CHAPTER 567: ANGELS WITH CLIPPED WINGS

Netser led the others up a narrow, winding trail until they reached a windswept ridge. From there, the world opened before them—the capital sprawling to their left in glimmering rooftops, and to their right the vast expanse of the sea, its surface flashing like hammered silver beneath the rising sun.

"Such a beautiful view, and yet you’re wearing such a grim expression, Netser," Lara said softly. Her eyes lingered on the distant horizon where sea and sky bled into one shimmering line.

"The changes in the capital are... drastic," Netser murmured. "I hardly recognize it. It doesn’t feel like Westalis anymore—it’s as if another nation has taken its place." His voice carried the weight of old wounds, and sadness shadowed his features.

"I heard the King sought alliance by marrying a princess from the Vestan Empire," Aramis added, watching the bustling seaport below where merchant sails bloomed like colorful wings.

"Ahhh...The island empire, a month’s voyage westward?" Logan asked, adjusting his pack.

Netser only hummed in reply—detached, uninterested. The fate of Westalis had long lost its claim on his loyalty. That bond had been severed the day his family was betrayed and exterminated as criminals.

"The sun is getting harsh," Lara muttered, pulling a visor from her bag and slipping it over her head. "Let us go back."

The four descended the hill along a less-trodden route, winding between clusters of wild shrubs until the trail opened into a clearing where four narrow alleyways converged.

It was a place where the poor and the less privileged lived.

There, chaos festered.

A woman lay sprawled on the dirt—her face bruised purple, her clothes torn. A bulky man hovered over her, kicking her with vicious repetition. A small crowd gathered around them, not to intervene, but to watch—faces lit with cruel curiosity.

"You useless woman!" the man thundered, punctuating each word with a kick. "The sun is already high, and you haven’t earned a single coin!"

"Husband—your mother took the money! Why won’t you believe me?" the woman cried, her voice wet with pain.

"You dare accuse my mother?" he barked. "She said she didn’t take it. So she didn’t!"

Lara’s jaw clenched. She swung off her bike and wordlessly handed it to Aramis. This was a foreign land, and she had no desire to spark trouble—but watching a defenseless woman beaten while others looked on was something she could not stomach.

"Stop hitting her," she said.

Her voice was calm but it carried a force that cut through the man’s rage like a blade. He froze mid-motion and glared at her.

"This is my family’s affair," he snapped. "Interfere, and you’ll pay the price."

Lara knelt beside the battered woman. One look was enough to tell her the severity—shallow breaths, unfocused eyes, a hand clutching her stomach protectively.

"She’s already suffering internal injuries. If you strike her again, she will die."

"So what if she does?" the man scoffed. "What’s it to you?"

A hot rush of anger surged through Lara’s veins. When he lifted his leg again, preparing to deliver another brutal kick, her hand moved in a swift, fluid motion. She plucked a small pebble from her pocket and flicked it with precision.

The pebble struck the man’s right knee with a sharp crack.

"Ow! Who—who dared?!" the man bellowed, collapsing onto one knee as a jolt of white-hot pain shot up his leg. His face contorted—rage warring with bewilderment—as he clutched his swelling joint, eyes darting wildly in search of the unseen assailant.

Before he could regain his balance, another pebble sliced through the air with a sharp whistle. It struck his ankle with surgical precision.

"Aaagh!" He toppled sideways, clutching his ankle as agony rippled through him. "You coward!" he roared, spittle flying. "Show yourself! Come out and face me!"

Lara shifted her weight, ready to step forward and deliver a warning, but Aramis caught her wrist with gentle urgency.

"We are here as envoys," he murmured, leaning close so only she could hear. "Do not give them reason to think ill of Azuverda."

Lara’s jaw tightened. Every part of her burned to act, to mete justice for the woman curled on the ground—but she forced herself to pause. Still, she would not let cruelty go unanswered.

Without a word, she plucked another pebble, rolled it between her fingers, and flicked it with a snap. Then she turned to leave, as if dismissing the entire affair.

The pebble hit its mark: the man’s remaining good knee.

He shrieked, folding onto the dusty ground like a collapsing tower, both legs useless beneath him.

"Lara, you’re merciless," Aramis muttered, a mixture of shock and exasperation in his voice. "He may never walk properly again."

"Good," she said firmly. "If those feet were meant only for kicking helpless women, then better he never uses them again."

Netser exhaled in weary resignation. Perhaps he should have taken the original trail—any trail that didn’t involve Lara witnessing the ugliness festering in this part of the capital.

They left the clearing behind them, the echoes of the man’s screams fading into the dust-choked air. The sun had climbed higher, turning the road into a wavering ribbon of heat. None of them spoke for a while—Lara simmered with unspent anger, Aramis shook his head at her recklessness, Logan remained uneasy, and Netser kept his gaze fixed forward, as though regretting his decision to reroute.

As the four approached a village center, a sound rose above the murmurs of the gathered crowd—crying, frantic and desperate, like someone struggling to breathe between sobs.

Then they saw it.

In the middle of the square stood a hastily erected wooden stake, surrounded by bundles of dry straw and firewood arranged in a cruel circle. A woman, her clothes torn and her face streaked with dirt, was bound tightly to the stake. Even with her hair disheveled and her cheek bruised, she carried an air of dignity—her eyes unwavering, though fear trembled behind them.

A group of children huddled nearby, some crying, others clutching scraps of paper as though they were sacred treasures.

"What’s happening here?" Logan murmured, his voice dropping in disbelief.

The village chief—a gaunt man with a narrow face and eyes sharp as flint—raised his voice to the crowd.

"This woman has spread forbidden knowledge! She has corrupted our young with teachings that defy the Church. She is a heretic, and by law, she must burn!"

The crowd murmured, some agreeing with fervor, others whispering uncertainly.

One brave child ran forward, tears streaming. "But she only taught us to write our name and read! She said everyone deserves to learn!"

A man yanked the child back. "Silence! Literacy beyond prayer scrolls is dangerous. Keep your head down if you wish to keep it on your shoulders."

Lara felt her nails digging into her palms. "This is inhumane," she whispered, already stepping forward before her mind had fully decided.

Aramis placed a hand on her shoulder, tension in his voice. "Remember—we are envoys. We cannot—"

"We cannot watch this," she shot back. "Envoys or not, we do not stand idle while innocence is burned alive."

Netser watched the scene with a storm in his eyes, memories of injustice scraping at old scars. "She is no heretic," he said quietly. "She is a teacher."

As if hearing him, the bound woman lifted her head. Her gaze met his—calm, resolute, and pleading all at once.

The village chief struck flint against steel, sparks falling toward the waiting straw.

Lara’s breath caught.

Children screamed.

The crowd leaned forward in grim anticipation.

And the flame finally caught.

Aramis cursed under his breath.

Logan reached for the dagger at his belt.

Netser stepped forward, shoulders squared.

And Lara—Lara moved with the precision of someone who had already made her choice.