Exterior of Rouge Mansion. 9:10 PM

  The echoes of Astrid and Ezren's battle reverberated even at the mansion's doors, windows trembling faintly with each collision.

  Hidden among the garden shrubs, a pair of narrow, gleaming eyes observed every move with rapt devotion.

  Silvren—a tall, slender youth with hair as long and dark as night—held his breath when Astrid's ice pilr erupted."Ice?" he whispered, startled. But his expression soon melted into pure reverence.

  Because in that moment, Astrid was sublime.

  As she descended slowly to the ground, that signature wild and defiant smile on her lips, her bck hair tousled by the wind and eyes alight with exhiration...

  "She looks so beautiful..." Silvren whispered, cwing at the bushes like they were the edge of a cliff.His heart pounded so loudly he feared the fighters might hear it.

  "Psst, Silvren..." A voice sweet as poisoned honey breathed directly into his ear.

  Before he could react, a blunt thwack struck his skull.

  "The hell you doing creepin' on that brat?!" Norma snarled, clenching her teeth to avoid detection.

  Silvren muffled a yelp, desperately covering his mouth."Miss Astrid will spot us! What’s wrong with you?!" he hissed—then paled and sealed his lips with both hands.

  Norma gred at him with equal parts disgust and resignation."You’re a goddamn stalker," she sighed, shaking her fist like it’d touched something vile. "You promised me training. So honor your word, you creep."

  Silvren made a petunt face, never tearing his eyes from Astrid—who still panted on the ground after her defeat."Tch! Pns changed! I won’t miss a single second of Miss Astrid in her wildest state," he decred, crossing his arms with childish stubbornness.

  Norma’s eyes sparked with fury."Men are the worst!" She yanked a rope from her blue jacket, its coils glinting under moonlight."You’re the only brat also taking the rank-calibration exam. So it’s do or die."

  With expert precision, she bound his wrists and began dragging him like a sack of grain.

  "Ghk! Let go, you vile wench!" Silvren kicked, then immediately dropped to a hysterical whisper:

  Top Floor of Rouge Mansion — Master Bedroom

  Hadrian Rouge stood by the window, his silhouette etched against the moon's glow. His face remained impassive as he watched his children's battle, slowly sipping red wine that mirrored the hue of fresh blood."It seems Astrid will follow no rules... not even her cn's," he murmured, gaze fixed on the ice pilr still gleaming in the garden.

  Behind him, Isolde glided like a shadow in her bck silk nightgown, the fabric clinging to her curves with each movement."Fate is ever capricious, don't you think?" Her whisper carried a low ugh as her fingers traced Hadrian's back with spiderlike delicacy.She leaned in, pressing her lips to his neck in a kiss that was half caress, half warning."But she must learn a woman's pce in this society..." Her words dripped like poisoned honey as her hand slid to his chest, nails biting lightly through his shirt.Her hot breath seared his ear as she added:"A woman who seeks freedom only finds tragedy."

  Hadrian set his gss on the windowsill with a precise click, never breaking eye contact with Isolde’s abyssal gaze. His hands locked around her waist, pulling her close with unyielding force."Can you truly quench a caged beast’s longing for freedom?" The question carried the same tone he used to test their children—a verbal trap veiled in silk.

  Isolde didn’t flinch. Her lips curled into a predator’s smile."Did you forget whom you married?" She trailed fingers up his chest before closing the distance in a kiss that tasted of defiance and red wine.

  Moonlight bathed them through the window, their shadows merging into one.

  When they parted, Isolde toyed with his colr."Though... we could try for another girl. Can lightning strike the same pce twice?" She nipped her lower lip.

  But Hadrian didn’t smile.

  His stare fixed beyond the forest where the darkness seemed to thicken. The fingers gripping Isolde’s waist tensed."I’ve a terrible premonition..." A confession so quiet even the shadows might hear.

  Land of Earth, Border Vilge Near the Fire Country. 11:10 PM

  The man dangled grotesquely from the wooden hand sprouting from the earth, his feet kicking like a trapped insect. Panic made him drool as he babbled:"I swear I know nothing! A friend recruited me... said it was easy money!"

  Charles studied him with those soul-piercing bck eyes, hunting for the faintest lie. But this time... the man spoke truth.

  Had he caught the weakest link? Or was this all a test?

  "Do you remember any superior's name or face?" The question came with the calm of someone who'd done this a thousand times.

  The prisoner averted his gaze—a tic that betrayed his lie before he even spoke.

  The wooden hand crunched tighter.

  "ARGH! Fine!" He spat through pain-tears. "A woman! Pink hair... but masked. She gave the orders."

  Charles didn't flinch, though the hand loosened its grip.

  The air thickened with the man's terror, his dited eyes reflecting the warped image of Charles' Bloody Eye—a demon made flesh."Give me something useful, and I won't kill you now," Charles ordered, his voice colder than a dagger's edge.

  The prisoner swallowed hard, panic crawling up his spine like a venomous spider."I-I heard a name!" he shrieked, hurling his st hope into the void. "The guild's called 'Gourmet Vulture'!"

  Charles didn’t blink.

  Gourmet Vulture? The very group that hunted powerful cn members to steal their abilities.His suspicions were confirmed... yet questions multiplied:Why him? Had they been tracking him? Or was this mere coincidence?

  Seeing a flicker of hesitation in those red eyes, the man made his final py:"Please! I gave you something useful, right?" His grin revealed blood-stained teeth.

  Charles tilted his head slightly, like a scientist observing a b specimen."Indeed..." The wooden hand began tightening around the man’s throat. "But did you truly think I’d let scum like you live?"

  The prisoner thrashed, choking on his own whimpers.

  "Weeds... are best uprooted."

  Then the wood came alive.

  CRACK.

  Fiment roots burrowed into his skin, draining every drop of his komi like a sponge soaking water. His body convulsed, withering under Charles’ dispassionate gaze—until only a dried husk remained.

  Charles exhaled slowly, feeling the Bloody Eye recede from his being.

  His pupils deepened back to bck,The whites of his eyes regained their crity,His hair faded from scarlet to its usual ebony.

  With a weary gesture, he raised his hand—and the roots obeyed, dragging all six corpses into the forest's depths. Not a trace remained.

  "Should catch up to Livia..." he murmured, though he knew his fiancée would be safe... for now.

  But before departing, a bitter thought struck him:"Apollo... you're as inept as ever. Never keep your word." The whisper dripped with contempt, as if the Fire Country's King himself lurked in the shadows.

  Then a thick root coiled around his feet, cocooning him before pulling him underground.

  As he traveled through the root network, his mind raced:"The royal summit's on February 1st... They'll likely strike then. Or—" A more troubling possibility hit him—"Are they moving during the rank-calibration exams?"

  He frowned even mid-transit."Either way, that bastard Apollo won't be there..." Annoyance bled into genuine concern.

  What a headache...

  Inside Rouge Mansion — Ezren's BedroomJanuary 20th — 8:00 AM

  Dawn light seeped through the curtains, illuminating the disaster that was Ezren: mummified in bandages like a rebellious corpse, bruises blooming from purple to sickly green."So I lost, huh?" He tried to sit up, but a stabbing rib pain smmed him back into the pillows.

  The door creaked open, and Althea—the family physician—entered with a tray of herbs and ointments.

  At thirty-two, Althea was a spectacle unto herself:

  Jet-bck hair piled into a deliberately messy bun,A fitted dress that paid homage to every curve,And a smile that knew exactly its effect.

  "Try not to move, young master," she chided, setting the tray on the nightstand. "Yesterday seems to have been... very demanding."She leaned over him, examining his injuries with expert yet deliberately slow fingers."Torn muscles, extreme exhaustion, and—" She lifted his bandaged hands, tsk-ing. "Anti-karma burns on your knuckles. You’ll need more caution next time."

  She fluffed his hair with a gesture that’d make a saint blush—but Ezren was too wrecked to notice.

  Althea stepped back gracefully, lighting a long, slender pipe before settling on the bed with calcuted nguor. Thick, aromatic smoke curled around her face as she spoke:"Your recovery would take two days... if you knew how to use karma. But since you don’t—" A dramatic pause over the pipe’s rim. "—you’ll need a week."

  Ezren paled."A week?!" He tried to rise, but white-hot pain nailed him back down. "You mean I’ll face Charles like this?!"

  Althea smiled through the smoke, her eyes glinting with more than professionalism."Unless... you’d prefer a special treatment, dear master..." She rose with serpentine fluidity.

  Setting the pipe aside, she leaned over him—close enough for Ezren to notice two things:

  The scent of medicinal herbs... and something metallic.

  Her now-bared fangs, glinting shamelessly.

  "But it’ll hurt..." A warning that sounded more like a promise.

  Ezren swallowed. He knew Althea was no ordinary physician... but he had to stand before Charles arrived."Do it," he conceded, shutting his eyes like a condemned man.

  Althea grinned ear-to-ear."Perfect. Just rex..." Her whisper grazed his neck as—

  After five years of service at the Rouge mansion, Althea had secured her privileged position—not just through medical prowess, but with that dangerous charisma she wielded like a bde.Hadrian and Isolde trusted her implicitly. Not only because she healed wounds... but because she never asked questions.

  And in turn, she owed them everything.

  For Althea was of the Batte cn—a bloodline hunted by envious nobles.Whispers cimed the Batte descended from vampires, though centuries had diluted their traits to only:

  Needle-sharp fangs,And an innate gift for maniputing healing karma.

  But in a world where cns with unique gifts were trophy-hunted, the Rouges had offered her sanctuary... in exchange for her skills.

  Aric’s Bedroom. 8:05 AM

  Aric stirred beneath the sheets, his bandaged knuckles and arms mottled with violent burns—the aftermath of his duel with Ezren and wielding anti-karma.

  His brother’s distant scream roused him from drowsiness."Making this much noise already?" He yawned, stretching like a zy cat.

  Unlike Ezren, his wounds had already begun healing.

  Shhh...

  A faint steam rose from his bandages—proof of his karma repairing the damage. Not as swift as Althea’s "special treatment," but it didn’t involve bloodcurdling screams either."So tired..." He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

  The door swung open unannounced, revealing Hadrian Rouge’s imposing frame. His feathered cloak whispered against the floor like a raven’s wings."How did you find them?" Those abyssal eyes pinned his son.

  Aric remained unfazed. He adjusted against the headboard, cing fingers behind his neck."Each has potential..." A smile brimming with pride. "Even Astrid. Seems she’s been training in secret."

  A deliberate pause let the implication hang:"You should let her take the calibration exam with Ezren."

  Hadrian didn’t answer immediately.

  He settled into a nearby chair, his feathered cloak draping over the back like a mantle of shadows. Crossing his legs with predator’s grace, he propped an elbow on his knee, resting his cheek against his hand."I’ve no issue with her being a warrior," he said, voice cold as winter steel. "But having a woman in the family grants us political... leverage."

  His fingers tapped lightly against his cheekbone, weighing each word."If she truly wishes to fight for her freedom—" Then, something unusual happened:A smile.Small. Nearly imperceptible. But there."—she’ll have to go through Isolde."

  Astrid’s Bedroom. 8:10 AM.

  Astrid tossed between dreams of battle, cshing against knights in impenetrable armor, until—

  CRASH!

  She tumbled headfirst off the bed, nding with a sharp thud on the wooden floor.“Ouch!” she groaned, rubbing her forehead as she muttered curses under her breath.

  But when she looked up, the air froze in her lungs.

  Isolde was there.

  Seated in the armchair by the window, wrapped in a red-and-bck dress that clung to her figure like a second skin, she filed her nails with a calm that made the silence weigh like a sb of stone.“Give me one convincing reason for what you did yesterday, girl…” she said, without even gncing at her, the scrape of the nail file the only reply for long seconds.

  Astrid sprang to her feet, her heart racing but her voice brimming with her usual defiance.“Huh?! What are you doing in my room?!”

  Isolde sighed, as if the question were tedious.“Answer mine.”

  Astrid clenched her fists, resentment rising like bile in her throat.“Tch!” She plopped onto the bed with her arms crossed, gring straight into her mother’s eyes. “I don’t want to be the doll you wish I was…”

  She took a deep breath, gathering the courage to spit out what she’d swallowed for years:“I want to train and be strong—just like my brothers!”

  Isolde stopped filing her nails.For the first time, their eyes met directly.

  Astrid refused to be intimidated:"Why am I the only one you're so strict with?" she asked, her voice barely cracking. "Does being born a woman make me different from them?"

  Isolde rose with the elegance of an unsheathed sword, her long bck hair—pulled into an eborate bun with hairpins—not even shifting from the sharp movement. She crossed her arms, and her gaze turned gcial."That’s precisely why," she said, each word sharp as a knife’s edge. "What fate do you think awaits women who seek independence?"

  Astrid felt the weight of those words, but Isolde wasn’t finished."Who do you think you are, strutting around wielding that rapier?" Her voice rose, cutting through the air like a whip. "Do you pn to be unique, to stand apart from the rest? Do you think no one has tried before?"

  A step forward. Isolde’s shadow engulfed Astrid."You’re just a spoiled brat blinded by naivety!"

  Astrid instinctively recoiled, her eyes glistening with frustrated tears she refused to shed. For a second, she looked like a child again—small, afraid.

  But then...

  "You're right..." Astrid muttered, lowering her head. Tears hit the floor, but her fist clenched tight.

  And when she looked up again, something inside her had shifted."Maybe I am naive, but—" She stretched out a trembling hand, pointing straight at Isolde like a challenge."Astrid isn’t like other women!"

  Her voice was fire, even through the tears.

  Isolde stood frozen, Hadrian’s words ringing in her mind like a cursed echo:

  "Can you truly suppress the yearning for freedom of a caged beast?"

  But before she could react, Astrid had already bolted from the room, leaving behind only the cold wind of her furious departure.

  Astrid sprinted down the corridors, fists clenched and vision blurred with rage."If she thinks she can control me, I’ll break these chains myself!" she hissed under her breath, dodging servants and furniture with feline agility.

  Norma, carrying a tray of tea, was bowled over without ceremony."Hey! Watch where you're going!" she shouted, but Astrid didn’t even gnce back."They think they can do whatever they want..." Norma sighed, irritably gathering the shattered remains of the spilled tea.

  Astrid pressed forward until she reached her destination:The armory in the basement.

  She took the stairs two at a time, her breath ragged, footsteps echoing off the cold stone. The air smelled of metal, sweat, and dust—but to her, it tasted like freedom.

  In the darkest corner of the room, where weapons rested in barrels and on worn wooden tables, she found what she sought:A razor.

  She gripped it with determination, the weight of the steel in her hand like a promise.Before the mirror fogged by her breath, Astrid stared at herself one st time.The reflection staring back was that of an obedient girl—with long, wavy hair that Isolde had so insistently adorned with silver ribbons and combs.

  That Astrid no longer existed.

  With a firm motion, she seized her bck mane and—

  SCHICK!

  The hair fell to the ground like a sughtered animal, scattering in dark coils.

  But she didn’t stop there.

  She trimmed the sides with surgical precision, her eyes in the mirror bzing with a resolve she’d never shown before.

  When she finished, the transformation was radical:

  A rebellious bck crest now crowned her head.The shaved sides revealed the pale skin of her neck.Yet her face—sharp and icy—remained beautiful, a reminder that she would now define what it meant to be Astrid Rouge.

  She touched her cropped hair, feeling the rough texture under her fingers."Better this way..." she whispered, smiling for the first time in what felt like ages.

  Royal Pace of Ashendrell — Secondary Hall8:30 AM

  The dawn light filtered through the tall windows, bathing the room in golden hues. Aveline, the Royal Secretary, bowed in a fwless curtsy, her snow-white hair falling into a perfect fringe that partly concealed her left eye—which remained covered by a white silk patch."Your Majesty, the preparations for your escort and luggage in the carriage are complete," she announced, her voice as clear as crystal.

  Apollo, the King of Ashendrell, did not rush to reply.With a calm smile, he swirled his wine gss gently, watching the ruby liquid catch the light.His attire was a statement of power:

  A golden crown studded with rubies, glinting beneath his white, bck-speckled fur mantle,

  A white silk robe with red lining, draped elegantly over his frame,

  The blue tattoo on his left forehead—the gleam of a star—shone subtly, a reminder of an ancient lineage.

  "I see. Thank you for informing me," he replied at st, turning toward her. His blue eyes—cold yet curious—rested on Aveline.

  Aveline leaned against the wall with casual familiarity, arms crossed. The unguarded gesture betrayed years of trust—the remnants of an era when they had been mere comrades, before he wore the crown."One more thing, Your Excellency..." she said, a hint of irony cing the title. "Your sister has decred that if you don’t take her, she’ll participate in the calibration exam."

  A quiet ugh escaped his lips, as if the princess’s stubbornness were a private joke between them.

  Apollo sighed, setting the wine gss down on the table with a precise click."Still on about that, is she?" he murmured, tracing the gilded rim of the gss with his fingers.

  He stepped toward the window, the morning light grazing his sharp profile and the starborn tattoo on his forehead."If she goes to a foreign kingdom like Aquilonis, she’ll be in danger. Our attendance at that summit is trouble enough."

  A pause. The wind stirred his speckled fur mantle."Regardless... I’ll speak with her."

  Royal Pace of Ashendrell — Princess's Chambers

  The princess tugged at her golden hair in irritation, sunlight dancing through the waves like liquid silk."Tch! That insensitive brother of mine... Never pays me any attention," she muttered, yanking the brush through her locks with renewed force.Her dress—blood-red at the bodice, snow-white at the skirt—accentuated her slender frame, the ruby at her décolletage pulsing like a stone heart."I'll make him remember he has a sister..." She pouted, adjusting the side ribbon that gathered part of her mane. Her perfectly calcuted split bangs framed her face.

  A soft knock interrupted her brooding.

  "Camille, may I enter?" Apollo's voice was calm, but the barely restrained sigh betrayed his annoyance.

  Camille straightened in an instant, flopping onto her bed with feigned nonchance."Fine. Do as you please..." she replied, gring at the window rather than the door.

  Apollo glided through the room with silent steps, his fingers grazing each piece of furniture as if searching for something unseen."Aveline told me what you said." He avoided direct eye contact. "If you want me to take you along, prove you won't be a burden."When he finally looked up, his blue eyes held an unmistakable warning.

  Camille shuddered. She knew she wasn't strong, but the pain of being left behind again and again burned in her chest."I'm not a burden," she whispered, clenching her hands in her p. "I just want you to see me."

  The Jaune Cn.A name whispered with terror and reverence.

  As mythical as the Rouge, yet condemned to persecution and extinction.Their crime?A power too great:

  An affinity with light, capable of tipping the scales of any battle,A pure force both feared and envied by other cns.

  The massacres were brutal.But none so infamous as the Cinventhal genocide, where hundreds of Jaune were exterminated in a single night.

  Today, only two remained:

  Apollo, "the Sun King"—the st bastion of their bloodline.Camille, "the Radiant"—his younger sister, the fragile hope that their lineage might yet endure.

  Apollo gently lifted Camille's chin with two fingers, as though cradling a delicate flower."If you insist on taking that exam, I won't stop you," he said, his serene voice belying the fire in his eyes. "But you must understand the gulf between us..."

  His smile was thin as a dagger's edge, etching the chasm that separated them:The King... and the princess.The warrior... and the child.The final wall... and the weight that could topple it.

  Camille jerked her arm away abruptly, tears threatening to fall."I-I... I want you to acknowledge me. I want—"

  Apollo cut through her words like winter wind:"Acknowledge you?" he repeated, with a calm that froze blood. "The day you comprehend the burden of our lineage and all it entails... that day, you'll cease to be a liability."

  Camille stood frozen, like a crystal statue on the verge of shattering.

  Her expression—once brimming with childish fury—now held only profound sorrow.She refused to be seen like this any longer.

  Not as a burden.

  Not as the weak one.

  They had started the same, bearing equal pain, equal loss.

  But now...He carried the weight for them both.

  Apollo didn't look back.His imposing figure retreated down the hallway, the speckled fur cape fluttering like a banner of solitude.For a fleeting moment, the window's light caught him—glimmering faintly on his starborn tattoo—before the corridor's shadows swallowed him whole.Like the st flicker of a candle in a prisoner's cell.Like the st Jaune left standing.

  Camille drew a deep breath.She clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white, her brow furrowing into an expression no longer of helplessness...

  But of resolve.

  The Calibration Exam.

  It was her only chance.She would become strong...No matter the cost.

  Inside the Rouge Mansion — Kitchen Hallways8:30 AM

  The kitchen bustle was organized chaos: the scent of freshly baked bread, fragrant herbs, and strong coffee filled the air as servants darted about like a swarm.

  In a corner hidden behind a flour barrel, Norma and Silvren whispered like conspirators."I swear it was her! The Rouge girl!" Norma gestured dramatically, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Now she looks like a boy!"

  Silvren clutched her teacup like a lifeline, her face flushing crimson."S-stop spreading rumors about my g-goddess—I mean, about Lady Astrid!" she stammered, nervously adjusting her gsses. "She may be rebellious, but I doubt she’d do something so... radical."

  Yet even as she spoke, doubt seeped into her voice.

  Norma huffed, crossing her arms smugly."Don’t be ridiculous!" she snorted. "After I bumped into her, I followed her... and saw her go into the basement. When she came out—"

  She paused for dramatic effect, letting the suspense build."That long hair—the one Lady Isolde treasured like gold—was gone! Now it’s a short, wild crest!"

  An indignant puff of air blew her bck bangs upward, briefly revealing her hidden eye before it was covered again."So believe me or don’t!"

  Fausto's roar, the head chef's bellow, thundered between pots and pans:"Norma! Stop scking and hurry up with the cutlery!"

  Norma shot Silvren an exasperated look, but not before dropping one st bombshell:"Tsk! Whatever... You'll see for yourself. Lady Isolde is talking to her right now in the garden," she whispered, with a mischievous smile that promised chaos.

  And before Silvren could respond, she slipped away between the servants, leaving him alone with his half-drunk tea and racing heart.

  Silvren didn't hesitate.

  He gulped down the rest of his tea in one go—burning his tongue in the process—and shot off like a rocket.He had to see it with his own eyes!He had to witness the moment when Astrid Rouge, his goddess, his muse, faced Isolde with her new rebellious look!His feet barely touched the ground.

  Ezren’s Bedroom

  Ezren was on the floor, carefully working through his stretches, feeling his still-aching body respond better than expected thanks to Althea’s "special treatment."

  Suddenly, the door burst open.

  Aric appeared in the doorway, eyes bzing with excitement."Ezren, come quick—you’ve gotta see this!" he excimed, nearly breathless.

  Ezren raised an eyebrow without pausing his arm stretches."What’s going on?" he asked, though something in his brother’s expression already told him this would be worth it.

  Aric did not disappoint."Mom and Astrid are about to csh!" he announced, in the tone of someone who’d just witnessed the prelude to war.

  Ezren froze mid-stretch, a slow grin spreading across his face."What?! What did she do now?" he ughed, imagining a thousand scenarios—none bold enough.

  Aric leaned in like he was revealing state secrets."She completely changed her look... You have to see it for yourself."

  That was enough.

  Ezren sprang up from the floor—ignoring the residual pain—and sprinted after Aric at full speed.

  What the hell had Astrid done this time to provoke Isolde?

  Rouge Family Inner Garden8:40 AM

  An unusual wind stirred Isolde’s cultivated roses, their thorns glinting under the morning light like silent warnings. This garden—typically a sanctuary of peace—had become a battleground.

  Two figures stood at its center, separated by precise distance, like swords about to csh.

  Astrid Rouge, transformed:

  A bck jacket stolen from Aric’s closet, oversized yet impossible to ignore,Gray pants with bck trim, hugging her agile legs,A white shirt left provocatively unbuttoned,And that hair. Short. Spiked in rebellious ridges, as if she’d torn away the "doll" image Isolde had so meticulously crafted.Isolde, unshaken in her lethal elegance:

  A crimson-red mini dress, its bck embroidery tracing roses that seemed to bleed,Bck stockings sheathing every inch of skin like secondary armor,Stiletto heels stabbing the grass with each step, sharp as daggers.The silence between them spoke louder than any scream.

  Aric and Ezren arrived just in time to witness the csh of titans.

  "What the hell?!" Ezren clutched his chest as if his heart had lurched. The figure facing Isolde wasn’t the Astrid he knew. She was something wilder. Something free.

  Aric never looked away from the spectacle, a twisted grin of pride on his lips:"Can’t you feel it, brother?" He gestured to the air between them, where steam danced like a phantom trapped between two worlds.

  Astrid’s cold seeped into every crack of the garden, frosting rose petals. Unintentional. Uncontrolled. Her rage was a winter that froze the very breath in their lungs.

  Isolde’s heat, in contrast, was a calcuted fire. Stones cracked under her stilettos from the sheer thermal pressure. Her gaze wasn’t just anger—it was a challenge. A test.

  Silvren watched like a condemned man drinking poison.

  He dug his fists into the wall, nails carving grooves into the stone as he devoured every detail of the new Astrid: her cropped mane sharp as a freshly forged bde, her defiant stance, that feral glint in her eyes he’d always secretly worshipped.

  "She’s perfect…" he rasped, his voice raw, as if he’d forgotten to breathe for hours. "Not a lion’s roar… but the hiss of an ice storm."

  The garden had become an elemental battleground:

  Isolde’s side was a furnace.Roses at her feet withered within seconds, their bckened petals crumbling like ash. The air trembled, distorted by heatwaves.

  Astrid’s side was a gcier birthing itself.Frost cwed across the grass in jagged patterns. Every exhale from her lips froze midair, glittering briefly before disintegrating to dust.

  Between them, the steam didn’t just struggle—it agonized. It twisted into frantic spirals, trapped between the cold that sought to crystallize it and the fire that tore it apart. A silent war. And Silvren couldn’t decide what thrilled him more: witnessing Astrid unleashed, or imagining her defeat.

  "You’ve crossed the line from defiance into recklessness, Astrid."Isolde’s voice shed through the air, dripping with a disdain colder than her daughter’s ice.

  No room for rebuttals.

  "I don’t want excuses." Her hand rose with the elegance of an executioner steadying the axe. "I want to see if this audacity is a tantrum... or something you’d die for."

  The air ignited.

  "Punition", one of the nineteen sacred Rouge weapons, materialized in a swirl of ashes, its weight shaking the earth as it took form. The sword was a beast of metal:

  A bck hilt with gold filigree snaking like veins,A red gem at its base, pulsing like a cursed heart,A thick, brutal bde curving lethally toward the tip,Sunken marks in the steel like scars from ancient battles,The hole near the point—an empty eye that seemed to watchAstrid with hunger.Isolde wielded it as if it weighed less than a feather. The ashes of its summoning still danced around her ankles when she spoke:

  "Show me you’re not just a broken toy."

  Astrid ughed.

  Not a mere act of rebellion, but an icy roar that split the silence as cleanly as her razor had severed her hair. The bde fshed in her hand, spinning between her fingers with the ease of an extension of her own body.

  "Astrid no longer asks for permission." Her voice rang out, sharp and clear. The cold around her intensified, frost crawling up her boots as if the earth itself froze beneath her resolve.

  "Astrid will be what Astrid chooses."

  The razor flipped one st time before locking into her grip, its edge gleaming in the ghostly light of the divided mist.

  "And if that means becoming the strongest swordsman this damned world has ever seen—"

  Her breath billowed white, stirring the frozen fog like a waking dragon.

  "—THEN SO BE IT!"

  Will mother and daughter csh in an epic duel?!And what of the kingdom with Apollo absent at the Royal Summit?!What schemes does Charles plot in the shadows?!