Standing by the window of the great palace castle of Cyrian, Kyra stared out at the great kingdom’s Capital's landscape as soft rays of the winter afternoon sunlight washed in to bath her face. She was dressed in a white wool coat that stopped just a little below her waist, adorning the top with brown fitting trousers. Her sword hung on her hip; she absentmindedly fiddling with pentagram symbol on the weapon as she looked. The outfit was what had actually become a norm for the female swordsmen of the realm; a category which Kyra herself now fully filled.
But truth be told, the sight before the Soul of magic was the furthermost from her mind. Her thoughts were actually on Isidora. As it turned out, the dark witch hadn’t regained consciousness ever since she had been hit with fire from the
