The old man Juliet had helped also possessed a peculiar hair color. Though his head was almost entirely gray, stubborn strands of an unusual **red** still threaded through the dull silver — vivid as embers refusing to die.
*His hair is almost the same shade as that arrogant man from the stagecoach,* Juliet mused, studying the old man with quiet curiosity. *There must be quite a few people with coloring like that in this town.*
Before she could dwell on the thought, the townsfolk who had chased the pickpocket came filing back into the square.
"Elder! We caught him!"
"Are you all right, Elder?"
The group dragged the pickpocket between them and immediately clustered around the old man, voices overlapping in anxious excitement. The noise swelled like a small tide.
"I'm fine," the old man assured them, his tone unhurried. "However…"
Leaning casually against one of the shop counters, he extended his cane and pressed its tip against the pickpocket's chest — then flicked it downward along his coat.
Several wallets tumbled from the man's clothing and hit the cobblestones with soft, damning thuds.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
"Looks like you helped yourself to a few more pockets along the way," the old man remarked, his voice mild but his gaze iron. "Am I right?"
The residents who had been gripping the pickpocket's arms gaped in astonishment, then quickly recovered. They hauled the thief aside, already calling out to nearby shoppers to come identify their stolen property.
In the commotion, Juliet missed her chance to slip away unnoticed. When the crowd dispersed, she found herself standing alone with the old man.
"Young lady," he said, his tone warm and unhurried, "you're not from around here, are you?"
"Oh — no, I'm not. That's absolutely right."
"If there's anything I can do to help you, just let me know. I'd like to repay your kindness."
*…Maybe I should ask him?*
The way the villagers had fussed over him, the way they called him *Elder* with such instinctive deference — all of it confirmed what Juliet had already suspected. This was no ordinary old man.
She studied him again with fresh eyes. His powerful build spoke of a youth spent in battle, and the easy, courteous manner in which he treated the townspeople suggested long-established authority. A mercenary or adventurer in a former life — and likely a famous one.
Moreover, when she had lifted his cane earlier, Juliet had understood immediately why it was so heavy. Concealed within that plain black shaft was a **blade**.
*"The most reliable people in the East are veteran mercenaries."*
The words surfaced from memory unbidden — **Kane's** words, spoken during one of their afternoon tea parties, back when he still carried the dust of that life on him.
He had sometimes told her about the hardships mercenaries endured, his voice going quiet in the way it only did when he spoke of things he had lived through rather than merely witnessed.
*Old mercenaries aren't just any old men,* he had said. *Reaching old age in that profession is extraordinarily rare. The ones who survive are respected across the entire East — because surviving means they were better than everyone who didn't.*
He had even told her, with a half-smile she could never quite read, that if you met an elderly mercenary, tradition held that he could grant you one wish.
Juliet had found the notion completely absurd at the time. She still did.
Returning from memory to the present, she decided that asking this good-natured elder for directions was hardly a risk. She would have had to ask *someone* in town eventually.
"Well then…"
Juliet drew a folded piece of paper from her pocket and held it out.
"Could you tell me which direction this place is?"
---
## — The Law Firm —
**Law Firm "Zachary."**
Zachary was, by title, a lawyer in this small town, but his primary occupation was real estate brokerage. Because Lobell sat so conveniently close to the sprawling city of Carcassonne, it served as a natural waypoint for travelers from distant cities. Many rented short-term lodgings there — a place to rest, to recover, to gather themselves before moving on.
The door swung open with a solid ***bam***.
"Welcome — oh, Elder! It's you!"
Zachary's face broke into a wide, genuine smile the moment he spotted the old man standing beside Juliet in the doorway.
"I'm just the escort," the old man said mildly, gesturing toward her with his cane. "Take care of this young lady."
"Oh — of course! My apologies. How can I help you, miss?"
The lawyer ushered Juliet toward the chair beside his desk with brisk, smiling courtesy. Once they were both seated, she stated her purpose without preamble.
"I need to rent a place for a short while. A week or so. And I'd prefer something not too far from the square."
"Certainly. Let me see what I can offer you."
While Zachary rifled through his papers, Juliet stole a discreet glance toward the old man.
He had settled comfortably into an armchair near the window and was reading a newspaper with the serene absorption of someone who had nowhere else to be.
*Maybe he runs this area?*
He certainly didn't carry himself like an ordinary person. The people in the street, and now Zachary — they all called him *Elder*, and every one of them showed the same instinctive deference. Though it was perhaps an unlikely guess, Juliet wondered whether he held some high-ranking position in one of the leading guilds.
She paused, struck by a sudden realization.
*I never asked his name.*
"I have a very good place for you."
Zachary tapped his pen against the desk, and the thought dissolved before Juliet could grasp it.
He explained the terms of the contract clearly and patiently. Then he looked up at her.
"Are you a member of any guild?"
"Oh — no, I'm not."
*Guilds.*
In the Eastern Region, lords ruled by hereditary right, but their influence was limited. Social circles and a semblance of aristocracy existed here, just as in other regions. But the true power — the *real* power — belonged to the guilds. They were vast, well-organized communities built on the backs of mercenaries, and their authority ran deeper than any noble's decree.
And the man who had laid the foundation for that entire system was **Lionel Lebatan**.
"But I do have a pass approved by the guild," Juliet said.
She produced the documents she had prepared in advance — the pass alongside the identification card she had already used on the train — and slid them across the desk.
Zachary examined both with careful, professional eyes.
The pass bore two official seals, just as Juliet had described. She had secured them during her penultimate visit to the capital with Lennox, back when she was still mapping her escape to the East. At the time, she hadn't known how essential they would prove to be. She had obtained them merely as a precaution.
Now she was deeply grateful for her own foresight.
"It's a simple formality," Zachary said, handing the documents back, "but I had to confirm you had them."
Thanks to the seals, he hadn't questioned the authenticity of her identification for even a moment.
Juliet suppressed a quiet laugh.
"Lillian Seneca…" Zachary murmured, reading the name on the card. He looked up with a delicate, cautious expression. "Forgive me for asking — are you Miss, or Mrs.?"
"I'm a recent widow," Juliet answered without a heartbeat's hesitation.
*It took her less than three seconds to dispose of her husband.*
"Oh — oh my. You must be heartbroken. Forgive me for prying."
Genuine sympathy flickered in Zachary's eyes, and Juliet arranged her features into an expression of moderate, dignified sadness.
The outcome had been inevitable, of course. Killing the husband was far quicker than explaining his absence.
"If you have any other questions, please don't hesitate to ask," Zachary offered gently.
But he asked nothing more. He introduced Juliet to the owner of the house she would be renting, exchanged a few warm pleasantries, and saw her kindly to the door.
---
The two women — Juliet and the landlady — walked side by side down the sunlit street, their figures growing smaller in the window glass.
"A woman traveling alone is a rare guest in a place like this," Zachary murmured, watching them go. "Isn't that right, Elder?"
No answer came from the armchair.
"By the way," Zachary continued, his voice softening with sympathy, "it's a shame what happened to that young lady. Losing a husband at such a young age… it must have been terribly difficult for her."
He glanced casually toward the old man — and the words dried up in his throat.
The newspaper lay forgotten in his lap.
The old man no longer sat with the easy, good-natured posture of a village elder enjoying a quiet afternoon. He sat ***rigid*** — coiled forward in the chair like a lion that had caught an unfamiliar scent on the wind, every line of his body taut with a tension that hadn't been there moments before. His hands gripped the black cane so tightly that the tendons stood out like cords beneath his weathered skin.
"Zachary."
"Y-yes, Elder?"
"Remind me. What was her name?"
"Oh — uh…"
Zachary scrambled through the papers on his desk, fingers clumsy with sudden nerves.
"Lillian Seneca," he read aloud. "Yes — that's definitely what it says."
The old man's gaze remained fixed on the window, on the now-empty street where the woman called Lillian Seneca had vanished from sight.
The good-natured warmth had drained entirely from his face. What remained was something older, harder, and far more dangerous.
---
## — The Ruins Beneath the Bell Tower —
Meanwhile, Juliet — blissfully unaware of the storm she had stirred — made her way to her original destination.
She left her luggage in the rented room, changed into lighter shoes, and set out for the town's library. Her true purpose lay not in books, but in the ruins of an ancient temple located near the square.
"Welcome! My name is Veronica. How can I help you?"
A young woman greeted her cheerfully as she stepped through the library's arched doorway.
"Tell me," Juliet said, keeping her tone casual, "do you know anything about the ancient ruins near the square?"
"Unfortunately, we don't have much information about them," Veronica replied with an apologetic smile. "They're just abandoned ruins — no one's paid them any mind in years."
"I see. Would it be possible for me to examine them?"
"Of course. If you'd like, I can show you the entrance."
Veronica led her to a weathered doorway half-hidden behind overgrown ivy, then excused herself and returned to the library.
Juliet waited until the girl's footsteps faded before turning to face the ruins.
*He must be somewhere here…*
Lobell was home to the **oldest temple** in the entire East — an abandoned structure of the same ancient order as the one that stood near the imperial capital. Its stone walls were cracked and blackened with age, and pale roots threaded through the mortar like veins through old flesh.
Juliet moved through the dim interior slowly, her fingers trailing along the cold stone, her eyes scanning every surface.
"Hm."
After some time, she paused. In a shadowed corner of the temple, barely visible in the low light, the soil looked subtly different from the ground around it — slightly looser, slightly darker, as though it had been disturbed long ago and never quite settled back.
*Found it.*
She knelt and brushed away the top layer of dry earth with careful fingers. Something pale glinted beneath the soil — the edge of an object, smooth and metallic. She worked it free and lifted out a small **silver box**, tarnished with centuries of neglect.
When she opened it, a shard of mirror lay inside, catching the faint light and fracturing it into tiny, trembling stars across the temple ceiling.
In ancient times, there had been a custom of burying mirror fragments in sacred ground as offerings — a way of asking God for a blessing.
From her previous life, Juliet knew that **Dahlia** had discovered similar artifacts in abandoned temples across the empire. They were sacred relics, imbued with old and potent divine power.
And now Juliet needed one desperately.
Carlisle was hunting her. He was using a sacred relic of his own to track her, and if she wanted to disappear — *truly* disappear — she needed something of equal or greater power to shield herself from his reach.
An artifact this old might not hide her forever. But even a temporary reprieve would be enough. Everything she had ever heard about relics agreed on one principle: *the older the relic, the stronger its power.*
*Come to think of it,* Juliet mused, turning the mirror shard gently in her fingers, *how was Dahlia able to use sacred relics so freely? She had no connection to the temples. No ties to any priesthood.*
The question lingered.
Dahlia had known more about these artifacts than even the highest-ranking priests — their locations, their properties, their hidden uses.
*Well… perhaps that's simply what it means to be the girl from the prophecy.*
Juliet carefully wrapped the fragment in a clean handkerchief, folding the cloth around it until she was certain it wouldn't crack, then slipped it into the inner pocket of her dress.
She rose, brushed the dust from her knees, and stepped back into the light.