It turns out that Edric did come with a different agenda in mind.
To meet his aunt.
A modest but state-of-the-art mansion looms before Edric, a fortress of elegance and power. It is unlike the family manor he had grown up in—there is no excess in its design, no unnecessary ornamentation meant to impress. This is a place built with purpose, and efficiency woven into every stone and pillar.
Edric steps out of the sleek black vehicle that had brought him to her domain. His aunt's, Cherry the Vermilion Witch, mansion.
Perhaps I'll have a glimpse of Lyra as well?
Edric muses with a poker face.
George whistles, "Well young master, I want to go with you but ah, well, quite sure you'll be fine since it's your Aunt you're trying to visit."
George nervously states as he looks around. George knows that he sucks in formalities and didn't want to embarrass the young master at his aunt's house so he decides to stay behind outside. Besides the young master is strong enough to handle a maid or butler.
George barely knows any information about Cherry since top brass keeps hush hush about Cherry.
The only Solaire that was expelled and yet raised to the top.
Edric only stares at George for a good while then goes towards the entrance.
A woman in a sharp suit awaits him at the entrance, eyes cool, posture unwavering. She is one of his aunt's trusted aides, no doubt.
"She is expecting you," the aide simply says, before turning on her heel.
He follows without hesitation.
I wonder if Aunt Cherry would really see me.
The halls are quiet, the air heavy with a disciplined orderliness that set it apart from the warmth of his childhood home. He has grown up hearing stories about the younger sister of his father who had rejected the family's ideals and left—she even rejected his father's help, even when he had all but begged her to let him support her ambitions.
To his father, she will always be his beloved younger sister, brilliant and fierce.
His father has spoken of his aunt with admiration and wistfulness. Of a brilliant younger sister who has chosen a different path, one that took her far from them. A woman who rejected the privilege of their lineage and built something greater.
And yet, to the rest of the family, she is a traitor to their lineage.
And to him?
He isn't sure yet.
The doors to a vast study swing open, revealing a room lined with bookshelves, maps, and screens displaying various strategic movements. A large window overlooks the private training grounds below. And in the center of it all, seated behind a dark wooden desk, is her.
His aunt.
She didn't look surprised to see him. Of course, she wouldn't be.
Her presence is undeniable, a quiet but suffocating weight in the room. Even while just sitting, she commands attention.
Her expression is unreadable—calm, sharp amber eyes studying him like a blade appraising steel. She looks more like him, with fiery red hair and sharp amber eyes than like his father's who has muted red hair and cold amber eyes.
And yet something in her gaze, in the way she carried herself, made him recall the softness in his father's voice when he spoke of her.
The young man straightens, meeting her gaze without hesitation. He is no fool—he knew what she had built, knew the weight of the power she now wielded. She has surpassed their family.
"So," she says, breaking the silence. Her voice is smooth, and measured. Assessing.
Madam Cherry gets out of her chair and moves to sit on the couch, gesturing for Edric to sit as well.
Edric sits across from his aunt. His posture relaxed, almost careless, but his mind was anything but. His posture straight, his expression unreadable—but beneath his composed exterior, he can feel her scrutinizing him, testing him before he is even given a chance to speak.
"Nephew, my brother's son."
A simple statement but with an underlying meaning.
Edric meets her gaze without faltering, the same way he would face an opponent in battle. "Yes."
A slight tilt of her head, amusement barely touching her features. "His son, and yet, you're here. Not with him."
He knows what she means. His father will never ask this of him. This is his own decision—his own curiosity, his own need to know the woman who has walked away from their family, leaving only whispered stories in her wake.
"I wanted to see you," he admits. "For myself."
"So you've come to satisfy your curiosity?" Madam Cherry asks as she takes a sip of her tea.
"Yes." Edric takes a sip of his tea.
The air between them grows heavier, a quiet yet palpable tension settling over the room.
Edric observing his aunt. He knows that she's alert and aware of every movement he makes even if she doesn't show it.
The dark suit tailored to her frame, the effortless way her people move around her—silent, efficient, waiting for a single unspoken command. She has carved out power where none had been offered, without leaning on their name, their influence, and their vast network. That was impressive, he has to admit.
Madam Cherry exhales slowly, watching her nephew with a faint, knowing smirk.
"You have that look," she muses, tilting her head slightly. "Calculating. Measuring. You remind me of myself—before I learned the right calculations don't always guarantee survival," she says simply, her tone smooth as silk but edged like a blade.
Edric lets a slow smile tug at his lips.
"And yet, here you are. A master of your own game." He gestures lightly to their surroundings—the quiet hum of the magnificent study room with subtle but sophisticated safes, the unseen but surely present hidden space with armory, the absolute control she exuded without effort. "And I'd wager no calculation escapes you."
"Flattery? You should know better." She takes another sip from her teacup, her eyes sharp over the rim. "You didn't come here to admire my work."
Not a question. A statement.
Edric didn't fidget, didn't show hesitation, but simply met her gaze. He sits quietly taking another sip of tea. He knows that his silence will convey a deeper meaning to her underlying inquiry.
Madam Cherry seeing his composure, silently approves of her nephew's bold move.
"So, what did you expect to find?" Madam Cherry asks indifferently and leans back to enjoy another sip of tea. Then her sharp eyes stare at Edric openly assessing him once again.
"You built everything from the ground up," Edric begins, voice calm but firm. "Without wealth, without influence, without the backing of the family. You surpassed them all. That alone proves your strength."
"Another Flattery?" Madam Cherry states sharply. "I expected better."
He shakes his head. "Observation. And the foundation for my point." He leans forward slightly, mirroring her. "I may not be you, but I have no interest in living under the shadow of my name either. You broke free and made something greater, and I intend to do the same—on my own terms."
She let out a quiet hum, tapping a single finger against the armrest of her chair. "Bold," she remarked. "But ambition is common. Competence, however, is not. Why should I waste my time on another hopeful fool?"
The young man exhaled slowly. He had anticipated this. His words alone would not sway her.
"Test me."
Madam Cherry pauses mid-sip then puts her teacup on the table.
Then—
She moves.
Faster than most eyes could follow, she is on her feet, closing the space between them with a predator's grace. There is no warning, no hesitation—just pure, practiced violence as her fist lashes out toward his ribs.
He dodges.
Just barely.
The sheer force of her strike sends a gust of wind past him, but he already anticipates it, he reads the shift in her stance, the slight shift in her weight before she strikes.
But she isn't done.
A follow-up. A kick sweeping toward his legs—he jumps back, barely avoiding it. The next blow came immediately, a feint that turned into a brutal elbow aimed at his temple. He deflects it, feeling the impact rattle through his forearm, and retaliates.
Their exchange is brief—only a handful of exchanged blows—but in that instant, she has already seen him.
His instincts. His adaptability. His skill.
And the moment he counters, redirecting the force of her own attack to open space between them—
She grins.
A slow, dangerous curve of the lips.
She steps back, hands lowering. The test was over.
"Not bad," she admits.
Edric straightens, his breath measured, his heartbeat steady despite the brief but intense clash. He did not gloat. Did not look victorious. He simply waits for her verdict.
She studies him for a long moment. Then, with a quiet exhale, she turns back to her seat, a flick of her hand signaling him to sit as well.
"You've earned more than a passing glance," she states.
And so Edric and Madam Cherry, have a deep long conversation about matters that would eventually be the catalyst of great change to come.
***********
The darkened room is still and silent, the world outside untouched by the coming dawn. The only movement comes from the slow, steady rise and fall of Lyra's breath as she lies staring at the ceiling, her chest tight with an emotion she can't quite place.
Sadness.
It clings to her, heavy yet distant, like the last echoes of a fading melody.
She knows she had dreamed—something distant, something lost—but the memory is just beyond her grasp, slipping away even as she reaches for it.
All that remains is the ache in her chest.
With a quiet sigh, she shifts, turning onto her side. The red digits of the clock on her bedside table glow in the darkness.
3:00 AM.
Right on time.
Without hesitation, she pushes the lingering weight of emotion aside and sits up, her movements precise, and practiced. The faint chill of the early morning air greets her as she swings her legs over the side of the bed, planting her feet firmly on the wooden floor.
Routine. Discipline. Control.
That was all that mattered now. Routine, discipline, and control will let her gain control of her emotions. So that, she won't feel hopeless again.
Yet, as she stands and moves through the familiar motions—dressing for training, tying back her hair—her mind drifts.
Yesterday.
The theme park.
The laughter of Marie. The warmth of the voice of Marie's Uncle as he indulged her every whim. The way they ran together, how the uncle had lifted Marie into the air like she was light as a feather, her delighted shriek ringing through the air.
It has stirred something in her.
Something unwelcome.
Perhaps that is why she woke up with this strange heaviness in her chest. The sight of that pair feels just too familiar, too close to something she had once known.
Something she has lost.
Lyra exhales sharply and shakes her head, dismissing the thought.
It didn't matter. What matters is she'll get stronger to live and remember what she lost.
Without another moment's hesitation, she steps out of her room, her feet already carrying her toward the training grounds.
****
Edric and Madam Cherry's conversation has stretched deep into the night—hours of sharp discourse, of measured words laced with hidden meanings.
Their discussion revolves around the world's ever-shifting landscape—alliances crumbling, cities teetering on the edge of collapse, war zones expanding, and a lot more.
Madam Cheryy, ever enigmatic, indulges his questions but offers only what she wishes to reveal. Her words are precise, deliberate, and wielded with the same mastery as a blade.
As the conversation dwindles down to small talk, Edric taking the cue, bids his aunt goodnight. But seeing how late it is into the night already, well more like early the morning, Edric decides to head for the training area instead.
His aunt's aide tells him the directions to the training ground and asks him if he wants her to guide him to it. But Edric politely refuses and heads towards the training area by himself hoping to organize his thoughts on the way.
The hallway is empty and silent. His thoughts unexpectedly wander as he walks.
Perhaps I'll coincidentally meet Lyra?
Edric mentally scoffs at himself.
When did I become so sentimental?
He lets out a quiet sigh.
Seems like I can't help but be drawn to those enchanting chocolate-brown eyes...
He takes a slow deep breath and slowly breathes out.
Control and Discipline
He chants in his mind.
"I better train hard."
He might as well hone his body and mind this morning than rest.
Flashes of fragmented moments from the incident at the theme park pops up in Edric's mind.
The little girl crying, the old man being stabbed, the fugitive's deeply desperate sunken eyes, and Lyra's being so close yet so distant...
He pauses in his step. Again Lyra seems to linger in his mind and he doesn't know why.
Control and Discipline. Sleep is a luxury but discipline is not.
Edric reaches his destination still meditating,
Then—
The heavy wooden doors creak open in unison, revealing the dimly lit training hall beyond.
From opposite sides, Lyra/Edric steps forward—and freezes.
Their gazes lock, sharp and unwavering.
Edric stiffens, his composed demeanor betraying a flicker of surprise. He didn't expect to see her here, now, at this exact moment. The early morning stillness has left him unguarded, unprepared for the sight of her standing just beyond the threshold.
Deep and unwavering eyes of chocolate brown...
Lyra's eyes mesmerize Edric unknowingly.
Lyra is the first one to make a move, "Go ahead, Sir Edric. I'll train somewhere else."
With her calm efficiency, she takes a step back, already adjusting to the situation.
Edric's lips part, his breath hitching before he can stop himself.
"No."
The word leaves him before he can fully consider it, firmer than he intends to.
She blinks, surprised for the first time.
He feels heat rise to his ears, frustration curling in his chest—not at her, but at himself.
He isn't sure why he opposed her suggestion so strongly. He just knows that the idea of her leaving, of avoiding him, unsettled him in a way he didn't quite understand.
Lyra tilts her head, assessing him. "There's no need for both of us to be here. We'll only get in each other's way."
He swallows. She is right.
And yet—
"We'll share it," Edrics insists, too quickly. Too forcefully.
Lyra's expression didn't change.
But, Edric catches a faint flicker of annoyance in her eyes before she sighs, relenting.
"If you're alright with it. Then I'll take up the offer. Perhaps we can spar for a bit?"
Thinking this time she'll let him have the upper hand to make up for his defeat last time. To ease whatever grudge he might have held towards her insolence in avoiding him
Lyra stands poised, her body relaxed but ready, her sharp gaze fixed on the prince of combat before her. She knows he is as skilled as her. Which makes it easier to let him win this time.
I just need to show him a tiny opening and I'm sure he'll go for it and win. Hopefully, this sparring match will ease whatever resentment he holds toward me for his defeat last time.
Edric, however, has no such thoughts of settling grudges.
To him, this is an opportunity.
To assess her. To understand her.
Their fight begins in an instant.
He strikes first, swift and measured. She meets his advance, countering with a fluid efficiency that speaks of experience. Their movements weave together in a fierce, rhythmic exchange—attack, counter, feint, pivot. Precision honed through relentless training.
The soft thuds of feet shifting across the mat fill the training hall, punctuated by the sharp crack of blocked strikes and the controlled exhales of two fighters locked in motion. Edric and Lyra move like opposing currents, neither overpowering the other nor yielding.
Edric expects a good fight from her—he experienced it before. But experiencing it up close, like this again, with nothing but their bodies and instincts between them, feels something else entirely.
Lyra's movements are crisp, refined by relentless practice, yet adaptable, flowing seamlessly between offense and defense. She isn't just fighting—she is learning.
Testing his limits, adjusting, adapting, and growing stronger with every exchange.
And Edric—he is caught between the thrill of the fight and the quiet, startling realization that he isn't just fascinated by her technique.
His fist snaps forward in a feint; she barely hesitates before twisting away, using the momentum to deliver a sharp counterstrike. He blocks, barely.
It isn't just the fight itself that drew him in.
It's her. Her alluring eyes—always unwavering and fearless.
Edric can't help but be impressed by the way she moves—effortless but never careless.
The way she analyzes his every action, reading him with the same keen focus she gives the battle itself is enchanting him.
Control. Discipline.
Edric chants in his mind to get his focus back on the fight.
Lyra remains completely unaware of the shift in Edric's gaze.
She only sees the match, the lesson in every strike and counter.
Lyra's original goal to lose to Edric slips her mind as she becomes immersed in the battle.
Focus, Counter, Attack!
Lyra intently studies Edric's every move.
Edric sees her intense eyes focused on him.
How does she see me in those beautiful eyes of hers I wonder.
He can't deny that something in his gaze changed.
Edric realizes that he sees her not just as a rival. Not just as a challenge.
But as someone he wants to keep standing across from. Again and again.
A heartbeat too long.
A hesitation he can't afford.
Her leg sweeps out, catching him off guard. His balance wavers, and before he can counter, she shifts, pressing forward and forcing him back in a smooth, controlled motion.
His back hits the mat.
Silence.
Oh... well at least I didn't cut his face this time.
Lyra muses as she remembers her goal to let him win this time. To be honest, it's been a while since she had a good spar. Making her so immersed in the fight that her goal unknowingly slips her mind.
Lyra hovers over Edric, breath steady but sharp, eyes flickering with the same quiet calculating look she has worn throughout the fight. Then, she steps back and extends a hand.
"Thanks for the spar," she simply states, no hint of triumph in her voice. Just acknowledgment.
Surely he won't hold a grudge...It's not like someone is watching this time. But if he does feel wrong, I'll take whatever he throws.
Lyra mentally shrugs.
He takes her hand, the warmth of her grip sparking something far more dangerous than battle.
"It was my pleasure to be able to spar with you," Edric cooly answers while looking away since he feels the heat rise to his ears once again.
He had come here to assess her.
Now, he wasn't sure if he ever wanted to stop.
...looks like he still took it personally this time. Lyra thinks as she sees him look away. Seeing how red his ears are turning, not good he is seething...
Lyra sighs.
"Sir Edric, I hope you enjoyed the match like I did," Lyra asks.
Hearing Lyra, Edric wants to face her but still feeling the heat in his face he answers while still looking away.
"Yes, it was a good match. Thank you for your time," in an undeniably lower voice, Edric answers because he is forcing himself to stay calm even though his mind is stuck at the thought of how warm Lyra's hand was in his hand...
Control. Discipline.
He originally just wanted to assess her and just see her to ease his curiosity but now...
Now he isn't so sure what he wants.