His brother's stunned expression brought him satisfaction. "...You say the mages have been gathered? To what purpose?"

  "That remains unclear. Supposedly just a routine gathering? That's all Doruni would share with me. But I suspect something more complex at work." He retrieved the dice with practiced fingers. "A congregation of mages and warlocks on this scale—there's no precedent for it, at least not in the South. If the King of Brigar issued the summons, his motives cannot be innocent."

  "So you find it unlikely that the mages orchestrated this themselves?" His brother avoided meeting his gaze.

  "Indeed. And let us not forget, we have our own arcane practitioners."

  "Lostya?" Devalosfang recalled the cold, raven-haired woman whose diminutive stature belied her razor-sharp tongue. "What of Ash, Julia, and Aurelia—have they joined us?"

  "Hardly," Raveirmom replied with thinly veiled mockery. "You won't see them until the palace falls. Female warlocks would never sacrifice their precious dignity to squat in the wilderness chewing on hardtack. Julia informed me that telepathic communication has severe range limitations and remains vulnerable to magical eavesdropping."

  "This is—"

  "Their assessment, Del, not my conjecture," his brother said, setting the dice into a dizzying spin. "Let the cursed mages be damned. Now, one final question." He locked eyes with his brother. "Tell me, when this die stops spinning, which face will turn skyward?"

  "..." His brother glanced from him to the dice and back again. (What game is he playing at?) But he swallowed the question. "Five," he ventured, choosing arbitrarily.

  "Your reasoning?"

  "How in the nine hells should I know?" the sub-commander erupted. "It landed on six twice before, so logic dictates a different number now. What are you driving at? What's your grand strategy?!"

  "My thoughts? I believe it will show six again," Raveirmom replied, smiling calmly at his brother's mounting frustration as the die gradually slowed.

  The face showing six pointed toward the beer mug.

  Devalosfang remained motionless and silent. He failed to see the purpose of this charade. "You won, Raveirmom. So what? What's the big lesson here?" His brother's impassive smile only stoked his irritation. "Or is this merely entertainment at my expense?"

  The duke inclined his head slightly, gesturing for him to examine the result more carefully.

  "You grow more cryptic with each passing year, brother." As Devalosfang rose to his feet, he froze suddenly, as if struck by lightning.

  The uppermost face also showed six.

  He grasped his brother's ruse immediately. "You conniving—"

  Raveirmom's laughter filled the room as he tossed another die onto the table. "This is what our young knight tried to pocket." He pointed to the die resting on the table, every face bearing six dots. "And this," he said, retrieving the die he had just thrown, "is an honest one."

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  "You knew from the beginning?"

  His brother nodded. "I knew the moment it caught my eye. But this little game wasn't about punishing a cheating knight, Del." He flicked the honest die skyward. "Rather, since someone desired to 'watch,' I thought I'd give them something worth seeing."

  As the die reached its apex and began to descend, a massive shadow swooped through the open window. Devalosfang's sword cleared its scabbard on instinct, but the intruder's speed outmatched his reflexes. The dark silhouette crashed onto the wooden table, scattering cups and bottles in all directions. The sub-commander's blade was pinned beneath a powerful talon.

  "Aethelwing," Devalosfang breathed, recognizing the creature instantly.

  A colossal striped white wyvern dominated the table, its weight causing the wooden legs to groan in protest. Its head, tail, and the leading edges of its wings were snow-white, adorned with elongated, symmetrical stripes, while inky black plumage covered the remainder of its frame. The striped white wyvern is renowned as the world's largest avian species, with adults standing between 1.58 and 1.82 meters tall and wingspans ranging from 5.7 to 6.6 meters. The largest variant, the "White Wyvern-Heigel," has produced specimens with wingspans reaching 7.82 meters. An enraged striped white wyvern can hold its own against smaller dragon species such as Scale Dragons and Halberd Dragons, or even juvenile members of larger breeds.

  Aethelwing belonged to the formidable "White Wyvern-Heigel" lineage. It regarded Devalosfang imperiously before releasing his blade. "To think it's grown to such proportions..." the sub-commander muttered as he sheathed his sword.

  "Aethelwing," Raveirmom's voice softened with affection as he extended his right hand. The magnificent bird nuzzled against his palm, dropping the captured die into his waiting fingers.

  Devalosfang sank back into his seat. "Very well, I see you're not merely posturing." He observed Aethelwing and Raveirmom, struck by the realization that they resembled blood brothers more than he and Raveirmom ever had. "Enlighten me, then. What grand design have you conceived?"

  Raveirmom maintained his composed demeanor while Aethelwing beat its massive wings, churning the air into a tempest.

  Reef Keep was modest in size, dwarfed by the sprawling Bilatra Keep. Yet it boasted an unrivaled advantage: its intimate proximity to the sea. Siv Grace had been frail and sickly since infancy, the antithesis of her vibrant, effervescent sister. Her existence, while undeniably privileged, demanded unwavering compliance. By the exacting standards of noble daughters, she was exemplary—exceeding expectations even for one bearing the title "Princess of Duviliel." For as long as memory served, her parents had lavished their affection on her brother. Even between daughters, her healthy, radiant, perpetually smiling sister commanded greater favor.

  She comprehended neither her parents' reasoning nor her own aspirations. Her sister Claire had wed into Cynthia, separated only by a mountain range, while she had traversed the ocean to Shahani, adrift like a glass bottle on endless waves. Yet she longed not to disappoint her parents, to spare her royal father the burden of that familiar disheartened gaze.

  (Because I am a girl. ）She often soothed herself with this thought. （Because I am a frail, inarticulate, taciturn girl whose every attempt at smiling is dismissed as artifice.)

  "Such thoughts make bearing it easier," she whispered, submerging her head beneath the cinnamon-scented bathwater. Thus she could avoid seeing the handmaidens stationed around the chamber. The maidens of the Seven Seas Kingdoms were born and raised frolicking in salt water, their bronze skin a badge of heritage. Her alabaster complexion only emphasized her otherness.

  "...Where is Siv?" Fragments of conversation reached her ears. "...I see..."

  Wally's voice. She watched the languid rise of bubbles, each appearing ready to burst at the slightest touch. "Lydia!" Siv emerged from the water, cinnamon essence cascading down her silver tresses. "Help me dress."

  The young handmaiden approached with measured steps, her neck adorned with three crescent pendants crafted from Spiral Narwhal Bone. "My lady, Prince Wally seeks your company."

  "I'm aware." A violent shiver coursed through her as cold air met wet skin. "That's precisely why I require your assistance..."