The fortress was burning.

  But Sarya did not stay to watch.

  She freed the prisoners.

  Elves. Humans. Demi-humans.

  She broke chains. Opened cells. Cut the throats of guards along the way.

  — Go.

  That was all she said.

  She did not ask for gratitude. She did not explain. She did not look back.

  Some ran. Some cried. Some knelt.

  She was already gone.

  ---

  The crystal mines were next.

  The Gray Selectors exploited rare crystals in the Gray Mountains. They funded smuggling. Weapons. Trafficking.

  Sarya entered alone.

  The tunnels echoed with footsteps.

  They heard them.

  But did not know where they came from.

  — She’s here!

  — On the left!

  — No… behind!

  Footsteps.

  Silence.

  Spear.

  Blood.

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  No long screams. No speeches. No visible hatred.

  Only execution.

  One of them cast a cutting spell. The blade of mana grazed her shoulder.

  Blood ran down.

  She looked at her own wound.

  Breathed.

  Faster.

  I need to be lighter.

  Faster.

  Like the wind in autumn.

  Her next strike pierced three before the first one hit the ground.

  The mine collapsed behind her.

  Crystals fell. Tunnels caved in.

  Nothing remained.

  ---

  The small brothel districts along the mountain slopes were swept away.

  The merchants fled. Some begged. Some tried to bargain.

  She did not answer.

  Daggers at her waist. Spear in hand.

  Bodies on the ground.

  Chains broken.

  No Gray Selector escaped.

  They began calling it:

  The Shadow of Autumn.

  In the nomadic region of the Gray Mountains, on the eastern frontier of the Empire, the territory where the Selectors once ruled…

  simply ceased to exist.

  Because of one elf.

  ---

  Rumors traveled fast.

  Smugglers dead. Bases burned. Trade routes destroyed.

  Thousands had been eliminated in recent seasons.

  But this…

  This was different.

  It was systematic. Precise. Personal.

  In the South, the Autumn Rubros were annexing territories. Expanding borders. Cleansing corruption.

  And even among warriors who had slain thousands, a name began to circulate.

  — Who is she?

  — A descendant of some ancient Rubro?

  — A forgotten heir?

  Aurelius listened in silence.

  The Patriarch of Autumn was not a man who reacted to rumors.

  But this was no rumor.

  It was pattern.

  It was strategy.

  It was autumn.

  ---

  He decided to see with his own eyes.

  ---

  The afternoon was overcast when Aurelius reached the northern frontier.

  The wind blew cold.

  The scent of fresh blood.

  He felt it before he saw it.

  A caravan of slave merchants stood on the road.

  Girls in chains. Some elves. Some humans. Empty eyes.

  One of the men held the chin of one of them.

  — You’ll fetch good gold in the East—

  He did not finish.

  A spear pierced his chest.

  The body fell backward.

  Silence.

  Another tried to draw his sword.

  A dagger slid beneath his clavicle.

  Another ran.

  The spear spun.

  Knee shattered. Throat pierced.

  No scream.

  No hesitation.

  The survivors tried to surround her.

  She moved like wind through dry leaves.

  One. Two. Three.

  Bodies falling.

  The last one begged.

  She thrust.

  End.

  The chains fell to the ground.

  The girls did not understand.

  They only stared.

  She was covered in blood.

  Black spear. Daggers at her waist. Hair stuck to her face.

  Her shoulder still bled from the earlier cut.

  But she stood firm.

  Breathing controlled.

  Cold.

  ---

  Aurelius watched from the top of the ridge.

  He did not interfere.

  Did not assist.

  Did not need to.

  He saw the posture. The rhythm. The absence of waste.

  She did not fight like someone consumed by hatred.

  She fought like someone who had decided.

  When the last body hit the ground, she turned.

  She sensed a presence.

  Her eyes met his.

  Incandescent crimson. Ancient. Deep like millennial roots.

  Aurelius.

  The gaze of an Autumn huntress.

  Those are the eyes of a Rubra. Without a shadow of doubt.

  Who is she?

  The wind shifted.

  Leaves swirled around them.

  Aurelius stepped forward.

  His presence pressed against the air.

  It was not threat.

  It was weight.

  It was Patriarch.

  She adjusted her grip on the spear.

  Without retreating.

  Without kneeling.

  Without asking who he was.

  Aurelius observed the blood. The wound on her shoulder. The precision of her cuts.

  He thought:

  Will I have to fight…?

  The wind blew stronger.

  And the entire Autumn seemed to hold its breath.

  End of Chapter 5.