Mero and Sven completed the return journey without incident, the imperial train gliding through the golden plains and verdant hills of the Empire of Mor. Upon their arrival at the Imperial School, they descended from the royal suite, their clothes still imbued with the salty scent of the Green Ocean and the volcanic dust of the island. The two imperial guards who had accompanied them on this expedition saluted them with professional restraint, but Mero and Sven exchanged a complicitous glance before approaching them, each holding a bottle of the finest rum they could acquire from the market of Aiguille.

  The guards, initially surprised by this unexpected gesture, exchanged a glance, a slight unease crossing their weathered faces. Then, with a respectful nod, they accepted the gifts, a discreet smile softening their stern features. One of them, a robust man with graying hair, uncorked his bottle and sniffed the rich aroma with appreciation. "Never have I smelled a rum of such nobility, Your Highness," he declared, nodding in gratitude.

  "You have more than earned it," Sven replied, placing a friendly hand on the guard's shoulder with a princely familiarity that transcended their rank. "Your vigilance allowed us to savor this freedom without fear."

  "May this remind you of that wild island," Mero added, his tone blending courtesy with a touch of youthful malice. The guards thanked them with a nod of respect, then stepped back, their footsteps echoing on the paved entrance of the school as they retreated, carrying their bottles like treasures.

  Mero and Sven then entered the building, their bodies weighed down by fatigue but their minds still buzzing with satisfaction from their adventure. The air of Mor seemed denser, almost oppressive after the days of freedom spent in the heart of the island's untamed nature. However, it was time for them to return to the rigor of their daily routine, the studies and duties that awaited them like golden chains.

  "Tomorrow, the lessons resume," Mero sighed, his gaze wandering for a moment through the familiar corridors of the school.

  Sven grimaced, adjusting his coat with studied nonchalance. "And the studies too," he added, his voice tinged with a slight irony. "Farewell to the waves and volcanoes, hello to the parchments and lessons!"

  They exchanged a laugh, a clear sound that resonated in the deserted hall, before heading towards their respective quarters. The sea faded behind them, but its memory remained etched in their souls, a indelible imprint of salt and fire that they would carry like a treasure.

  Three days later, the tranquility of the school was shattered by the shrill scream of sirens in the night. Mero bolted upright in his bed, his heart pounding, a cold sweat beading on his forehead. Through the windows of his room, the nocturnal sky was ablaze with an orange glow, a thick smoke rising like a shroud over the city of Mor. An acrid smell of burnt wood and molten metal permeated the air, heralding an imminent disaster.

  A urgent knocking resounded at his door, and the imperial guards burst in, their faces taut with urgency. "Your Highness, we must evacuate immediately!" one of them declared, his voice firm but tinged with an uncharacteristic gravity.

  Mero leaped from his bed, hastily donning a suitable tunic, his fingers fumbling with the silver buttons. As he opened the door, Sven emerged into the corridor, already dressed, his face grave but resolute. "A sidurgy has exploded," he informed Mero, his tone barely concealing the urgency. "The fire has spread to the lower city and now threatens the school."

  They rushed down the stairs, their footsteps echoing through the stone corridors, while panicked students huddled in the entrance hall, their cries muffled by the thick smoke that began to fill the space. Teachers and guards struggled to maintain a semblance of order, but the urgency was palpable, a tension that made the air vibrate like an overly taut bowstring.

  "Where is Leila?" Mero cried out, his voice cutting through the chaos, an anxiety gripping him at the thought of his faithful housekeeper.

  "She is safe in the medical wing," Sven reassured him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "But we must leave without delay!"

  Outside, the air was thick and scorching, an oppressive heat that stole their breath. Embers floated in the sky like malevolent snow, swirling around them as they emerged into the courtyard. The streets of Mor were a scene of pandemonium, residents carrying buckets of water in a desperate attempt to slow the fire's advance, their faces blackened by soot and fear. "Which way do we go?" Sven asked, scanning the surroundings with vigilance, his dark eyes searching for an escape route in the escalating chaos.

  Mero hesitated for a moment, his mind torn between fleeing to a safe refuge and the desire to aid the city engulfed in flames. But before he could respond, the guards intervened, their authoritative voices cutting short any deliberation. "No time, Your Highnesses!" one of them exclaimed, guiding them firmly towards the carriages awaiting them, ready to whisk them away from the inferno.

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  The carriages galloped at a breakneck pace, their wheels clattering on the pavement in a deafening roar that echoed like a war drum. Through the windows of the carriage, Mero and Sven watched the city in flames recede, its towers and roofs collapsing in a veil of black smoke. The acrid smell persisted, clinging to their clothes and skin like a lingering reminder of this dreadful night. The guards, tense, remained at the windows, their gazes scrutinizing the darkness for any unforeseen dangers.

  After an hour of travel, they reached a vast estate away from the city, a manor used to house displaced dignitaries. The servants, already at work, greeted them with a diligence tempered by the urgency of the situation. "We must wait here until further orders," a captain of the guard declared, his tone firm but respectful. "The Emperor has been informed, and reinforcements are on their way."

  Sven clenched his fists, his features hardened by a contained frustration. "We are useless here," he said, his voice vibrating with a mix of anger and helplessness. "We should be out there, helping."

  Mero shared this sentiment, a bitterness rising within him at their forced inaction. Yet, they had no choice but to wait, the night stretching long and heavy under the weight of their powerlessness.

  For seven days and seven nights, the city of Mor burned, a hellish inferno that devoured without respite. For safety reasons, Mero and Sven were confined to the manor, forbidden to leave by the strict orders of the imperial guard. The persistent smell of smoke seeped through the closed windows, and each morning brought reports from their servants—quarters reduced to ashes, displaced families, the wounded flooding the temples turned into makeshift infirmaries.

  In this gilded cage, Mero and Sven refused to remain idle. They spent their days devising a plan to aid the population, aware that their rank imposed a role beyond mere survival. Though they could not leave the manor, their servants could act. They organized relief efforts, dispatching their people to distribute supplies—bread, dried meats, salted fish—and set up relief camps in areas spared by the fire. Using their personal funds, they financed the distribution of potable water, blankets, and clothing for the displaced, their orders given with a precision that betrayed their determination.

  Over the days, a truth became apparent to them: their role did not lie in physical action—carrying sacks or pitching tents—but in logistics, the subtle art of coordinating efforts so that every resource reached the right place at the right time. They learned to delegate with measured authority, to oversee operations from their refuge, their minds adapting to this new form of duty. "Our service is not on the ground," Mero murmured one evening, watching Sven adjust a map of the relief efforts. "It is in the shadows, ensuring that every cog functions without fail."

  Sven nodded in agreement, a smile cracking his fatigued face. "Such is the burden of royalty," he said, his tone blending resignation and pride.

  A week later, when the fire finally subsided, a new reality emerged. The city of Mor was unrecognizable, its lower quarters reduced to fields of smoldering ashes, its once-bustling streets now silent under a gray shroud. The Imperial School, though touched by the flames, had resisted thanks to the heroic efforts of firefighters and soldiers, its blackened walls still standing. Yet, amidst this desolation, the inhabitants began to rebuild, their hands shaping a future from the ruins. Mero and Sven observed this spectacle with a mix of admiration and gravity, understanding that this catastrophe had revealed both the worst and the best of the Empire.

  The courage and organization of the firefighters, guards, and population had limited the damage and saved the school. Thanks to the interventions of Mero and Sven, the survivors found refuge, food, and care, their logistical support providing vital assistance in the shadow of chaos. Slowly, the city rose again, its foundations reborn from the ashes, and the fire entered history as one of the most terrible the Empire had known.

  The dormitories of the school's north wing had been entirely consumed by the flames, their charred beams collapsing in a silence that contrasted with the past agitation. The students, displaced from their quarters, were relocated to the still-intact dormitories, transforming the once-calm residence of Mero and Sven into a bustling hive where the voices of displaced children of dukes and barons resonated. This cohabitation disrupted the imperial hierarchy, a breach in the strict hierarchies that governed their lives, but they knew they had to endure it with grace. For a week, classes were suspended, the director and his staff busy assessing the damage and preparing for repairs, their silhouettes flitting through the charred corridors like ghosts in a crumbling palace.

  Mero and Sven received authorization to participate in the reconstruction of a district in the lower city, a recompense for the logistical aid they had provided during the crisis. They went there every morning, their tunics exchanged for simpler yet still rank-marked attire—linen shirts with embroidered cuffs, fitted trousers with subtle galons. Under their orders, artisans and workers labored to rebuild the collapsed walls, while they supervised, ensuring that every stone was laid with care, every beam securely fixed.

  One day, as they contemplated the first rebuilt houses, Sven placed a hand on Mero's shoulder, his dark gaze filled with a pride barely contained. "We did not carry the water buckets," he said, "but this is our work as much as theirs."

  Mero nodded in agreement, a smile lighting up his fatigued face. "Our rank is not measured by our hands in the ashes, but by our ability to guide those who delve into them," he replied, his voice resonating with a newfound maturity.

  They knew that their role, forged in this ordeal, had transformed them. The sea and the volcanic island had been an adventure; this reconstruction was a duty that anchored them in their destiny.