Chapter 3

The knight did not speak immediately.

He simply stood there, watching her, as if the world itself had made a mistake by placing her in that room. The flickering lamplight illuminated the young woman’s face with cruel clarity, revealing features he knew far too well.

That face.

That cursed face.

“Step forward,” he ordered at last.

Lyria hesitated, but obeyed. Her bare feet moved across the cold floor as the silence thickened between them. The old man remained on the ground, breathing unevenly, not daring to lift his head.

“Who are you?” the knight asked. “Answer carefully.”

“I already did,” she replied. “Lyria. Nothing more.”

“Your mother?”

“Dead.”

“Where were you born?”

“Here.”

“Have you ever served in a noble house?”

“Never.”

Each answer seemed to tighten something inside the armed man. He took a step toward her. Then another. His eyes searched her with unsettling intensity, looking for flaws, differences—anything that would deny the obvious.

He found nothing.

He raised his hand without asking.

Lyria reacted too late.

His fingers closed firmly around her face, turning it slowly toward the light. It wasn’t violent, but it was invasive—calculated. His thumbs traced the sharp line of her jaw, slid over her cheeks, paused beneath her eyes.

“The same cheekbones…” he murmured.

“The same mouth.

The same shape in the gaze.”

His breathing grew heavier.

“This shouldn’t be possible.”

“Let go of me,” she demanded, pulling her head away. “I am nothing to you.”

He released her, but did not step back.

“No,” he said. “You are nothing… and that is exactly what makes you useful.”

The old man whimpered.

“Please…” he stammered. “I did what I could.”

The knight turned his head toward him with dangerous slowness.

“What exactly did you do?”

“Nothing,” he replied quickly. “I just… offered you an alternative.”

A different kind of cold ran down Lyria’s spine.

“What alternative?” she asked.

The old man did not look at her.

“My life,” he said. “In exchange for yours.”

Silence fell completely.

Lyria felt something inside her break—but she did not cry.

“So that’s what this was,” she murmured. “Did you always know?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” he snapped. “You’re young. Strong. I’m old. It’s a fair exchange.”

She looked at him as if seeing a stranger.

“Did I ever matter to you?”

The old man frowned.

“This is not the time for reproaches.”

The knight watched without intervening, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“Did you know who I was?” he asked the old man.

“A knight,” he replied. “And that means power.”

“And you still attacked me?”

“Because I wanted to live,” he said bluntly. “There’s no shame in that.”

The knight drew his sword in one clean motion.

The metal gleamed.

Lyria did not scream. She did not beg. She simply watched.

“By law,” he said, “I should kill you right now.”

The old man crawled toward him.

“No!” he cried. “I gave you what you wanted! I gave you the girl!”

Lyria closed her eyes for a second.

When she opened them, there was no surprise left. Only resignation.

“So that’s my price,” she said. “Your fear.”

The knight slowly lowered the sword.

“Get up,” he ordered.

The man obeyed.

“Leave,” he continued. “I don’t want to see you again.”

The old man wasted no time. He ran, without looking back, without a single word for his daughter.

The door closed.

Lyria was left alone with the knight.

“And now?” she asked.

He looked at her, his expression hard.

“Now you come with me.”

“As what?” she pressed. “A slave?”

“If necessary.”

“A servant?”

“If convenient.”

“Or something worse?”

The knight held her gaze.

“If the plan works,” he said, “you will be all of that.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“I will end your life myself.”

She nodded slowly.

“At least you don’t lie.”

He grabbed her arm and led her outside. A dark horse waited.

The knight did not answer.

Not when she asked what he intended to do with her.

Not when, her voice trembling with anger and fear, she demanded to know if he would sell her.

Not when, almost without realizing it, her voice broke as she asked if he intended to use her body before discarding her.

Silence.

A heavy, deliberate silence that made her understand her words held no value there.

He guided her toward the door. Not violently—but without care. The gesture of someone who had already made a decision and felt no need to explain it.

Outside, the night was cold.

The horse stood still, massive, dark—like part of the fate dragging her forward without permission. The knight lifted her easily and placed her in front of him on the saddle. She barely had time to steady herself before feeling his solid weight behind her.

The horse began to move.

Lyria kept her back rigid. She did not dare turn her head. The contact of his body against hers made her painfully aware of her own fragility. Each movement of the horse reminded her she had no control.

“Where are we going?” she asked after a while.

No answer.

The night wind struck her face. Darkness seemed to close in around them, and the sound of hooves was the only thing breaking the silence.

“I’ve done nothing,” she said. “I’m not a criminal.”

Nothing.

“If you plan to kill me,” she continued, “do it now.”

The horse kept moving.

That silence was worse than any threat. It was not ignorance—it was control. Lyria began to understand she was not being taken as a person, but as an object whose value had yet to be determined.

As time passed, anger gave way to something more dangerous: quiet fear. She thought of her home, the damp smell, the misery she had hated all her life. She thought of her father… and felt no sorrow. Only bitter confirmation.

When they finally stopped, the sky was beginning to lighten—a pale line on the horizon.

The residence before them was large, solid, silent. No lights. No visible guards. This was not a place for guests.

The knight dismounted first, then took her by the waist to help her down. His hands were firm, practical—without desire or compassion.

He led her inside.

The place smelled of cold stone and old wax. The corridors were narrow, each step echoing as if the building itself were watching them. Lyria tried to memorize the path, but quickly realized it was useless.

They reached a small, nearly empty room. A simple bed. A table. A chair. A high window where faint dawn light filtered through.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

“For how long?” she asked.

No answer.

Before she could step back, the knight pulled out a rope. Lyria’s eyes widened.

“No—wait…”

Too late.

He tied her wrists with practiced movements—firm, precise. Not painful, but leaving no room to resist. He pushed her gently onto the bed.

The knot tightened.

“Why?” she whispered, breath unsteady. “What are you going to do with me?”

He looked at her for a long moment. His face was unreadable.

“Sleep,” he said at last. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”

“Tomorrow for what?” she insisted.

No answer.

He extinguished the lamp.

The room sank into shadow, dimly lit only by the gray dawn creeping through the window.

The knight left and locked the door.

The metallic sound echoed like a sentence.

Lyria was alone.

Bound.

Without answers.

Without a name.

Not knowing whether the dawn would bring salvation… or something far worse.

And for the first time since she had been torn from her life, she understood that the man’s silence was far more dangerous than any spoken threat.