Chapter 162 – The Call from the North
Morning sunlight gently filtered through the thin curtains of Sylvia’s old room, casting a warm pattern across the worn wooden floorboards that creaked with age. Sylvia opened her eyes slowly, allowing herself a few more moments of repose than usual. The air in the room still carried the scent of slightly damp old wood, but it felt comforting. The soft chirping of small birds outside the window added to the sense that the world was at peace at least, for this morning.
The aroma of wood smoke, herbal tea, and toasted bread tempted her senses all coming from the kitchen below, as it always did. For a moment, Sylvia closed her eyes again, imagining herself not as a queen or undead leader, not as the focal point of gods or mortals, but simply as Sylvia the stranger from another world who had once been lost and welcomed into this home.
But that reverie couldn’t last long.
Reality swept in like a cold breeze through a cracked window. She sat at the bedside, took a deep breath, and began donning her gear piece by piece. The dark Dress of Death wrapped around her like a cloak of night. Black gloves climbed gracefully to her elbows, elegant yet lethal. Black stockings and rune-etched boots made her steps silent but certain.
Her Rapier of Night, imbued with dark magic, hung at her waist. The Agility Ring glowed softly on her middle finger. And when she placed the Abyssal Regalia the dark, spiked crown on her head, her reflection in the small mirror revealed her true identity: no longer a wanderer, but a force even the gods reckon with.
On the small bedside table lay a handwritten note from Velthya, penned with warm care:
"I’ve gone to the town hall briefly. Breakfast is in the kitchen. If you wish to leave earlier, this home is always open to you. Always."
Sylvia let her fingers trace the words before folding the note and tucking it behind her glove. She descended to the kitchen, sipped warm herbal tea, and tasted a slice of toast unhurried, unchilled, just calm.
Then, as if summoned by duty, she rose and stepped outside. On the porch, she paused to look at the wild, beautiful garden. In its center stood a small stone statue of a wolf a symbol of her past that refused to fade.
"I must go," she murmured.
Her steps down the narrow street were steady. The sun had not yet fully risen, and a light mist clung to the blue-roofed buildings. A few early risers glanced her way but quickly returned to their routines. Sylvia paid no mind, walking toward the city gate where a broader world awaited.