Clink. The coins fell into Lydia’s palm.
More than forty silver coins in all, plus a handful of scattered battle spoils—this was her total payment for this commission.
A completely fair, even split. As for the battle spoils… it seemed Lydia had gotten a little extra.
This money was enough for Lydia to eat and live comfortably for quite a while.
Yet she just couldn’t bring herself to feel happy.
All she wanted was to find a soft bed in some inn, collapse on her back, and sleep deeply.
Then, to have a long dream—hopefully a pleasant one.
She was so exhausted she didn’t even have the energy to change clothes or take a bath.
Her face buried in the pillow, suffocating just a little.
Within the pitch-black vision, memories flickered by like scenes from an opera.
Her father’s stern words, her mother’s gentle reminders, swirling skirts, and blundering through the wild forest—all these flashed through Lydia’s mind in succession.
A fire in the dishwashing room, fleeing servants and guards, a charred hand reaching from the rubble—bit by bit, all of it dragged Lydia back into the mire.
She wanted to cry out, to ask for help, but standing on the shore was only a goblin shaman, croaking “gu-gu”.
So cold, so noisy.
She gave up hope, closed her eyes in despair in the icy mud.
Suddenly, a hand seized her wrist—strength and warmth passing through their touching skin.
In an instant, the world spun. She opened her eyes, and those red eyes shone like torches, blazing like stars in the darkness.
“Sis…”
The sound was muffled in the pillow, like the air pressed down before a rainstorm.
Lydia’s fingertips unconsciously brushed the corner of her lips.
A wild idea was slowly brewing deep in her heart.
If… what brushed her lips wasn’t her finger, then what would it be?
The first thing that came to mind was her sister’s lips.
How absurd.
Lydia just felt her face burning, her temples throbbing.
It must be the pillow’s fault.
As if to cast away the weight on her, Lydia clutched the pillow’s ruffled edge tightly.
If what she clutched wasn’t a pillow, but her sister’s collar instead?
Without meaning to, Lydia seemed to see the silver-haired doll closing her eyes gently under Lydia’s shadow.
Sister…
The tide in her heart surged.
She wanted to know more about her, wanted her to know more about herself… she wished that, one day, she would no longer be “Sister”.
“Anna…”
Calling her that—wasn’t so bad, was it?
If only she could.
Lydia got out of bed without realizing it, and her weariness seemed to vanish the instant her sister appeared.
Outside, the voices of people gradually grew noisier.
She pushed open the window. In the market below, a golden-haired girl was surrounded at the center of the road.
She looked just like a swan dropped into a flock of sparrows.
She carried a basket and wore common rough linen clothes, yet every movement was like that of a princess in disguise.
She didn’t belong here—didn’t belong to Albion, where only the autumn wind ever cared to visit.
Probably some noble lady who fancied herself the heroine of an adventure story and snuck out to experience life.
She was arguing with a merchant over some petty trifle.
To call it an argument was an overstatement; it was more like the merchant bullying her with words.
Compared to those sly types who thrive in the market, that noble girl was no better than a speechless infant.
How boring. Lydia thought so, yet her gaze never left the young lady.
Should she go take a look?
Lydia just felt she couldn’t leave the girl alone.
When did she become so nosy?
She went down the stairs and out the door. The faint stench of raw eggs assaulted Lydia’s nose.
That was definitely a rotten egg—kept for far too long, utterly inedible.
Lydia had been tricked by this before.
That young lady had probably fallen into the same trap; among the eggs in her basket, there were likely few good ones.
Maybe to prove her point, she cracked one open right on the street. She naively believed such irrefutable evidence would leave the vegetable merchant unable to deny it.
But she was wrong. This wasn’t the royal capital, nor was it her family’s kingdom.
This was Albion—no one here obeyed the rules set by a young lady.
Everyone saw her as an easy-to-fool lamb, each wanting to shear off a bit of her wool.
A cold wind brushed Lydia’s temple, the air so chilly it could form frost.
Lydia saw clearly: magic runes were swirling in the noble girl’s palm.
That was definitely a powerful piece of Upper Magic—there was no way she could let the girl go wild.
“Have you made enough of a scene!”
Lydia pushed through the crowd, shouting sternly at the willful young lady, grabbing her collar with one hand.
She had to drag her away before the guards arrived.
Lydia tugged the golden-haired girl’s collar, step by step leading her into the inn.
Click. She slammed the door shut.
The innkeeper glared at this adventurer, sword at her waist, too angry to speak up.
“Is there a problem?”
Lydia put on a stern face and swept a cold glance at the innkeeper.
“No, no, not at all, please, go ahead…”
Lydia dragged the girl upstairs.
Thud. Lydia pressed the girl against the wall.
The girl was a whole head taller than her, and now she frowned deeply.
She tried to push Lydia away, only to be shocked at how the thin arm gripped like an iron clamp.
That small frame seemed to hold tremendous strength.
“Were you trying to destroy this whole place, Young Lady?”
Lydia shook the frost from her arm and seized the girl’s collar.
“They weren’t good people.”
The girl looked at them as if at a swarm of insects.
Lydia understood—whether it was herself or the merchants outside, there had never been a place for them in the girl’s eyes.
To her, these people were no different than bugs.
“So you were going to unleash magic here? Are you insane? Young Lady.”
Lydia’s every word was heavy.
“…”
The girl turned her face away, avoiding Lydia’s gaze.
“I don’t care whose daughter you are or where you came from. Just go back where you belong.”
Lydia stared into the girl’s eyes, adding, “You never belonged here.”
“What business is it of yours?”
Lydia could almost feel the girl’s gaze, sharp as an ice blade, sweeping over her.
“You’re a noble too, aren’t you, Miss Busybody?”
She wrenched Lydia’s arm away and pushed against Lydia’s chest.
Lydia grunted and staggered back two steps, short sword ringing as it was drawn.
“Don’t you want to draw your sword on me too? So how are we any different?”
The girl’s back was pressed to the wall; her words were icy, through and through.
“Nosy.”
The girl brushed her collar where Lydia had grabbed, a flash of annoyance in her eyes.
“Hey! What’s with you!”
Lydia didn’t know why, but looking at that beautiful face, her anger only blazed hotter.
As if she and the girl were natural opposites, water and fire.
“Are you done talking? If so, I’m leaving.”
The girl calmly straightened her nonexistent skirt, her eyes falling on the jeweled short sword at Lydia’s bedside.
“So it’s you.”
She paused, but only for a moment.
“What?”
Lydia wanted to ask, but the girl left her with only the briefest glimpse of her silhouette.
Her gaze fell back on that short sword.
The girl recognized this blade—and through it, she knew Lydia’s identity.
So… just who exactly was this golden-haired young lady?