowing a kiss at the mirror.

  Neyra shoved her with a snorting laugh. Her hair had been tied back more neatly, more formally, like a model soldier—but her eyes were sparkling.

  —“Don’t get too excited,” she said. “They only fixed your ego.”

  Velka pointed at her with a grin.

  —“You look fantastic too, Commander Shadow of the Bitterness Factory.”

  Neyra rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help smiling.

  I looked at them. Both of them. And in that moment, I understood: it didn’t matter how I looked on the outside. That idea of escape… wasn’t so tempting anymore. Because for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t alone.

  —“What about me?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

  They both turned to me. And then, as if they’d rehearsed it, said in unison:

  —“You look gorgeous, Lyss.”

  And for the first time, maybe I believed it.

  The vehicle slid through the streets with more elegance than I expected. Dark gray velvet upholstery, golden accents. It even smelled expensive. I didn’t know cars could smell expensive.

  —“Well, well…” Velka sang, glancing at me sideways. “So our timid goddess of rancor has become a full-on sexy professor?”

  I choked on my own saliva.

  —“Velka!”

  —“What?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I’m just saying what everyone’s going to think when they see you. That blouse, that hairstyle…”

  she raised an eyebrow with a sly smile

  —“…and honestly? If I didn’t know you already… I’d probably be asking myself a few questions.”

  Neyra, from the other seat, rested her chin on one hand with an exaggeratedly serious look.

  —“Yeah, I bet more than one student will fake a fracture just to be near the infirmary… and catch a glimpse of you in the hallway.”

  I covered my face with both hands, red to the tips of my ears.

  —“Can you not say things like that?”

  Velka chuckled softly.

  —“Don’t worry. It just means your cover’s working. You look so perfectly ordinary that no one would ever guess you could disintegrate an entire squad.”

  —“Yeah, just relax,” Neyra added. “The awkwardness fades in a few days.”

  I looked out the window. We were entering the heart of the capital. No more armor, no more combat uniforms. I felt more vulnerable than I wanted to admit… and more exposed.

  —“How do you adapt so fast?” I asked. “I mean… these identities, the fa?ades. How do you get used to acting like someone else?”

  Velka rested her arm along the back of the seat.

  —“At first, it feels weird. But the key is not forgetting who you are when no one’s watching. The rest is just practice.”

  —“And as long as you’re with us, you can practice in peace,” Neyra added. “We’ll run little exercises. Conversations, roleplay, whatever. We’ll mold you until you’re an irresistible professor with charisma and authority.”

  —“Neyra!”

  —“What? I’m helping,” she said with a smile.

  The vehicle moved toward the inner district of the city.

  Everything here felt... cleaner. Not just physically, but emotionally. As if the war were far away, almost forgotten.

  The streets were wide, perfectly traced, lined with artificial trees that bloomed according to the programmed season. Advertising screens showed soldiers hugging their families, with slogans like “We protect your peace” or “The future blossoms with you.”

  Decorative drones floated above the boulevards, projecting soft lights that changed with the ambient music. Every corner was carefully curated to look spontaneous: cafés with neutral-toned awnings, store windows with smiling mannequins, instrumental music wafting from hidden speakers.

  Everything was perfectly arranged to feel natural.

  We passed through a central plaza where several statues gleamed with surgical cleanliness. They depicted magical girls of the past—legendary warriors from previous eras, idealized in solemn or heroic poses. One statue, in particular, caught my attention. Not because of its size, but its presence.

  —“That’s Reia,” Velka said quietly, noticing my gaze. “The only recorded magical girl who awakened a positive emotion as I told you the other day”

  The statue was different. She held no weapons and projected no power. Her hands were extended as if offering something. Her face showed no pain or rage—only a soft smile that seemed to look through us.

  —“Is that why they made her statue like that?” I murmured.

  —“And why there’s no other like her,” Neyra added. “Not even you, Lyss.”

  Seravenn sold the dream of stability. And the entire city was buying it, happy not to see the cracks.

  When we arrived at the apartment complex, I knew instantly it wasn’t just any housing.

  Reinforced glass, artificial gardens on the balconies, floating sculptures that reacted to movement. Everything was designed to look expensive—but still welcoming. Like the wealthy wanted to feel part of the people… without actually mixing with them.

  —“Wow,” I murmured. “This looks more luxurious than the palace’s private wing.”

  —“It is,” Velka replied. “Because this is where goddesses live undercover.”

  An automated doorman bowed to us with a mechanical gesture, and the doors slid open with a metallic whisper. We rose in a silent elevator—too elegant to have real buttons. A simple verbal command was all it needed.

  On the assigned floor, the three of us split up momentarily. But before we each went to our own unit, Velka raised her voice:

  —“Ten minutes. My apartment. Codes, routines, backstories, and fake inside jokes. If we’re going to fool an entire city, we’d better do it in style.”

  Neyra nodded.

  —“And tea. I need tea if I’m going to reinvent myself.”

  We exchanged glances. I realized that no matter how alone I felt under this new identity… I wasn’t really.

  And in this city of masks, that was a precious truth.

  I entered alone.

  The apartment door shut behind me with a soft click, as if it respected the silence of the place. I wasn’t sure what I had expected… but it definitely wasn’t this.

  Everything was perfect. Too perfect.

  Walls in a warm shade of gray with polished finishes. Ambient lighting that subtly shifted with my movements. Minimalist furniture with clean, soft lines, like something from a design catalog. A small shelf with hand-picked books—none of which I had ever read.

  And on the entry table… a picture frame. I walked closer. A photo.

  Me… with a family that didn’t exist.

  A smiling woman meant to be my mother. A father in a civilian uniform. An older brother with glasses, hugging me from the side. The Lyss in the picture wore a white dress and smiled. She looked like me, but she wasn’t me.

  I swallowed hard and moved further in.

  Photos of trips: mountains, oceans, fields of flowers. Places I had supposedly visited. All fake. All crafted to fit a narrative.

  The lighting adjusted to my body temperature. The environment system released a subtle floral scent with each of my steps. An automated voice offered me coffee the moment it detected my presence—polite, but distant.

  Everything seemed designed not to be lived in, but to convince.

  This wasn’t a home. It was a visual argument.

  The bedroom was worse.

  Clothes hanging in the closet, neatly folded in drawers. All modern, sophisticated, subtly seductive without being bold. Perfumes, accessories, shoes I would never have picked. And in front of all of it: a mirror.

  I looked at myself.

  The new haircut, the light but skillful makeup. The fitted civilian clothes. Velka and Neyra’s words echoed in my mind. Sexy professor. Timid goddess of rancor, transformed.

  But I didn’t recognize myself.

  I stepped closer to the mirror and touched my reflection. The image was real, but the person in it didn’t exist yet.

  —“You’ll get used to it,” I whispered. “Just for a while. Just until you find the spy. Just… until things go back to normal.”

  Even though deep down, I knew that “normal” no longer existed.

  I sat at the edge of the bed without touching anything else.

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  I didn’t know if sitting on the armchair would trigger a cleaning drone, or if the system would detect my heart rate and send a report. Everything felt too monitored.

  In a strange impulse, I opened one of the drawers, looking for something… real. Something that hadn’t been written by someone else.

  But all I found was a blank notebook.

  "For recording what this version of you would think," read a digital label attached inside.

  I shut the drawer harder than necessary.

  I knocked on Velka’s door. Neyra was already there, sitting cross-legged in one of the chairs while eating cookies that definitely weren’t part of any official espionage kit.

  —“Perfect!” Velka said as I entered. “The punctual professor has arrived. Let’s begin.”

  She spread a few holographic sheets across the table. Each one held a copy of our official cover story.

  —“Okay, let’s review,” said Neyra. “I’m a weapons systems technician stationed at the southern base. Born near the mountain border. Lost my parents in a bombing, raised by my grandmother. Name?”

  —“Synnara Heldewyn,” I answered.

  —“Good. Velka?”

  —“Rapid-response nurse in the industrial zone. Big family. I have three brothers, all living in another city. My name: Mirelle Faeron.”

  —“And you, Lyss?”

  I took a breath. I couldn’t afford to slip up. I wasn’t Lyssandra Velcrux anymore.

  —“My name is Lyria Wren. Assistant Professor of Advanced Tactical Bibliography at the Military Academy. Diplomatic parents on long-term assignment. One older brother, currently attending university in the north. Hobbies: knitting, traditional baking, and reading poetry from the Gray Period.”

  —“Bravo!” Velka applauded. “You even sound adorable.”

  —“Emergency code,” added Neyra. “If one of us is in danger and can’t say so directly, we’ll use key phrases.”

  —“‘Do you think it might rain tomorrow?’” said Velka.

  —“And if the danger is immediate and we need to escape,” I added, “then: ‘The smell of lavender always makes me cry.’”

  —“Perfect,” they both said.

  We agreed on schedules, secure communication routes, and fallback locations. Everything was measured. Precise. And even if it was all just a cover, it was starting to feel more real than it should.

  We finished.

  We hugged briefly. Not like soldiers, nor like actresses in a play. Like what we were: three magical girls who shared more than magic.

  We took the elevator down and stepped out of the complex, where lines of automated public transport trains waited, each bound for a different district.

  Velka winked at me before boarding hers.

  —“Don’t forget to flirt with the other professors. You’re going to break hearts, Lyria.”

  Neyra gave my shoulder a light tap.

  —“You’ve got this. Just don’t blow anything up on your first day.”

  I nodded. Faked confidence. Boarded my train.

  And as the doors closed, I saw their faces one last time before each of us went our separate way.

  The counterintelligence mission had officially begun.

  But for me…

  A life that wasn’t mine had just begun.

  I never imagined public transport in the capital would feel like floating through someone else’s thoughts. The anti-grav train glided through suspended tracks like a silent creature. I stared out the window: the buildings looked taller than anywhere else, as if competing to touch the sky. The city buzzed with life. Smiles, conversations, magical flower vendors, children playing with enchanted toys. A perfect image of a world at peace.

  False, of course—but perfect.

  But at every block, there was a guard.

  Every floating ad gently shifted to display a new message from the High Council.

  Every corner smiled… but watched.

  As the train dipped slightly through one of the lower levels of the academic district, I caught sight of a building carved into dark marble, flanked by statues clad in magical armor: the Mausoleum of the Fallen Voices.

  It was the place where the city quieted its voice to honor its heroines.

  There rested—what remained—of previous generations of magical girls, sealed in sacred chambers.

  It wasn’t forgotten. It was an altar.

  One still visited by the faithful.

  I held the fake glasses between my fingers. They had no prescription, but putting them on made me feel like I wasn’t myself anymore. I took a deep breath. I wasn’t Lyssandra Velcrux. I was Lyria Wren now—assistant professor of advanced tactical bibliography.

  The reflection in the train window stared back at me like a stranger.

  I put the glasses on.

  When I got off, the contrast was immediate.

  The Central Military Academy of Seravenn was as solemn as a tomb. Black stone and arches reinforced with arcane magic gave the whole place an oppressive weight. This wasn’t a place built to encourage learning.

  It was built to forge soldiers. Warriors.

  And now, I was just another cog in that machine.

  Watchtowers loomed over every corner.

  Enchanted murals displayed war scenes with slogans like “Doctrine. Discipline. Duty.”

  Facial recognition spells scanned every passerby.

  Even the air smelled different—clean, metallic… trained.

  A cadet escorted me in silence to the administration wing. At the entrance, he gave me a brief bow and pointed to a tall double door, dark and framed with gold.

  I knocked once and entered.

  The woman behind the desk stood as I came in. Her posture was as rigid as a flagpole, her uniform flawless, adorned with black combat medals. Her hair—a cascade of silver—was braided into a precise military coil. Scars traced her neck, thin but visible.

  Her nameplate read: Commander Altaresa Hallowyn.

  —“Professor Wren,” she said, her tone dry but not hostile. “Welcome to the capital.”

  I nodded, keeping my stance firm, recalling every etiquette cue Neyra and Velka had drilled into me.

  —“I wasn’t expecting a civilian on my campus, but I suppose the High Council knows what it’s doing.”

  Her eyes scanned me from head to toe. It was a gaze trained to detect cracks. Strengths. Weaknesses.

  She didn’t look at me like a colleague.

  She assessed me like a weapon.

  Breathe. Blink. Hands steady. You’re not an easy target.

  —I served as a captain during the Desert Annexation War in Al-Rahad, thirty years ago. That war cost us generations. Strategy, Wren, is what marks the difference between a massacre and a victory. Here, we teach it with blood and memory.

  —I understand, Commander —I replied in the most neutral tone I could manage.

  She nodded once.

  —You will be responsible for three tasks. First, you will assist any advanced tactics professor who is absent or requires their material reviewed or updated. Second, you will act as curator for the Strategic Tactical Library, where real simulation records and classified campaign documents are kept. Third, you’ll be expected to draft military bibliographies and analysis reports when requested by high command or faculty.

  I swallowed. It was a lot. Not impossible—but demanding.

  —Any questions?

  —None, Commander.

  —Good. Your schedule begins at 6:30 a.m. and ends at 7:00 p.m., Monday through Saturday. When you have no pending tasks, you are to remain in the library. Your ID grants you access to the East Building, third floor. Do not be late.

  She paused, then added with the same formal tone:

  —However, tomorrow is the Day of Eternal Oath. It commemorates the sacred alliance between the Empire and its magical daughters. All institutions will cease activity at noon, by order of the High Council.

  I hadn’t even realized it.

  Of course. The city had already begun dressing itself in white and crimson.

  —I’ll keep that in mind, Commander.

  She nodded.

  —You may go. Have a strong start, Professor.

  I stepped out of the office, and the air in the corridors suddenly felt heavier. Part of me wanted to run. Another… wanted to stay.

  Because for the first time in years, I could be someone else.

  Someone without scars. Someone who didn’t hide her body. Someone who didn’t carry this latent poison of wrath.

  But that wouldn’t last.

  Nothing does.

  I stopped in front of a plaque:

  Strategic War Library – Level III

  Time to meet my new world…

  The entrance to the Strategic War Library held none of the warmth of a traditional archive. The threshold was a reinforced door that opened only when a magical ID was scanned. As it did, a metallic hum welcomed me alongside a sudden temperature shift—inside, the air was cooler, drier, perfectly calibrated to preserve the thousands—perhaps millions—of documents stored there.

  This wasn’t just a reading room.

  It was a fortress of war knowledge.

  Three underground levels, and two above.

  Individual reading modules hovered in suspension fields. Crystal panels projected ancient maps, urban combat strategies, desert ambush schemes, analyses of war-bound magic. Everything was categorized by region, year, engagement type, and clearance level.

  The most striking feature was the central wall: a curved structure of dark red glass, sealing the magical warfare section. Bound with imperial sigils, it was off-limits to anyone without high command clearance—even me.

  But just seeing it was enough.

  Something slept inside.

  Something that perhaps should never be awakened.

  I wandered in silence.

  Everything in this place was monumental. Each section seemed to contain centuries of war, distilled into ink and glyphs, archived by generations long gone.

  It felt like walking among whispers from the past…

  Only this time, the whispers were real.

  I frowned.

  There were voices. Soft murmurs, the rustle of paper, boxes being dragged.

  It wasn’t magic.

  It was… someone.

  I followed the sound, driven by curiosity—or maybe by the need not to feel so alone in this stone-and-paper colossus—until I turned down one of the corridors on the second level.

  And there he was.

  A male figure in a gray uniform, surrounded by towers of books, folders, dusty boxes, and loose papers. The pile he was trying to organize wobbled dangerously, and within seconds, as if fate had decided to mock him, it toppled.

  —Careful! —I blurted, running toward him.

  He fell onto his back with a solid thud, books flying everywhere. I crouched beside him, pulling boxes off with ease I forgot to fake.

  I realized the mistake instantly.

  Even though I pretended to struggle while lifting them onto the nearest table, it wouldn’t have looked natural.

  —Are you alright? —I asked, keeping my voice as neutral as possible as he sat up, slightly dazed.

  That’s when I saw him clearly.

  Light brown hair, a little messy from the fall, green eyes that didn’t judge but explored. Attractive. Much more than I expected to find in a place like this. His expression was calm—more embarrassed than hurt.

  —Thanks… yeah, I’m okay —he said as he brushed himself off—. I’m just more clumsy than I seem. Although maybe I do seem pretty clumsy.

  He noticed the badge on my chest and smiled.

  —Professor Lyria Wren? —he read aloud, kindly.

  I nodded.

  —Silas Whitmore. Archivist and runner for the document division. I move boxes, sort records… and occasionally make coffee for the higher-ups. Nice to meet you.

  He extended his hand.

  I hesitated for a second—but took it. His hand was warm, softer than I expected for someone who carried boxes all day. A firm shake. No suggestion, no double meaning. Just… human. Honest.

  It was only a hand… but I couldn’t remember the last time one didn’t ask something of me.

  —Likewise —I murmured, still measuring my words.

  —Looks like we’ll be working together —he said with a half-smile, retrieving a folder that had slid across the floor—. I’ll make sure not to drop another mountain of classified files on you.

  He gathered the last of the papers, gave me a brief nod, and vanished into a side corridor. I was left alone with the boxes he hadn’t managed to move.

  I sighed. Library curator, right. Welcome to your new routine, Lyss.

  The day in the library had a strange rhythm. Nothing like the trainings. No sweat, no tension, no alarms. Just the sound of my footsteps over dark wood floors, the soft rustling of turning pages, the light tapping of my nails on weathered leather spines.

  I sorted books by theme. The advanced strategy ones were dense, packed with formulas, movement diagrams, and urban warfare analyses. The emotional tactics manuals —yes, that was a real category— focused on psychological influence: presence, manipulation, fear. Curiously, that I understood well.

  Some documents carried low-grade enchantments that faded the moment my ID made contact.

  An elegant way of reminding you that everything here belonged to the Empire.

  I logged deliveries, signed ledgers, answered students who didn’t know how to use the thematic index. They asked for old maps, camouflage manuals, even a pamphlet on trench warfare in arctic climates.

  And I… did all of it without breaking my fa?ade.

  Lyria Wren. Assistant Professor. Knowledge curator. Model citizen.

  Until, tucked away in the eastern wing, a gray folder with faded lettering caught my eye.

  “On the Founding of Seravenn: Conditional Archives, Restricted Level.”

  I wasn’t supposed to read it.

  Even so, my fingers brushed over it. The title bore an older seal—dustier than the rest. Almost forgotten.

  Something in me —curiosity? distrust? something deeper?— whispered that folder didn’t belong here.

  And yet… it felt familiar.

  I glanced at the clock. Seven minutes before closing.

  Not enough time to read it—but enough to memorize where it was.

  I tucked it away slowly, making sure I’d remember the shelf tomorrow.

  I turned off the lights. Locked the doors. Lowered the central shutter.

  And then, just as I turned the corner toward the exit—something crashed into me.

  —Ah! I’m so sorry! —came a familiar voice, just as something cold soaked through my chest and abdomen.

  Water.

  Silas stared at me in horror, holding a now nearly empty thermos.

  —Oh no… I’m so sorry! I swear! I didn’t see you there—I was looking at a delivery slip and—

  —It’s okay, Silas —I said, interrupting with an awkward smile as I shook some water off my blouse—. It’s just water. Not arcane acid.

  —But it’s…! —he started, until he noticed exactly where it had spilled—. Ah… I… I’m really sorry —he muttered, flushing as he realized the exact spot. He turned immediately and pulled a handkerchief from his jacket—. Here. Better if you use it.

  —Thanks —I replied, now amused.

  I dried off as best I could, trying not to look annoyed.

  I wasn’t.

  Honestly, his reaction was kind of… endearing. Like he’d committed a federal crime by bumping into me.

  It wasn’t fun being soaked. But strangely, it didn’t bother me.

  I felt… present.

  —Let me walk you to the transport stop —he offered suddenly.

  —Why? Are you heading that way?

  —No. But this way I make sure no one else spills anything on you —he added, with a half-smile that made me turn my face to avoid smiling too.

  I accepted.

  Because he was polite.

  Because he was funny.

  Because it was late, and I didn’t want to walk alone.

  Because… I don’t know. I just did.

  On the way, he asked questions.

  Nothing intrusive. Just genuine curiosity.

  And even though I didn’t trust him yet…

  for a moment, I wanted to.

  —How old are you, Professor?

  —Nineteen.

  —That young? How did you land a position like this so quickly?

  —Studies. Dedication. —Lie after lie, but all well delivered.

  —And where are you from?

  —The north. Small town. Very cold. —Didn’t exist. But it sounded real enough.

  And the whole time, he listened. Not like others. Not with empty nods. He listened with his eyes. Looked at me as if each word painted a picture in his mind. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t correct. Just… listened.

  It was strange. But comforting.

  When we reached the station, he stopped.

  —I head the other way —he pointed—. I live closer to the diplomatic quarter.

  —I see.

  We held each other’s gaze for just a moment longer.

  —See you tomorrow —he said.

  —Yeah. Tomorrow —I nodded, but inside… I already hoped it would be true.

  I boarded the transport. Sat by the window. Watched as he walked off into the violet haze of dusk.

  Interesting, I thought.

  Definitely… interesting.

  The streets were already being dressed in white ribbons and golden emblems. The city was preparing for the Day of Eternal Oath.

  How ironic. A day to honor sacred bonds… when I could barely afford a human one.

  Throughout the ride, I couldn’t stop thinking about that final moment.

  Silas.

  He seemed so genuine. Not just in how he spoke—but in how he looked at me when he did. Not with discomfort or the superficial awe people usually reacted with when they saw me. He looked at me like he truly wanted to know what I had to say. Like every word I spoke carried weight.

  And for an instant… for one dangerously long second, I thought that if he knew the real Lyss, he wouldn’t run. He wouldn’t be scared. He wouldn’t look at me any differently.

  But thoughts like that couldn’t grow. Not now. Not in this life built on lies.

  This mission left no room for real attachments. For emotions out of control.

  That’s what I told myself as I crossed the entrance to the complex.

  But hearts don’t always follow orders.

  Upstairs, I found Velka and Neyra sitting in the shared lounge, both with the kind of mischievous smiles that immediately set off alarms in my head.

  —Well, well, look who’s home! —Velka said, crossing her legs like she was in some stage play—. Our dear Lyria. Such a historic day. Don’t you think we should celebrate the fact that we all landed jobs, just like we dreamed as kids?

  It took me a second to realize she was acting. Of course. Normal people lived here.

  Regular neighbors who might overhear things they shouldn’t.

  —Celebrating… sounds reasonable —I replied, playing along, though in my usual tone.

  They always knew when to pretend… and when to let me breathe.

  Inside Velka’s apartment, Neyra pulled a small device from her bag. She turned it on and set it on the table with a soft beep. Listening inhibitor. We were safe.

  —All right —Neyra said, slipping off her shoes with a sigh—. How did it go?

  Velka turned to me with a mischievous grin.

  —More importantly: how many hearts did you break today, Lyria? Or should I say… ruthless seductress?

  —I didn’t break anything —I said. Too quickly.

  Neyra raised an eyebrow, amused.

  —Uh-huh…

  —You go first —I said, sitting down—. That way I can come up with a creative answer to your fantasies.

  —Cruel as ever —she laughed.

  And she started recounting how her day in the industrial zone was “incredibly boring but visually filthy,” full of rough people and even rougher schedules. She hadn’t noticed anything strange for now, but said some facilities looked more heavily protected than usual.

  Then Neyra spoke, with her usual precision. Her day in the military district was demanding but familiar, given her background. She’d observed several units moving in patterns that didn’t match their usual routines. Nothing alarming—yet. But worth noting.

  And finally, when it was my turn, I recounted my day with carefully measured neutrality…

  until, without meaning to, I mentioned Silas.

  —And then? What happened? —Neyra interrupted when I mentioned the box accident.

  —That. I helped him, we chatted briefly… and later we literally bumped into each other again. He spilled water on me —I explained, without looking at them.

  I didn’t say he walked me home. Or that he smiled.

  Or that, for a moment, I forgot who I was.

  —Water?! —Velka clutched her chest in mock theatrics—. This is serious now! Did you touch hands? Did you lock eyes? Was there sexual tension?

  —No. I told him it was fine, and he offered me a handkerchief.

  —Romance of the century —Neyra added through laughter—. I can already see the headline: “The sexy professor and the clumsy archivist.”

  —Why does everyone assume I’m sexy now? —I grumbled.

  —Because you are, darling. Even if you deny it —Velka replied with a shameless grin.

  Then, more serious, she added:

  —Just keep your feet on the ground. It might give your role depth, sure… but when this ends, Lyria will stop existing. Don’t forget that.

  —Nothing will happen. It was just one day —I said, not entirely convinced.

  —Sure, sure… —they both said, heading to their rooms.

  —Oh, by the way —Neyra added from the doorway—. Tomorrow is the Day of Eternal Oath. The city’s going to be full of parades, shrines, and flag vendors.

  —Perfect cover for a little recon trip —Velka added—. Civilian clothes, fake smiles, and the perfect excuse to wander around the western sector without raising suspicion.

  —Time?

  —After lunch. Officially we’re off from noon.

  I nodded. Part of me already wished it were tomorrow.

  I stayed a bit longer in the living room, the inhibitor still humming softly.

  Just one day… right?

  Some time later in Velka’s apartment

  The room was dim, lit only by distant flickers of Seravenn’s glow.

  Velka lay restless in bed. The sheets were tangled, sweat clinging to her brow. Her lips moved in broken whispers.

  —No… don’t take that path… no… please…

  Images bled into her mind: metallic noise, blood on boots, an order she shouldn’t have given. A young girl’s face. Amber light shattering like glass. A scream swallowed by the wind. A decision made too quickly.

  Nothing was clear. But the pain ran through everything.

  She woke with a jolt, gasping as if pulled from a freezing current. Her chest rose and fell violently.

  Seravenn.

  The mission.

  The disguise.

  The new name.

  Without turning on the light, she got up. Barefoot, she walked to the window. The glass was cold. Outside, the city pulsed with life. White flags fluttered like wings.

  She leaned her forehead against the frame.

  She didn’t cry. Didn’t scream.

  Didn’t ask for forgiveness.

  She just thought.

  And the silence offered no comfort.