A pale beam of light pierced through the slightly ajar window, its golden warmth spilling onto the worn wooden floor of the secluded chamber. Tucked deep in the heart of the mansion’s vast backyard, the chamber — constructed of robust timber and gray stones embedded with ember powders — retained an inviting heat despite the lingering chill of winter.

  Every inch of the uneven floor testified to the chamber’s dual purpose. Against the polished wood were scars and etched marks. Here, the impression of weapons meeting wood and stone had left their indelible trace: faint gouges, indentations, and burnished scratches.

  From the murky outline of blurred footsteps emerged the figure of a young woman in a half-kneeling stance. Each hand gripped a slender dagger whose wickedly curved blades shimmered in the dim light, capturing fleeting shadows that danced like specters across the training ground. Lisandra inhaled deeply, the crisp morning air filling her lungs with a promise of potential, and then she unfurled into motion.

  Her limbs moved with balletic precision, a silent choreography of lethal elegance. As sweat cascaded down her lithe form, her golden curls fanned out around her delicate face — a portrait of refined beauty and an intellect sharpened by years of rigorous study. Yet it was not mere physical beauty that defined her; it was the poised, knowing air that came from within — a calm assurance born of trials and an unyielding drive to prove herself.

  For a long, measured moment, she paused in her fluid dance. Eyes closed in deep meditation, she steadied her breathing and conjured in her mind the image of an unseen adversary — a phantom presence standing at the threshold of her awareness. Then, with feline agility, Lisandra rolled, her right hand striking upward at shoulder height while her left dagger whipped through the air in a graceful arc, completing a silent circle of attack.

  Drawing in another measured breath, she raised her palm to chest level and, with deliberate care, shaped it into the delicate outline of a crow. At that precise moment, as a surge of morning light reached her eyes, she crumpled softly to the ground. A smile played upon her lips as she gazed upward, her eyes drifting to the darkest corner of the room.

  The faint shuffle of worn boots heralded the arrival of an old man. Jenson — a weathered mentor with eyes that carried decades of wisdom — stepped forward and extended a well-worn towel toward her. “Good work, Miss,” he said, his voice low and filled with quiet pride.

  Lisandra wiped away the building sweat, rising to her feet. “Thank you, Jenson,” she replied, her tone gentle yet edged with the refined cadence of a young lady from a good family. “But I’m still far from his level.”

  Jenson, guarding the towel with a small, knowing smile, chided lightly, “Don't compare yourself to your father, Miss. He has over four decades of practice. When he was your age, he wasn’t near your level.”

  Opening the heavy door to the chamber, Lisandra allowed the sun to bathe her in its honest light. As the brightness fell upon her, her blue eyes glowed like emerald jewels set against porcelain skin. “But it’s not enough, is it?”

  Jenson closed the door behind her and offered another piece of advice in his measured manner, “An eruption is always different, Miss. Besides, there are things you can’t understand yet.”

  Inside, Lisandra’s mind churned with familiar thoughts. ‘Again with that,’ she mused silently. ‘Always the same answer. Well, I know it’s true—there are things I can’t read from my mother’s books…’

  “Any updates?” she asked.

  Jenson paused, then replied in a measured cadence, “Your uncle Nate is determined to secure the next headmaster position at the academy. From everything I’ve gathered, nothing is likely to change his mind about it.”

  A heavy sigh escaped her, laden with both personal regret and the weight of familial expectations. “If only he were here,” she murmured, her thoughts drifting toward the busy, uncertain state of their affairs. “I hope our business survives this turmoil. What’s the public opinion?”

  Jenson’s eyes crinkled as he offered a reluctant update, “The public is divided. Some still see the Noctis family as the North’s bad seed, while others are swayed by his campaign’s propaganda.”

  “Anything else?” Lisandra pressed.

  “Your grandfather sent you a message from the capital,” Jenson added. “He asked you to visit him after your awakening, during the holidays.”

  “Capital, huh?” Lisandra’s mind danced momentarily with the chaotic, buzzing sounds of the city in that faraway region. “And my schedule for today?”

  Jenson replied, “The pills for the bishop and, lastly, dinner with your mother this evening.”

  With a nod of acceptance, Lisandra made her way down a long, ornate hallway. As she walked, she paused before a portrait — an homage to her father. The portrait was rendered in meticulous brushstrokes of subdued grays. His short, neatly trimmed hair and a long, flowing beard complemented the vivid emerald blue of his eyes.

  Those eyes, piercing and intense, seemed to illuminate the entire canvas with wisdom and paternal warmth. Viewed from the side, the portrait radiated a quiet ingenuity and comforting certainty. Yet, faced head-on, his square chin and penetrating gaze exuded the commanding presence of a respected leader. A single thought escaped her lips, “I miss you.”

  “Thanks for the work, Jenson,” she said upon entering her own chamber. “Do you think it'd be okay if I just sent a jumping message to the church with the pills?”

  Jenson shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend that, Miss. It might not reflect well on your image.”

  Lisandra sighed, conceding his point. “You're right. The gap between our pill business and our church relations is widening. I need to put in more effort to ensure everything runs smoothly.”

  “Very well, Miss. I’ll take my leave. Will it be the usual for lunch?” Jenson inquired, his tone imbued with a quiet care.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Yes,” Lisandra confirmed, and with that, he departed.

  Inside her room, the essence of her prestigious background was evident; each detail spoke of refined taste and enduring legacy. Yet, to Lisandra, what mattered most were her books — a treasure trove of knowledge and inspiration. Scanning the room with a thoughtful gaze, she approached her bookshelf.

  Her fingers trailed over the spines of leather-bound volumes and cloth-covered tomes. Some were pristine, others bore the delicate dust of disuse. Frowning at the neglected ones, she drew a small cloth from a carved box and began delicately cleaning the covers. Finally, she reached for a slender volume entitled “Guide for Awakening.”

  She paused to study its title, her eyes dulling momentarily with a mixture of frustration and wonder. The book offered little more than vague, abstract words — common sense wrapped in enigma, more inspirational than instructive. It even hinted at another place, vast and mysterious, yet whenever she broached the subject with either Jenson or her mother, they would only smile and assure her that the time for such secrets had not yet come.

  Lisandra’s thoughts wandered as she gazed at her study table — a sprawling surface dense with pages scrawled in meticulous handwriting, containing knowledge on herbs, mythical creatures, far-off cultures, and esoteric alchemy. This careful archive testified not only to her role in the family business but also to an inner drive — a burning desire to prove her worth not just to her family but to a world that often demanded perfection.

  Her mind was a battlefield of aspirations and expectations clashing like turbulent tides in a thunderstorm. She learned more from observation than from idle chatter; she had watched people in the alchemy shop when pressure tightened its grip, noting how desperation and hope collided in the uncertainty of life. Such observations had made her cautious of casual friendships, preferring instead to keep her small, guarded gestures to herself. Rare were the moments when someone dared to chip away at her carefully constructed shell — a fact that made her despise trivial small talk, even as she cherished the rare, genuine connections that questioned her inner doubts.

  She recalled a northern adage once imparted by her mother: a mind without aspiration was like an iceberg — imposing yet cold and isolated. And the memory of a vast, glistening iceberg in the capital haunted her, and she vowed silently never to become that — grand in stature but hollow at heart.

  In moments of overwhelming thought, Lisandra sought solace in the cavern of her private bath. She entered the marble-tiled room, where steam wreathed the air and the bathtub beckoned like a warm embrace.

  Tucking her knees close, she allowed the steaming water to envelop her fully. Warmth seeped into her tense muscles, leaving behind a fleeting comfort that softened the relentless chatter of her mind. It became her reflective pool — a space where time stood still, and the external world faded into a whisper. There, with measured, controlled breaths, she emptied her thoughts, longing that one day her own power, fully awakened, might be as fluid and adaptive as water.

  After what seemed like an eternity in quiet contemplation, Lisandra emerged from the bath with a gasp, her senses jolting back into the vibrant cadence of life. Methodical and precise, she dried herself and donned her light armor. She fastened her daggers to her back and tucked the pills securely into her pouch. With practiced precision, she tied her hair back neatly, then draped the classic blue cloak of her family over her shoulders — a cloak adorned at the front with a silver crow emblem, its eyes crafted from blue emerald crystals.

  Leaving the comfort of her home, Lisandra stepped into the lively streets of the city. The tranquil silence of her mansion surrendered to the bustling energy of the urban sprawl. As she navigated the crowded sidewalks, the murmurs and whispers of the people mingled with the sounds of clattering wagons and playful laughter from children darting around busy merchants.

  Overheard amidst the stream of voices were scattered rumors. “Did y’all hear it? They say a Hunter nabbed a red-furred boar — size of three houses, they claim,” drawled a farmer.

  “In the valley near them two mountains? I heard the miners cryin’ ‘bout tremors and holes the size of houses makin’ the mine unstable,” murmured a woman, her tone trembling with fear.

  “That cursed valley! Folks are losin’ their lives there,” someone else added.

  Silent and resolute, Lisandra weaved through the crowd. She sidestepped tents and glided past groups of chattering onlookers. Some stole glances at her striking cloak; others whispered incessantly about the Noctis name. Yet, in the midst of these transient observations, she thought of nothing but the steady presence of the pills in her pocket.

  Approaching the grand entrance of the church, she bowed her head in reverence and a silent prayer as she stepped inside. The nave was bathed in soft, filtered light from high, stained-glass windows, and amidst the hushed tones of old hymns, a priest in the balcony looked down upon her. “Oh, Miss Noctis, how fares your mother?” the priest inquired.

  Lisandra smiled warmly. “Father Bandi, she is doing well. Busy as always. And how are you?”

  The priest sighed, shifting his weight as his tired shoulders drooped under the strain of ceaseless duty. “Busy times indeed, by the good Lord’s grace. Tell me, what can I do for you today?”

  Reaching into her pocket, she retrieved the small pouch. “Father Bandi, is Your Holiness available? I need to deliver the last batch of pills to him.”

  Shaking his head slowly, the priest replied in measured tones, “He is not available at the moment. Ever since that recent incident with the old man, he has been preoccupied, laboring over a new sermon for the coming week. I do hope to see you in attendance, Miss Noctis.”

  Grasping the pouch tightly, Lisandra nodded respectfully. “Thank you, Father Bandi. I shall be there.”

  With a small, reverent sign of prayer, Father Bandi added, “May the grace of our Lord be with you, Miss Noctis. Please send my regards to old Jenson.”

  Leaving the hushed sanctuary of the church, Lisandra made her way toward the adjoining square. Concealed behind a copse of ancient trees, the hidden square offered a surprising contrast to the winter chill. Despite the season, vibrant splashes of color adorned the space — flowers in delicate hues intermingled with carefully arranged ornamental objects.

  Finding solace on a weathered wooden bench tucked in the shade, Lisandra sat for a moment to watch the interplay of sunlight and shadow. The filtered rays danced playfully through the branches above, casting intricate patterns on her face.

  As she rested, her thoughts turned inward: ‘It’s near. I wonder how the world beyond these familiar streets appears. Is it as magical as it is dangerous? Am I enough to harness its mysteries? I hope so…’

  For a few long, reflective minutes, she allowed herself to simply be — absorbed in the quiet introspection that only a hidden square bathed in dappled sunlight could inspire. The mingled scents of blooming flowers and freshly turned earth wrapped around her like a soft cloak, easing the incessant cacophony of ambition and self-doubt that simmered within.

  And in that quiet meditation, she sensed both a loneliness born not of sorrow but of the relentless pursuit of meaning — a loneliness charged with the drive to prove her worth, to rise above the quiet tyranny of expectations. It was in these moments that the paradox of her existence became clear: she was both a warrior and a scholar, fierce in combat yet tender in her dreams.

  Resolved to renew her strength, Lisandra rose from the bench, her mind sharpened anew by the momentary clarity of solitude. Across the square, with the vibrant life of the city simmering around her, she stepped back into her destiny — a destiny woven from both family legacy and personal yearning, where magic, menace, and mystery converged in the deep undercurrents of every day.