Baroness Lethia and Suspicion

The morning fog had yet to lift when Lyselle returned to Grenhal village. Her body ached, and her clothes hung in tatters, torn and damp from the night before. Cradled in her arms were Alia and Marek, fast asleep from exhaustion. Their faces were still streaked with dried tears—but for the first time in what felt like forever, their sleep was peaceful.

Old Lethia stood at the front of the house, her pale face tightening with alarm as Lyselle emerged from the mist. Without a word, she rushed forward to help Lyselle ease the children down from her embrace.

“Heavens… you truly went,” Lethia whispered hoarsely.

Lyselle nodded. “I couldn’t just stand by.”

The older woman gently inspected the children, then pulled them both into her arms with trembling hands. “We’ll hide them,” she said firmly. “No one must know they’ve returned.”

Lyselle said nothing in response. Her eyes, hollow with fatigue, stared toward the western horizon—toward Ardellon. She knew her actions last night wouldn’t go unnoticed. And the consequences… were only just beginning to unfold.

—

Three days passed in tense silence.

Whispers spread like wildfire through the village. Farmers spoke only in hushed tones, mothers kept their children inside even in broad daylight, and no door was left open. The air felt heavier, charged with something ominous—like a storm waiting to break.

And then, on the fourth morning, the peace shattered.

Three horses thundered down the main path, kicking up clouds of dust. The riders wore long cloaks dyed in deep, shadowed violet—unmistakably the colors of Ardellon’s authority.

Between them rode a woman of imposing beauty. Her golden hair was pinned high in a crown-like bun, her skin as pale as frost, her lips the color of fresh blood. A flowing black gown embroidered in gold clung to her form with elegant severity.

“Baroness Lethia,” whispered old Lethia from behind the window shutters.

Lyselle peered through the crack beside her. So this was her—the Baroness who had turned Grenhal into a village of missing children and silenced cries. But what struck Lyselle more than her presence… was her gaze.

It was sharp. Searching. Suspicious.

—

Baroness Lethia dismounted with grace, unaffected by the muddy ground beneath her boots. Two black-armored guards followed at her heels, their movements rigid and rehearsed. Without pause, the Baroness headed straight for the village elder’s home.

Lethia and Lyselle exchanged glances.

“She knows something happened,” the older woman murmured. “She’s never come in person before.”

Before long, the village bell tolled—its hollow clang calling every soul to the village square.

The people obeyed.

Not out of willingness, but fear.

In the small square usually reserved for drying crops, Baroness Lethia stood atop a wooden crate, turning it into an impromptu podium. Her expression was calm, her lips curled in a polite smile.

“I come not to disrupt your peace,” she said softly. Her voice was smooth, yet carried an edge—like a dagger wrapped in velvet. “But this past month, two incidents have drawn our concern. First: the tax collector’s carriage was intercepted. Second: an envoy of the Outer Tower has disappeared.”

A quiet wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd.

She raised a hand, silencing them instantly. “I’m not here to make accusations. But this village… was the last known stop of our missing envoy.”

Her hand dropped to her side as she slowly descended from the crate, gliding along the front row of villagers. With each step, tension coiled tighter, like a bowstring nearing its snap.

Lyselle kept to the back of the gathering. Her head was lowered, but one hand slipped into her pocket, fingers closing around the Nethra crystal. She could feel the Baroness’s magical presence. It was older—deeper—than anything she had felt before.

The Baroness stopped in front of Vanya, mother to Alia and Marek.

“You seem… rather composed, Vanya,” the Baroness said softly. “Did your children not vanish?”

Vanya bowed her head. “I… I believe they will return, my lady.”

“Belief is a lovely thing,” the Baroness murmured. “But to lie to yourself… that is a sin.”

She reached out and lightly cupped Vanya’s cheek—a touch that could be comfort or quiet warning.

And then, her gaze shifted.

To Lyselle.

“And you… who are you?”

Lyselle looked up calmly. “Lyselle. I live with Mother Lethia.”

The Baroness narrowed her eyes. “You don’t have the look of a commoner.”

“I don’t know where I’m from,” Lyselle replied. “I was found in the forest.”

The Baroness tilted her head, eyes tracing every feature on Lyselle’s face as though peeling back hidden layers. Then, finally:

“Interesting,” she said, and turned away. “If no one here knows the truth, then let us verify. Starting today, all homes will be searched. Every child accounted for. Any foreign object… will be confiscated and investigated.”

Gasps rang out behind her. A mother clutched her son protectively, but no one dared speak against the order.

—

The search began that afternoon.

One by one, homes were overturned. Storage sheds raided. Water barrels unsealed. Even hay bales were broken apart.

Lyselle and Lethia hid Alia and Marek in a hidden cellar beneath the old laboratory—once used by Reian for magical experiments. The space was small, damp, and cold, but safe. They gave the children a mild sleeping potion to ensure silence.

“Just one day,” Lyselle whispered to them. “Hold on… just one more day.”

But that hope shattered before sunset.

A guard, searching through Lyselle’s bag, uncovered a broken magical fragment—the shattered remains of a spell circle. The piece no longer held power, but its carvings were unmistakable.

A sigil of the Outer Tower.

“Whose is this!?” the guard barked.

Lyselle stepped forward without hesitation. “Mine.”

Gasps echoed. Lethia’s face turned white.

From beside her carriage, the Baroness approached slowly. “Yours?” she asked. “And where, pray tell, did you find it?”

Lyselle knew lying was pointless.

“At the ruins to the north. I found it while searching for the missing children.”

A wave of unease surged through the crowd.

The Baroness’s eyes gleamed. “So the rumors… are true.”

She turned to her guards. “Seize her. Take her to Ardellon. She will be questioned by the Outer Tower’s Right Hand.”

The guards stepped forward—but as they reached for her, a spark of light erupted from Lyselle’s hand.

“Don’t touch me.”

A thin bolt of lightning leapt from the crystal, cracking into the air. The guards flinched back instinctively.

The Baroness didn’t.

She smiled.

“There is power in you. Raw. Untamed. If only you knew how to wield it… you could become something formidable.”

Lyselle didn’t reply, her eyes locked with the Baroness’s.

“Take her,” the Baroness ordered again. “But don’t harm her. I want her… whole. Intact. To be unraveled.”

—

That night, Lyselle was bound and loaded into the Baroness’s carriage. From behind the house, old Lethia stood watching, with Alia and Marek now awake and clutching her sleeves. Her tears fell silently.

Just before the carriage moved, the Baroness approached its side.

“You remind me of someone,” she said quietly. “A girl from long ago. Just as stubborn. Just as dangerous.”

“I’m not her,” Lyselle replied coldly.

“Not yet,” the Baroness whispered.

Then she turned to the guard beside her. “Take her to the castle dungeons. But don’t interrogate her. Not yet. Let’s wait… and see who comes looking for her.”

As the carriage pulled away from Grenhal, Lyselle looked back one last time. In the distance, old Lethia raised her hand—and Lyselle, with her wrists shackled, nodded once in return.

This wasn’t the end.

It was the beginning of something far greater.

—

The castle dungeons of Ardellon were cold and cruel. Stone corridors stretched like veins beneath the ground, lit only by sputtering torchlight. Lyselle was thrown into a cell with no windows, the air stale with age and forgotten pain.

Chains clamped around her ankles. Her body sagged with exhaustion. But even in this silence, even as sleep crept at the corners of her mind, something caught her attention.

Across the stone wall—half-hidden in shadow—was a carving.

A symbol.

Faint, worn, but unmistakable.

A magic circle. Almost identical to the one from the ruins.

She reached out and touched it. And in that moment, the Nethra crystal in her pouch pulsed softly—responding.

Lyselle allowed herself a faint smile.

“So… this place has secrets too.”

She closed her eyes. Rest.

Preparation.

This fight was far from over.

In truth—it was only just beginning.