Five years.

  Five years sharpening the blade.

  Five years pretending loyalty.

  Five years keeping the name Maria inside her chest like a coal buried beneath snow.

  The fortress was no longer a prison.

  It was a stage.

  And everyone there… actors who did not know the play had reached its final act.

  Sarya was no longer Number 9.

  She was whispered about in the halls:

  The Blade of the Night.

  Instructors avoided her gaze.

  Soldiers kept their distance.

  Recruits learned quickly:

  Do not touch.

  Do not provoke.

  Do not insist.

  But there is always a fool.

  Always.

  That afternoon, two veterans leaned against the wall while she cleaned her spear.

  — You must feel lonely… — one said, crooked smile.

  — I could warm you tonight.

  The other laughed.

  — A woman like you… needs company. No need to pretend you’re cold.

  One of them extended his hand.

  His fingers almost touched her arm.

  Almost.

  The blade moved.

  No scream.

  No warning.

  The hand hit the ground before the brain understood.

  Blood splattered across the stone.

  It took him two seconds to realize he no longer had fingers.

  Sarya did not even look at him.

  — Do not touch me.

  Her voice was not loud.

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  It was absolute.

  The other man stumbled backward.

  No one rushed to help him.

  No one dared reprimand her.

  Because everyone knew:

  The Madame allowed it.

  Yes.

  She allowed it.

  Because the Madame believed she owned Sarya.

  Believed in the seal.

  Believed in control.

  Believed she had shaped an obedient weapon.

  But Sarya had been calculating for years.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Aurelius had once passed through the region.

  Had faced the Madame.

  Had shattered her mana core.

  The Madame still held political power.

  Fear.

  Influence.

  But magic?

  It was noise.

  Smoke.

  That seal was sustained more by threat than by real strength.

  Sarya realized this three months earlier.

  When the seal burned…

  But did not paralyze.

  When the Madame tried to bend her…

  And nothing happened.

  She did not react that day.

  Because revenge is not served hot.

  It is served cold.

  And complete.

  On the night of the massacre, it rained.

  It always rained when something important happened.

  Sarya walked through the courtyard as she did every night.

  No one suspected.

  She was part of the structure.

  Their terror.

  But not their enemy.

  Not yet.

  The first fell in the east tower.

  Silent.

  A clean cut to the throat.

  The second died trying to scream.

  The third begged.

  She did not answer.

  Every step was method.

  Every death counted.

  Instructors.

  Overseers.

  Men who took children to brothels.

  Guards who laughed when Maria cried.

  She remembered every face.

  And none remembered the face of her tears.

  By the time the alarm sounded…

  It was too late.

  Corridors stained.

  Gates locked from within.

  Flames rising in storage halls.

  The survivors ran.

  They found only shadow.

  And the spear.

  Always the spear.

  The Madame was in her private chamber when she heard the screams.

  — What is happening?!

  A bloodied soldier stumbled in.

  — It’s her.

  Silence.

  For the first time in years, the Gray Lady felt something.

  Fear.

  The door opened.

  No explosion.

  No rush.

  Sarya stepped inside.

  The Madame’s mask no longer looked imposing.

  It looked fragile.

  — Number 9… — she began.

  The seal flared.

  It tried.

  It failed.

  — Kneel!

  Nothing.

  The symbol on Sarya’s neck cracked like thin ice.

  The Madame stepped back.

  — I made you strong!

  I never let any man touch you!

  I protected you!

  I should have given you to those filthy savages!

  Sarya tilted her head slightly.

  — You never protected me.

  The Madame tried to summon magic.

  Nothing.

  Tried to retreat.

  Nothing.

  Tried to lie.

  Too late.

  — You owe me everything!

  Sarya took one step forward.

  — You owe me Maria.

  The name echoed like a sentence.

  The mask fell.

  Not from a strike.

  But because the Madame’s hand trembled.

  She was not a deity.

  Not a monster.

  Not a mother.

  She was human.

  Ordinary.

  Small.

  The Madame tried to run.

  Sarya crossed the room in two steps.

  The spear entered through her back.

  Came out through her chest.

  No scream.

  No spectacle.

  Only a breath.

  — Revenge… — Sarya whispered at her ear —

  … is a dish best served cold.

  The body fell.

  Last piece removed.

  When the fire consumed the fortress,

  Sarya was already on the rooftop.

  Watching.

  Ash rising.

  Screams fading.

  The past burning.

  She did not smile.

  But the weight in her chest… lessened.

  Autumn does not die.

  It renews itself.

  And that night,

  The girl died.

  The hunter was born.

  End of chapter 4