The sky was still a gray smear when Lysa opened her eyes.

  Not because she had slept well. Not because she was rested. But because the dream had ended abruptly.

  Or rather: the nightmare.

  She was still in the tower. Kael slept nearby, breathing with difficulty, his body still deep in recovery. The ashes from the previous night’s fire smoldered faintly.

  But inside her, the heat was different.

  Older. More venomous.

  More perfumed.

  She closed her eyes again.

  And the past swallowed her whole.

  Cycle 816 — The Tyron Estate

  She was seven years old when Grenda sold her for the first time. Bound with a fiber rope engraved with runes, she was thrown onto a cart with an uncertain destination.

  The sublevel market was dark, crammed with buyers whose eyes gleamed with silver, copper, and promise. A living auction. Value branded on foreheads. Lysa had no visible number — only the absence, engraved on her chest like a stain.

  That’s where she saw her for the first time.

  Lady Vareth Tyron.

  Tall, elegant, draped in black silk veils and gems that glimmered like rotten stars. Her hair was white as salt and her skin pale as marble. Her voice? Honey mixed with iron.

  — Is this... a Zero? A real one? — she asked, disdain masked as fascination.

  The merchant smiled.

  — A living relic, my lady. She’s survived for years. The purest form of nothingness.

  Vareth leaned in, the veil brushing Lysa’s face. A scent invaded her nose — black rose, incense, and something that reminded her of burnt flesh.

  — So... useful, she said. I’ll take her as a gift. My daughter needs something new to play with.

  Lysa was bought for a golden bracelet engraved with suppression runes.

  And with it, her childhood was sold.

  The carriage was lined with crimson cushions. There were fresh fruits, enchanted sweets, even a mirror that showed one’s reflection... if they had Value.

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  To Lysa, the mirror was just an empty surface.

  Vareth didn’t speak to her during the ride.

  She only watched.

  As if examining a rare insect before placing it in a jar.

  The Tyron mansion was a labyrinth of white marble and glass pillars. Servants moved silently, all wearing obedience collars. The windows were enchanted to repel dust, sound, and feelings.

  Lysa was taken to a large room, empty except for a crystal pedestal at its center. No bed. No bathroom. No real door — just an arch with a surveillance seal.

  There, she would be “displayed.”

  At first, she didn’t understand.

  But the following night, the Lady’s daughter arrived.

  Lina Tyron.

  An eight-year-old girl. Dark hair in perfectly symmetrical braids, eyes like her mother’s — cold, yet hollow. She held a toy scepter with a magic tip that discharged small shocks.

  — Move, she said.

  Lysa didn’t respond.

  — Move! — she repeated, now irritated. She pointed the scepter and fired a spark. The shock struck Lysa’s shoulder.

  She fell. The girl laughed.

  — Mommy said you were different. But you’re not. Just look like a broken doll.

  The next night, the guests came.

  Noble figures, minor mages, bored heirs. All gathered around the pedestal as if admiring a sculpture.

  — Is she real? — they asked.

  — A living Zero. Doesn’t cry, doesn’t speak, doesn’t beg, said Vareth proudly. Perfect servitude.

  Lysa was touched, examined, tested.

  One pinched her cheek. Another ran fingers through her hair. A third lifted her tunic to see if “the flesh was still intact.”

  She said nothing.

  She could do nothing.

  On the third night, they tried to make her dance. But Lysa just stood still.

  Lina grew furious.

  — Move! Move, you thing!

  More shocks.

  More laughter.

  More silence.

  Vareth only visited when there were new guests.

  She called the display her “living philosophy.”

  — A world where Zeros are the floor we walk on. See how little it takes for her to bend. See how her existence confirms ours.

  One day, a drunken mage asked:

  — And if she runs away?

  Vareth laughed.

  — Where does something that doesn’t exist run to?

  In time, Lysa began to observe.

  The servants’ schedules. Guard shift pauses. The blind spot in the surveillance arch. The small crack at the base of the pedestal.

  She had nothing.

  But she had time.

  And will.

  She waited weeks. Until one night, when the guests were more drunk than usual and Lina fell asleep without activating the lock seal, Lysa slid across the floor, rolled under the arch, and hid behind thick curtains.

  She didn’t know where to run.

  But she would run.

  She passed corridors. Rooms. Servants who ignored her out of habit. Until one of the maids saw her. For a moment, she hesitated. The woman’s eyes trembled.

  And then... she let her pass.

  The next morning, Lysa was found hiding in the stables.

  She was punished.

  Not with pain.

  With words.

  Vareth knelt beside her, eyes impassive.

  — You are not a prisoner. You are a mirror. When broken, you lose your purpose. And I have no interest in shards.

  The next night, Lysa was sold.

  Traded for a new bracelet.

  Present

  The morning breeze had yet to reach the tower.

  Lysa woke up sitting, body curled, heart pounding.

  She could smell it.

  The same scent.

  Centuries later, it still clung to her nostrils.

  She drew Veyla’s dagger.

  And wrote on the wall with the tip:

  Vareth Tyron — alive

  Lina Tyron — possibly alive

  Fate: extermination

  She opened the System with a mental command.

  Searched.

  Record of Vareth Tyron — active

  Title: High Curator of the Social Chamber

  Location: Lysendar District, South Tower

  Lysa smiled.

  Another name.

  Another fragment of the past soon to be reclaimed in blood.