(You haven’t shown your full strength yet, but they all know—you’re worthy.)


    It’s been four years since that day in the throne room.


    The war keeps dragging on—no shift in tactics, no clear winner.


    Even the common folk are stunned. Too many bodies. Too much blood. Too little sense.


    King Gridger thinks of him every damn day.


    That stranger. That calm, cold look. That inhuman power.


    Lyria, now blooming into a young woman—almost fourteen—


    still can’t shake off that forest… and the man who saved her.


    As expected, the four mercenaries sent to hunt the stranger down?


    Never came back.


    A grey, dull day.


    Lyria walks out with a basket of warm pastries—fresh from the oven.


    She walks to her brothers. Scum in noble clothes.


    Lyria (offering the basket):


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    “Help yourselves.”


    Kris Veyrenden (her brother, knocks the basket out of her hands):


    “What are these? Cooked with those ugly little hands again?”


    Lyria:


    “No… the chef made them. I just thought I’d do something nice—”


    Aaron Veyrenden:


    “Nice things happen in brothels. We don’t need pity from a defiled little princess.”


    Lyria:


    “Maybe I am defiled… but at least I don’t get lectured by whores for having a ‘small…’”


    Aaron:


    “You got a death wish, you bitch?”


    Aaron slaps her.


    Hard.


    She hits the ground, curled up, wheezing.


    Kris kicks her in the gut.


    Kris:


    “Talk back again and next time we won’t stop at bruises.”


    He raises his hand for one final strike—


    But it never lands.


    A hand catches his mid-swing.


    Fast. Clean. Silent.


    In two moves, Kris is laid out cold on the ground.


    Aaron:


    “What are you, suicidal? Think you’re tough or something?!”


    He lunges.


    The stranger shifts once—Aaron’s flying through the air, crashing flat on his ass.


    Lyria didn’t even see the motion. Just the result.


    Stranger:


    “Hitting girls? Let me guess—you kill old folks too?”


    He turns to Lyria.


    Offers a hand.


    Stranger:


    “Get up. They’re the ones who belong in the dirt.”


    Lyria (brushing herself off):


    “Why’d you help me? I’m the royal joke around here.”


    Stranger:


    “These pastries are still warm. I’d like to try one, if my lady permits.”


    Lyria:


    “What do you want from me?”


    Stranger:


    “Nothing. I helped because I wanted to.


    And I’m in Snowsoul… to deliver a message to your father.”


    Lyria’s eyes trail to the sack over his shoulder.


    Thick red liquid is dripping from it.


    It’s not jam.


    Lyria:


    “My father’s in his chambers… in the castle.”


    Stranger:


    “My thanks, princess.”


    He walks off. Calm. Silent.


    And Lyria finally realizes—


    That was him.


    The one from the forest.


    And he’s not here for words.


    He’s here for judgment. For justice. For blood.


    She tries to chase after him—


    But he’s already gone.


    Like the ground swallowed him whole.


    A day later…


    Snowsoul and the entire northern kingdom were in shock.


    And no one dared say his name out loud.