Year 3035, city Venai

  “When you do not recognize the wrongs of the past, the future takes its revenge.”

  -Ian C. Esslemont, Stonewielder

  

  10 years later.

  “Thousands of years ago, there was a deity—not quite a goddess, but a galactic being, a keeper of the cosmos—named Callisto. She maintained the balance of the galaxy, ensuring that every star we see in the night sky remained safe.

  Callisto was the creator of our galaxy, one of the most powerful beings to ever exist. Without her, Earth would not be. She shaped our universe, bringing forth the planets and the stars.

  But over time, her power began to wane, growing weaker and weaker until she could no longer sustain herself. Knowing that she would soon fade away, she released her energy, letting it flow freely through the cosmos until her existence was no more.

  Callisto let her power run free to protect us, the creation she had nurtured. To this day, we do not know where her essence resides. It may surround our planet like an unseen shield, or perhaps it drifts through the cosmos, shining like distant stars. We may never know.”

  Marine pushes her glasses up and turns to the next page of the book, the children around her listening intently.

  “Even though Callisto is not considered a goddess, people still pray to her. They believe that what she did was an act of divine protection—a holy shield meant to keep them safe. Every night, they offer prayers of gratitude, asking Callisto to watch over their children, bring them luck, and bless them with a better life.”

  “I want to pray to Callisto!” a boy exclaims.

  “But what if she’s not real?” a girl beside him murmurs, making the boy pout.

  Marine smiles, her auburn hair swaying in its braid as she leans in.

  “We don’t know—that’s the point. We may never know if Callisto truly existed, but isn’t that the case with every legend and story we hear? Whose parents pray to Ares?” She looks around and sees many hands go up. “See? And do we know for certain that the god of war ever existed? No. We hear stories, we pass down legends, but we can never be sure if they are real.

  The only thing that keeps us going is hope. We all want something to believe in, something to rely on. That’s why we have gods. We pray—not because we know they exist, but because we want to believe. Hope is what keeps us alive.”

  “Do you pray to Callisto, Miss Marine?” a girl asks.

  Marine smiles and nods. “I do. I like to believe that our galaxy was created by her.” She then stands up, sets the book aside, and claps her hands. “Well, well, children, that’s it for today.”

  A few disappointed murmurs ripple through the room, making Marine chuckle. “We’ll continue in the next lesson.”

  Some children begin gathering their things, while others trickle toward the door, where a few parents are already waiting outside. The warm glow of the afternoon sun filters through the classroom’s high windows, casting long shadows over the wooden desks.

  Then, the door opens again. A man steps inside, clad in full armor that catches the light as he moves. As always, he carries himself with quiet authority—a royal guard with black hair and a neatly kept mustache. His dark eyes scan the room, sharp and assessing, until they land on his daughter.

  He smiles and strides toward her, his golden armor clinking softly. Some of the children pause, watching in silent awe.

  Marine approaches with a warm smile. “Ah, Sir Marco, your daughter was an excellent student today, as always.” She glances down at the 11-year-old girl, who clutches her book tightly to her chest, her gaze flicking between her father and the ground.

  Holding his helmet under one arm, Marco nods with a small smile. “Evie is always well-behaved.” He pats his daughter’s head, but she barely reacts, already focused on the door.

  Marine watches the quiet exchange, then tilts her head slightly. “I couldn’t help but notice you arrived earlier than usual today.”

  Marco nods. “I had an early break from work. But with the prince’s birthday tonight, I’ll be on duty at the palace ball.”

  Evie, now packed and ready, stands by the doorway, shifting her weight impatiently.

  “Oh, security must be tight tonight,” Marine muses. “Hopefully, there won’t be a need for violence.”

  Marco’s smile falters for the briefest moment. His grip tightens slightly around his helmet before he catches himself, forcing his expression back to normal. If Marine notices, she doesn’t say anything.

  “I won’t keep you any longer, then,” she says with a kind smile. “May the day bring you luck.”

  Marco nods. “And to you as well.”

  With that, he turns and steps out of the classroom, his golden armor glinting in the fading light. Evie walks beside him, her small hand wrapped in his, her quiet footsteps barely making a sound against the stone floor.

  Today is a special day in Venai—a significant day for the prince. It is his 18th birthday, and to celebrate, the palace doors will be opened to the public. As the heir to the throne, this day holds great importance for him.

  The streets are alive with excitement. Markets are bustling, and airships soar across the clear blue sky. Children run about, their laughter filling the air. On the sidelines of the street, two guards stand watch.

  A man and a woman. Their golden armor marks them as more than ordinary guards—they are Royal Guards, the most loyal protectors of the crown. Betraying their oath of unwavering loyalty would mean facing a dire and possibly fatal punishment. Every Royal Guard is given a choice: they may decline the honor and remain a regular guard, or they may accept, pledging their undying loyalty to the crown, vowing to serve until their last breath.

  “Children… ugh.”

  The female Royal Guard scowls as a group of kids dashes past, their laughter ringing through the street.

  Lora, in her late thirties, stands rigid, her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun. Tan skin glistens under the relentless sun, and sharp brown eyes track the children with barely concealed disdain. She grimaces. “Where are their parents? They shouldn’t be running around the streets alone.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re cursing at them or actually worried about their safety,” the man beside her teases, crossing his arms.

  Zeke, about the same age, has bronze skin, short dark brown hair damp with sweat, and sharp brown eyes that gleam with amusement. Unlike Lora, he leans against a stone pillar, exuding ease despite the heat.

  “Neither,” Lora scoffs. “Those rats can fend for themselves.”

  “Funny,” Zeke says, grinning. “You were a rat once too.”

  Lora turns to glare at him, but he smirks and looks away before she can say anything.

  She groans, shifting in her gleaming golden armor, which feels more like a furnace than protection. “Why are we even here? Shouldn’t we be at the palace, letting the other guards handle street duty? I swear, I’m sweating so much I’m creating new bodily fluids.”

  “Firstly—ew.” Zeke wrinkles his nose. “I really didn’t need to know that.”

  Lora rolls her eyes as he continues, “Secondly, His Majesty already has more than enough guards hovering over him and his son today. So here we are, standing around, wasting our lives because apparently, we have nothing better to do.”

  He sighs, shifting his weight. “Besides, palace duty isn’t all that great. Do you really want to spend hours standing in a stuffy hall, pretending not to listen to nobles complain about taxes?”

  Lora exhales sharply, muttering under her breath. “I’d take politics over heatstroke.”

  Zeke chuckles, tilting his head back toward the sky. Airships drift overhead, their shadows passing over the bustling streets.

  “Hey, isn’t that Marine?”

  Lora’s voice makes Zeke follow her gaze. Through the bustling marketplace, he spots a familiar head of auburn hair swaying with each step. The woman wears a flowing yellow dress patterned with delicate flowers, standing out amid the crowd.

  “Huh… I think so.” He lifts his arm and waves. “HEY, MARINE! MARINE, HEY!”

  Several passersby pause to glance at him, some raising their eyebrows in confusion. Lora crosses her arms, unimpressed. “I think she can’t hear you.” Then she raises her own arm, voice ringing out louder, “MARINEEEEEEEE! OVER HERE!”

  Zeke immediately joins her, both of them now flailing their arms like lunatics.

  Meanwhile, Marine stands at a bakery stall, completely unbothered. The scent of honey and warm bread drifts through the air as the baker hands her a golden loaf. “Is that all, my lady?” he asks.

  Marine nods with a warm smile. “Yes, thank you. How much do I owe you?”

  From across the street, the yelling intensifies.

  “MARINEEEEEEE!”

  “OVER HERE, MARINEEEEEE!”

  The baker hesitates, then glances over her shoulder. “Uh… Miss, I think two royal guards are desperately trying to get your attention.”

  Marine doesn’t even turn her head. She simply takes a slow bite of her honey bread, savoring the sweetness before replying, “Oh, let them scream.”

  The baker raises an eyebrow at her, clearly puzzled.

  She smiles and places a few extra coins onto the counter. “You know what? Here’s a little tip.”

  With that, she hums to herself and strolls away, the golden crust of the bread crunching softly in her hands.

  Back across the street, Zeke and Lora watch in disbelief as Marine walks off without even acknowledging them.

  Lora exhales through her nose. “She’s ignoring us, isn’t she?”

  Zeke lowers his arm, sighing. “Yup.”

  "Hey! Stop that thief! He stole my baby!"

  Lora and Zeke spun around just in time to see a man sprint past them, cradling what appeared to be a small baby in his arms. Behind him, a woman stood frozen, her hands trembling as she sobbed helplessly.

  Lora’s eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? A baby?"

  “No time to complain,” Zeke said, already lunging forward.

  Lora groaned. “Running in this armor? You’ve gotta be kidding me.” But she took off after him.

  The thief was fast, his feet barely touching the ground as he tore through the alley. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting an easy escape—only to see two guards closing in. His grin faltered, his pace quickening.

  Zeke drew his gun and fired a net, but the thief took a sharp right, narrowly dodging it.

  “Shit,” Zeke cursed, waving a hand at Lora. “Go right! Cut him off!”

  Lora nodded and veered down the adjacent path.

  Zeke pushed forward, his armor weighing him down. The thief, desperate, shoved over a stack of wooden crates. They crashed into Zeke’s path, forcing him to stumble. By the time he steadied himself and reached for his gun again—

  A gunshot rang out.

  The thief lurched forward, a dark red stain blooming on his shoulder. Another shot—his other arm snapped backward. Blood splattered against the alley wall. He cried out but barely managed to keep hold of the baby.

  Zeke’s stomach dropped. No. No way.

  The thief stumbled, his grip weakening.

  The baby tumbled from his arms.

  Lora burst from the other path, diving forward and catching the child just before it hit the ground. She exhaled sharply, holding the baby close as it let out a frightened wail.

  Zeke’s gaze snapped to her—she wasn’t the one who fired. Then he saw her.

  A figure emerged from the shadows, long black hair framing a pale face, gray armor catching the dim alley light. The thief writhed on the ground, groaning, as the woman strode forward, gun still trained on him. Without hesitation, she knelt, flipped him onto his stomach, and cuffed him as if the blood pooling beneath him was nothing more than an inconvenience.

  Zeke’s hands clenched into fists. "Sora!" His voice echoed off the alley walls as he stormed toward her. "What the hell was that?!"

  Sora de Vamirel barely acknowledged him. Twenty-four years old, a sharpshooter with a record most soldiers could only dream of. But her greatest strength—and her greatest flaw—was her relentless focus.

  "I caught the thief," she stated flatly, holstering her gun.

  Zeke let out a harsh breath, rubbing his temples. "You shot the thief! While he was holding a baby! That is strictly against protocol!"

  Sora tilted her head, her dark eyes flickering to the child in Lora’s arms. "But I didn’t shoot the baby," she replied matter-of-factly. "As you can see, it’s still alive."

  Lora pressed her lips together, trying—and failing—to stifle a giggle.

  Zeke shot her a sharp glare. She quickly turned away, but the baby remained fixated on Sora, big, curious eyes locked onto the woman who had just nearly turned it into collateral damage.

  For a moment, Sora simply stared back. Her face remained unreadable, but there was a beat—a flicker of something in her expression, almost too brief to catch. Then, without another word, she yanked the thief to his feet, ignoring his pained groans.

  Zeke exhaled heavily, shaking his head. "One of these days, Sora, this is going to land you in real trouble."

  "But damn, this kid has more guts than me," Lora muttered with a grin.

  Zeke rolled his eyes.

  Sora remained silent. The baby’s cries grew louder, and Lora groaned. "Alright, I’m gonna go return this little one to his mother." She shot Zeke a pointed look. "Don’t kill her." Then, turning to Sora, she smirked. "Good luck with the old man."

  And with that, she left.

  Zeke let out a sigh and knelt beside the thief, pulling out a cloth to tend to his wounds—just enough to keep him from passing out before they reached the cells. The thief groaned in pain.

  Sora stood still, watching him in silence.

  "He’ll survive the trip. It’s not far," she said finally.

  "Still." Zeke exhaled. "You shouldn’t have done that, Sora. How many times has this happened now?" He gave her a tired look. "You just got reinstated after the last incident—when you shot at an assassin and ended up injuring an innocent woman."

  "It wasn’t a fatal wound—"

  "It was still a bullet wound," he cut her off. "If there’s even a chance of harming an innocent, you let the target go."

  Sora sighed, crossing her arms. Finally, her usual unreadable expression wavered as she glanced away.

  "I can’t cover for you every time, you know," Zeke continued, his voice quieter but firm. "If you keep this up, one day, it won’t just be a warning. It’ll be worse."

  "I know," she said, her voice unusually tense.

  Zeke studied her for a moment before standing up, gripping the thief’s cuffs. His gaze locked onto hers.

  "You could make a perfect royal guard, you know," he sighed. "But if you can’t show even a little care for innocents—even for the bad guys—" He glanced at the half-conscious thief. "There’s little chance for you to grow."

  Sora’s expression didn’t change, but the slight clench of her jaw gave her away.

  Zeke turned to leave, dragging the thief behind him. But just before stepping out of the alley, he hesitated. Glancing back, he found Sora still standing there, her posture rigid, eyes shadowed in the dim light.

  "Are you on duty tonight?" he asked. "At the prince’s birthday?"

  She nodded. "Yes, guarding the front gates."

  Zeke exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before looking at her one last time. "Think about what I said."

  Then he walked off, his footsteps fading into the distance.

  Sora remained still, watching him disappear. The alley was silent now, save for the faint murmur of the city beyond. Slowly, her fingers curled into a fist. She let out a quiet breath, her gaze dropping to the blood-stained ground before she turned and walked off.

  

  City of Venai

  Council Chambers

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  "We can’t tolerate this—"

  "Yes, but we can’t rush into it," Freja interrupted Theodore, her voice calm but firm.

  The grand chamber was bathed in golden sunlight filtering through tall windows, yet the warmth did little to ease the tension in the air. Freja, a woman in her forties with long gray hair, brown eyes, and tan skin, sat at the large round table, her green gown contrasting against the polished wood. Across from her sat three others, their expressions grim.

  "I agree with Freja," Dornan said, his deep voice steady. A man in his forties with a bald head and a neatly trimmed beard, his sharp blue eyes flicked between the others. Dressed in a dark red suit with golden embroidery, he radiated authority. "For the past month, bodies have been appearing near the palace grounds—consistently and without explanation. If the one responsible is trying to send a message, we can’t afford to react rashly. We must let them believe we are unaware, even as we prepare."

  "But we can’t just wait," Theodore interjected, his deep, raspy voice laced with frustration. His fingers drummed against the table. A man in his fifties with short black hair and pale skin, his dark eyes burned with urgency. "Whoever is behind this, they aren’t stopping. The longer we hesitate, the more we risk."

  "And that is the problem we must solve," Freja said smoothly. "But this isn’t just someone. This isn’t the work of an ordinary assassin."

  Her gaze shifted to Deja, who had remained silent throughout the discussion, lost in thought.

  Deja, a woman in her sixties with long brown hair, dark skin, and piercing hazel eyes, inhaled slowly.

  "Deja, am I right to assume the bodies have been examined?" Freja asked.

  Deja nodded, her voice quiet but firm. "Yes. And we still don’t know how they died." She glanced down at the report in front of her. "Our healers believe it’s some kind of shock, but beyond that... we have no explanation."

  She leaned forward slightly, folding her hands together. "Each victim died the same way."

  A heavy pause filled the room.

  "Eyes wide open—completely black." She read from her notes. "The skin around the chest is darkened, though we don’t yet understand why. There are no signs of wounds, no blood loss, no poison detected in their system."

  She hesitated, then added, "And their bodies are cold—not like a normal corpse, but unnaturally so. As if the warmth was drained from them the moment they died. As if something took it."

  The chamber fell into silence.

  "Today is the ball," Freja began slowly, her gaze shifting to Theodore with a questioning look. The man nodded in confirmation.

  "Guards will be stationed at every corner of the palace grounds," he stated. "Two guards will remain at His Majesty’s and his son’s side at all times, along with a stationed sharpshooter." Leaning back in his chair, he exhaled. "I advised Titus that it would be wiser for his son to celebrate his birthday with a smaller gathering, but he refused. Since the prince is turning eighteen and will soon take the throne, he insisted on a grand celebration."

  He sighed before continuing. "Has anyone noticed anything unusual? Any suspicious figures near the palace walls?"

  Freja shook her head. "Every guard has reported seeing and hearing nothing—except for one. The last body we discovered was found at the back of the palace grounds. Sir Marco was on watch that night. He reported hearing a scream, but by the time he arrived, the body was already there, with no one else in sight."

  "Whoever they are, they know exactly what they’re doing," Deja said slowly, her gaze sweeping across the room. "And it’s clear they’ve been planning this for a long time."

  Before anyone could respond, the heavy doors swung open. A moment of silence followed as King Titus stepped inside.

  The man commanded attention without a word. Tall and broad-shouldered, his presence alone carried the weight of authority. Shoulder-length gray hair framed his face, and his piercing blue eyes surveyed the council with quiet intensity. His long beard, well-kept but grizzled with age, only added to his formidable appearance. Dressed in black and gold royal tunic, he looked every bit the warrior-king he had once been.

  "Titus," Freja acknowledged, her voice level but firm. "The meeting has already begun."

  "I had a small situation to handle," Titus responded, his deep voice calm but commanding as he took his seat at the table. "But I’m well aware of the situation with the unexplained deaths."

  He exhaled, his fingers tapping against the polished wood. "I’ve already taken precautions for tonight’s ball."

  A flicker of unease passed through the room. Freja exchanged a glance with Deja, who shifted in her seat. Theodore’s jaw tightened, while Dornan simply crossed his arms, watching the king carefully.

  "A plan?" Freja prompted.

  Titus leaned forward, his gaze hardening. "Let’s just say—if this assassin makes a move tonight, they won’t leave alive."

  A heavy silence followed.

  Theodore narrowed his eyes. "You’re setting a trap."

  Titus’s lips curled slightly, though whether it was amusement or something darker was unclear.

  "Something like that," he murmured.

  

  Hours Later

  The Prince’s Birthday

  At the Palace

  The grand palace hall is filled with nobles, elegantly dressed and engaged in lively conversation. Lavish tables overflowing with food are scattered throughout the space, while the enormous windows reveal a night sky glittering with stars. It is a significant day for the kingdom—Prince Gabriel’s eighteenth birthday.

  Standing off to the side, Prince Gabriel watches the festivities unfold. His wavy blond hair is neatly cut short, his pale skin illuminated by the warm glow of the chandeliers. His sharp blue eyes—so much like his father’s—observe the room with quiet detachment. He wears a regal black tunic adorned with intricate golden embroidery, a symbol of his status.

  "My family has belonged to the noble class for generations. My father fought in the war, and—"

  The noblewoman speaking to him continues her story, but Gabriel’s attention drifts. His gaze sweeps across the hall, taking in the scene before him. Music fills the space, and couples twirl gracefully across the polished marble floor. Laughter rings out from different corners of the room.

  Not far from where he stands, a palace guard lingers—a silent shadow assigned to watch over him for the entirety of the evening.

  Looking to his right, Gabriel spots his father, King Titus, deep in conversation with another noble. Likely discussing business, he assumes.

  He had opposed the idea of a grand celebration, not only because of the recent assassinations near the palace but because social gatherings never suited him. Especially not on his birthday.

  If it were up to him, he would have spent the evening in the library, buried in books, or somewhere quiet, away from the ceaseless chatter and expectations.

  "Prince Gabriel?"

  The voice pulls him from his thoughts. He turns back to the noblewoman—Maria, if he remembers correctly—who greets him with a bright smile.

  "Mhm?" His brows furrow slightly.

  "I asked if you would like to dance?"

  "Oh." He glances around as the music shifts to a more formal melody.

  With a small sigh, he forces a polite smile before bowing slightly and offering her his arm. "Sure."

  Maria takes it with a delighted expression, and together, they step onto the dance floor.

  Tonight feels unusually long. Perhaps it's the significance of the day, or maybe it’s just one of those nights that stretch on forever.

  Sora stands at the back gates, rigid and alert. A few meters away, Marco stands beside her, silent and unmoving. Both of them are assigned to guard this entrance tonight.

  Unlike Sora, Marco’s royal guard armor gleams under the faint torchlight, making him stand out. His stance is disciplined, gaze fixed firmly ahead.

  Sora mirrors his focus, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the gate. The cool night air brushes against her skin, yet there’s an underlying heaviness to it.

  After a long silence, Marco finally speaks.

  “You’re the daughter of Theodore de Vamirel, aren’t you?”

  At the sound of his voice, Sora tenses. Her grip tightens around the hilt of her sword as she turns her head slightly, glancing at him. But Marco remains staring forward.

  “Yes,” she replies curtly, her tone unreadable. She quickly looks away.

  “Your father must be proud,” Marco continues. “To have a daughter who’s such a skilled sharpshooter.”

  Sora’s hands slowly curl into fists.

  Proud? Hardly. If anything, she doubted she had ever reached his expectations. If he were proud, he’d never said it.

  “Being a guard means less action with a gun and more with a sword,” she says flatly. “So it makes no difference.”

  Marco chuckles softly. The sound is unexpected, breaking the tension just slightly. Sora’s stoic expression flickers with brief confusion.

  “Everyone starts somewhere,” he muses. “Maybe one day, you’ll find the position that truly suits you.”

  Sora doesn’t respond. Instead, she tilts her head up slightly, gazing at the sky. The stars glimmer in the vast expanse of darkness, undisturbed.

  Yet something feels off.

  The music from inside the palace continues—soft strings, muffled laughter. But beyond that, beyond the walls and the flickering torches, there is only silence.

  A silence too deep. Too unnatural.

  The air, once cool, suddenly feels heavier.

  She shifts her stance, fingers twitching slightly at her side.

  Something shifts to her right—a flicker of movement, a shadow gliding through the darkness.

  Sora’s head snaps toward it, instincts flaring, but there’s nothing. Only empty air.

  Her grip tightens around the hilt of her sword. The hairs on her arms rise.

  “Something wrong?”

  Marco’s voice is calm, but when she glances at him, there’s a flicker of unease in his eyes, as if he senses something too.

  She turns back, scanning the dimly lit buildings. That’s when she hears it.

  A melody.

  Faint, almost delicate, yet unnervingly sharp—like a song plucked on the edge of a blade. It feels close. Closer than it should be.

  “Do you hear that?” she asks, her voice quieter now, controlled but wary.

  Marco frowns. “Hear what?”

  “The melody.”

  His gaze sharpens as he watches her. “You mean from inside the palace?”

  She shakes her head, slowly. No. The music from the ballroom is lighthearted, full of warmth and celebration. This is something else. It winds through the air like a whisper only she can hear, threading itself through her thoughts, crawling under her skin.

  A prickle of unease settles in her gut.

  Her eyes sweep the darkness, searching. Nothing but shadows. Nothing but silence.

  Then—a glint. A flicker of light near the gates.

  “There—”

  An explosion shatters the night.

  The far side of the palace erupts in a burst of fire and force, the shockwave slamming into them. Sora barely has time to shield her ears as screams rip through the air.

  Flames lick at the sky. Guards rush toward the chaos, shouts of panic cutting through the night. Somewhere, a woman wails.

  Even through the deafening noise, the melody lingers, weaving itself into the destruction.

  Then—she sees her.

  A figure draped in black, hood drawn low, slipping through the mayhem like a phantom.

  Sora doesn’t think.

  She moves.

  Her feet pound against the ground as she launches into a sprint, her body acting before her mind can catch up.

  “Sora—what the—?!”

  Marco’s voice is distant, lost in the roar of flames and the pounding of her own heartbeat.

  The hooded woman vanishes into the shadows.

  And Sora follows.

  Marco watches as the young guard vanishes into the darkness. He curses under his breath but doesn’t chase after her. Instead, he turns and sprints toward the palace.

  Chaos engulfs the grounds—flames crackle, screams pierce the night, and the acrid scent of smoke fills the air. He pushes through the panicked crowd, helping people to safety before grabbing a nearby guard by the arm, shouting over the noise.

  “Where is the king?”

  “The king and his son have been secured, Sir Marco!”

  Marco’s breath catches. His expression shifts from urgency to pure shock.

  “He’s alive?”

  The guard nods, though he shoots Marco a puzzled look.

  Marco exhales sharply, nodding in return before dashing off. A quiet curse slips past his lips, but he doesn’t stop. There are still people to save.

  Darkness. Shadows. Watching her.

  That’s what Sora feels as her steps take her deeper into the alleys of Venai. The woman ahead moves fast—too fast. Sora curses under her breath, trying to match her speed, but her armor weighs her down, making quick strides difficult.

  She catches a glimpse of the fleeing figure, and for a brief moment—maybe she imagines it—she sees a pair of green eyes flash over a shoulder, gleaming in the night, staring straight at her.

  Sora curses again. Still running, she glances down and pulls out her pistol. Shooting while sprinting will be difficult, but Sora isn’t just anyone. She knows how to shoot.

  The chase spills out of the dark alleys and into the open city. Though it’s the middle of the night, a few people still linger in the streets, watching with wide eyes as Sora sprints past. The cityscape blurs around her—towering buildings, some with lights glowing in their windows, others dark and lifeless. Steam rises from industrial vents as she weaves past factories, mechanical industries, and massive rotating gears.

  The path ahead straightens, and under the glow of the moon, Sora finally gets a clear sight of her target. She lifts her pistol.

  And fires.

  A sharp crack shatters the quiet night.

  Amazingly, the bullet finds its mark. The figure stumbles, just for a moment, before pushing forward. The shot landed—Sora can see the wound in the woman’s right upper arm—but she barely slows down.

  Sora groans in frustration. She’s a tough one. Why the hell is she so fast?

  Then, without warning, the woman makes a sharp turn. Sora follows—only to skid to a halt.

  She’s gone.

  Breathing hard, Sora scans the street. Silence. Did she just disappear?

  Then—a faint crack.

  Her head snaps upward just in time to see a figure slipping through a shattered window of a small shop wedged between two taller buildings. White, messy hair spills from beneath her fallen hood before she vanishes into the darkness inside.

  Sora doesn’t hesitate. She rushes forward, stopping just beneath the window, which is still wide open.

  Looks like someone forgot the most important rule, Sora thinks with a smirk. Never leave a window open when someone’s chasing you.

  Squeezing through the narrow frame is no easy task with her armor, but she manages, landing on the other side without making too much noise.

  As her boots touch the wooden floor, she grips her pistol tighter, her eyes sweeping across the shop. But the darkness is thick, swallowing everything.

  She notices fresh blood on the floorboards—likely from the wound. But the trail stops abruptly. She must have covered it up.

  Pistol raised, eyes scanning the darkness, Sora moves forward—slow, silent, deliberate. To her surprise, the floor doesn’t betray her with even the slightest creak. If she’s still here, she knows how to stay quiet.

  The dim glow of moonlight filters through a dust-covered window, casting long, warped shadows across the walls. The dark green wallpaper, faded with age, is lined with framed pictures—faces long forgotten, their eyes following her every move. Wooden dressers, cluttered with small figurines and mechanical trinkets, stand against the walls. Cabinets, filled with books and other objects, loom in the dim light.

  Sora follows a narrow corridor, stepping carefully. The air is thick, carrying the scent of old paper and machine oil. As she moves into the next room, her breath stills.

  A piano.

  At the center of the small living space stands a large wooden piano, its surface scratched and worn. A heavy rug, woven with intricate patterns, stretches across the floor, muffling her steps. To the side, a cluttered desk is covered in scattered papers and mechanical parts, as if someone had been working in a hurry.

  In the far corner, a small, threadbare couch sags beneath its own weight. Next to it, an old radio sits on a wooden crate, its dial stuck between stations. A few books lie open on the floor, their pages curling from age.

  The room is still. Too still.

  Then—a shift.

  Barely a sound, more of a feeling. The slightest change in the air. A presence.

  Sora grips her pistol tighter, her pulse steady but her instincts screaming.

  She’s not alone.

  Sora’s eyes are sharp, nearly glowing in the darkness as she scans the night. Her pistol remains raised, aimed at nothing—ready to fire the moment something lunges at her from the shadows.

  Then, suddenly, the radio stops.

  The static cuts out, leaving an eerie silence.

  And then—a melody begins to play.

  The shift is unnatural, as if someone has hijacked the signal. Sora exhales sharply, her grip on the pistol tightening. The melody—it’s familiar. The same one she heard at the palace. Soft, delicate piano notes, each one slicing through the quiet like a blade. A lullaby wrapped in sadness, buried beneath something darker.

  She steps closer.

  With every step, the melody grows louder. The air feels heavier, pressing against her. A chill creeps up her spine. She clenches her jaw and keeps moving.

  Another step.

  The music cracks, warping like a broken record. Then—silence.

  Sora stops in front of the radio.

  The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

  Then—movement. Behind her.

  Too late.

  An arm snakes around her neck, yanking her backward. Cold steel flashes— a knife, its edge grazing her throat. The pressure is just enough to warn her. One wrong move, and it will cut deep.

  Sora goes rigid. Her pulse hammers against her ribs.

  The figure behind her shifts slightly before a voice, smooth and melodic yet razor-sharp, breaks the silence.

  “Drop the gun.”

  Sora hesitates.

  She could twist out of the grip—maybe. But the knife is too close. The hold is too tight. And this woman, whoever she is, knows exactly what she’s doing.

  After a long second, the pistol slips from her grasp, hitting the carpet with a dull thud. A boot—black, scuffed—kicks it out of reach.

  “Do you have any other weapons on you?”

  “No,” Sora snaps.

  A soft chuckle. “Really?”

  The arm around her neck loosens just slightly. “Don’t try anything,” the woman warns as she begins patting down Sora’s armor. The knife remains at her throat, steady, unwavering.

  Another weapon clatters to the floor—Sora’s sword. A sharp kick sends it skidding away.

  After another moment of searching, the woman finally speaks again.

  “So, let’s try this nicely—why is a palace guard following me?”

  Sora scoffs. “Really? First of all, you’re the one running away from me. And weren’t you at the palace when it exploded?”

  A beat of silence. Then—

  “Oh, so you think I blew it up?” There’s a note of surprise in her voice, laced with something else—confusion, maybe. “That’s it?”

  Sora narrows her eyes. “Didn’t you? Sneaking around the gates in a hood?”

  “Well, no, I was actually—” A pause. “Taking a walk.”

  Sora exhales sharply. “That was such a weak lie, I could hear it from a mile away.”

  “Ouch. And here I thought my lying lessons were paying off.”

  “Stop fucking with me.”

  A quiet chuckle. “I think there’s been a big misunderstanding.”

  “I don’t think so.” Sora’s voice is firm. “Pointing a knife at a palace guard is a crime.”

  “I felt threatened.”

  “Still do?”

  “…Well, yes, actually.”

  Sora clenches her teeth, frustration simmering beneath her skin.

  Then—she notices it.

  Blood, dark and glistening, trailing down the hand gripping the knife.

  The wound. The one she shot.

  Instinct takes over.

  She lunges, seizing the woman’s injured arm. Her fingers press into the torn flesh, warm and slick, as she twists hard.

  A sharp, strangled cry.

  The knife wavers. Sora moves fast, pivoting to throw the woman off balance. Her hand flies to the woman’s throat, fingers tightening as she forces her down. The woman thrashes, but Sora holds firm, using her weight to keep her pinned. Her other hand still fights against the blade, the steel flashing in the dim light as the woman struggles to strike.

  Then—green eyes.

  Wild. Panicked.

  Sora presses harder, trying to force control—

  And then it happens.

  The melody.

  That same fucking melody.

  It doesn’t come from the radio this time.

  It comes from inside her mind.

  The notes crash into her skull—distorted, fractured, a thousand jagged pieces scraping against her thoughts. Each sharp piano key laces through her nerves, buzzing like static under her skin. It’s too loud, too sharp—like something is forcing its way into her head.

  Sora grits her teeth, but the sound intensifies, growing unbearable.

  “Stop!” she screams—at no one.

  The woman stills, staring at her.

  Sora’s breath catches. The melody twists, shattering into something more broken, more relentless. Her grip on the woman’s neck loosens. Her strength drains as the sound drowns everything else out.

  The world tilts.

  Her vision blurs.

  A hand reaches for her—fingers ghosting against her skin.

  Then—darkness.

  

  A Day Later

  At the Palace

  “How could this happen?!”

  Titus storms across the room, pacing back and forth, his fury echoing with every step. “I already gave the order—shoot on sight! So how in the hell did an explosion like this even occur?”

  A guard stands rigid nearby. “Your Majesty, we... we can’t explain it. One moment, everything was normal, and then—nothing. It was like we went blind. We could hear fire crackling before—” He swallows. “Before everything exploded.”

  Across the room, Lora and Zeke stand side by side, their expressions tense as they watch the king.

  Titus halts, exhaling sharply. He looks exhausted—perhaps from staying awake all night.

  “How many casualties?”

  “Twenty dead, over fifty injured.”

  Titus’ jaw tightens. His fists clench as if he’s restraining himself from punching the nearest wall.

  Then, the doors swing open.

  Sir Marco strides in, bowing swiftly. “Your Majesty,” he says, his face pale. “We have news.”

  Titus turns to him with a heavy sigh. “Speak.”

  Marco hesitates, just for a second, then continues. “Guard de Vamirel is missing. And today, while searching her barracks, we found traces of explosive powder—on her desk, on her bed. The same powder found at the explosion site.”

  A slow, dark anger creeps across Titus' face.

  Marco presses on. He looks away briefly before pulling something from his coat. “And… we found this at the scene.”

  He extends his hand.

  A medal badge—the mark of every palace guard. Titus takes it, turning it over in his palm. His eyes narrow as he reads the engraved name.

  Sora de Vamirel.

  Marco exhales. “There was no body found. But Your Majesty—when I was on duty with her, the moment the explosion went off... she ran.” His gaze flickers downward. “Sora de Vamirel planted the bomb.”

  Silence thickens the air.

  Lora and Zeke’s faces twist in shock and confusion.

  Titus stands still for a long moment. Then, his voice drops, low and cold.

  “Find her. No matter what it takes.”

  Marco bows. “As you wish.”

  

  A Dark Room, Somewhere Unknown

  "Did it work?"

  "Of course. We've turned the hunt around—now a palace guard is the one being hunted."

  "Perfect. I don’t want any more disappointments. This mistake was fatal."

  "What are your orders?"

  "Bring me the prince. And if you get the chance... kill his father."

  "My pleasure."

  "Oh, and one more thing."

  "Yes?"

  "Someone I haven't seen in years has resurfaced. Be a dear and find her—dead or alive, whichever you prefer."

  "Wait… you don’t mean—"

  A slow smile spreads across his face.

  "Lycoris."