The forest was calmer than it should have been.
Lysander stood beneath the tangled branches that loomed over the old house, once a secret haven of brick and ivy. Morning light filtered through the trees, soft and golden, but it could not warm the unease growing in his chest.
She was not here.
He had waited—watched the sun rise over broken rooftops and dew-covered grass—but Aria never came. No footprints in the dirt. No sign of magic. No trace.
Only silence.
Lysander paced the sagging porch, boots crunching over dead leaves. The door creaked open like a memory, revealing a space preserved in time. Dust lay thick on the furniture. The sketch of a sunburst they'd carved into the wall as children still remained, faint but stubborn. He touched it with a sigh.
Where are you, Aria?
Every instinct told him she hadn't run. She'd risked too much to disappear now. Something had happened—he could feel it like a tremor in the ley lines that pulsed beneath the city.
But without a trail, he couldn't follow. Not yet.
With one last glance at the empty clearing, Lysander turned and walked away. The city awaited—and so did the secrets it refused to bury.
Ashwood was louder today.
The market district bustled with voices, colors, and smells. Magic lingered in the air like perfume—glamours dancing above merchant stalls, enchantments woven into the cries of hawkers selling amulets, relics, and beasts in iron cages.
Lysander moved through the crowd with purpose, his coat drawn close and his eyes sharper than most dared to meet. He didn't know what he was looking for—only that he needed answers. A distraction probably.
Then he saw her.
She was kneeling at the back of a slaver's cart, her arms chained and her eyes downcast. Filthy curls framed a pale, bruised face. She was calm. Quiet. But caged fury burned beneath the stillness.
The slave Merchant noticed Lysander's interest and stepped forward. "Interested in her?" He grinned. "Not broken yet, She learns fast. Pretty, too. You won't find a better deal."
Lysander's gaze never left her. "What's her name?"
"Doesn't speak much. Calls herself Ophelia. Probably a made-up name. Doesn't matter—she's yours for the right price."
Ophelia finally looked up.
Their eyes met.
Something passed between them. Recognition? No. Curiosity, perhaps.
She didn't flinch. Didn't beg.
That was what decided it.
"I'll take her," Lysander said, voice low.
The transaction was fast. Gold changed hands. Chains were unshackled.
She stood slowly, rubbing her wrists.
"You're free," the slave Merchant said with a smile, stepping back.
Lysander ignored him. He handed Ophelia a cloak. "Put this on. You're coming with me."
Ophelia studied him, sharp eyes and unreadable. But she took the cloak and followed without a word.
They walked through Ashwood's streets. Lysander didn't speak. Neither did she.
It wasn't until they reached a fountain in a ruined square that he finally stopped.
"Take the cloak off," Lysander ordered, his tone cold and commanding.
Ophelia paused, but slowly complied, draping the cloth over her arm. She looked up at him, silent.
Lysander's eyes scanned her closely. His gaze was calculated, piercing.
"You'll answer when I speak to you, Ophelia. Understand?"
Ophelia didn't flinch. Her gaze was unwavering, though the hint of defiance was still there. "Yes."
"Good," Lysander said, the word falling from his lips like a verdict. "You're not here by choice. And don't fool yourself into thinking that because I freed you, you're anything more than a slave. Remember your place."
Ophelia met his eyes, but said nothing. His words were harsh, but she didn't back down. She didn't care about his cruelty, but she knew better than to provoke someone like him.
"You'll stay with me. Do as I say. And if you step out of line… you'll regret it."
His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken threats. But they both knew he would carry them out if necessary. Lysander wasn't a man of second chances.
Ophelia nodded stiffly. "Understood."
He looked at her one last time, his eyes narrowing. "I didn't buy you to keep you comfortable. You're mine now, and you'll stay in line."
With that, he turned on his heel and walked ahead. She followed, her pace steady—but her mind was already racing.
They stopped at an old, abandoned inn near the heart of Ashwood, a place where the scent of rotting wood mixed with the dampness of time. Lysander pushed the door open, and the dust settled with a soft whisper as they entered.
"It's not much, but it'll do for now," Lysander said, his voice clipped. He didn't glance back to see if she was following—he didn't need to. She was expected to follow.
Ophelia stepped inside, eyes darting across the shadows. Her silence had never been submission—it was calculation. Every movement, every command, every flicker of Lysander's gaze—she stored it like a blade in her pocket.
He turned to her again, expression unreadable. "The first rule here is simple: do not question me. Do not defy me. If I say jump, you will ask how high, not why."
She didn't reply. She wanted to. She wanted to spit something defiant in his face. But she held her tongue.
He motioned to a broken chair in the corner. "Sit."
Ophelia obeyed. Slowly. Gracefully. She sank into the chair with her gaze low.
Lysander's lips curled into a cold smile. "Good."
But he underestimated her.
Lysander stepped outside to walk the ley lines and listen to the hum of the city's magic.
Silent as smoke, she crept from the room. The window in the back was half-rotted. Easy to push through.
Her bare feet hit the cobblestones like whispers.
She ran.
Through alleys. Over rooftops. Her lungs burned, but she didn't stop. She didn't know where she was going—only that every step away from him felt like reclaiming her name.
She was not a slave.
She would never be one again.
She made it five streets over before she heard the softest sound: a shift in wind, a breath behind her.
Then something slammed her against a wall—hard.
His hand gripped her throat, pinning her like a butterfly in a box. Not enough to choke. Just enough to remind her who had the power.
"You disappoint me," Lysander said softly.
Ophelia kicked at him, clawed at his arm, but he was immovable. Unshakable. His strength wasn't brute force—it was precision. Control.
She glared at him, teeth gritted. "You can chain me, but I'll never belong to you."
A cold smile touched his lips. "You already do. The moment you ran—you proved it."
He let her drop to the ground. She landed on her knees, coughing, but refused to cry.
Lysander stepped back "Run again, and I'll make you regret it."
He turned and walked away. After a moment, she followed.
Not because she accepted defeat.
But because survival meant waiting.
And Ophelia was good, very good at waiting.