An hour later, the caravan resumed its journey for the third day, cutting through the dry land along the eastern border of the Kingdom of Krontora. They were making their way northward, toward the line that separated Krontora from Kartuga—a line that was, at once, an end and a beginning; the end of the journey, and the beginning of a fate quietly awaiting some of them.
The caravan moved smoothly for several hours without incident. As usual, Mary rode at the front, mounted on her horse beside Craig, showing no interest in his habitual chatter, which blended silliness with insolence.
"Miss Mary~ have I ever told you about my beloved who lives in the Kingdom of Kartuga?" Craig said cheerfully, his eyes gleaming with a kind of childish pride.
Mary responded coldly without turning to him, "No, you haven't." Then she thought to herself with a hint of mockery: ' Does this fool even have a heart? I pity the poor girl who ended up with him. '
Craig's smile widened as he continued enthusiastically, "Her name is Lilia. A sweet young woman—not skinny, but I like that. She cooks like you wouldn't believe! You really must try her food sometime."
Mary showed no reaction, but she replied with a cold-edged sarcasm: "Sounds like it's your stomach that fell in love, not your heart." She almost smirked, but held herself back, as if unwilling to grant him even that much.
Craig chuckled quietly, but there was something else in his eyes now—something sly, wrapped in curiosity. He leaned a little closer and asked, in a soft yet irritating tone: "And what about you, Miss Mary? A girl like you—with that beauty and that body—surely can't be without a lover. Tell me... who lives in your heart?"
Mary was taken aback by the question. She didn't answer right away, not because she was flustered, but because she had never really considered such a thing before. A lover? The word itself felt foreign to her, as if from a language she had yet to learn.
But without her permission, one thought rose unbidden in her mind: Darken—that weary slave, forgotten in the last wagon. It wasn't love, not yet. But his presence had slipped into some unnamed place inside her.
A faint smile touched the corner of her lips, barely visible, and she said in a calm voice: "I can't tell you. Not because I'm ashamed of his name, but because I have no desire to share what's mine with you."
Then she turned her face slightly and added with a broader smile: "But I'll tell you one thing... he's much better than you."
Silence dropped over the moment like a stone. Mary's words had been graceful in form, but heavy enough to crush any smile.
Craig said nothing. His laugh vanished, and the glint in his eyes dulled. Mary had only meant to mock him, but when she thought over what she'd said, something pricked within her... She knew what that feeling was. She only hoped it wasn't what she feared—not yet.
Another hour of travel passed before a quarrel broke out between two men in the middle of the caravan, forcing it to stop.
Mary stepped forward steadily toward the scene of the fight. Her tone was sharp as she said, "What's going on here?"
Everyone turned toward her, as if the mere sound of her voice was enough to restore order.
Craig arrived on his horse, his usual smile once again decorating his face, before he threw his comment like a crude dart: "Oh~ isn't that Erik? The poor wretch Miss Mary crushed once upon a time?" He said it in a taunting tone, eyes glittering with smug delight.
The quarrel was between two of the caravan's men. One of them appeared angry and confused, while the other was Erik—the same man who had once tried to whip Darken, before Mary had put him in his place with a cruelty he would never forget. Erik was trembling, his face dripping with rage and humiliation, and Craig's comment only added fuel to the fire, reigniting the spark in his eyes.
His features contorted, as though embers beneath his skin were beginning to glow again. This wasn't just a spat—it was bitterness long buried under discipline, now rising to the surface once more.
"Shut your filthy mouth, you bastard!" Erik shouted, his voice shaking like a drowning man clinging to his scream. "I didn't lose! I only... let her hit me! If I wanted, I could've crushed that bitch!"
The air froze. No one had expected him to dare say that. Some of the caravan men and slaves—from inside the wagons and around them—lifted their heads. The moment that vulgar word left his mouth, it felt as though it cut through the air itself, hanging there for long, heavy seconds.
Mary's face hardened. Not from shock, but from a cold, quiet fury—the kind that neither shouts nor curses, but acts. She dismounted her horse with deadly calm, her steps measured as if she were weighing the earth beneath her feet. Each stride sent a deeper tremor through Erik's gut.
"What did you just call me?"
She said it in a voice barely above a whisper, yet it was heavier than a drawn sword. There was something in her tone that made blood freeze in the veins.
Erik swallowed slowly, his mouth moving without sound at first, as if trying to take it back. But he chose fake courage instead. He lifted his chin slightly and said, "I said you're a bi—"
The word never finished.
A lightning-quick kick sliced through the air. Mary's leg rose like an arrow and struck his face with a force that belied her smaller frame. Erik dropped to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut, his head twisting to the side, his face smashing into the coarse dirt.
Despite her relatively short stature, her trained legs had no trouble reaching his face—and the result was a blow that left everyone in stunned silence.
She approached as he writhed on the ground, standing over him. Her sword remained sheathed, yet death seemed to gleam in her eyes alone. Her voice was steady, cold to the point of freezing:
"I gave you a chance to stay alive... unbroken. But it seems you're asking for death—and I have no problem granting it."
Then, without hesitation, she drew her sword from her hip.
The murmurs vanished. Even the air seemed to halt. Caravan men, slaves—everyone watched, as if afraid to breathe. This wasn't just Mary the strict soldier; something deeper had snapped inside her.
Even Craig, observing from a distance, wore a grin on his face—as though it were a private performance for his amusement.
Erik turned toward Craig, eyes pleading—for escape, for pity, for anything. But what met him was another poisoned comment from the man who always played with fire:
"Don't worry, Miss Mary, Master Jabelin won't notice the loss... and if he does, he'll replace it easily enough."
Craig's words were like an official seal of approval. When Erik turned his eyes back to Mary, there was no hesitation in her gaze.
And the sword was driven through.
It pierced his neck in a single, silent moment, emerging from the other side slowly. Erik died staring into her blank, icy face—as if there had never been life in him at all.
She pulled the sword out without sparing the corpse a glance. She flicked the blood from it with a casual motion, as if brushing dust from her boots. Then she spoke aloud, her voice carrying for all to hear: "Erik died attempting to assassinate Commander Craig. He has been dealt with in accordance with standing orders."
Her tone was flat, declarative—beyond argument, beyond interpretation. The lie was airtight. Some froze in place, others turned to Craig, as if seeking confirmation.
And Craig didn't disappoint. He spoke with exaggerated drama, placing a hand to his chest like a man who had just dodged death:
"By the gods... good thing you killed him. Who knows what could've happened if you hadn't acted so fast? I might be dead by now~"
His tone was mocking, theatrical, absurd—but it served the purpose perfectly.
Thus, the lie was planted in the minds of all, and within minutes, it had grown into an unshakable truth. Erik didn't die for his foul mouth—he was a "traitor," an "assassin," a "threat to the caravan."
As for Mary, she looked down at his body with undisguised disgust. It wasn't just his vulgarity she loathed, but the fact that his was the first hand to raise a whip against Darken—on the very first night after they left the camp. She lifted her sword and brought it before her eyes, staring into her own reflection—a brown eye the same shade as her hair, gazing back at her from within the steel.
She felt a kind of satisfaction... and a kind of unease. But she dismissed both feelings. What mattered now was that the caravan had been rid of a troublesome element. At least for today, the chances of further problems had diminished.
Mary was just about to return her sword to its sheath after finishing off Erik, but in a sudden flash, the air was pierced by a sharp sound, followed by a violent impact. An arrow flew past her face and struck the head of one of the caravan's men, who collapsed to the ground like a soulless puppet. Shock froze her; for a moment, she couldn't grasp what had happened—until she heard Craig's loud cry as he drew his sword, shouting, "Ambush! We're under attack! Protect the caravan!"
From among the scattered rocks and shrubs at the roadside, they emerged like living nightmares—faces covered, eyes gleaming with malice. Bandits stormed the caravan like a flood. One of them, mounted on a horse, shouted with a mocking voice, "Kill anyone who resists! Plunder the wagons! Take the women!"
The caravan's men answered Craig's call and charged into battle. A brutal clash erupted. The clang of steel rose in the air, and blood splattered in every direction. Everything happened quickly, chaotically, drowning in madness. And then came the fire arrows—like a finale to a hell already begun. Dozens rained down on the carriages, setting them ablaze as if cursed. The cargo carriages burned, and the slave carriages ignited with spirits before wood. Human screams, fiery and desperate, filled the scene. Bodies leapt and fell, torn apart slowly by fire without mercy.
In the heart of this hell, Mary was killing—fighting like a machine of fire and steel, her sword tearing through bodies without hesitation. But amid it all, one memory pierced her consciousness... Darken. He was still in his carriage, bound, unable to flee. She paused, then turned and surged through the crowd, slicing necks, forging a path with madness, blood trailing behind her.
She reached the carriage, flung the door open, and shouted, "Darken! Come on! Get out—now!"
Inside, he was seated just as she had left him, his expression eerily calm. He lifted his head toward her and asked softly, "Mary? What's happening out there?" His tone carried no fear, as if the burning world outside meant nothing to him.
Without wasting a second, she stepped in and pulled him by the arm, dragging him out while speaking breathlessly, "The caravan is under attack by unknown bandits from the west—there are many of them. The carriages are burning, and yours is still intact, but there's no time!"
Once outside, his eyes fell on the scene—and he froze in place. Charred corpses, flames devouring the slaves, screaming, limbs scattered on the ground, thick smoke and the stench of burnt flesh. He stepped back, stunned, paralyzed as if time had stopped inside him.
Mary grabbed his shoulders, shook him hard, and looked into his eyes with a voice charged with urgency: "Darken! Listen to me!" Her features were taut—between fear, fury, and something deeper. "I didn't want to tell you this, but you have to know. Jabelin plans to cut off your hands once we reach Kartuga. He wants to see you suffer. To watch you break. And I... I can't understand it, nor accept it!"
Darken's face changed—his expression fractured, as if what he heard had exposed a deeper level of the hell he was trapped in. He wanted to back away, to escape her words and her touch—but he couldn't. She was still holding him, looking at him with insistence... and something else. Something unspoken.
"I've been trying to find a way. A solution. An escape. I wanted to smuggle you out, save you, but I couldn't. Every path was blocked." She tightened her grip on his shoulders, bit her lower lip, then raised her voice in one final plea: "But now... this is your chance. Run. Get away. Don't look back. Just... disappear from this damned caravan."
Her eyes pleaded with him—not just to flee, but to live. To escape this fate, to survive, even if alone. And despite the destruction around them—despite the blood and ashes—there was a moment between them. A purely human moment in the darkest of places.
Escape? It had never truly occurred to Darken that escape was a real option. He believed the idea of freedom had been stripped not just from his body—but from his soul. Escape meant there was a world beyond this long prison. A world where he could walk without chains or whips. In that moment, it felt like he had been given a chance. A chance to walk away from everything that burned him, ground him down, crushed him. A chance to break the shackle that had fused with his skin.
But something held him again... not iron this time, but a quiet voice—a trembling question that rose from within: "But... what about you?" he said in a strained voice, then added, his illusion breaking with every word: "Won't you come with me?" His words came out like those of a child unable to walk without holding their mother's hand.
Mary looked at him, surprised, hesitant. For a moment, he seemed... fragile. No, not weak in shame—but human, vulnerable, honest. Something that made her heart tremble. She sighed softly, stepped closer, lowered her head until her forehead touched his, and whispered in a tender voice—one that carried everything she couldn't say: "Don't worry about me... I'll be fine."
Then she closed her eyes for a moment, and opened them again to continue, her voice warm, as if returning something lost inside him: "What matters to me is that you leave this hell. That you become free. That's what I want. That's what I see in you..."
He wanted to say something—anything. But Mary didn't give him the chance. She slowly raised her hand and let her sword fall to the ground. Then she held his face in both hands, looked into his eyes deeply, and kissed him. A short kiss—but it wasn't ordinary. It was like the first heartbeat in a dead chest.
She pulled back slightly, her face still close, her breath quickened, and she whispered: "Maybe... it's because I saw in you the man I dreamed of as a girl."
Those words shook something ancient inside him—solid walls built from pain, humiliation, and betrayal. He felt something crack inside, but it wasn't painful. It felt like the beginning of something new... unknown. His heart raced, his eyes widened, his tongue stilled. He didn't know how to respond. He didn't know if what he felt was fear or wonder—but for the first time, he felt... alive.
Mary stood up, bent to pick up her sword, then looked at him with a glaring blush and said with embarrassed sarcasm, "I'm doing this in the middle of a bloody battle? What a foolish girl I am..." She laughed softly—blood and fire around her, screams in the air—and still, the scene suddenly felt like it belonged to another story.
She stepped close again, placed her hand on his chest gently, as if calming his heart, and said in a firm, yet rare gentle tone: "Now go... you're free now."
Then she turned away, walked back toward the battlefield—toward the chaos, toward the hell.
Darken stood, watching her. He didn't move, didn't breathe. He wanted to run after her, to scream, to beg her to come with him—to go anywhere else together. But she was faster. She shouted without turning back:
"Go! I don't want to see you here again!" And then, in a voice so quiet it was barely heard, she added: "Please... just leave."
He didn't see her face. He didn't know if she was smiling, crying, or bleeding inside. But her words were enough. They were an ending that couldn't be undone.
The moment they shared felt like it lasted a lifetime, though it spanned only minutes. Her final words were the spark that finally made him move. He began to walk, then faster, then he ran. His face kept glancing back, as if something of him hadn't left yet.
Darken ran toward a path that hid its secrets—dragged by the unknown as if summoned and forced to obey. Behind him, Mary stood still. She didn't look back at first, as if intentionally, but she finally turned—once he was far enough to be unreachable. Her eyes were red, as if dust had gotten into them—but the truth was clearer than any excuse... she was crying. No one knew if it was grief or pain—except her silent heart, still beating amid the chaos.
The clash of swords and men's cries faded from her awareness for a moment, while she watched Darken running clumsily, stumbling with every step as if his body was being torn from within. She knew how hurt his feet were. She knew each step hurt more than he showed. She wanted to follow him, to escape with him—but she couldn't. A little sister waited. A responsibility she couldn't run from... just like she couldn't run from her feelings.
"I don't know why," Mary thought, watching Darken's silhouette melt into the horizon, "but inside me is a strange certainty—that this man, despite his appearance, despite his mystery... is better than any man I've ever known. I don't understand why. He's done nothing to earn that. But I feel... he's real. He just needs time... to heal."
A tear slid down her cheek—warm and silent—as if it had come from a hidden place in her heart.
In a raspy, quiet voice, she whispered, "I'll be honest... I never once thought of Darken as someone I'd get close to emotionally. I never meant to create a romantic moment and..." Then she smiled—a wide, tired smile, as if mocking herself: "Who am I kidding? I already love Darken... and that's the truth."
It was a confession with no witness, no response, no promises. Yet for the first time, she felt completely honest.
She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, turned her face back toward the caravan. There, hell was still raging. Screams, blood, cruelty—and one truth that refused to fade: she had to fight. She moved forward slowly at first, then faster, until she ran, leapt into the battle like a storm. Her sword sliced the air, her eyes saw nothing but enemies, and her heart... held one image: Darken, running toward freedom.
She didn't smile outwardly—but inside... she was.
Elsewhere, Darken was running. The pain in his feet had reached unbearable levels—every step a stab, every breath a flame drilling through his body. He wanted to stop. His body begged for mercy. But he remembered Mary's words—her look, her final acts. He didn't understand why she treated him that way. He didn't understand her feelings, or even his own. But something deep down told him she hadn't lied. She truly wanted to help him.
He clenched his muscles. Exhaled hard. Took another step, and another—pouring all the strength he had into one thing: to keep going.
Freedom wasn't clear in his mind. He didn't know what it looked like, what it meant, or what he'd find if he reached it. But it was there—on the horizon—a vague idea that carried him through the pain, moved his worn legs. And without noticing, the ground disappeared beneath him.
He had reached the edge of a steep cliff overlooking the sea. There was no warning. No time to stop. His body launched downward—as if everything that had happened, every moment, had led him to this exact fall.
He didn't resist. He didn't scream. He just... surrendered.
And during his fall, images flashed before his eyes. Mary, smiling by the stream the night before. Mary, holding him. Mary, kissing him just moments ago. He didn't understand those emotions. He didn't know what love or tenderness meant—but something settled inside him.
Mary... had been the only light in his dark days. The first to see him not as a slave or a threat—but as a person. And just before the sea swallowed him, he realized one truth:
Mary saved him. Not just from prison—but from himself. She pulled him from the darkness... not into the light, but into something broader, deeper, stranger... into the unknown.