Chapter 2 - 2. Third-Rate Drama

It fell like a curse.

It wasn't like that in the beginning though. Tymera in its former days was generous; adorned with lavish vegetation that stretched all the way through the heart of 𝘗𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘢𝘯𝘢 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵, its wings that sheltered countless nobility, lands that traded luxury, and merchants always paving their way, hoping to make their money count. The city at the core held a shrine, a breathtaking structure that arose all the way through the sky; lustrous and shimmering. A sapphire lake towards the east, 𝘙𝘰𝘯𝘢 mountain to the west. The north and south dawned with priceless fabrications making Tymera rise to its pinnacle.

It almost seemed like the gods themselves had ascended to build it. The glory was beautiful. The beauty made Tymera.

But then it struck. An endless catastrophe that was like a curse.

A curse that arose out of nowhere. A curse that was 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 to happen.

As the carriage creaked and groaned against the jarring road, that was once overlaid with festoons of flowers, Anya couldn't help but think.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨?

It was a pointless question; a distraction, really. Anya knew why Tymera had forgone all sorts of changes. She also knew why the catastrophe had struck. If she went by the ways of the novel, it had perfectly described the gruesome origin of the 𝘓𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘛𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭. A one-sided massacre that went against the laws of Leselhia. A bloodbath that condemned nothing but innocents, just for the sake of a missing girl.

A sight that was so dreadful that the young Anya had sunk it deep under her brain, hoping it would never resurface.

But something in Anya's mind stirred. Like a sudden exposure, it seemed to spurge her underneath it. As a black mass swirled inside her, the image brought her back faster than she could stop it. The memory of the dying people fed into her ears. Cries of terror following...

"𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴," 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥. "𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶."

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘥. 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴.

𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘛𝘺𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘩.

𝘐𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦. 𝘛𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘷𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘺. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵.

𝘈 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥, 𝘴𝘪𝘹 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘯, 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯.

"𝘔𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳!" 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘺 𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴. "𝘔𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳---"

𝘈 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘩, 𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘺. 𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘢 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥, 𝘷𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘧-𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺'𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺.

𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘰 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦; 𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

"𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥," 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘮. 𝘍𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘴 𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺'𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦. "𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦. 𝘐𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳."

𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘢'𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘧𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘺. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵.

𝘙𝘶𝘯.

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵; 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘺, 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯'𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺.

"𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥," 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦. 𝘐𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘭𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘻𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥, 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘸. "𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥."

𝘚𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘴. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦. 𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺. 𝘏𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥.

𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘥. 𝘈𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩. 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦.

𝘏𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘛𝘺𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯'𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯. 𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘢 𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴, 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨.

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘴𝘢𝘺," 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴. "𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘴𝘢𝘺."

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘬, 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩.

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯," 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐𝘵 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥. 𝘈 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.

"𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘢," 𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘛𝘺𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘭𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘴, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵.

"𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳."

The memory collapsed, and Anya was forced back into the present. Her head throbbed, a wave of nausea and familiar electric pain behind her eyes. Her breath was stuck in her throat, and tears streamed down flawlessly.

"...Huh?" Anya blinked, unable to understand her emotions. She wiped off a single tear, smearing her face. "Why am I crying...?"

It was an unfamiliar feeling, a confusion she was yet to perceive. It was almost as if she was there, experiencing the pain that the real Anya went through. A world that she had never come across. A world of aversions and deaths.

𝘈 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰.

This wasn't the first time it had occurred. Pieces of memory transpired every now and then, and moments like these, where the real Anya had felt lonely and within her own embrace, the scene would repeat itself in front of her, almost as if it had taken her back in time. When she had first reincarnated in this body, half the memory of the original Anya had overwhelmed her, taking her to places with whatever joy the real Anya had experienced.

But there was more than what meets the eye.

The real Anya hadn't seen places more than the garden that held remnants of bones of the dead. She hadn't seen past the smiles her fourteen-year-old cushion doll had reserved for her. She hadn't seen people other than the same disgruntled figures whose eyes send her daggers. She hasn't heard warm words other than the curses that were spewed at her.

She was a pitiful child. A lonely child. A child that was covering up for someone else's absence.

Her presence was meant for others to use her.

Sighing, Anya tried focusing back on the present. But there was no way she could.

𝘚𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥? She wanted to yell it out loud. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘳?

𝘐𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳, she thought, determination brimming her eyes. She was going to change it. She was going to change her future.

The outside was crisp, cold, almost in a frenzy. Anya could only watch as they went past several slaves in tattered clothing, their eyes sunken and almost asking for separation. They looked tired, paralysed from starvation. A boy, who seemed at least twelve, ran past the lined up shops of bread and delicacies, halting right in front of a woman. She resembled every other person there; half-dead, wishing to be gone. But the boy's eyes said something else. Those were the eyes of someone who wanted to live.

They were desperate.

He pulled out a loaf from his worn-out pocket and handed it to the woman. Though he needed it more than her, Anya wouldn't dare think it out aloud. The woman hesitated, pausing for a few seconds. But the boy pressed it onto her hand and turned around to leave. Several moments in, the woman finally gave in, eating slowly as tears squeezed down her wrinkled face.

Anya searched for the boy, her eyes scanning everyone and everything on the horizon, but there was no sign of the boy. Vendors called out catchy phrases that would, in turn, attract the very few customers, a family of three walking hand in hand, two Nimithian women on a clothing spree, their chestnut brown skin glistening in the cutting cold. Even though it was still the crisp of the morning, and though the crowds were less than half of what they middays held, a few hundred people flocking in the small city of Jenna was still a sight to behold.

After the massacre, Hvanne, a neighbouring county, had taken over whatever that's leftover of Tymera. They set up small cities like Jenna, traded in and out in the name of the 'Fallen Land'. A few of the remaining survivors were taken as slaves for the nobility. Women were required to work in fields and men had to do everything from construction to mining. Children, less than the age of ten, were taken in by thugs that forced them to commit crimes in their stead. A few, who were lucky enough, ended up on the streets starving. Their desperation seizing them to steal.

Sighing again, Anya tried focusing on other things. But there was nothing pretty in sight. Slaves getting whipped by the nobles, their hands on the wall, their blood staining their dirt-white clothes. The cries of tiny children, weak and deformed, feet caked with mud. Thugs thrashing down rebelling shopkeepers, who worked day and night to earn a living.

It was exactly like that memory. Nothing had changed. People were still suffering.

𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶, Anya promised, clenching her fists as she watched a young child being whipped, his skin raw and bruised. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

Just then, the carriage suddenly halted, almost throwing her off the seat. The carriage groaned and shuffled underneath her. The neighing of the horses resounded the entire place, alerting the people gathered. The noises outside turned to pin-drop silence, then to hushed whispers.

"Hey, you brat!" A man called out, his tone harsh. "What in the skies do you think you are doing?!"

It was Pan's voice, and Anya had enough time to think he sounded even grumpier than earlier.

"I-I am s-sorry!" A young boy spoke out, panic lacing his voice. "I d-didn't m-mean to---"

"You dare to block the young miss of Zenlyn?!" Pan's voice thundered over the boy's weak, meekly sound. "Even death is too peaceful of an ending for ye!"

𝘊𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘺, Anya wanted to boo it out, but she decided against it. The noises outside had gone silent again, and she could guess why.

Pan should have never mentioned the Zenlyns', and now all the attention is drawn to her.

𝘖𝘩 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴, she mentally cursed and stepped down the carriage.

This was going to be some third-rate drama.