That woman treated him like a son, despite the title of "guard."
And when she passed away, he swore a vow to protect Zyra for the rest of her life.
Before Zyra could sink too deep into the memory, Lilianne's sniffling dragged her back.
"I won't go to Lord Rhiemond!" she cried, rubbing her red eyes as she staggered back to her feet. "Seventh Sister… is it because I'm a concubine's daughter? Is that why you're always so harsh to me?"
Zyra curled her lips into a half-smile.
Then crooked a finger. "Come here."
Lilianne froze.
Something… pulled at her. Against her better judgment, against every alarm in her head, she took slow steps toward Zyra. Her voice… it was like a spell. Irresistible.
"Look into my eyes."
Zyra raised her hand.
With a sharp snap of her fingers, the air around them changed.
Lilianne's body trembled, and in an instant, her eyes lost focus.
She had slipped into a trance, a deep-level hypnotic state.
"Who are you?" Zyra asked softly.
"I… don't remember," Lilianne murmured, her voice vague and distant.
"Lilianne Morwyn," Zyra reminded her.
"I'm Lilianne Morwyn," she echoed.
"You poisoned Lord Rhiemond."
Zyra's pale gaze narrowed dangerously. Her voice was cool, laced with the eerie allure of a sea siren.
"I gave Lord Rhiemond a lust elixir," Lilianne admitted flatly. "I bought it. It was my idea."
Zyra gave a small nod. "Good."
If things went as expected, Auren Rhiemond would arrive soon to raise hell at the Chancellor's estate. When he did, someone would need to confess and shoulder the blame.
"I will confess," Lilianne said obediently.
Then, snap, Zyra flicked her fingers beside Lilianne's ear. "You will forget ever seeing me today."
Lilianne lowered her head, turned quietly, and walked out of the room like a puppet with severed strings.
Moryn, who had watched the entire scene unfold, finally spoke.
"…What did you just do to her?"
He'd seen Lilianne, normally a manipulative viper in silk, bend like a docile kitten under Zyra's words. It was nothing short of astonishing.
"Mind control," Zyra replied casually.
He was the one with the strongest imperial aura she had ever encountered in her long life.
She had chosen him.
So there was no reason to hide anything now.
Moryn's elegant brows furrowed.
Mind control?
He had never heard of such a technique.
But judging from what he'd seen, Zyra had clearly used some form of mental force, some rare psychic art, to twist Lilianne's will, even rewrite her memories. Turning a proud noble girl into a mindless pawn.
But… mental force?
Only the rarest of rune-mages possessed such power, and even then, only those trained for decades.
Moryn's eyes gleamed suddenly, the black depths flashing with intense light. "My lady. Come with me."
Before Zyra could reply, he had taken her slender wrist and spun out of the room.
"Where are we going?" she asked, blinking.
Moryn didn't answer.
Instead, he scooped her into his arms.
His boots barely kissed the earth as they leapt skyward, across rooftops, vaulting from stone to shingle like a shadowy bird in flight.
Zyra didn't resist.
Being carried midair wasn't unfamiliar to her.
Before she had fallen into her thousand-year slumber, the Phoenix Elder, the Roc Patriarch, the Crimson Sparrow Sister, and even the Azure Dragon Uncle had often flown her around the mountains for fun.
In her kind, five thousand years marked adulthood.
She, the last of the divine beasts, was born the Whitehart, birthed by purest spirit essence, nurtured by heaven and earth. She was now 4,900 years old.
Still technically a child.
"We're here," Moryn said at last, landing gracefully before a majestic building.
The rooftops shimmered with pale jade tiles. Giant carved beasts flanked the entrance. The double doors were blood-red, and above them hung a golden plaque engraved with ancient runes:
The Hall of Appraisal.
Zyra stared at the sign, expression unreadable.
"You brought me here… to test my talent?"
She had inherited the original Zyra's memories.
The seventh daughter of House Morwyn had been born without a Core. A cripple. She couldn't cultivate. From the moment of her birth, her fate had been sealed, to be married off as a living ornament in some cold alliance.
No Core, no future.
She had never once been allowed to enter this building.
She had never even been qualified to.
"Go ahead," Moryn said, his voice low, calm, and serious.
Zyra looked up, surprised to see an unfamiliar expression flickering in his eyes.
Expectation.
"But who goes there?" a stern voice barked from ahead. "This is the Hall of Appraisal, no entry without the Lord Patriarch's seal!"
"Produce your token at once, or, "
Before the guard could finish, Moryn swept his cloak with a flick of the wrist.
Boom.
Invisible pressure exploded outward like a hammer of divine will. The two guards at the entrance, seasoned estate wardens in their forties, instantly dropped, unconscious before they even knew what struck them.
Zyra blinked.
She knew Moryn was powerful, but this?
These were no ordinary sentries. They were high-ranking stewards of House Morwyn, both trained in martial aura and runic defense.
And Moryn… was just seventeen.
Seventeen, yet capable of knocking them flat without so much as drawing his blade?
That level of strength was terrifying.
Without breaking stride, Moryn carried her across the ornate marble threshold of the Appraisal Hall like it was his own chamber.
"Put me down," Zyra muttered. Her voice was calm, but her tone made it clear she was unimpressed.
From this angle, all she could see was the perfectly cut line of his jaw, and his maddeningly handsome lips.
They were already inside.
She had legs. She could walk.
Moryn, however, seemed deaf to her complaint.
Only when they reached the center of the grand hall, where an enormous crystal orb sat on a runed pedestal, did he finally lower her to the floor.
"Place your hands on the sphere," he instructed, voice unwavering. "And focus your mind."
Zyra sighed softly.