Exterior of the Royal Palace – Royal Plaza

  12:30 PM

  The capricious wind played with the folds of Aveline's dress, caressing the black silk like a musician fingers piano keys at midnight. Every step of her white heels left perfect imprints in the earth, as if the ground itself bowed to her elegance.

  Her silhouette was a deliberate contrast:

  -Short white hair — freshly fallen snow — tousled beneath a black vest

  -Straight bangs, a curtain of mystery over her forehead

  -White leather eyepatch gleaming like a miniature moon, hiding stories no one dared ask about

  As she approached the royal carriage, her jasmine perfume mingled with the scent of courtly leather and metal.

  "Your Majesty..." Her voice was a crystal whisper, clear and precise. She inclined her head—a gesture perfectly balanced between respect and curiosity—noticing Apollo's gaze fixed on the newspaper. "The Chancellor has declined to accompany you to the royal summit." A pause. "I assume you've already heard..." she added, her sigh escaping like a verse of resignation.

  Apollo looked up, his ruby crown trapping the midday light in blood-red glints. The stellar tattoo on his left temple—that blue star—seemed to pulse faintly.

  "It's her brother... there's no changing her mind now," he replied, his warm laugh clashing with the ice in his words.

  His hands—adorned with rings that whispered of battles—dismissed the newspaper with studied indifference.

  "Let's depart. After all... he is near."

  His gaze drifted northward, where mountains bit the horizon like stone teeth.

  Aveline followed his line of sight, fingers unconsciously toying with the edge of her eyepatch.

  "After all you've been through... you can still sense his komi from this distance?" she asked, her smile surfacing as genuine as a desert spring.

  Apollo reclined against velvet cushions, his black-and-white cape cascading in folds of luxury and power.

  "How could I not?" he mocked, lips twisting into a smirk that never reached his eyes. "We're both monsters, after all."

  Hollow laughter echoed inside the carriage.

  Liar, thought Aveline. He was the only one who could detect Charles from kilometers away... and that expression betrayed him.

  The coachman's whip cracked, and the wheels began turning toward destiny—leaving behind a kingdom teetering on the brink of chaos.

  1:00 PM

  The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the training yard, turning every drop of sweat into a tiny, burning mirror before it hit the parched earth. Ezren swung his sword one last time, the heavy steel carving a perfect arc through the air with a tired whistle. His muscles—pushed to their limit for hours—finally gave out.

  The fall was slow and glorious.

  His knees hit the dusty ground, kicking up a golden cloud that mixed with his ragged breaths. The sun—pitiless in its brilliance—scorched his bare back, etching salt trails onto his flushed skin.

  Then, a guttural roar tore from his stomach, so powerful it rattled his ribs.

  "Enough," he muttered to the earth, fingers digging into the dirt like roots searching for water.

  Moving sluggishly, as if every joint protested, he reached for the sleeveless shirt discarded nearby. The white fabric—now stained with dirt and sweat—clung to his torso like a second skin. Its condition didn’t matter; it was a warrior’s armor at rest.

  The intoxicating aroma of fresh herbs and roasting meat curled through the halls like an invisible seducer, guiding Ezren through his exhaustion. Each step echoed with the metallic shing of knives being sharpened and the chaotic ballet of dishes clattering in deft hands.

  At the heart of the kitchen, where steam spiraled gold under sunlight streaming through high windows, Fausto ruled with a hawk’s gaze. His calloused hands—maps of decades spent between stoves—pointed with surgical precision at every imperfection.

  "Tch! That steak is undercooked!" he bellowed, his gray mustache trembling like an enraged antenna as he jabbed a finger at meat oozing pink juices.

  Hobrin, the young prodigy whose hands were inked with culinary tattoos, squared up to him with the arrogance of a man who knew his worth.

  "What? Going blind in your old age, bastard?" he shot back, leaning in until their noses nearly touched, the heat of the stoves reflecting in his dilated pupils.

  Fausto didn’t flinch. His spice-stained apron was a battle flag.

  "The young must be held to twice the standard, brat," he growled, his voice rough like red-hot iron plunged into water.

  The clash was cut short.

  CRACK!

  The sound of a wooden spoon smacking two skulls—like thunder on a clear day—silenced the kitchen. Marta materialized between them, her perfect bun defying gravity and chaos, eyes blazing with maternal fury.

  "Enough!" she ordered, her voice so sharp it sliced through the tension like a knife through hot butter. She glared at the two men rubbing their heads on the floor. "Hobrin’s steak is perfect. Stop wasting time!"

  Her hands planted on her hips with the authority of someone who’d raised generations in these kitchens. The silence that followed was so absolute even the stoves seemed to hush in respect.

  While the kitchen simmered in its usual chaos, a very different duel unfolded in the shadows of the mansion’s east wing. Glass—sharp as frozen tears—shattered against oak walls in a symphony of destruction.

  Silvren advanced like a hurricane, her eyes alight with the madness of wounded devotion. Every flick of her wrists sent shards of glass sprouting from the floor like deadly blossoms, scarring the noble wood just as deeply as her memories.

  "How dare you make me watch my goddess be brutalized?!" she shrieked, her voice cracking between rage and pain, as she hurled a dagger-shaped crystal that grazed Norma’s ear.

  Norma, agile as the feline in her blood, twisted and pivoted between the projectiles. Her feet—clad in silent boots—barely touched the ground before propelling her to the next hiding spot.

  "W-Wait! Don’t be so reckless!" she pleaded, ducking behind an antique vase that instantly exploded into shards.

  The hallway—once a showcase of aristocratic elegance—had become a warzone:

  -Jeweled mirrors reduced to glittering dust

  -Family portraits pierced by crystalline trails

  -The noble oak floor gouged with fresh scars

  "I just informed you! Whether you went or not isn't my problem!" Norma leapt onto a side table, feeling a crystal graze her black braid as it whizzed past.

  Lie.

  The mischievous glint in her eyes—still visible beneath the panic—betrayed the truth: she had orchestrated this storm on purpose, as always.

  Silvren froze for an instant, her arms trembling not from fatigue, but repressed exhilaration.

  "Shut up!" Her voice fell like a hammer on glass. "I can still see poor Astrid being tossed through the air like a ragdoll..."

  The last crystal in her hand glowed with its own light before shooting forth—this time, straight toward the heart of deception.

  The lethal shard whistled through the air, destined to pierce Norma's chest... until the world stopped.

  A violet flash. A crackle of electricity.

  Norma dissolved into a purple lightning bolt, reappearing three meters away before the projectile could complete its trajectory. Her black hair rippled with residual static, each strand faintly glowing.

  But fate always plays its hand.

  Ezren, hypnotized by the kitchen's aromas, stepped into the hallway just as the rogue crystal—deprived of its original target—found a new home in his chest.

  "W-Watch out!" Norma's warning came too soon to prevent, too late to stop.

  PLINK!

  The crystal—which would have impaled anyone else—bounced off Ezren's steel abs like a pebble against a fortress, then rolled to the floor with an almost offended clatter.

  "Agh!" Ezren folded like a tree in a storm, knees hitting the ground with a dull thud. His hands—calloused from years of training—clutched the impact point, where a bruise the size of a coin was already blooming.

  Silence.

  Then:

  "Shit..." Silvren paled as if she'd seen the devil himself. "Young Master Ezren, forgive me!" She dropped to her knees so hard the floor vibrated, her forehead touching the ground in a bow so deep it bordered on theatrical.

  Norma couldn't help it.

  A laugh—clear as bells and as sharp as the freshly thrown crystals—escaped her lips.

  He deserved that, she thought, her violet eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction.

  Ezren rose slowly, every muscle protesting as he stood like an enraged tower.

  "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, his voice weighted with the authority of someone who expects immediate answers. "You're lucky it was me..."

  Then his eyes locked onto Norma's.

  Instant recognition.

  "You're..." Ezren's brown eyes narrowed, scanning every detail of her face: those unique lilac eyes, that defiant gaze inherited from her mother. "Norma, right? Edith's daughter," he concluded, a smile breaking through his pained expression.

  Norma, like a cat assessing an overly large dog, arched a brow with calculated disdain.

  "So what if I am?" she retorted, her voice dripping indifference like poisoned honey.

  Ezren released a low laugh, a warm sound that reverberated off the crystal-scarred walls. He stretched with feline languor, muscles still aching from the impact, yet his spirit inexplicably light.

  "We're the same age and live under the same roof..." he began, eyes lost somewhere between past and present. "Yet the last time we exchanged words was years ago..."

  A sigh. A bridge extended toward buried memories.

  "Back then, you weren't as cold as you are now."

  The change in Norma was instantaneous.

  She stepped forward with measured strides, static electricity bristling around her silhouette. Her violet eyes—two storm-charged amethysts—pinned Ezren with intensity.

  "People change, you know?" she spat, each word as sharp as Silvren's crystal.

  Ezren didn't retreat. He held her gaze like a tree rooted against the wind.

  "I know..." he admitted, his voice tinged with a nostalgia heavier than any bruise. "But you really took this whole 'distancing yourself' thing to heart, huh?"

  The hallway faded away.

  Little Ezren, with scraped knees and a dirt-stained training uniform, sat silently weeping beneath the old oak tree. The disappointment in his father’s eyes after losing to Alaric for the tenth time in a row burned worse than any physical blow.

  Crack.

  A twig snapped.

  Norma, the girl of midnight mischief, emerged from the shadows like a curious ghost. She crouched in front of him, her bangs falling over her right eye like a curtain over a shared secret.

  "Why are you crying?" she asked, tilting her head with genuine childish curiosity.

  Ezren startled, scrubbing at his eyes so hard it left red marks on his skin.

  "Crying? I was just counting my fingers!" he protested, his voice still shaky from recent sobs but brimming with trembling pride. "Besides, men don’t cry!"

  Norma—always too sharp for her age—took in the scratches on his arms, the unmistakable marks of another lost fight.

  "You’re the weakling of the Rouge family, aren’t you?" she blurted, a mischievous grin dancing on her lips, testing boundaries the way only children know how.

  The reaction was instant.

  Ezren shot to his feet like a spring had launched him, cheeks flushed with indignation.

  "Weakling?!" he shrieked, his high-pitched voice breaking in the night air. "I—"

  Then, like a cold shadow slithering down his spine, he remembered Hadrian’s gaze.

  "I’m just... talentless," he muttered, shoulders slumping under an invisible weight, eyes fixed on the ground as if the stones held answers.

  Under the moonlight, two children who didn’t understand the world found solace in shared loneliness.

  "So you’re giving up?" Norma’s smile was pure childish innocence, but her violet eyes gleamed with a wisdom beyond her years.

  Ezren blinked, baffled by the simplicity of the question.

  "Huh?" He squinted, as if her words were an impossible riddle. He’d never considered giving up... but the gap between him and his siblings stretched like an unfathomable abyss, making the idea of catching up feel like a distant dream.

  Norma spun on her heels, her silhouette outlined against the starry sky.

  "It’s like playing tag, isn’t it?" she mused, her voice tinged with unshakable certainty. "Some kids win because they’re naturally fast..."

  A pause. The night wind tousled their hair.

  "But others surpass them through practice."

  She raised her small hand, her index finger pointing skyward like an arrow aimed at the stars.

  "Like Polaris..." she whispered, the name of the star slipping from her lips like a spell. "She’s eternal. Unchanging. Unshakable."

  Ezren followed her gaze northward, to that constant point of light he’d ignored all his life.

  And there it was.

  Polaris.

  Shining with a steadfastness that defied centuries, untouched by time, unbroken in its purpose.

  In that instant, something ignited inside him.

  "I want to be like Polaris," he thought—and for the first time in forever, the weight on his heart lightened.

  The wind rustled through the oak leaves, as if the night itself approved his resolve.

  The present crashed back like lightning, returning them to the hallway littered with broken glass and unresolved tension. Norma held Ezren's gaze, her violet eyes burning with an unextinguished flame from that starry night long ago.

  "I just want freedom," she declared, the words sounding like a manifesto etched into her soul. "To write my own story."

  Her voice echoed off the walls, defying the years of silence between them.

  Ezren—startled by her intensity—parted his lips slightly, as if the words had lodged in his throat.

  "I see..." he finally exhaled, the sigh heavy with understanding and something else... admiration? "So you won’t give up either, huh?"

  The laugh that followed was warm, contagious—like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

  "Tell me... what’s your dream?" he asked, genuine curiosity lighting his brown eyes.

  Norma—the girl who once spoke to him of stars—flashed a smile that could’ve melted glaciers.

  "I’ll draw my own map of the world!" she announced, teeth gleaming between eager lips, her voice so full of passion it nearly made the air vibrate.

  Ezren couldn’t help but laugh again, the sound echoing through the hallway like a rediscovery.

  "Still got that fire in you..." he murmured, as she planted her hands on her hips in triumph, tilting her head in a silent yet eloquent "Damn right."

  In the corner, Silvren watched the scene with a mix of discomfort and affection.

  "Don’t encourage her or she’ll get even more insufferable..." she thought, her nervous smile betraying that—despite everything—she loved seeing Norma like this: vibrant, self-assured, unstoppable.

  Like Polaris on a clear night.

  Astrid's Bedroom – 1:00 PM

  The midday sun slipped through the curtains like a golden intruder, bathing Astrid's face in ambivalent light—as warm as her resolve, as cold as her still-unhealed wounds. Sitting on the bed, her knuckles whitening from the force of her clenched fist, her lips moved in a silent oath:

  "I will become stronger..."

  This wasn’t a promise. It was a prophecy.

  The sound of firm sandals—precise as the ticking of an unrelenting clock—announced Edith’s arrival before her shadow crossed the threshold.

  She was a specter of discipline and lethal elegance:

  -Hair black as spilled ink, falling in perfect lines along her impassive face.

  -Purple eyes, colder than the glaciers Astrid commanded.

  -A black kimono cinched by a deep crimson sash—blood and night intertwined.

  -A katana at her left hip, silent yet eloquent in its threat.

  "Lord Hadrian has entrusted me with your complete training," she declared, her voice as inflectionless as freshly honed steel.

  Astrid straightened too quickly, her bruises protesting with sharp stabs of pain. Memories of her fight with Isolde—and how Edith had intercepted the final blow—clashed with the resentment burning in her chest.

  "W-What are you saying?" Her voice trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the fury simmering beneath her skin. "I don’t want help—especially not from Father..."

  She turned her gaze to the window, where the sun continued its indifferent path.

  Why now? The thought seared hotter than any wound. After years of feeling invisible, why had Hadrian chosen this moment to extend a hand?

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  Edith stepped closer. Her movements, slow but weighted with a stillness that would freeze the blood of any sane person, halted before Astrid. Yet, against all expectation, her hand settled atop the girl’s head in a gesture that blended roughness with the barest hint of tenderness.

  "Do you want to grow stronger?" The question hung in the air, sharp as a dagger’s edge, while her eyes scrutinized Astrid with the cold precision of a judge.

  Astrid held her gaze. In those eyes, she recognized the same glint she'd seen two years ago under the unforgiving sun that laid all truths bare...

  She had been lying on the ground, defeated, her back scorched by the training yard's hot earth after a secret duel with Alaric.

  "Your sword technique still needs work, little sister," he'd murmured, flicking away the wooden practice sword with an indifferent gesture. Then came that smile of his—bright and carefree, like sunlight breaking through clouds—"Anyway... I have to meet with Father." He helped her up, and for a moment, Astrid's world righted itself along with her body. "Stay out of trouble, understood?" He ruffled her hair familiarly before walking away, leaving behind only the echo of his footsteps and a bitter taste in Astrid's mouth.

  She clenched her fists. No matter how much she scraped her elbows mimicking others' movements, her technique remained clumsy—like a bird with a broken wing. It made sense: unlike her brothers, she'd never received direct instruction from their father. Astrid had to decipher the language of combat alone, in shadows and silence.

  Then Edith appeared behind her, materializing from the wind like a specter. Her presence was so stealthy that Astrid felt a chill creep up her neck.

  "Lord Hadrian was right..." Edith's voice, soft yet razor-sharp, cracked her usual impassive demeanor. "Try to hit me with your sword. Now."

  Astrid stumbled back, thrown off-balance by both the command and the icy glint in her mentor's eyes.

  "S-Seriously?" she stammered, fingers fumbling clumsily around the wooden hilt.

  Edith didn't need to respond. Her silence was answer enough.

  The attack began. Astrid lunged with the fury of a storm, relying on the speed inherited from her agile legs. But Edith dodged each strike with the precision of someone reciting a memorized poem, studying every twist, every ragged breath.

  "You hold your sword wrong," she observed, just before—in a burst of impatience—Astrid's weapon flew from her hands. In one fluid motion, Edith caught her wrist in an iron grip, stopping her cold. "Enough," she declared, her voice brooking no argument. "You rely too much on your body and too little on your mind."

  Astrid writhed, the sharp pain in her joint drawing involuntary tears to her eyes.

  "It hurts! Let go!" she shouted, more from wounded pride than true helplessness.

  Edith understood instantly. Those eyes of Astrid's—green like forests set ablaze by ambition—that indomitable pride burning in her gaze... They were identical to his. A familiar spark that pierced Edith's usual detachment.

  "Tell me, daughter of Hadrian," her voice, sharp as tempered steel, betrayed a thread of curiosity—rare as an eclipse in her calculated tone, "do you truly wish to grow stronger?"

  Astrid collapsed when Edith released her, but she stood before the dust could settle on her clothes.

  "Tch! Of course!" She puffed out her chest, jabbing a thumb at her heart in defiance. "I'll be the greatest swordswoman in the world!" Her pupils shone not with naivety, but with the certainty of someone who'd seen their destiny etched into a blade's edge.

  It was enough. In that moment, Edith decided that between missions, she would shape this rough diamond. She wouldn't just polish her swordsmanship—she'd teach her to harness komi, to make magic flow like an obedient river through her fingers.

  "You saw the same thing I did in her, didn't you?" Hadrian twirled his goblet, fracturing light into liquid rubies across the parchment before him.

  Edith, standing by the window, allowed an almost imperceptible smile to touch her lips:

  "Yes... That girl has a future that will blind both allies and enemies."

  "Oh?" Hadrian arched an eyebrow, amused. "Seems you've grown fond." The emphasis on the word carried mischief, as if he'd uncovered a secret.

  She suppressed a sigh. In the glass's reflection, for just a second, she didn't see Astrid—but Norma: that same stubbornness, that fire unquenched even by rain.

  "She's just like her..." she murmured, this time making no effort to hide the gravity of affection in her words.

  The present-day Astrid straightened her back as if years of weight had forged her posture into tempered steel. A confident smile—carved from defeats and victories alike—lit her face.

  "Yes! I will become stronger," she declared, her voice resonating with the same indomitable pride that had lived in her since childhood, like an ember never extinguished.

  Edith allowed a fleeting smile, just a glimmer of satisfaction in the shadows of her face. Without another word, she turned with the elegance of a tiger retreating to its den.

  "Good. We begin when you've recovered," she announced, the door whispering shut behind her.

  Astrid remained, fists clenched in the sheets, impatience simmering in her veins. But this time, it wasn't the childish frustration of before—it was the serene determination of one who knows the path to mastery is long... and is ready to walk it.

  Kitchen – 1:30 PM

  Alaric's boots echoed urgently through the mansion's halls, his steps hammering a frantic rhythm against the wooden floors. His father's words still buzzed in his ears like an omen:

  "Your cousin Elazar has been kidnapped by criminals," Hadrian had announced in that grave voice reserved for crises. "I'll meet with Selene to reassess the situation."

  The image burned into his memory: his father boarding the carriage with that hieratic bearing, masking the storm in his eyes.

  "Look after your siblings," he'd added, pinning Alaric with a gaze that was more than an order—it was a silent witness to the responsibility now weighing on his shoulders. "And keep everyone inside the estate."

  Before Alaric could respond, the carriage had lurched forward, carrying away the last word and leaving only a cloud of dust—and the searing weight of duty—behind.

  The scent of spices and freshly roasted meat hung in the air as Alaric found Ezren seated before a disproportionate feast, Norma at his side and Silvren busy requesting more dishes from a corner. The scene held a domestic warmth that clashed with the tension etched into Alaric's shoulders.

  He forced a tight smile before clearing his throat with a dry cough.

  "Alaric!" Ezren's voice boomed, as exuberant as ever, mid-bite into a chicken leg with near-religious devotion. "Come eat. Lunch is delayed due to... 'unforeseen circumstances,' was it?"

  Norma, however, shifted away with the instinctive grace of a feline sensing a shift in the wind.

  "They're not just 'circumstances,' Ezren," Alaric sighed, taking a bitter bite of an apple. "The family is under attack."

  "W-What?" Ezren blinked, crumbs tumbling from his lips. "But everything's calm here."

  "Exactly. Because they haven't made their move on us yet," Alaric's voice darkened. "But they've started. They took Elazar."

  The chicken slipped from Ezren's fingers and landed on the plate with a dull thud.

  "Ah..." He chewed slowly, processing the news with infuriating leisure. "That explains why lunch is late."

  And then, as if nothing had happened, he shoveled another bite into his mouth.

  The look Alaric, Norma, and Silvren exchanged was unanimous: a mix of disbelief, exasperation, and resigned understanding that—crisis or not—Ezren would always be Ezren.

  Exterior of the Royal Palace – Rear Plaza

  2:00 PM

  Under the relentless sun, three knights stood like statues of living steel, their gray armor polished to a cold metallic sheen. The emblem of Ashendrell—a sword crossed with a wheat sheaf—rested on their shoulders, a silent testament to their loyalty.

  Selene stormed onto the scene like a contained tempest. Her usually impassive face was carved with irritation and patience hanging by a thread.

  "Two hours..." she muttered, skewering Maviel with a glare that could’ve turned parchment to ash. Suddenly, her hand clamped around his collar like iron pincers, yanking him until his gray eyes—burning with indigo fury—were inches from hers. "You took two hours!"

  Maviel raised his hands in instant surrender, his smile trembling like a leaf in a gale.

  *"F-forgive me, Chancellor! The chaos is so fresh I could barely gather the most competent knights in the area!"* he stammered, swallowing around the knot of self-loathing strangling his throat: "I’m useless..."

  Selene released him with a sharp shove and turned her attention to the knights. Her dagger-sharp gaze scrutinized each one with the precision of a general inspecting weapons before battle.

  "You... seem strong," she murmured, rapping her knuckles against the first knight’s breastplate. A metallic clang rang out. She repeated the gesture with the other two, as if testing the quality of steel, before sighing—a sound weighted with frustration.

  "This’ll have to do. Those vultures who took my little brother don’t deserve half this effort." She crossed her arms, but her mind conjured Elazar: his gaunt face, the bruises on his skin, stifled screams... An image that set her blood boiling with familial ferocity.

  "Why the hell are we wasting time here?!" she roared, pivoting sharply on her heel. "Move out!"

  The irony was palpable: while the knights scrambled to obey, she was the one who’d burned precious minutes berating Maviel. But no one—not even Ashendrell’s bravest—dared point it out.

  Exterior of the Carriages – Moment of Departure

  The clamor of preparation died down as the final guards took their positions. The carriage wheels crunched impatiently on the gravel, eager to begin the pursuit. In that transitional moment, Maviel burst through like a whirlwind, his steps kicking up small clouds of dust as he pushed past the soldiers.

  "Lady Selene!" he gasped, slightly doubling over as he tried to catch his breath. His ragged breathing was so pronounced even the horses seemed exasperated.

  Selene turned with the precision of a leaf caught in the wind, and her gaze—a contained indigo fire behind tense eyelids—pierced Maviel with the intensity of someone measuring seconds like gold ingots.

  "What?" Her voice sliced through the air like a blade, every line of her face carved into a silent warning: This is no time for delays.

  Maviel felt saliva turn to lead in his throat. Yet beneath that submissive exterior, his heart raced with a rebellious thought: By all the heavens, she’s breathtaking when angry!

  Regaining composure with a motion that mixed military stiffness with nerves, he straightened until his uniform creaked.

  "Hadrian Rouge has arrived," he announced, his voice firming. "And he demands an immediate audience with you!"

  He delivered the last report with soldierly rigidity, though the blush creeping up his neck betrayed less professional emotions. His fingers, hidden behind his back, twisted silently as he awaited his lady’s inevitable explosion.

  Selene clicked her tongue, yanking Maviel up by his collar as usual with an irritated growl.

  "Then tell him I’m busy!" she roared furiously at the innocent Maviel. *"M-My little brother—"* Her grip slackened, her expression shifting to something tender and worried. "—could die any moment!" she shouted again.

  Behind Selene, emerging from the shadows with the discretion of a familiar specter, stood Hadrian Rouge. His imposing figure was silhouetted against the light with supernatural elegance: his cloak of black feathers rippling like raven’s wings, his immaculate suit—black vest over white shirt—worn like a second skin, and those legendary black gloves that concealed hands which had shaped the fate of kingdoms. Every detail of his attire, from his polished boots to the perfect fit of his sleeves, proclaimed his status as patriarch.

  "Then," his voice cut the silence with surgical precision, "you have no interest in the intelligence I possess about the guild that took Elazar?"

  Selene pivoted on her heel with the restrained violence of a shifting storm. Her movement was so abrupt that indigo embers of her power swirled around her. She approached Hadrian with steps that left charred marks on the ground.

  Maviel, still kneeling on the ground, watched his lady’s posture: the slight arch of her back, the fingers already trembling with pent-up energy. Oh no… he thought, swallowing dryly. She’s going to attack him. She won’t think twice.

  He wasn’t wrong.

  With a fluid motion blending fury and martial artistry, Selene raised her right hand. From the void between her fingers spilled blue ashes that wove the silhouette of Loyauté in the air. The sacred bow’s materialization was a terrifying spectacle: its curves black as living ebony twisted like the horns of an ancient dragon, the grip pulsing in rhythm with Selene’s heartbeat. It was a living weapon—one of the Nineteen Relics of the Rouge—that recognized only the blood of its lineage. The air vibrated with its appearance, as if reality itself bowed to its presence.

  "Loyauté éternelle!" Selene roared, and as she drew the invisible string, the universe held its breath.

  A steel arrow wreathed in blue flames burst into existence, its intensity swelling until it became a small indigo sun, illuminating her gaunt features twisted with rage. The heat it radiated warped the air around it, making even the armor of nearby knights glow red-hot.

  When she released the string, the thunderous roar rivaled that of a storm. The cursed arrow tore through space at supernatural speed, leaving behind a trail of destruction: the ground split in a straight line of molten rock, nearby carriages erupted into secondary flames, and the air saturated with the scent of ozone and scorched iron. Everything the projectile grazed was branded with indelible scars of blue fire—the signature of a Rouge’s wrath.

  The air crackled with arcane intensity. Hadrian, unmoved as a boulder against the storm, extended his right hand into the void. A whirlwind of dark dust erupted from nothingness, as if the very darkness expanded to heed his call. Then, it manifested—Bonheur, the legendary black sword of the Rouge lineage, whose mere appearance struck fear into even the most seasoned warriors.

  The blade, black as midnight, devoured the surrounding light, while its silver edges gnashed at the air with ravenous hunger. Ancient runes near its tip pulsed with a disturbing rhythm, like the awakening heartbeat of some primordial being. The circular guard—shaped like bat wings—seemed poised to swoop upon its prey. At its center, a metal ring began to glow with arcane energy that warped the very space around it.

  "Début Tragique," Hadrian uttered with terrifying calm.

  The sword was instantly sheathed in pure darkness and anti-karma, an energy so dense it appeared to consume reality itself. With a precise, almost surgical motion, Hadrian guided Bonheur in a perfect arc to intercept Selene's flaming arrow.

  BOOM!

  The collision triggered a cataclysm. A shockwave of black and blue energy erupted outward, tearing up the ground like paper. Nearby carriages flipped violently, their frames twisting under the force. A cloud of dust and debris blotted out the sun.

  Yet Selene didn’t flinch. She stood firm as a statue, feet planted with unshakable resolve even as the earth quaked around her. A confident, almost taunting smile curled her lips as her grip tightened on Loyauté, readying for the next strike.

  Maviel watched, wide-eyed. A cold sweat trickled down his spine as he witnessed his lady’s unleashed power. He’d never seen her so feral, so... unrestrained. But he understood instantly: beneath that fury burned frantic love, a brotherly devotion that had shattered her usual composure into this storm of raw might. Every motion, every attack—they were desperate cries for Elazar.

  The dust settled slowly, like a defeated shroud of fog, revealing Hadrian's impassive figure. His silhouette emerged from the remnants of chaos, Bonheur still extended in his right hand, its black blade drinking in the residual light of the explosion. The runes near its tip pulsed with a sinister rhythm, as if recording every heartbeat of the tense atmosphere.

  "So that’s your answer?" His voice, cold as the steel of his sword, cut through the ash-charged air. His black eyes—deep as abysses—locked onto Selene’s fiery fury. But beneath that unreadable gaze lay tacit understanding: he recognized the desperation burning beneath her rage, that fire born only from fear for a loved one.

  Selene let Loyauté dissolve into a sigh of blue embers. She stepped toward Hadrian with measured strides until mere inches separated them, close enough for their breaths to intertwine, for her rage to mirror itself in those dark pupils. Her jaw clenched until it creaked, holding back a torrent of sharp words—until finally, a sigh. She pulled away abruptly, as if breaking a spell.

  "I’m listening..." she lied brazenly, forcing a tone of cold indifference that only betrayed her rapt attention.

  The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of scorched iron and ozone, as if the atmosphere itself held its breath for what came next.

  Hadrian allowed Bonheur to dissolve into shadows, consumed by the same void that had summoned it. With meticulous gestures, he smoothed invisible wrinkles from his vest, erasing all traces of the recent chaos like wiping away evidence of a weakness never admitted.

  "You’re underestimating the enemy," he accused, gloved fingers brushing the black fabric. *"From what I’ve uncovered over months, their ranks include heavyweights... high-ranking figures."* A calculated pause, just long enough for Selene to turn back to him, her eyes now flashing with surprise. "They’re not mere criminals. They operate with a purpose beyond profit."

  "They’re harvesting the clans’ unique abilities, aren’t they?" Selene interrupted, her frown carving lines of dread into her brow. The grisly reports she’d received—nobles’ corpses mutilated with anatomical precision—were puzzle pieces snapping into horrifying clarity.

  "Exactly," Hadrian acknowledged with deliberate slowness, his nod barely perceptible as if rationing every movement. His gloved hand rose before him, fingers splaying as though weaving the invisible threads of komi that flowed through the air.

  "As you know, every living being is born with a current of komi," his deep, measured voice lent weight to each word. "But that komi..." A dramatic pause, his fingers slowly curling into a fist. "...is inextricably bound to lineage."

  His eyes, dark as bottomless wells, lifted to meet Selene's, holding that gaze as he continued:

  "That's why clan members predominantly manifest elements aligned with their bloodline. Though, of course..." A calculated pause, his lips hinting at a shadowed smile. "...there are always exceptions."

  The last remark came with an intense look that seemed to pierce through Selene, as if those words concealed a meaning only they could fathom.

  "Where are you going with this?" Selene cut in, crossing her arms impatiently. Her fingers pressed into her own flesh hard enough to whiten her knuckles.

  Hadrian remained unfazed. He continued with glacial calm:

  "However..." A deliberate pause, his next words dripping like poison. "...magical science has discovered it's possible to implant another's lineage through... a heart transplant."

  The effect was immediate. Selene's eyes flew wide, her pupils dilating in pure horror. Even her breath hitched, as if the air itself had solidified in her lungs.

  Beside them, Maviel visibly paled. A wave of nausea racked his body so intensely he had to clamp a hand over his mouth. The idea was so repugnant, so grotesquely unnatural, that it sent a chill prickling the hairs on his neck. It was a desecration of everything sacred, a violation of magic's most fundamental laws.

  "Two years ago," Hadrian began, his grave voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel, "when this truth came to light, the public's reaction mirrored yours." His cold, calculating eyes flicked from Selene to Maviel, gauging their disgust.

  A gloved finger rose solemnly: "The news reached the king's ears, and he—horrified—banned all experimentation with this abominable technique." A pause, letting the weight of royal decree settle over them. "At the time, there were four specialized surgeons who'd achieved the unthinkable: successfully transplanting a Blanc's heart into a child, transferring their magical lineage."

  His words fell like stones into still water. "But the royal order forced them to abandon their research... All except one. Anseline Rose." The name echoed with sinister resonance. "She renounced her position as a noble surgeon and vanished without a trace." Hadrian's lips twisted into something too grim to be a smile. "Until now."

  The air seemed to thicken, shadows clustering as if to listen. "Recent sightings curiously align with the 'Vulture's' movements." His fingers toyed with the edge of his left glove. *"And a woman no younger than twenty-eight, with hair pink like poisoned petals of a black rose..."* Bitter irony tinged his voice. "...would hardly go unnoticed for so long."

  West City of the Kingdom of Ashendrell – Ismerin

  2:00 PM

  Faint light filtered through the sewer grates, painting stripes of shadow across the fugitives' faces. The thick air, heavy with the stench of damp and decay, mingled with the metallic tang of fresh blood.

  Orran gave a sharp tug on the anti-karma chains binding Elazar's torso, the links emitting a sinister creak as they tightened like metal serpents. Each ring glowed with a faint purple hue, suffocating any attempt by the prisoner to summon his komi.

  Across the narrow tunnel, Zora crouched over Jigen, clumsily bandaging wounds that still oozed blood. The cloth strips darkened to a deep red, and Jigen's face—pale as wax—remained lifeless, his breathing barely perceptible.

  "Can't believe they knocked him out like that..." Orran scoffed, crossing his arms as he eyed Jigen with a mix of irritation and disdain. *"Now we have to drag his half-dead ass while fleeing the kingdom to meet the boss..."* He dragged a hand down his face, as if trying to wipe away exhaustion, only smearing more grime over his already filthy skin.

  "You don’t get to complain..." Zora muttered, but his voice, laced with slow venom, cut through the air like a knife. His fingers clenched around the bandage, knuckles whitening under the strain. "Velmira died because of our incompetence!" He lifted his gaze, and for the first time, the tears glistening in his eyes weren’t from grief—but from a helpless rage threatening to consume him.

  Orran shot him a glare that could’ve frozen blood.

  "Ours?" he spat, each word dripping like acid. "She died because she was reckless!" He took a step forward, the dim light sharpening the harsh shadows on his face. "Who the hell charges into battle like a pig to slaughter?!"

  Zora sprang to his feet, teeth clenched so hard he could hear the enamel crack. Hatred—pure and razor-sharp—thrummed through every fiber of his being. But before he could lunge at Orran, Jigen's weak groan froze them both.

  A thick silence had seized the tunnel, broken only by the distant drip of water and the fugitives’ ragged breathing. Then, the air began to thicken—to grow heavy. A spectral, grayish smoke emerged from nowhere, shrouding everything like a ghostly veil. There was no fire, no scent of burning, just this unnatural mist slithering across the ground like thirsty serpents.

  "Shh…" A woman’s whisper floated through the air, light as the brush of a feather against skin, yet laced with dangerous sweetness.

  Orran stiffened abruptly, muscles coiled like springs ready to snap. His hands rose into a combat stance, fingers already tracing imaginary runes in the air.

  "Who are you?" he growled, scanning the fog with hawk-like intensity.

  The smoke answered him. As if obeying an unseen master, the mist began to swirl, condensing into a central point. At first, there were only blurred lines—then outlines—until the figure took human shape. Colors followed: the black of her attire trimmed in white, the pink strands escaping her hood like venomous blossoms. But most unsettling were her lips, glistening with calculated slowness, and her eyes, alight with morbid excitement as they fixed on Elazar.

  "Good boys…" she murmured, her smile revealing too many teeth. The sleeves of her robe continued exhaling that disquieting smoke, as if her body were a furnace of nightmares.

  Before anyone could react, a flick of her cloak released more smoke, which coiled around Elazar with a life of its own. The gray tendrils solidified into spectral arms, lifting his unconscious body with obscene ease.

  "I’ll take care of the Rouge," she declared, as if doing them a favor. "You…" Her gaze slid toward the sewer exit. "Best run. The Chancellor of Ashendrell isn’t known for mercy toward those who touch her family." A giggle escaped her lips—a sound that promised pain.

  Orran swallowed hard, his head dipping in instant submission. No introductions were needed; he recognized a superior’s order when he heard one.

  *"U-Understood…"* he managed, feeling cold sweat trickle down his back.

  The woman smiled, satisfied. A slender finger rose to her lips in a theatrical gesture for silence. As she did, her feet began dissolving, transforming into more smoke that lifted her from the ground with supernatural grace. Floating like a specter, Elazar dangling from her nebulous creation, she began ascending toward the ventilation grates.

  "That’s all. Good luck…" were her final words before the smoke swallowed her whole, leaving only the echo of her warning and the stench of sulfur in the air.

  Zora couldn’t tear her eyes from the sky, where Elazar’s figure vanished amid wisps of smoke, dragged westward like a puppet in an invisible puppeteer’s grip. Her fingers trembled slightly as she clenched the bloodied bandage still in her hand.

  *"W-Who… who was she?"* she stammered, her cracked voice betraying more than nerves—it was the primal fear of facing something beyond human.

  Orran clenched his fist so hard his knuckles cracked. When he spoke, each word dripped with bitter resentment and forced awe:

  "That… is Anseline Rose." The name echoed off the sewer’s damp walls like an omen. "Captain of the Second Division… and the brains behind all our power." A bead of cold sweat trailed down his temple as he remembered: "She’s the twisted genius who injected this strength into us—the one who made us what we are."

  The last wisp of smoke dissipated on the horizon, taking not just their prisoner but also the final illusion of control. The silence left behind was more eloquent than any explanation.

  Who exactly is Anseline Rose?!

  Will Selene manage to rescue her brother?

  What does Hadrian have planned?