Fate had a strange way of weaving its threads, binding souls who might never otherwise have crossed paths. Yet here, at the gates of Barcken, it was undeniable: the strands had converged.
Luke could still feel the warmth of Gareth's embrace lingering on his shoulders, the heavy clasp of Commander Alec's arms, and the piercing light of Saint Cynthia's gaze. Just hours before, the thought of being cornered, forced to act alone against the shadows of the Association, had nearly driven him to despair. And now—now the tide of destiny had turned.
An army had come. Not just any army, but knights of renown, generals whose names echoed through Virencia, the saint who stood as a beacon of Noirism's faith, and allies from across the southern lands. From banners to blades, it was as though the world itself had answered a silent call.
No one spoke of luck. No one dared call it a coincidence. The weight of inevitability pressed on them all. It was fate—nothing less—that had united them.
