Chapter 236: Lady Nyssara di Myrrhvale

Lirantis shimmered under the soft glow of the dome. Streams of mana-light curved across the transparent ceiling, tracing the movement of the sea above. The streets were quiet — only the faint hum of enchantments and the rhythmic echo of footsteps on coral stone filled the air.Trafalgar walked beside Zafira, his posture relaxed but his gaze distant. The night was cool, the kind that should have calmed him, yet her silence made it heavier.

"You could’ve told me earlier," Zafira said softly. "About the blood."

He stopped mid-step, eyes flicking toward her. "You mean that? It was just a nosebleed."

"Don’t try that tone with me," she replied, crossing her arms. "You wiped it with your sleeve, Trafalgar. I noticed. So did Barth."

He gave a faint sigh and turned his head away. "And you’re are overreacting."

Zafira exhaled slowly, moving closer until she was standing right in front of him. "Sit down," she said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder and guiding him toward a low coral bench by the fountain’s edge.

"Zafira, this is ridiculous—"

"Sit," she insisted.

He hesitated but did as told, muttering something under his breath. The fountain behind them glowed with a soft azure hue, its mana-fed water casting flickers of light across their faces. Zafira moved behind him, placing one hand on his upper back. Her touch was cool, steady — the kind that carried quiet authority.

"Stay still," she murmured. A faint violet glow enveloped her hand as she closed her eyes, tracing his internal mana flow through contact. Trafalgar felt the light pressure of her energy, smooth and gentle like silk threads brushing through his body.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, finally, her shoulders relaxed. "You’re fine..."

"Told you," he said quietly.

Her hand lingered for a second longer before she withdrew it. "You scared me, Trafalgar."

Zafira looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the faint fatigue in his eyes that he tried to hide. There was something fragile beneath his calm.

For a moment, Trafalgar said nothing. Instead, his gaze drifted toward her profile, the faint light outlining the curve of her face. He remembered the last time she’d looked at him like that—right before she’d leaned in and kissed his cheek without a word. The memory hit like a quiet pulse, one he quickly buried.

He exhaled through his nose. "You know it’s dangerous for us to be seen together like this, right?"


Zafira blinked, caught off guard. "Why do you say that? I’m just checking on you."

"Yeah..." Trafalgar’s tone softened, but there was something else beneath it—resignation. "And what would your father say if he saw us like this? What would Malakar think?"

Zafira’s lips parted slightly before she turned her gaze away. "Can we have this conversation another time?" she said quietly. "Now’s... not the moment."

Trafalgar gave a small nod, leaning back against the fountain’s edge. "Fine."

The word hung between them, light but heavy. Neither spoke again. The dome’s glow rippled across the water, reflecting two figures sitting too close for comfort—caught somewhere between duty and something neither dared to name.

They left the fountain behind. The city was still awake in places — faint music from a tavern, merchants closing their stalls.

Zafira walked a few steps ahead, her thoughts wandering as the rhythm of her boots echoed against the coral stone.

’Hmm... it seems Trafalgar’s finally realized it.’

Her eyes softened slightly, unfocused as she stared ahead. ’He knows I like him... has he known for long? Since the elevator? Since the day he found out about the secret I kept from him?’

She drew in a slow breath. ’Yes... he must have.’

Her chest tightened a little, not from embarrassment, but from that bitter understanding only people like them could share.

’I can’t be with him. We both know it. Different bloodlines, different duties. The Eight Families aren’t allowed to mix freely. Something catastrophic would have to happen for that to change.’

Her mind drifted so far that she didn’t notice the small shadow running across the street — not until a soft thud broke her thoughts.

"Ah—!"

Zafira stumbled back as a small figure collided into her legs and fell to the ground. A woven basket spilled across the pavement, scattering dried herbs and a few wilted flowers.

It was a little girl — no older than ten, wearing oversized linen clothes that hung loosely from her thin frame. Her knees were scraped again, her hands trembling as she scrambled to pick up the scattered items.

Zafira immediately knelt down. "Hey, easy there," she said softly, steadying the child’s shoulder. "You again... what are you doing out here this late?"

The girl’s lip quivered, but she didn’t answer.

Trafalgar stopped beside them, recognizing her face at once. "It’s the same one," he murmured under his breath.

Zafira gathered a few herbs and placed them back in the basket. "You can’t go wandering alone like this," she said softly. "Remember what happened last time?"

The girl froze, eyes wide with fear. She clutched the basket tighter, her voice trembling. "Please... help me. I don’t want to go back there. They do bad things to me..."

Zafira’s heart clenched. "Who does? That man?" she asked, leaning closer, but the child shook her head violently, terrified to speak further.

Trafalgar frowned, his voice quiet but firm. "Zafira."

She looked up at him, her expression pleading. "We can’t just leave her, Trafalgar."

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the girl — the way she shrank back, the bruises hidden beneath the dirt on her arms, the silent desperation in her eyes.

For a fleeting moment, pity flickered across his face, gone as quickly as it came.

He exhaled slowly. "You know helping her will cause problems. Not for me — for my family, and for yours too. We’re still in Myrrhvale territory."

Zafira’s tone softened, though her eyes stayed resolute. "And if doing nothing causes a worse one?"

He looked at her — the determination, the quiet fire in her expression — and knew she wouldn’t back down. But before he could answer, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the far end of the street.

Boots against coral stone. Armor clinking.

Trafalgar’s eyes narrowed. "...Someone’s coming."

The moment of calm ended, just like that.

The clinking of metal grew louder, echoing against the curved walls of the dome. A trio of Myrrhvale guards emerged from the archway at the end of the street, their armor gleaming with the faint reflection of the sea above.

At their center walked the same guard from the ruins, tall and broad-shouldered. His cold eyes scanned the street until they locked on the trembling girl.

"There you are," he said, his voice low but filled with disdain. "Running away again?"

The little girl froze, clutching Zafira’s robe as if it could shield her.

The guard strode forward and seized her by the arm. "You think you can run from your duties? Do you have any idea how many lashes that earns?"

Zafira’s voice cut through the night, sharper than he expected. "Let her go."

He glanced at her, recognizing her. For a moment, his grip loosened out of hesitation, but his arrogance returned just as quickly. "Lady Zafira," he said mockingly, "this child belongs to Lord Lyren di Myrrhvale. She works under House Myrrhvale. If she escapes, she must be disciplined. It’s not your concern."

Zafira’s expression darkened. "She’s a child, not property."

The guard smirked. "In Lirantis, my lady, we decide what belongs where. Don’t meddle in affairs you don’t understand."

Trafalgar’s voice came next — calm, quiet, but heavy. "You should take your hand off her."

The guard turned to him, blinking in recognition. "Ah... Lord Trafalgar du Morgain," he said, the title rolling off his tongue with feigned respect. "One of the Eight Great Families, isn’t it? I suppose that means I should tremble?"

Zafira’s breath caught. "Enough," she warned.

Trafalgar didn’t move, didn’t even blink. His gaze locked with the man’s—cold, precise, and steady. "You should mind your tongue," he said quietly. "Kneel. And apologize."

The guard’s smirk widened. "Apologize? To you?" His tone dripped arrogance. "Here in Lirantis, Morgain blood means nothing. This is Myrrhvale territory."

The air around them shifted. Trafalgar’s presence pressed outward, invisible but sharp—like a blade resting against the man’s throat. The other two guards exchanged wary glances but didn’t dare intervene.

Zafira’s voice dropped to a whisper. "Trafalgar..."

He didn’t look at her. "You insulted me twice—once in the ruins, and now again in public." His tone never rose, but every word landed like a strike. "You’re going to kneel. Right here."

The main guard’s jaw tightened. "Careful, boy. Power makes people think they’re untouchable." He stepped closer, hand brushing the hilt at his side.

Trafalgar didn’t move. His tone dropped to something colder—measured, but sharp enough to draw blood. "Then prove you understand it. Kneel."

The words hung in the air like a blade. A faint pulse of mana radiated from him—calm, contained, but heavy enough that the nearby lamps flickered.

The two guards behind their captain stiffened immediately, their instincts overriding pride. They dropped to one knee, lowering their heads.

"Captain," one hissed urgently. "He’s Lord Trafalgar du Morgain... one of the Eight!"

The second followed, voice tight with panic. "Kneel, for fuck’s sake! He’s not just a guest—he’s the ’guest’!"

But the main guard didn’t move. His hands balled into fists at his sides, jaw locking tight. "I don’t kneel to outsiders."

"Captain—"

"I said no!" His voice cracked through the silence, startling even the girl.

Zafira turned sharply toward him, her tone sharp with disbelief. "You’re refusing to bow before a Morgain and a Zar’khael? You know what that means, don’t you?"

The two kneeling guards exchanged terrified glances but didn’t rise.

The captain met her gaze, trembling under the pressure but forcing a bitter smile. "Not everyone here bends to foreign bloodlines, Lady Zafira du Zar’khael. This is Lirantis. You don’t give orders here."

The words echoed, arrogant and final.

Zafira’s expression darkened; she could feel the shift in Trafalgar’s aura—controlled fury simmering just below the surface.

The faint hum of the dome above trembled as the mana in the street began to stir.

And then, before anyone could speak again, the sound of soft footsteps approached from behind them.

From the far archway, a woman stepped into view, her silhouette framed by the shimmer of the dome’s light. She was tall, poised, her sea-colored robes flowing with a grace that made the water itself seem still. Her presence alone carried a weight that pressed down on every soul present.

Faint gills fluttered on her neck as she drew breath—subtle, almost delicate—but unmistakably Myrrhvale. Her eyes, a pale shade of aquamarine, reflected the lamplight like polished glass.

Zafira froze the instant she saw her. Her heart skipped. "No way..." she whispered under her breath, instinctively bowing her head.

Trafalgar blinked, confusion flickering across his face. The two kneeling guards immediately lowered their heads even further, trembling. Only the captain remained standing—rigid, stubborn, caught between fear and pride.

The woman’s voice flowed through the street, calm yet impossibly commanding.

"The son of Valttair du Morgain... and the daughter of Malakar du Zar’khael."

Zafira lifted her head slightly, eyes wide. "Lady Nyssara..."

Trafalgar’s gaze sharpened. ’Valttair?’ The name struck like a sudden chord. His father’s name. ’So she knows exactly who I am.’

Nyssara’s eyes glided over them both, serene yet piercing, before stopping on the trembling girl still clutching her basket. Then she turned to the guards. "Is this how Myrrhvale treats its guests? And children under its roof?"

"My Lady—" one of the kneeling soldiers started, his voice shaking, "he—he provoked no one, I swear it. The captain—he refused to bow—"

"I can see that," Nyssara interrupted softly.

Her gaze slid to the captain, who stood frozen, sweat beading at his temple. "You didn’t kneel when the Morgain commanded you. Do you believe yourself above our law?"

The man’s voice faltered. "My Lady, I meant no—"

"Silence."

The word came gently, but it struck like a tidal current. He fell quiet instantly, throat tightening.

Zafira stood perfectly still beside Trafalgar, her tone quiet, reverent. "Trafalgar... that’s Nyssara di Myrrhvale. The Matriarch herself."

Trafalgar felt his pulse jump. ’...Fuck.’

But there was no backing down now. Not after what had happened.

He straightened his back, meeting Nyssara’s gaze head-on. "I’m Trafalgar du Morgain, pleased to finally meet matriarch of House Myrrhvale ," he said calmly, his tone respectful but firm. "Your soldier insulted me publicly, twice. That’s an offense not just to me, but to my family’s name."

Nyssara studied him with an unreadable expression — the faintest trace of amusement in her eyes. "You speak like your father, it kind of pisses me off," she said softly. Then, after a pause: "And what is it you seek, young Morgain?"

Trafalgar didn’t flinch. "Justice."

Nyssara’s gaze held him for a long beat, cool and assessing. Then, in that same soft voice that had quieted the street, she repeated slowly, almost conversationally, "Do you want me to have him executed here and now... or would you prefer it handled the Myrrhvale way?"

"The Myrrhvale way?" Trafalgar echoed. "What is that?"

"A duel," she said, the single word even, precise. "A sanctioned one-on-one. Tradition settles pride."

Trafalgar didn’t hesitate. "Keep it private," he said flatly.

Nyssara’s lips twitched into a small, amused smile. She studied him as if weighing a blade in her hand. Outwardly she nodded once. "Very well. A private duel, then — under my terms. Tomorrow evening. No witnesses beyond those I allow."

For a heartbeat she allowed her mind to move where she did not speak aloud: ’A duel in secret may avoid open scandal, but the risk remains. If this sparks a feud with Morgain, it could spread like a current. Dangerous... yet curious.’ The memory of the council flashed through her — the boy who had bested Alfons — and the thought settled into a quiet interest. ’He has grown. This will be worth watching. If he is endangered, I will not hesitate to kill my man. I will not see my city used to start a war.’

She let that calculation remain unspoken. Instead she gave a light, airy laugh that rippled through the hush. "You are either very bold or very foolish, Trafalgar. I prefer bold when it is entertaining."

Trafalgar didn’t wait. His voice was flat, controlled. "Let’s do it right now. And I want compensation for the disrespect."

Nyssara regarded him with the same calm curiosity. "Hmm, pretty bold, I like that. Very well. What do you ask for?"

"My answer is simple," Trafalgar said, eyes fixed on the small girl huddled by Zafira’s feet. "The girl — she is the cause of this trouble."

For a fraction of a second Nyssara’s face did not change. Then she inclined her head once. "Very well. I will see to it that she is removed."

"No," Trafalgar cut in before anyone could react. He kept his tone low. "Not removed. I’ll take her with me."

Nyssara’s gaze flicked over him, and something like amusement — or calculation — touched her expression. Behind that pleasant mask a thought moved, quick and practical. ’He requests a slave as recompense. How blunt. Still... it is a tidy solution.’ She let the idea sit unspoken.

"Very well," she said aloud with composed grace. "If that is your desire, she is yours."

Trafalgar made no comment. Zafira bridged the space between them and the girl, voice soft but firm. "Thank you," she whispered to Trafalgar, relief and gratitude mixing in her tone.

Nyssara nodded and turned, motioning for the small cluster around them to follow. "Come with me," she said. "We will settle this at my son’s house." She began to walk toward Lyren’s house, her robes flowing like a slow current.

To the two guards at her side she gave one last terse instruction. "Ensure no one witnessed this exchange. Let no rumor spread beyond those present. Understood?"

"Understood, My Lady," one muttered, already moving to widen the circle.

"Good. Follow me," Nyssara said, and the little procession fell into step behind her as they crossed the pearlescent street toward Lyren’s residence, the market noises folding away behind them.