The vice-captain lay twitching in the dirt, his body curled into itself like a child caught in nightmare. But the real storm hadn't passed yet.
The barbarian leader's eyes snapped back to me—then to Herrick.
With a blood-soaked cry, he rushed forward, weapon high, rage overriding reason.
But Herrick… hadn't dropped his sword.
Despite the stab in his shoulder, despite the blood soaking through his armor, despite the betrayal that would have broken lesser men—he moved.
Fast.
Clean.
Final.
His blade flashed upward in a brutal arc, carving through the barbarian's torso.
The enemy's momentum carried him forward a step before his body crumpled, lifeless, the howl dying on his lips.
Silence returned, thick and stunned.
The few remaining barbarians—already wavering—were quickly overwhelmed by our surviving squad. The clashing steel faded into dying screams, then… nothing but the crackling of distant fire and the sound of labored breathing.
Herrick stumbled back, dropping to one knee beside me.
"That… was for my men," he muttered, spitting blood onto the grass. His eyes flicked to me once more, this time filled not with disappointment—but curiosity. And something else. Fear, perhaps.
I said nothing.
Instead, I turned toward the corpse of the barbarian leader, his massive form lying broken in the soil.
Something had been clenched tight in his fist, even in death.
I pried it open.
A scroll—worn, blood-smeared, sealed with an old wax crest I didn't recognize. But the moment I touched it… my mana reacted. The faint silver mist curled around the parchment like a lover recognizing its kin.
Breaking the seal, I unraveled the scroll.
Inside was a map.
Old. Cryptic. Etched in ink that shimmered faintly under the moonlight.
Across the top, in elegant script, was written:
"The Road to Elysia — Paradise of the Elves."
I stared at it, unmoving. Something stirred in the pit of my stomach. Not recognition… but resonance. Like an echo from another life. A truth too far to reach—but close enough to haunt.
This… wasn't just treasure.
This was a secret.
A dangerous one.
Something Valyra had wanted hidden. No wonder she'd sent a squad. No wonder she'd sent me.
"What did you find?" Herrick rasped beside me.
"A map," I couldn't lie.
His eyes lingered on me for a moment too long—but he didn't press.
Behind us, the wounded groaned, and the dying whispered their final regrets. The vice captain, unconscious, was being dragged away by a pair of survivors. No one looked at me directly—but I could feel it. Their unease. Their questions.
And now, I had one of my own.
What was Elysia?
I returned to the edge of the battlefield, my legs still weak from the surge of mana. The air was heavy with smoke and silence now. A dozen men lay sprawled like broken dolls across the grass, blood mixing into the soil.
And there—slumped against the shattered remains of a supply crate—was Brenn.
His back rested awkwardly, one arm limp and soaked crimson. His other hand gripped his side where the blade had struck. But the color had already drained from his face. His eyes were open… but empty.
I knelt beside him, my fingers trembling.
His last expression wasn't of pain—it was peace.
A shallow peace earned by shielding someone like me.
I closed his eyes with one hand. He had always done more than his share—carried the burdens I was too slow or weak to lift. He said we'd return together.
He never asked for thanks. Only trust.
And now…
He was gone.
The journey back to the Clover Capital was quieter than anyone could've predicted. A third of the squad had died in battle. The rest limped beside the bloodied caravan as we dragged our wounded and dead.
The vice captain, wrapped in enchanted chains, was gagged and unconscious. His wrists glowed with the binding rune Herrick himself had etched into the cuffs.
Beside him, his lover, the healer who once giggled at his side, wept—but her hands were also tied. There was no pity in the eyes of the surviving soldiers. Only disgust.
Herrick's face remained impassive, but the way he glared at the back of the vice's head said more than words ever could.
"The court will strip them," someone whispered. "And she… well, lovers of traitors don't last long in the capital."
As for me, I kept Brenn's broken sword at my side.
Not as a weapon.
But as a reminder.
Castle Kira —
Back within the cold marble halls of House Kira, Valyra stood alone in her grand study.
The moonlight painted her silver hair in soft hues as she poured over documents. Her gaze, for once, was not fixed on war plans or espionage—it lingered on a velvet box.
Inside it, a strand of Black hair.
Finesse's.
She touched it gently, her expression unreadable. Perhaps even regretful.
Then—a breeze, but no open windows.
A rustle, but no footsteps.
From the corner of the room, the shadows moved.
They unfolded.
A figure emerged from the veil of darkness—old, thin as bone, wrapped in deep grey robes that seemed woven from dust and secrets. His face was carved by time itself. His left eye was covered by an iron monocle. His right gleamed unnaturally white.
The Minister of the King
No one had spoken his name aloud in the last two decades.
Valyra stiffened. "You."
"You forget easily," the minister rasped. "That is not like you, Old Lady."
"I forget nothing," she said coolly. "Least of all my mission."
The old man stepped forward, the surrounding air colder now. "Then why are you playing games? Why entangle yourself with Darius again? You know what he cost us."
Valyra's eyes flared. "He is the key. The boy—his son—has begun to awaken. And Elysia has been rediscovered."
"Elysia," the minister echoed, almost wistful. "That cursed paradise…"
His white eye narrowed. "You are not to lose yourself in old feelings. Love is not a currency we afford anymore. Not after what happened 100 years ago."
"I am in control," she replied, voice low.
The minister's tone sharpened, biting. "You must find the perfect vessel, Valyra. Nothing more. You were made for this. You were bound by blood and oaths before you ever learned to walk."
"I remember," she whispered, teeth clenched.
He turned back into the shadows but paused before vanishing. "Then act like it. Finish what was started. And remind the boy… who he serves."
The shadows swallowed him whole.
Valyra stood in silence for a long time.
Then she reached for the glass of wine on her desk—and crushed it in her palm, letting the blood mix with the vintage.
Her smile was bitter.
"Soon," she murmured. "Soon, I will take everything from them."