The fall was jarring, a sickening crunch as Anya's frail body hit the ground. Pain, sharp and immediate, lanced through her ankle. She bit back a cry, refusing to give them the satisfaction. The cultivation technique, rudimentary as it was, had softened the impact just enough to prevent a complete shattering of bone, but the sprain was undeniable. She lay there for a moment, gasping, the cold night air biting at her exposed skin.
Footsteps pounded above, and a harsh voice, Elara's, shrieked, "She jumped! The little wretch actually jumped!"
Anya pushed herself up, gritting her teeth against the pain. She couldn't stay here. Not with them coming. She dragged herself to the shadows of a large, overgrown bush, its thorny branches offering a meager concealment. From her hiding spot, she watched as Elara and the burly guard peered out the window, their faces contorted in a mixture of anger and confusion.
"She's gone!" the guard exclaimed, his voice thick with disbelief. "How could she have…?"
"Find her!" Elara shrieked, her voice echoing through the quiet courtyard. "She can't have gone far with that weak body of hers!"
They disappeared from the window, and Anya knew they would be down here in moments. She had to move. Her injured ankle throbbed, each movement sending a fresh wave of agony through her. But the Empress of Aethel had endured far worse. She had fought battles with broken bones, led armies with gaping wounds. This was a mere inconvenience.
She began to crawl, dragging herself through the shadows, away from the mansion. The grounds were vast, filled with manicured gardens and winding paths. She needed to find a place to hide, to rest, to heal. And to think.
As she dragged herself past a particularly ancient-looking oak tree, its gnarled branches reaching like skeletal fingers towards the moon, a strange sensation washed over her. It wasn't the pain in her ankle, nor the lingering fear. It was a sudden, overwhelming wave of… familiarity. A scent, faint but distinct, of ancient earth and blooming nightshade. A sound, the rustle of leaves, that echoed a forgotten melody.
And then, it hit her. A flash. Not a memory of Anya Volkov, but of Seraphina. She was standing beneath a similar, ancient tree, its roots delving deep into the earth, drawing strength from the very core of Aethel. She was younger, perhaps, but already radiating an aura of immense power. A man stood beside her, his face obscured by shadow, but his presence was warm, comforting. He was speaking, his voice a low rumble, about the interconnectedness of all things, about the flow of Aether through the world, through the trees, through them.
"The roots of power run deep, Seraphina," his voice echoed in her mind, clear as a bell. "But true strength comes not from what you take, but from what you nurture."
The vision flickered, then vanished, leaving Anya gasping, not from pain, but from the sheer force of the memory. The man's face remained a blur, but the feeling… the feeling of profound trust, of unwavering support, was vivid. It was a stark contrast to the betrayal that had ended her life.
Who was he? Why did this memory surface now? Was it a sign? A clue? The questions swirled in her mind, pushing aside the immediate threat. This new world, this new body, this mysterious System… it was all connected. And somewhere, hidden in the depths of her fragmented past, lay the answers.
"Host has accessed a fragmented memory. Memory integrity: Low. Further access requires increased mental fortitude and System synchronization."
The System's voice, for once, was not detached. It held a hint of something… almost encouraging. Anya's eyes, now burning with a renewed fire, scanned the darkness. The pain in her ankle was still there, but it was dulled, overshadowed by the burning desire for answers. She would survive the night. And then, she would unravel every single mystery.
[End of Chapter 4]