Whitehall and Meatball found a secluded spot deep in the forest, far from the prying eyes and ears of the Skysworn. The trees here were dense, their gnarled branches forming a canopy that filtered the purple moonlight into faint, black patches on the ground. Whitehall wanted to ask the garuda how she had managed to send him a mental message through their bond. It hadn't been words or images, exactly—more like a flood of ideas and impressions conveyed with startling clarity.

  Meatball's sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, her expression more serious than Whitehall had ever seen. After a moment, she nodded, satisfied. "Coast is clear. I don't sense the Sage's owls nearby, and we're out of Aurelius's reach," she said, her voice low and steady.

  "What is it?" Whitehall asked, his tone tinged with worry.

  "Me and Orthos are leaving," Meatball stated, her words final. "I need to return to the Wastelands, while Orthos needs to go on a sabbatical to find his reason to advance to Underlord."

  Whitehall blinked, his mind catching on the word sabbatical . It wasn't a term he'd heard before, at least not in this world. Perhaps scholars used it, but the origin of that word wouldn't have existed here. Before he could dwell on it, Meatball continued.

  "It's time you know a bit more about the truth, Sinar," she said, her voice softening as she used his old name. The name from his previous life.

  Whitehall's breath caught. "What is happening?" he muttered. He ought to have felt betrayed that she'd kept this knowledge from him, but the bond between them told him she had her reasons—good ones.

  "I want to tell you, I honestly do," she replied, her black eyes meeting his. "But I can't tell you much now. You're still too weak. Mother had plans for us, and I need to go do my part."

  "Did she have plans for me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  "And Sadi," Meatball nodded. "But I can't tell you what they are."

  Before Whitehall could press further, the garuda raised a wing to silence him. "Because I don't know. Not the complete plan, at least."

  "Then what can you tell me?" Whitehall asked, frustration creeping into his voice.

  "Beware of the Aurelius," Meatball warned, her tone grave.

  "Eithan?" Whitehall asked, surprised. "The man's been nothing but helpful so far."

  "That's good," Meatball assured him. "Use his expertise to your advantage. He's sworn to keep you and Sadi's best interests in mind while you're under his tutelage. But be wary. I can't shake this feeling that he's bad news. I'm not sure if it's my instincts or Mother's."

  "Sunda's instincts?" Whitehall replied, perplexed.

  Meatball smiled, and for a moment, her voice took on an eerie resemblance to her mother's. "I can never die."

  Whitehall took a step back, his mind reeling. There was something much larger at play here—plans within plans, secrets layered upon secrets. And he was still in the dark, a pawn in a game he didn't fully understand.

  "When will I see you again?" he finally asked, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him .

  "Not until after the Uncrowned tournament, at the earliest," Meatball replied. "The Beast King will meet you two after you reach Underlord."

  "Will he be able to tell me what's going on?"

  The garuda shook her head. "Maybe, but I don't think so. I don't think he knows Mother's entire plan, either. All of us involved only have bits and pieces. And we need to keep it that way."

  Whitehall swallowed his frustration. He understood the need for secrecy, but that didn't make it any easier to accept.

  "At least answer this," he said, his voice firm. "Are we fighting them?" He pointed at the sky, not daring to utter the word Monarch.

  Meatball didn't answer immediately. Her black eyes locked onto his single eye, and for a long moment, the forest seemed to hold its breath. Finally, she responded with a low hiss. "Yes."

  But there was something in her voice and through their bond—a hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty— that told Whitehall she was still hiding something . Something even she might not fully understand.

  "All right, then," Whitehall nodded, his resolve hardening. "What do you need me and Sadi to do?"

  "Advance," Meatball answered simply. "Keep a low profile, and don't garner too much attention. Although I fear the Sage has already placed a target on your backs."

  "But I thought the Akura Clan was on the same side as the Wastelands and Northstrider. Why would she jeopardise the Wastelands' candidates?"

  "Politics," Meatball replied curtly. She flapped her wings and landed on his shoulder. "We've been gone too long. The others will be looking for us. Let us start heading back."

  "What should I tell the others?" he asked as he began to walk back.

  "You can tell Sadi everything; no secrets should be kept hidden between you two. I know that for certain." Meatball whispered. "The others, you can tell them I was saying my goodbyes."

  Whitehall felt a pang of loss as it began to sink that Meatball was leaving.

  "Just for now," Meatball smirked. "But you should keep an eye for the Sage's owls. I think me killing them on mass has garnered her attention. But I doubt it. I'm sure she thinks it's some basic Sacred Beast predatory instinct."

  "Is it?"

  Meatball snorted, "Not for me, I can tell you that. The Wastelands have been largely ignored, except by the homeless king." She described Northstrider. "Even then, he rarely glanced his perception at us. We use their ignorance to our advantage at times. I'll teach you how to detect the owls as we walk back."

  True to her word, Meatball taught Whitehall how to detect the Sage's owls. It turned out to be surprisingly simple. The owls were crafted from a shadow aspect that subtly influenced Sacred Artists to overlook their presence. Once Whitehall became aware of this, the owls were impossible to ignore. The realisation sent a chill down his spine as he sensed the hundreds of owls scattered throughout the Skysworn camp, their shadowy forms blending seamlessly into the surroundings. Meatball must have known about them all along—that was why she had switched to communicating through their bond as they neared the edges of the camp.

  "Our two missing members have finally returned from their toilet break!" Eithan announced loudly as Whitehall and Meatball approached the group. All eyes turned to them, and Whitehall felt a pang of self-consciousness. "You must have eaten something foul, as it took you two quite a while to return," Eithan continued, his tone teasing. "You've even missed my favourite male disciple's story of his adventure in a Monarch's pocket world."

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Whitehall was still reeling from his conversation with Meatball, his mind a whirlwind of emotions and unanswered questions. He scrambled to think of a reply, but before he could speak, Meatball bit his ear.

  "Ow!" he yelped, jerking away from the garuda.

  "You're not supposed to say that to a lady!" Meatball scolded, her voice sharp.

  "Why'd you take it out on me?" Whitehall protested, rubbing his ear, but the bird ignored him.

  "Apologies," Eithan said, bowing theatrically to Meatball. "The excitement must have made me forget my manners. But rest assured, I've prepared something special for everyone."

  [You mean for me!] Dross popped out of Lindon's head, cackling with glee.

  "Dross," Whitehall muttered, his eyes widening as he saw the spirit for the first time in months. "You look less... ghostly."

  [And it's not even my final form!] Dross replied, his voice brimming with pride.

  "Ahem," Eithan coughed, drawing attention back to himself. He held up an open wooden box containing seven identical grey-green pills, each the size of a marble. "As I've presented to the others, I shall now present to you," he announced, his voice taking on the cadence of a lottery announcer. "The Heaven's Drops."

  The pills felt... underwhelming. Their aura was faint, almost imperceptible. Yet Whitehall knew Eithan well enough to understand that appearances could be deceiving. These pills were undoubtedly something extraordinary. Meatball's earlier warning echoed in his mind, and he glanced at the garuda perched on his shoulder. It's good , she assured him through their bond.

  "What's this?" Meatball asked, her head tilting as she examined the pills.

  "Heaven's Drops," Eithan replied with a smile.

  "Doesn't feel too... heavenly," Meatball remarked.

  " That's because I've yet to add the final ingredient: Spirit Well water. Once mixed, it must be used immediately for maximum effect," Eithan explained.

  "Forgive me for making everyone wait," Whitehall said, wincing slightly as he apologised to the group.

  "It wasn't that long," Mercy said, her smile warm and reassuring.

  "No forgiveness necessary, Elder Whitehall," Lindon added, nodding respectfully. "I had just finished retelling what happened in Ghostwater when you arrived."

  Sadi glanced at Whitehall questioningly, and he shrugged. "I'll tell you later," he said casually.

  "Disciples, temporary disciples, Sacred Beasts," Eithan began, his tone grand and theatrical. "If you could present me with some Spirit Well water, I shall begin mixing the final ingredient for the Heaven's Drops."

  Whitehall, Sadi, and Lindon opened their void keys. Side by side, Lindon's void key was at least twice the height of Whitehall's and at least thrice as deep.

  "How much do you need?" Whitehall asked.

  "A vial for each Heaven's Drop. Lindon has agreed to supply for Mercy, Yerin, and Orthos, so I'll just need one each from you and Sadi," Eithan replied.

  "One each?" Whitehall asked, frowning. "There's three of us."

  Eithan smiled sympathetically. "Unfortunately, Whitehall, you're already at the peak of Highgold. Taking it now wouldn't do you any good. I'll keep one for you. It's better to wait."

  Whitehall felt a pang of disappointment but hid it as best he could. It wasn't the Heaven's Drop itself that bothered him—it was the reminder of his stalled advancement. His progress wasn't hindered by a lack of elixirs, treasures, or resources but by a gap in knowledge that gnawed at him.

  Sadi patted his arm reassuringly as she handed Eithan her vial. Whitehall nodded in thanks and gave Eithan one of his own. Eithan began mixing the Spirit Well water with the Heaven's Drops, handing them out one by one. When he reached the fifth, only Mercy and Lindon remained.

  "Mercy," Eithan said, extending the Heaven's Drop to her.

  The young Akura took a step back, her expression conflicted. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "I can't."

  Eithan looked down at the glowing pill in his hand. "That is quite unfortunate timing."

  "I know," Mercy apologised again. "I'm sorry."

  Whitehall cut in, his voice firm. "Give it to Lindon first. We'll give Mercy the next one," he said, his tone colder than he'd intended.

  Lindon hesitated as Eithan handed him the pill. The young man glanced at Whitehall, and something in his expression must have conveyed the depth of Whitehall's determination because Lindon accepted the pill without a word.

  "Mercy," Whitehall said, turning to the girl. His voice was harsh, his pent-up frustration leaking through. "Take it."

  Mercy seemed to shrink under his gaze. "I can't. I just need to return to my mother and admit my faults. She'll shower me with similar resources—or even better. I can't take these away from you."

  Whitehall's expression softened slightly. Mercy had a good heart—too good, perhaps. Certainly kinder than her mother. "Your mother's not here," he said gently. "I'm stuck here, unable to advance, and Eithan has just offered you a ticket to Truegold. If advancing means you can save lives, why would you stop yourself?"

  Mercy shook her head. "I can't. I can just go back to my mother and—"

  "She's not here!" Whitehall repeated, his voice rising. He gestured to Lindon, Yerin, and Orthos, who were already cycling. "Do you think she'll come out of her way to save them if you ask her? What if it's too late by then?"

  Mercy's eyes widened, but she continued to shake her head.

  "Eithan," Whitehall said, turning to the Underlord.

  "Yes, my favourite poisonous temporary disciple?" Eithan replied, pausing as he prepared the next Heaven's Drop.

  "Can a Sacred Artist cycle while paralysed from the neck down?" Whitehall asked.

  Eithan's eyes widened slightly, and a sly smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "That is a dangerous game, but I like it. A Sacred Artist can certainly cycle while paralysed, as long as their madra channels and breathing aren't affected."

  Whitehall's single eye gleamed with determination as he turned back to Mercy. She gulped, taking a step back. "Wait," she said, raising a hand. "I really don't need it."

  Whitehall took slow, deliberate steps toward her. "Make a choice, Mercy. Do you want to do this paralysed or unparalysed?"

  Mercy shuffled backwards, her voice trembling. "Let's talk about this."

  She stepped onto Tsu, ready to fly away, but her balance faltered, and she stumbled. Whitehall activated his enforcer technique, closing the distance in an instant and catching her before she could fall. The last thing she saw before losing control of her limbs was a green hand covering her nose. As soon as she inhaled the toxic gas Whitehall emitted, she was paralysed from the neck down.

  Mercy lay on the ground, her body stiff and unyielding, her lips pressed tightly together in defiance. Her eyes, however, betrayed a flicker of panic as Whitehall loomed over her, holding a single black feather plucked from Meatball. The garuda, perched nearby, seemed entirely unfazed, her focus entirely on cycling. Eithan, meanwhile, sat cross-legged a few paces away, his expression a mix of amusement and mild curiosity as he watched the scene unfold.

  "Never," Mercy mumbled through clenched teeth, her voice muffled but resolute.

  Whitehall crouched beside her, the feather held delicately between his fingers. He brought it close to her face, letting it hover just above her nose. "You're making this harder than it needs to be," he said, his tone calm but firm.

  Mercy's eyes widened as she realised what he was planning. She tried to turn her head away, but her paralysis left her completely at his mercy. "Don't you dare," she hissed, though her voice lacked its usual confidence.

  Whitehall's single visible eye glinted with determination. "You leave me no choice," he said, his voice low. With a flick of his wrist, he brushed the feather against her nose.

  Mercy's breath hitched, and her body twitched involuntarily. She clamped her lips shut even tighter, but a faint, almost imperceptible squeak escaped her. Whitehall moved the feather to her feat, tracing it lightly along the edge. Mercy's eyes watered as she used whatever willpower she had to resist.

  "She took it," Lindon said, his voice tinged with awe as he watched Mercy cycling on the grass , her body still flat but her spirit and soul already beginning to shift and grow stronger.

  "Bleed and bury me," Yerin muttered, her arms crossed as she stared at the scene. This was one of the rare moments she spoke more than a few words to Whitehall, but her curiosity had clearly gotten the better of her. "I was sure she'd rather die than take the Heaven's Drop. How'd you do it?"

  Whitehall sat on a nearby tree stump, his right leg crossed over his left. His arms were folded, and his masked face was partially obscured by the shadows cast by the clouds overhead. A single black feather rested behind his ear as he turned to Yerin, his single visible eye glinting with satisfaction.

  "No matter how determined or powerful anyone is," he said, his voice low and icy, "none can stand up to being tickled."

  Yerin blinked, then let out a snort of laughter. "Tickled? You're joking."

  Whitehall's expression didn't change. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

  Yerin shook her head, a grudging smile tugging at her lips. "You're a madman, you know that? Tickling a Monarch's daughter."

  Whitehall leaned back against the tree, his posture relaxed but his tone still cool . "Desperate times call for desperate measures."

  Eithan, who had been watching the exchange with obvious delight, clapped his hands together. "Well, I must say, that was one of the most entertaining and creative displays of persuasion I've ever witnessed. Well done, Whitehall. Truly, well done."

  Iteration requested. Amalgam.

  Date. Denied

  Report Complete.

  "You know, I don't think Valin meant this when he sent you out here alone," Cornelia complained, her voice dripping with sarcasm. The enchanted doll's porcelain face remained expressionless, but her tone was as sharp as ever.

  Valiar shrugged, his boots crunching softly on the forest floor as he walked. "He didn't give me any explicit orders."

  Cornelia sighed—a sound that had become all too familiar these days. "Besides," Valiar continued, trying to justify himself, "I'm just returning her flowers."

  "Sure you are," Cornelia shot back, her tone dry. "And it has absolutely nothing to do with how beautiful she is."

  Valiar's cheeks flushed, and he looked away, hoping to hide his embarrassment. "She's not that beautiful," he muttered, though the heat in his face betrayed him.

  "That's a lie," Cornelia said flatly. "You talk in your sleep."

  Valiar groaned, trying to ignore the comment. He glanced around, his eyes scanning the dense undergrowth. "The trail ends here," he said, abruptly changing the subject. He was sure Cornelia knew what he was doing, but she let it slide —for now .

  As he crouched low to examine the ground, a blade whizzed past his head, embedding itself into the trunk of a nearby tree with a dull thunk. Valiar froze, his heart pounding as he unsheathed his knife, his instincts kicking in.

  "Who are you?" a woman's voice called out, sharp and commanding.

  Valiar turned slowly, his eyes widening as he saw her. She stood a few paces away, her stance poised and ready, a throwing knife balanced expertly in her hand. Her beauty was striking—her piercing eyes, her flowing hair, the way the dappled sunlight seemed to dance around her. For a moment, Valiar was utterly tongue-tied.

  He looked away sheepishly, his cheeks burning. "I won't ask again," the woman said, her voice cold. Another knife flew past him, landing dangerously close to his head.

  Panicking, Valiar quickly hid the hand holding his knife behind his back and extended the other, the one clutching the bouquet of flowers. "Hold on, I'm just returning your flowers," he said quickly, his voice tinged with desperation. "I mean no harm."

  "You and your kind always mean harm," the woman growled, her eyes narrowing.

  "My kind?" Valiar asked, genuinely confused.

  "Chained," she said, her gaze flicking to the markings on his forearm.

  Valiar glanced down at the intricate chains etched into his skin. "This?" he asked, pointing to his forearm.

  The woman's eyes narrowed further, and she stared at him intently. Valiar looked away, his blush deepening. Something in his expression must have given him away because the woman's stern demeanour faltered for a moment .

  "Are you blushing?" she asked, her voice tinged with bafflement.

  Valiar turned back to meet her gaze, his mouth opening to deny it, but no words came out. He looked away again, his face burning with embarrassment.

  "I can't believe this is happening," the woman muttered, her tone a mix of disbelief and exasperation. She sighed, shaking her head.

  "Leave," she said, her voice firm.

  Valiar looked up, his heart sinking. "Wait, I just—"

  "Leave," she repeated, more sternly this time.

  "Come on," Cornelia's voice chimed in, softer now. "Imagine if you were her."

  Valiar sighed, his shoulders slumping. He could understand that. Without another word, and with his head hung low, he turned and walked away, the forest swallowing him as he disappeared into the shadows.