The Empire of Miraphin – Year 461 AD
Her footsteps crept through the thick darkness, where the air was unnaturally cold, as if time itself had frozen in this place. The ground beneath her feet was slippery, and every step on the ancient stones echoed faintly, slicing through the stillness like a sword through mist. She felt the cold seep into her body, crawling into her bones, as if something within the tunnel refused to let her pass easily.
Pain coursed through her with every step, but it had become part of her condition—a heavy burden she'd grown used to carrying. The two arrows the enemy had lodged in her back hadn't stopped bleeding, and the blood that stained her jewel-adorned clothing mingled with the damp scent saturating the place. Her blood dripped slowly onto the stones, as though history itself was watching her in silence, awaiting the inevitable end.
But in the heart of that darkness, there was something else—something mysterious that stirred both anxiety and awe within her. A weight surrounded her, as if the very air had thickened, pressing on her chest, and the world around her was slowly narrowing. She reached out, running her hand along the cold walls, cautiously feeling her way forward, her senses on high alert for the unknown.
"...still... alive?" she whispered to herself, unsure if she was asking herself or the space around her—as if the answer to that question would unveil the secret of the tunnel. Her heart pounded faster, her whole body trembling—not just from pain, but from the terrifying sense that something was following her in the dark… something watching her, chasing her.
Suddenly, she felt something strange. As she neared the end of the tunnel, the weight on her chest grew heavier, as if she had come too close to something that should never be found. A faint light flickered in the distance, but it was unlike any other light. She felt drawn to it in a way that defied reason, like an invisible hand was pulling her forward.
The path was completely dark, yet far ahead, that faint glow shimmered, as if the tunnel was swallowing everything around her. And still, that light gleamed with an eerie intensity. Something inside her whispered that getting closer to it would reveal something that could change everything.
Her swollen eyes held a relentless resolve. Even amid the pain, she moved forward without hesitation. A strange sensation stirred inside her, as if an unseen force was pushing her onward. Each step brought her closer to a dream she had long thought impossible. She was no longer just a woman searching for something tangible—she was chasing her destiny, something hidden since the dawn of time.
Then, she stopped.
Before her was an opening in the rocks—dark, but glowing faintly with thin strands of light, as though it were calling to her. It whispered deep within her soul, beckoning her closer.
Her steps were heavy, hesitant—each one forced, yet necessary. But with every inch she moved forward, something inside her began to stir. A sense of life, as though the very fibers of her being were beginning to ignite.
At last, she crossed the threshold—and found herself face-to-face with the great cavern. The ground was blanketed in thick mist, the air heavy and suffocating, yet carrying an unexpected touch of enchantment.
And in the center of the cave… was something. Something that words could not describe. A massive essence, radiating a mysterious gray glow, pulsing and shining like a living heart. Misty lights swirled around it in bizarre motions, dancing in the darkness like trapped souls.
"The Essence… it's… real!," she whispered, barely able to push the words through her lips.
But the words caught in her throat. The truth was staring back at her. The Essence she had believed to be nothing more than legend—a dream beyond reach—was now in front of her. And it was real.
Everything inside her began to shake. Her joy, her terror, her awe—all fused into one monstrous emotion tearing at her heart.
But that wasn't all. There was another feeling—a strange pull, as if this Essence was a key to something greater, something she had yet to understand. Something that would change everything.
She stepped forward—then again—slowly, as if walking on the edge of consciousness. She was like someone half-unconscious, but in a state of euphoria. Her flowing white hair trailed behind her like a thin thread linking her to another world.
Each step brought her closer to the Essence's strange gravity, and the sensation of power surged through her veins. The blood still flowing from her wounds mixed with that ecstasy, and the pain on her face gave way to a deep longing.
Then suddenly, without warning, she lunged toward the Essence—as if no longer able to resist the desire to absorb it… to possess it. But she had no idea that this moment was the beginning of something entirely different… something from which there would be no return… something that would change her fate—and humanity's—forever.
State of Waves – Year 2025 AD
The school bus arrived in the town of Dreamcrown under a pale sunlight filtering through the old buildings. A group of students stood in a stone courtyard at the center of the town, which was once the beating heart of the Kingdom of Arcadia. The air was thick with the scent of the past—the smell of ancient stone mingling with the soft aroma of the books the students carried under their arms.
There stood a young man in his mid-twenties, his thin body bearing the clear marks of exhaustion, as though weighed down by years of toil and hard work. He wore a simple white linen shirt, slightly pale from fatigue, and light brown trousers suited to his role as a tour guide. Around his neck hung a worn-out name tag on a thin string, its faded writing barely legible: "Robert, Tour Guide."
His face radiated a humble liveliness, but under his eyes lingered dark circles—proof of many sleepless nights spent reading and preparing for his tours. His short blonde hair was slightly tousled, as if the wind had played with it during his strolls through the ruins. His blue eyes—despite the fatigue—shone with a quiet enthusiasm as he spoke about the ancient inscriptions on the walls.
In his right hand, scarred from years of fieldwork, he proudly pointed to artifacts, while his left held an old notebook, filled with sketches and notes he had written himself about each relic he encountered. His voice, though tired in tone, carried a deep passion and knowledge, as though he were trying to share with those around him a piece of the ancient soul of these ruins.
Robert: "Welcome to Dreamcrown, where unforgettable chapters of history were written! Here, among these alleys that have witnessed the darkest days and the greatest victories, we return to the past—to the glorious Kingdom of Arcadia."
A voice rose from one of the students in the front row, curiosity lighting up her face.
Jennifer: "Arcadia? Isn't that our town?"
A faint smile appeared on Robert's lips, and he nodded in admiration.
Robert: "Well done, Jennifer, you're right. But what we know today as the city of Arcadia was once part of a vast ancient kingdom that ruled this land. Arcadia stood under the banner of a mighty empire called Miraphin. But, as with all empires… glory does not last forever."
He paused for a moment, staring at a stone plaque depicting a map of the old empire, then continued in a deeper voice.
Robert: "When the last emperor, Emperor Nervus Trajan, died… the empire fell into chaos. Leaders and kings gathered to choose a successor, and the choice fell upon King Kalion Steelheart. There was hope that he would reunite the empire. But… it didn't last long."
His voice lowered slightly, and a shadow of mystery passed through his eyes.
Robert: "One mysterious night… Kalion died under unknown circumstances. Some said it was a conspiracy, others claimed he had always been ill. But the truth? No one really knows."
Suddenly, a soft chuckle pierced the silence at the back of the group—like a stab in the dark. Everyone turned toward the sound to see a tall man standing in front of one of the large stone plaques displaying an ancient map of the kingdom. His back was straight, as if bearing the weight of countless years, silently observing the plaque. He didn't look like a regular visitor—he wasn't taking pictures, nor was he following the guide like the others.
He looked… strange. His shimmering white hair under the soft sunlight hinted he was no mere passerby. Yet most of his features were hidden behind dark sunglasses and a shadowed mask, as if he didn't want to be recognized—or leave any trace.
Confusion spread among the students, while Robert sighed deeply and chose to ignore the incident, returning to his talk.
Robert: "Anyway… after his death, his loyal deputy Astrius Eugene took the throne. He ruled for decades, and his reign was prosperous, bringing peace and stability. But, as they say… nothing lasts forever. A few years after the emperor's death, the empire collapsed once again, splitting into scattered kingdoms, each vying for dominance over the others."
He pointed to one of the carved maps, where the borders were torn like a tattered cloth, then gestured toward the eastern region...
Robert: "In the East lies Idrisania, capital of the Miraphin Empire—once the richest and most fortified city on Earth. Its ambitious ruler, Kilibra Rylov, managed to wrest its independence, thanks to its boundless resources and formidable army, transforming it into a kingdom of its own.
But Kilibra Ryogan didn't stop at declaring Idrisania's independence. He launched swift, calculated expansion campaigns—like lightning. One by one, neighboring cities fell under his control: some by fire and steel, others through cunning politics and masterful diplomacy. By his seventh year on the throne, his new kingdom encompassed three prosperous realms, six fortified cities, and vital trade routes that once served as lifelines to the aging Empire. Idrisania was no longer a mere detached capital… it had become the heart of a rising super-kingdom, one that echoed the glory of ancient empires and blossomed with a power that threatened the very existence of those that came before it."
Yet in that era, noble families began to vanish—one after another. Abandoned palaces, desolate lands, and clans that once stood mighty were reduced to ash. And not just in that kingdom… but all across the world.
And all of it… was because of one man."
Robert: "…Nightfear." The name that terrified nobles and drove them behind the walls of their palaces. A ghost haunting kingdoms… until someone rose from Idrisania itself. The one who ended his bloody reign…
Duke Arcadius."
Silence fell among the students, as if they were witnessing the past come to life—seeing the fires of battle, hearing the clash of swords, and feeling the blood that carved the line between victory and defeat. Amidst the destruction, a shadow emerged—a man whose sword dripped with the remains of a night he had torn apart… ending an age of terror that had lasted for decades.
Robert raised his gaze to the students and spoke with solemn reverence:
Robert: "It was an unexpected victory, but history doesn't only immortalize heroes… it gives them names worthy of their deeds."
He approached one of the ancient stone carvings—a relief of a man clad in ornate armor, holding a massive sword. Beneath his feet were etched two words:
Arcadius Nightover
Robert traced his fingers over the letters, as though awakening an old memory, then turned to the students.
Robert: "In that era's culture, names weren't mere labels… they were honors granted to those who forged glory, passed down as eternal legacies. Those famed for valor in war carried names and titles that embodied their heroism—not just for themselves, but for their children and their children's children. A name became an oath, flowing through their blood."
He paused again, as if contemplating the weight of that ancient tradition, then continued:
Robert: "Thus, he was no longer just Lord Arcadius, but Arcadius Nightover, the man who ended a nightmare that had long loomed over the kingdom. And to immortalize this triumph, King Kilibra ordered the name of his kingdom changed to Arcadia—a tribute to the great commander, ensuring that his memory would be forever engraved in the name of the land he had freed."
The students stared in silence at the carving, as if rewriting the story in their minds—feeling the weight of names that were not merely words… but living titles, pulsing with the stories of those who bore them.
Robert took a deep breath, as though the tale had weighed heavily on him, then continued.
Robert: "The royal rule endured for generations… until the day of change. The day of the Great Revolution. When the man who changed everything appeared... Jack Conner."
His voice rose with intensity, as if the events still burned in his memory.
Robert: "Jack Conner led the revolution that toppled the monarchy and proclaimed the birth of the modern Republic—Vivze. Yet, even then, he chose not to erase history. He named the new capital Arcadia… so that the memory would live on in the minds of generations to come."
His voice faded with the evening breeze, and silence once again enveloped the students, as though they had truly traveled through time and witnessed history with their own eyes.
He led them among the statues and carvings, pointing toward the first statue—of a proud man crowned with a majestic aura.
Robert: "This is King Blatir Vanheim, one of Arcadia's rulers, a man who fought countless battles to preserve the kingdom's prosperity!"
But before he could continue, a voice rose from among the students. A boy with shining blond hair and glowing red eyes raised his hand without waiting for permission, and spoke with firm confidence:
"You're mistaken. Blatir wasn't a king—he was a duke who seized the throne through blood. He didn't defend the kingdom… he conquered it."
Silence gripped the group for a few seconds. The guide stared at the boy in surprise. Hesitating, he opened his notebook and flipped through the pages in search of the fact. After a moment, he sighed deeply and, trying to mask his unease, said:
Robert: "…You're right. Well done, boy."
But then he swiftly moved toward the student, grabbed his arm tightly, and pulled him aside from the group. Leaning in so their eyes met, he spoke in a low, but firm voice:
Robert: "Listen carefully, boy. People don't want the truth… they want the stories that make them feel safe. Don't interrupt me again."
He patted the boy's head, then returned to the group, leaving the student standing where he was, his expression a blend of anger and amusement. Slowly, the boy turned back to the statue, reading the name engraved beneath it. He stared for a few seconds… then turned his back and rejoined his group.
The guide resumed reciting the official version of events until the tour ended. Raising his hands, he announced in a tired voice:
Robert: "That's all. Unfortunately, there's no time left for more tales of the old kingdom… my shift is over."
He stepped back a few paces, gave the students one last look—they seemed disappointed—and waved before vanishing into the noise of passersby and the bustling square. The students remained still for a moment, exchanging glances, as if they hadn't received the answer they were hoping for.
As the tour concluded, the students gathered at the site's entrance, where the guide offered a formal farewell. Some were discussing what they'd heard, others looked exhausted and eager to return.
The supervisor's whistle blew, signaling the end of the trip. One by one, the students began boarding the school bus—tired footsteps, the rustling of seats being adjusted.
On the left side, by the window, sat the boy who had spoken to the guide. His eyes were closed, as if replaying the events in his mind. The street lights reflected in his crimson eyes, giving them a beautiful glow amidst shifting shadows.
Beside him sat his friend—a short-haired boy with bright blue eyes, his face brimming with wonder he couldn't quite conceal.
"Wow, Damian! You corrected the guide! How did you know that? Did you read about it before we came?"
Damian didn't open his eyes. He merely tilted his head slightly and replied in a calm voice, tinged with something mysterious:
Damian: "My father told me last night."
His friend's eyes widened: "Really?!"
Damian nodded slowly, then added after a moment's silence:
Damian: "I saw him holding an interesting book he once told me about…
He said it holds myths, truths, and lost histories—including the real story of Arcadia."
His friend remained stunned for a moment, then smiled and said: "Cool! Your dad sounds like he knows a lot."
But Damian didn't respond.
Instead, he turned his head to the window, staring out into the dark sky.
There was something in his eyes… something he hadn't yet revealed.
It was a quiet night, snow falling gently beyond the room's window, dim lights reflecting warmly inside.
Damian and Eileen sat on the bed, their excited eyes fixed on the top shelf of their father's desk, where a collection of old books with ornate covers rested.
Eileen eagerly reached toward them, then turned to their father and asked: "Dad, can you tell us a story from one of those shiny books?"
Their father chuckled softly as he rose from his chair, replying with a warm tone: "Of course. You may choose one."
Damian rushed forward excitedly, eyes gleaming as he pointed to one book on the shelf: "That one, Father! Tomorrow, we're going on a school trip to explore the ruins of the old town—Dreamcrown. I want to know the full story of the Kingdom of Arcadia!"
The father nodded, then carefully pulled the book from its place. Its cover bore a glowing blue gem… and the shadow of a young boy trapped within.
Damian stared at the cover with curiosity, his brow furrowed: "Hmm… What does this mean?"
The father paused, gazing at the book in his hands with a mysterious expression, as if it held secrets no one could fully understand. Silence filled the room until he breathed slowly, then smiled faintly—as if unlocking a hidden truth.
He whispered: "This…" Then looked at them deeply: "This isn't just a book about the ancient kingdom of Arcadia… It's a window into something far greater. It holds secrets deeper than the fall of a forgotten empire.
Secrets about the entire world—about life… death… and what lies beyond. This book isn't just a story—it's a crossroads between what we know… and what we don't."
Their hearts beat faster, and a sense of awe settled deep within them—as if those words were an invitation to an adventure they didn't yet understand.
The father continued: "The book tells of the 'Essence of Life'… and Elloria… and how they triggered a chain of events that changed the world."
He paused again, then added in a quiet voice, heavy with meaning: "In a fantasy world that rose from the ashes of fallen empires, where past and present intertwine… lies a kingdom called Arcadia.
Amid conspiracies of noble houses, secret councils, and powers born of a fallen, unknown meteor… people find themselves trapped in a spiral of deception and betrayal.
Between a bloody legacy, a silent revolution… and a world teetering on the edge of collapse."
He looked at his children, then added with a deeper tone: "And through the chaos… a boy emerges. His name is Ethan. A boy who sought vengeance with burning resolve. But his journey was marked by shadows of blood and sacrifice. With every breath, drops of his tragedy fell—until they led to a bitter end.
In his final pain, he tried to protect those he loved, carrying the burden of bloody days on his shoulders."
A moment of silence passed before the father continued, his eyes fixed on the candlelight dancing across the aged cover: "A boy who lived his life in the storm of pain, with suffering as his constant companion. His wounds became tales of life he bore with pride and strength… A boy who watered the flower of revenge—but with every petal that fell, he lost a piece of his soul. Until all warmth vanished from him, as if it faded with every breath of vengeance."
Damian and Eileen exchanged wide-eyed glances as their father turned the first page, saying softly:
"And so… our story begins…"
Kingdom of Arcadia – Year 916 AD – Dreamcrown Capital, inside the Royal Palace
The sun stood high in the sky, casting its golden rays to flood the capital with a sharp brilliance. Below, the training yard knew no rest; rows of soldiers moved in disciplined formation, their swords flashing with the sun's glare each time they clashed, releasing a metallic ring that mingled with the sweltering heat and the scent of dust rising from the ground.
His footsteps echoed through the wide corridors of the royal palace, as if reflecting the weight of time that had passed within the walls of this ancient place. With each step, his feet left an imprint on the dense atmosphere surrounding him, penetrated only by cold whispers. At the end of the corridor, he stopped before a massive door, flanked by two armored guards, their hands resting lightly on their weapons in a graceful display of vigilance.
The first guard noticed the brief hesitation that overcame him, then struggled to raise his voice: "Y... Your Grace?!, Has His Majesty been informed of your arrival?"
But without paying him any mind, Duke Nightover passed decisively by the guard, speaking in a sharp tone like a drawn sword: "No need for that."
Inside the room, the atmosphere was somber, surrounded by slowly burning candles in the silence of the night. The heavy aura of tension was almost tangible. The faint light danced on the old walls, casting long and unsettling shadows.
In the far corner stood King Irvin Luskarth alone before a massive table, deeply immersed in the intensity of this crucial moment. He was a young man in his late twenties, carrying a strong presence despite his youthful features. His black hair fell to the end of his chin, streaked with faint white strands. It hung neatly and precisely, giving him a look that blended chaos and order. His shining black eyes were fixed on the scattered maps and papers before him, as if searching within those numbers and data for something mysterious, something slipping through his fingers.
The king sighed slowly, his breath heavy as if bearing the weight of the world. At that moment, the sound of swift footsteps gradually rose, breaking the silence surrounding the place. The large door was thrown open violently, and Duke Lucas Nightover entered the room.
His short white hair, like scattered snow, reflected the dim light of the lamps, enhancing his cold appearance and the mystery surrounding him. His blue eyes, like deep winter ice, glowed sharply with strength and intensity. His black attire with a purple tie gave him an incomparable dignity and majesty, as if he were part of this place or of the unseen forces that govern Arcadia.
Movement in the room paused for a moment. All eyes—from the king to the duke—turned to him in a silence full of hidden expectations, as if asking: "What will happen now?"
King Irvin nodded slowly without taking his eyes off Lucas's face. There was something in his gaze beyond words. Then, with a silent gesture, he motioned to the guards who had been watching quietly. Without hesitation, the guards stepped forward and closed the door slowly behind the duke, adding a feeling of isolation to the room, where only sounds and shadows remained.
Lucas's voice… was ready to burst, and his hands knew no calm. Yet as he entered, his surge broke at the threshold of silence.
Irvin was there… standing, staring into the dark void around him, not looking at him, not speaking…
His silence was deeper than any reproach, and his gaze was not seeking anything, but knowing everything.
The coldness of the room was not from the walls, but from the solemn stillness between them.
It was as if the world had contracted, and Lucas's fire turned into silent ash… for the first time, anger did not need a word… only a silent look from a leader who knows that conversation is held by eyes, not voices.
Then Irvin moved… his steps slow, deliberate, as if the ground listened more than Lucas himself.
He approached the table, placed his hands heavily but carefully on its edges.
He silently contemplated the map… the complex lines tearing the kingdom's borders, the blood-drenched points, the cities still screaming from afar, and the gray lands… those not yet decided upon.
His black eyes were fixed, but beneath them… there was a gleam. Not anger, nor sorrow… but something deeper. Something of the Malacard lineage, of an untold history, of a long night that had not yet ended.
Only then did Lucas know… that Irvin would not speak to ease his burden, but would load him with what remained.
And he also knew that he was ready… to listen.
The lighting was dim… the fireplace's flames cast flickering shadows on the tall chamber walls, and the sound of rain tapped against the old windows.
Irvin stood before the long table, his left hand resting on its wooden edge, his eyes moving over the map of Arcadia spread out before him. The red dots and thin strings formed the lines of armies and reinforcements, while he spoke in a calm tone tinged with a hidden note of sorrow and defeat.
Irvin, with heavy calmness: "I should have seen it sooner… The threat was never in the swords sharpened openly, but in the silence.
In the villages that welcomed the 'refugees,' in the markets bustling with 'merchants,' in the silence of the 'advisors' who remain strangers despite their decades among us."
He traced his finger on the map toward the Vulkorth realm, pressing down firmly before moving north and west.
Irvin: "Here… here is where they began. Every three months, maybe four, they enter Arcadia as if messengers from another time… No noise, no riots.
A handful of builders, shield-makers, bridge engineers… and slick-tongued ones who call themselves 'the Advisors.'
Fifty, seventy, one hundred and twenty… no one noticed them. And I? I applauded the wisdom of House Malacard in sheltering the afflicted."
He finished his last sentence with a sharp tone, then threw a charred piece of wood onto the table, which struck hard and rolled until it fell to the floor. then took from his pocket a small piece of aged wood, carefully carved in the shape of a raven, the symbol of House Malacard.
He contemplated it for seconds… his fingers passed over its edges as if reminding him of something heavier than war.
Then he placed it aside on the table, quietly, without show, simply leaving it there as if it carried what was left unsaid.
He breathed deeply, lowered his head slightly, as if the burden of years had fallen on his shoulders.
Irvin: "I built a path for them, and I didn't realize the path itself was leading me to the abyss.
Now… I estimate their number to be over ten thousand.
But it's not their numbers that worry me, but their goal… they didn't come to build Arcadia… but to reshape it."
He looked toward Duke Lucas Nightover, who stood silently, watching.
Irvin: "The first half is pledged to support the Malacards if the revolution ignites.
The other half… is an arm in the darkness.
They kindle chaos at the kingdom's edges, support tribal uprisings, supply arms in the shadows, strike their enemies' lands and vanish like smoke."
He paused for a moment, then pointed to distant areas on the map; the borders of House Cypher, the lands of House Morlan, and the fractured south.
Irvin: "Tell me, Lucas… how will we fight a fair battle while we are divided?
Neither House Cypher nor Morlan will participate. Rosefield, Sparoff, and Hartley… all are preoccupied with the fires burning on their farms and the cries of villagers.
Vanheim will not join either…"
Irvin spoke softly, not with despair, but with the certainty of one familiar with Blatir's methods.
Irvin: "Blatir wouldn't fight his dearest allies… neither now nor when forced."
He paused as if scrutinizing in his mind the outline of the fractured alliance.
Irvin: "I will refrain from responding to what he is doing now, as long as he neither lends them a hand… nor utters a word."
He extended his hand toward the edge of the table, where chips and pieces representing the great families and kingdom's borders were spread.
Then he continued, with a firmer voice.
Irvin: "For that… we will enter the battle with all that remains of us. With all that has not yet been crushed."
He pulled some small pieces and rearranged them near the map's edges, with the care of a surgeon.
Irvin: "The Houses who will take part in this chapter of war… are Nightover, Blackmirth, Starkov, Windsword… and Castro."
Then his hands steadied on the table.
Nothing in his voice spoke of hope, nor of revenge. It was only… a man who knew exactly what price would be paid, and which roads no longer led back.
He stepped away from the table and walked slowly toward the window, looking out at the capital bathed in faint moonlight.
Irvin: "Today… the army will enter Dreenland. It will settle on Draxul's soil… not to negotiate, but to judge.
Not with the sword alone… but with the honor that was insulted."
A heavy silence fell… as if the room had stopped breathing.
Lucas looked at Irvin, his eyes carrying a lingering question… and unspoken reproach.
Neither spoke a word. Only Lucas's gaze was enough to shake the walls of the place.
Then… at last…
Irvin sighed without turning to him, as if the answer had settled in his chest before the question. In a quiet, almost whispered voice, he said.
Irvin: "What brought you here?"
His words were like a knife sinking in—without haste, without regret. For a moment, Lucas was lost between the reason he had come here and what had burned out along the way.
He closed his eyes, turned his gaze aside, then exhaled quietly… Quiet, but not without suppressed anger.
He took a step forward and dropped a dark message onto the table, as if it were an indictment.
Lucas: "You've dragged my son into your war…"
Irvin finally lifted his gaze, slowly, like a man examining ashes whose source he knew all too well.
He exhaled lightly before glancing briefly at the letter, then returned his eyes to Lucas, who stepped forward again—heavier this time, as if there were embers beneath his feet.
Lucas, steady voice: "How many times must I repeat myself?! Do not drag my family into your conflicts… Do not force me to choose between my loyalty to you and my son's life!"
Irvin stood firm, his silence not a sign of surrender, but of deep certainty. He took a calm step toward the table and began to speak in a tone carrying even greater weight.
Irvin, calm before the storm: "Your son, Aqua… was not forced into anything. He knows this war allows no neutrality... A man who refuses the sword today… will beg for it when the wolves come.
If he doesn't take up arms today, he'll be forced to later—and in far worse circumstances. His unique talent, combined with the expertise of our commanders… will give us a better foothold on the battlefield."
Lucas narrowed his eyes, took a deep breath, and moved forward slowly, as if restraining an explosive anger within him.
Lucas, his voice hoarse, stood at the center of the hall, his shoulders weighed down. "This war… was never necessary to begin with."
He fell silent, letting the words drop into the void. Irvin remained bent over the maps, his fingers tracing their edges as if they were real wounds.
Irvin slowly lifted his gaze, his eyes carrying a shadow of exhaustion. "All wars are unnecessary… until they become necessary."
Two silences met — the silence of acceptance and the silence of objection — hanging in the air between them. Lucas took two steps forward, like a man approaching a fire he knew would burn him.
Lucas: "Do you know what Rossibov told his soldiers today? He said: 'I do not fight for land… but for the right of a man to weep upon it freely.'"
Irvin, without lifting his eyes from the map, replied in a tone as soft—and as cutting—as a blade: "How touching…"
Lucas straightened, his jaw tightening. "I'm not playing games with you, Irvin."
Irvin gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening. A faint glint passed through his eyes, but his mouth stayed hard.
Irvin: "Weeping does not build kingdoms, Lucas."
Lucas struck his chest with his hand, the sound echoing in the stillness.
Lucas: "But it builds men! Men who were willing to die for you… before you took away their reason to live."
Irvin's breath rose in his chest before he suddenly stood. "I took nothing from them, Draxul has always belonged to the crown."
Lucas gave a slight shake of his head, as if rejecting a truth he had been forced to hear a thousand times.
Lucas: "We are not talking about land… but about dignity. When you took Draxul, you didn't take gold… you took the last memory of his wife and children."
A long silence. Irvin moved away, his steps slow toward the window. He stood there, letting the sunlight spill over his shoulders, and when his voice came, it was softer than a whisper.
Irvin: "Do you think I don't know that?"
Lucas froze for a moment, silent surprise passing over his face.
Lucas, hesitantly: "Then… why?"
Irvin turned his back, as if unwilling to be seen choosing his own cruelty.
Irvin: "Because if I yielded to Rossibov… every lord in the realm would demand his right to vengeance. Sometimes… an entire village must burn to save a kingdom."
The silence after those words was heavier than any scream. Lucas looked away, while the map of Arcadia on the table suddenly seemed, to his eyes, soaked in blood.
Lucas, his eyes burdened with the weight of years, his voice faint like a distant echo: "If only you had offered peace…"
Irvin's expression shifted. He tilted his head slightly, staring straight into Lucas's eyes, as if daring him to finish his argument.
Irvin, cold, tinged with disdain: "Peace? The Malacards cut off the heads of nine of our men when we sent them to negotiate—and mounted their heads on the walls of Draxul… Was that an offer of peace?!"
Irvin's gaze didn't waver. His voice was low, deliberate, each word meant to cut. "And I suppose I don't need to remind you that the commander of that envoy was Sir Valco Nightover. We sent him because he was an honorable knight, respected even by his enemies… Yet he and eight men faced Malacard steel and died in butchery."
Lucas's eyes drifted into the empty space between them, as if caught in a memory—seven years old, perhaps more. His hands curled into fists. A slow breath escaped him before he spoke, barely above a whisper. "It was… a death unworthy of a knight so loyal."
Irvin inclined his head slightly. "Indeed. And it meant a great deal to your son, Aqua, given that Sir Valco was his mentor. That is why he came to this camp willingly—to fight in this war."
Irvin turned back to the map.
Lucas's fists tightened again. He drew a deep breath, his voice now sharper, almost trembling with restrained anger. "And... do you know why they did it?"
Irvin paused, exhaling slowly.
Lucas stepped forward, his words cutting through the air. "Because you provoked them first! After you declared that Draxul—land that had been part of their province for decades—would be granted to Baron Kymri, based on a suspicious document that conveniently surfaced after he secured a seat in the great council!"
Irvin paused for a moment, but his gaze carried no remorse—only a vision far broader than a few moments of anger. Placing his hand on the table, he let his fingers pass along the edges of the map before raising his head to speak with conviction.
Irvin, firmly: "Draxul is not just land. It's the barrier between us and them. A strategic resource that secures control over one of the richest mines and natural reserves in the Nine Kingdoms. With it under our authority, we'll strengthen the kingdom's economy for decades—no, centuries."
Lucas turned his face away for a moment, as if resisting a truth he already knew, then returned his gaze to Irvin—this time with caution, not anger.
Irvin swept his hand across the table, then looked back at Lucas, his brows slightly furrowed, though he didn't seem angry.
Irvin, as if reminding him of the obvious: "I thought we discussed this in the great council before."
Lucas averted his gaze, then let out a short laugh—not of amusement, but of bitter mockery. He stepped sideways, then looked back at Irvin.
Lucas, voice heavy with bitterness: "The great council?… You mean the same council that expelled three men on charges of treason and conspiring with the Kingdom of Evalen and Nightforcr? That council, Irvin?"
Lucas stepped even closer, his tone growing sharper—not in volume, but in the weight that seemed to press into the air between them.
Lucas, coldly: "That council is no longer what you think it is. It's no longer a place for enlightened minds, but an arena for power struggles. It's become a heap of hands racing to stab each other in the back. It's no longer a council of governance, but a gambling table—where names wager the kingdom the way players wager their pieces in a deadly game."
Irvin stood his ground, but a faint flicker of irritation passed through his eyes—as though he didn't wish to be drawn into this debate. Still, he answered with measured clarity.
Irvin, quiet but firm: "Regardless of how you see it, that council remains the primary reason the kingdom has stayed stable to this day. It may need reform, but you can't deny that it's what kept us standing against every storm."
He paused for a moment, as if his mind were sifting through thoughts, before regaining his focus and continuing:
Irvin: "Making decisions within a closed circle—where the sharpest minds of the kingdom meet away from the public eye—is what led us to the Royal Trial that granted me the power I now hold. And I believe you know this well, Lucas."
Lucas placed his hands on the table and leaned forward slightly, staring directly into Irvin's eyes.
Lucas, low, deep voice: "I know that… but you're wrong… The kingdom didn't endure because of the council, but in spite of it. The council you speak of no longer holds wise men or strategists—it holds executioners… swords waiting for the right moment to sever the neck of whoever stands in their way."
Irvin paused for a moment, his gaze never leaving Lucas, as if weighing his words—until the silence was suddenly broken by an unexpected, harsh cough from the king, his hand pressing a handkerchief to his mouth. His body bent slightly, as if something within was rebelling against him.
At once, Lucas took a quick step toward him, his brows knitting in a rare flash of concern upon his otherwise stern face.
But before he could get closer, Irvin raised a calm yet commanding hand. He remained silent for several seconds, then slowly lowered the handkerchief, revealing small spots of blood staining its pure white fabric. The sight didn't seem to surprise him, as though it had happened before—but it was enough to narrow Lucas's eyes.
Duke Lucas exhaled deeply, his gaze hardening—yet carrying within it a silent acknowledgment of something that needed no words. Irvin straightened once again, as though nothing had happened, then looked at him, silent for a moment, his black eyes watching him coldly before speaking in a quiet voice—sharper than any blade.
Irvin: "And you think the world is any different?…"
Lucas raised an eyebrow slightly, but his gaze only grew sharper, as if Irvin had touched upon the very heart of the real conflict.
Lucas: "No, I don't… But at least I don't fool myself into thinking we're better than them. We don't rule the kingdom, Irvin. We only decide which swords will be used today… and which will be broken tomorrow. The difference between a true ruler and a machine is that the former knows he moves within a web of deceit, while the latter believes he's the one weaving it."
A silence stretched between them, like a wordless test between two minds. Irvin didn't reply immediately—only a small smile formed on his lips. It wasn't joy, but a subtle acknowledgment.
Irvin, quiet, yet heavy with meaning, watching Lucas's expression: "So… you're finally beginning to see the whole picture."
A heavy stillness settled between them, as though the very air had thickened, bearing the weight of unspoken truths. Lucas turned slowly, taking a step back, as though the distance between him and Irvin had grown far more than a few meters. And before crossing the threshold, he spoke in a low, sharp voice—like a man fighting to keep from exploding.
Lucas: "Is it really worth it? To drag the kingdom into a war we started, to send our sons to die for land they'll never set foot on… Land that history will remember not for what it holds, but for the number of graves it bore?"
Irvin remained still. He did not turn, nor did he show any sign of disturbance. He only exhaled slowly, as though the words he'd heard were not new—but echoes of thoughts he'd once had himself.
His eyes rose to the map hanging on the wall before him, tracing the intricate lines of borders, the dots marking cities and fortresses, the lands whose fates were yet undecided. Then, in a quiet voice—laced with something unreadable, as if speaking more to himself than answering Lucas—he said:
Irvin: "You're wrong, Lucas… We never started this war. But we will pay the price if we don't win it. The Malacards are no longer alone; they've allied with two houses from the kingdom of Aetheria, And more. Now their army marches east, and the battle will be decided on Draxul's soil."
Lucas stared at the floor for a moment, as though standing on the edge of a decision he despised. Then he lifted his head again—this time without anger, but with the weight of truth.
Lucas, quietly, almost in surrender: "Then… there's no other choice."
Irvin, in a low, sharp voice, like a man who knew the ending from the start: "There was never a way back… not since the first drop of Arcadian blood dared to touch Draxul's soil."
He paused, then continued in a quiet but resolute tone:
Irvin: "War… is not about worthiness—it's about inevitability. And those cast into its flames… are the price mankind has paid since the dawn of time."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint flicker of candlelight dancing along the walls, as though reflecting the fire waiting to consume the kingdom.
At last, Irvin turned, his eyes gleaming with calculated coldness, watching as Lucas's shadow disappeared beyond the door.
Saveros – Raispon Town, in one of the commercial districts
The narrow alleys bustled with street vendors despite the night chill seeping through the cracks of the stone walls.
Saveros was a melting pot of every social class… nobles, beggars, merchants, and thieves all walked its streets. And though the laws had granted commoners greater opportunities for trade and stability, it remained a city pulsing with life… and with injustice as well.
Night wrapped the town in its cruel cold. The wet streets, dimly lit by lanterns, reflected the shadows of passersby, distorted by puddles of water and mud collected in the corners. While some found warmth inside taverns, others had no shelter but the damp cobblestones, with biting frost as their only companion.
Then… the silence shattered with the harsh creak of a door being flung open.
"I told you—don't come back unless you have money!"
A body was thrown out of the tavern, hitting the wet ground with a heavy thud. Mud splattered across his torn clothes, and his elbow struck the rough stones beneath him. Yet he made no sound—no groan—just lay there quietly, propping his head on his hand, feeling a silent ache creep into his body.
Raymond Vanheim lifted his head slowly, the hood of his worn cloak concealing most of his features. His gray eyes scanned the feet of the passersby—none of whom spared him a single glance. He was nothing but a shadow… unseen, unacknowledged.
A familiar whisper stirred within him: "If only I were someone else… If only things hadn't ended this way…"
He let out a heavy sigh and began to pull himself to his feet. Moving sluggishly, he brushed the dirt from his clothes and looked around. His eyes roamed over the alleys, the shops, the soldiers in their gleaming armor, and the flowing current of life… a life that cared nothing for his existence.
Everything moved on. But he remained still—trapped in something deeper than exhaustion.
Until…
Something in a wide square ahead caught his attention. Through the shifting bodies, he glimpsed an arena, ringed with eager crowds whose cheers rose above the noise of the streets. The glow of torches reflected on sword blades, and the mingled scents of sweat and blood gave the scene a primal weight that no sense could mistake.
Curiosity pulled him closer. He slipped between the people… without noticing something odd.
Everyone was standing at carefully measured distances from one another. He had yet to realize this was no coincidence.
Pushing further through the press of bodies, his eyes began adjusting to the sight of the ring. Then—
"You filthy wretch!"
A sharp cry tore the air like a knife. Raymond turned to find an old woman pointing at him with trembling fingers, her eyes blazing with theatrical fury.
"This scoundrel harassed me!"
He froze. His eyes widened in shock.
"What?!"
Looking around, he saw the crowd's gaze beginning to fix on him, their expressions twisting into disgust and anger.
Then… the men nearest him began to draw their swords.
"You vile degenerate!"
"How dare you?!"
"He's defiled her honor in front of everyone!"
The ring of steel leaving scabbards was swallowed by the storm of shouts and curses. Fingers pointed, voices roared, and every eye burned with hate.
Raymond stood in the tightening circle, trying to comprehend the absurdity of it all.
Then, in a voice cold and steady, he spoke:
Raymond: "I didn't even touch her."
But no one was listening.
The old woman let out a bitter laugh, her voice trembling with manufactured rage:
"He defiled my honor with his filthy hands! This wretch will not leave here alive unless he pays the price!… I will accept no less than five silver pieces."
Raymond blinked slowly. A chill ran down his spine. Everything was happening quickly… too quickly. His eyes darted about, searching for a way out, but the noose had already tightened—blades blocked every path.
And deep within him, a familiar feeling began to rise… A tightness in his chest. That cursed sensation coiling in his gut, as if the very air had grown heavier.
This wasn't just some unfortunate incident. He had felt this before.
The choking grip… when the walls close in with no escape, no choice. His eyes swept over the faces in the crowd—some tense, others excited, many simply… waiting for blood.
This wasn't about the truth. It didn't matter whether he was guilty or innocent. He'd seen this play out before. And now, it was happening again.
His hand moved slowly toward the hilt of his sword, knowing the only way out… would be through force.
But…
"You fool!"
A harsh slap landed on his cheek, snapping his head to the side. Raymond staggered for a moment, then turned to find before him a striking young woman with short black hair brushing the edge of her chin, her sharp honey-colored eyes blazing with anger.
"Didn't I tell you we were already late!?"
She said it as though she knew him, her voice carrying a strange mix of scolding and authority. The crowd hesitated; confusion began to creep through their ranks.
Before he could utter a word, she stepped closer and whispered quickly: "Shut up, you idiot."
He stared at her in shock. He didn't know her. He had never seen her before in his life. And yet… she was acting as though she knew him.
But the old woman was not going to back down so easily.
Old Woman: "And who are you, foolish girl?! This man is a deviant and must be punished!"
The young woman stepped forward with steady, confident strides, clamping her grip on Raymond's wrist as though shackling him in iron, and then declared in a ringing voice that carried through the place: "This is no ordinary man… He is Viscount Dion Vanheim… and I am his adopted sister."
A deadly silence fell.
It was as if time itself had frozen. Held breaths. Wide eyes. Faces pale as autumn leaves. Then whispers erupted like a volcano:
"The Viscount Vanheim?!"
"But… why does he look like that?!"
"No one would dare lie about something like this!"
"If it's a lie, it's a crime… who would dare invent it?!"
One man seemed about to object… but froze suddenly. His eyes widened as he caught sight of something.
From beneath Raymond's torn hood… strands of fiery red hair emerged.
The man swallowed hard. "That red hair…!" The others followed his gaze. A heavy pause lingered. The hair of House Vanheim—rare, unmistakable, and borne only by their bloodline.
Though Raymond's appearance at that moment was far from noble, the mere possibility was enough to stir doubt.
The men who had raised their swords began lowering them hesitantly. Anger gave way to uncertainty. Even the old woman, stubborn as she was, bit her lip in frustration… but she could not deny what she had seen.
Old Woman: "If what you say is true…"
She said it, trying to hold her ground, but her voice no longer carried the same confidence.
The young woman pressed on quickly, before they could recover their footing: "His father, Duke Vanheim, has summoned him on urgent business. I must take him now, and I will return later with a compensation you will find… satisfying—by direct order of His Grace."
The faces in the crowd shifted instantly. Anger turned to greed; heads lowered slightly, faint smiles beginning to creep across their faces. Before anyone could protest, the young woman yanked Raymond's hand and pulled him into a run through the alleys, slipping past their wavering stares.
But—
"Liana!?"
A voice called from behind. A man from the crowd stopped short, then shouted her name. The old woman's eyes widened and she turned toward him.
Old Woman: "Samuel! What did you say?!"
Samuel: "It's Liana… she lives here. I'm sure of it now."
The old woman's face shifted from confusion… to a fury verging on madness. "You fool! Why didn't you tell me from the start?!"
She gestured sharply to the men around her: "Catch them! Don't let them get away!"
By then, Liana was already dragging Raymond down the shadowed alleys, her steps swift, her breath ragged. She knew the chase had begun. As for Raymond—despite everything—he could not take his eyes off her.
At last, she veered toward an old building, shoved its door open, and rushed inside, pulling Raymond with her.
Their breathing was rapid, hiding within a structure with cracked walls and the stench of mildew. They heard footsteps passing through the nearby alley.
Man 1: "Did you see them? Where did they go?"
Man 2: "No trace… how did they vanish so fast?"
Old Woman, angrily: "It doesn't matter! Search everywhere! If we don't find them today, then tomorrow! These scoundrels don't know who they're dealing with!"
The voices gradually faded… silence pressed in.
Raymond's hand still gripped the hilt of his sword. He took a deep breath, letting his hand relax. Slowly, he turned toward the young woman who had saved him, his eyes studying her features.
As he caught his breath, he finally spoke, staring at her.
Raymond: "Who the hell are you…?" His voice was low, but edged with steel.
Raymond: "Why did you save me back there? Isn't everyone in this town happier watching corpses pile on the streets than lifting a finger to save someone?"
Liana leaned against the cold wall, her long shadow twisting over the crumbling stones like a graceful cat. A slanted smile played on her lips, laced with quiet mockery.
Liana: "Why? Would you rather serve them your hand on a silver platter? … Or clay, makes no difference…"
Raymond frowned at her sarcasm. He found no immediate reply, but he still didn't trust her. Her actions seemed improvised, yet every word she'd spoken… had saved him. As if she was used to these kinds of situations.
Raymond: "Fine. But… what was that back there? That lie about me and Viscount Dion?"
Liana arched a sly eyebrow.
Liana: "Oh, did I wound your pride? Don't worry—next time I'll just let you face the crowd alone."
Raymond felt a twinge of irritation but wasn't in a position to argue. He was still trying to process what had happened… how he'd gone from the edge of condemnation to this unexpected escape.
He studied the girl before him. Her honey-colored eyes glimmered with a strange light, and the small smile on her lips wasn't reassuring—it was unsettling.
He exhaled slowly, searching her face for an answer, then spoke, his voice heavy with fatigue:
Raymond: "You still haven't told me who you are."
Liana smiled, but there was a faint trace of mockery in it, as if she were playing a game whose rules she knew well. She began walking slowly toward the alley's exit, her steps calm, as though she carried no burden in her heart.
Liana: "…Liana."
Raymond felt that the name alone didn't explain what had just happened. He inhaled deeply, trying to gather his thoughts.
Raymond: "My name is—"
She cut him off with a short laugh, raising an eyebrow in scornful amusement.
Liana: "I already know who you are… Raymond Vanheim."
Time froze for a moment.
His eyes narrowed, sinking into a sea of doubt and disbelief. Slowly, he pulled back his hood, revealing deep crimson hair that fell freely over his brow. His skin was slightly pale, his gaze heavy as if weighed down by apathy or exhaustion, his lips faintly curved in a restrained expression. His clothes were dark, worn, and torn, but… on closer inspection, they were noble garments: a black coat adorned with fine embroidery and metal buttons, its high collar ringed with small metal loops.
Raymond fixed his gaze on Liana, who stood facing him. His usually calm features seemed tense this time, his brows raised slightly.
After a long, weighted silence, he spoke in his deep voice, tinged with both surprise and caution:
Raymond: "How did you know?"
Liana pointed to her hair with a mocking smile, hinting at the red strands Raymond hadn't been able to hide beneath his tattered cloak.
Liana, smirking as she walked calmly: "Duke Vanheim has three children… The first, Dion, the youngest son—a genius in commerce and the first to earn the title of Viscount while still young."
She paused briefly, glanced at Raymond, then continued in a quiet yet sharp tone.
Liana: "Then there's the second child, Talia—the brilliant scholar who topped the kingdom in politics and diplomacy. The perfect girl, the one everyone bets on for a bright future."
She fell silent for a moment, as if savoring the tension her words created, then spoke slowly, her tone mixing mockery with pity.
Liana: "And finally… Raymond. The eldest son, never officially considered the Duke's heir. The most useless of the three. No titles, no achievements, nothing worth mentioning. Just… Raymond."
Her eyebrow lifted slightly as she watched for his reaction, while Raymond remained silent, his expression frozen—though his eyes burned with something that didn't reach his face. He didn't need to respond… he'd heard these words many times before.
Liana: "In any case, the Vanheim trait is hard to hide… especially in this part of the kingdom."
Raymond felt as though a heavy weight was being lifted off his shoulders and exhaled quietly. But Liana wasn't done. Her gaze had changed now—deeper, as though she wasn't looking at him, but at something else… a distant past.
Liana, quietly, but with bitterness: "And I can recognize nobles when I see them…"
Raymond studied her for a moment. There was something in her eyes he didn't understand yet, but it stirred his curiosity.
Raymond, quietly, but with clear interest: "And how's that?"
Liana stopped walking. She didn't look back at him, but let out a deep sigh, as if bearing a burden she'd never shared before. When she spoke, her voice was low, yet heavy with emotion.
Liana, with a faint, joyless smile: "Because they come here from time to time… watching us from afar as if we were animals in a cage. Their stares… never leave their faces; false pity, hidden contempt, and arrogance that reeks of filth."
Then she finally turned to look at him—for just a brief moment—but in her eyes there was something more than words… a deep-seated hatred, and the weariness of a reality that had never changed.
Liana: "Saveros, Nerossia, and the lands of 'Dunmer,' are the only places they've allowed us to remain in within this kingdom… exile for the commoners, refuge for the poor, and a dumping ground for the useless—like throwing away trash."
She paused, gazing at the dark sky above them, then continued, her voice lighter but sharper:
Liana: "But don't think I helped you because I believe in your nobility or honor. I helped you because I don't want to see more blood spilled on this land… at least, not today."
Raymond felt her words strike like another slap—not physical, but one laced with a bitter truth he wasn't ready to face.
As Liana began walking toward the faintly lit street, he hesitated for a moment, then spoke in a low voice, as though even the air shouldn't hear.
Raymond: "Where are you going now?"
Liana stopped abruptly, then turned slowly. A sly smile curved her lips—one that carried far more than words.
Liana, softly, with a bright smile: "Why? Are you stalking me now?"
In that instant… Raymond felt something strange, unfamiliar. As if his heart had taken a sudden blow, his pulse quickening in a way he'd never known before. For the first time, he felt something close to unease… or awareness of another person. He couldn't name it—just a new, unexpected sensation, a mixture of curiosity and something more elusive.
He didn't think. He didn't hesitate. There was no time to analyze what was stirring inside him. His feet moved quickly, as if some hidden will was pushing him after her—driving him to follow her through the narrow alleys and winding passages, as though he couldn't stop chasing her.
Liana climbed a worn stone staircase, her light steps echoing as if she were leading an invisible procession, with Raymond following in silence—astonished at how his initial fear of the unknown had shifted into boundless curiosity.
At last… the cold air brushed their faces, as though carrying all the city's secrets within its gusts. It lashed sharply, yet it did not stop them from savoring that strange, bewildering moment together.
There, atop the crumbling tower—where the walls breathed the scent of time and the sky glittered with stars that might have witnessed ancient sorrows—they stood in silence. But between them lingered something unseen… an obscure feeling, in a place that still carried the memories of the old world.
Raymond, in a quiet voice, almost a whisper: "How do you feel here?"
His question was unusual, as though it wasn't just about the place or the air, but about what stirred deep inside Liana. Yet her answer was clearer than ever—in that moment when one feels they have finally caught something they've been chasing all their life.
Liana, softly, as if answering herself before answering him: "Here… I think I can breathe in peace."
She paused, gazing down at the city lying beneath their feet like a painted canvas, holding all the details of the lives they'd lived—all the struggles, dreams, and pains they had long avoided facing. Then she looked at Raymond, her eyes carrying a shadow of deep understanding.
Liana, continuing in a calm tone: "Here, it's just us. Nothing else. No titles, no power, no past, no future."
Raymond turned his head toward her, his eyes studying her face. There was something in those eyes that drew him in—something that seemed to know more about life than he could ever discover in all the years ahead. Yet he felt something else as well… a rare, inexplicable sense of completeness between them, as if time and place had intertwined to grant them this one moment he could not understand, but felt was carrying a truth that touched his heart.
Raymond, in a hoarse, near-whisper: "And me… what about me?"
Liana turned toward him and remained silent for a moment before answering, her words coming slowly, as if opening an old wound she had only just discovered.
Liana, in her calm voice with a trace of contemplation: "You too… here. Away from everything. And that's rare… rare to find a place where you can escape from yourself."
There was something strange in her words—like an invitation, but not an invitation to flee. Rather, to accept… to stand in this moment as you are, without justification or worry.
The breeze whispered again, adding a strange note to the silence between them, and with it, Raymond felt something stir inside him. Something nameless, but which he knew was a feeling that would not return—a moment that broke the barriers between two hearts in this harsh world.
Liana, softly, with a faint edge in her tone: "But… despite all this… this place, no matter how beautiful and far it takes me from the noise and filth of this city… it's become a prison for me."
She sighed, then continued in a more emotional tone: "I've always wished to leave this city… to abandon this muddy land with all its burdens… and live among the mountains and rivers, where no one knows me, where memories don't haunt me, and where the corners of this place don't choke me with the past. I want to be free… free as I choose, with nothing to bind me."
Her words touched his heart in that instant, as though they expressed something deeper than just a desire to escape. They felt like a hidden call, searching for a true freedom in a distant place and another time—far from the chains that bound her. And her eyes drifted toward the horizon, with the wind scattering strands of her hair, as though she saw something no one else could… something beyond everything she had ever known.
Raymond, quietly, watching her: "But… do you think running away will free you? I've tried that… many times."
Liana, with a soft sigh, finally turning to him: "Sometimes… running away is the only thing that keeps you alive."
There was a glimmer of obscure sadness in her eyes, as though the mountains and rivers she longed for meant something beyond just a place. They were a distant dream, but one she would strive to reach with everything she had.
Raymond, whispering, almost to himself: "Memories…"
Liana, with a sad smile, continuing: "Yes… we're all prisoners of our memories here. Like a noose tightening around our necks, keeping us from breathing."
Her eyes were filled with unspoken words, with stories untold, hiding behind that deep gaze. And yet, Raymond felt something in his chest—something without a name, but akin to compassion… compassion for this girl who stood before him as if carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
He couldn't answer her words. He simply stood there, feeling the weight of them press upon his heart, as though they urged him to face what he himself had been running from.
Then suddenly—a loud voice shattered the silence.
"There! I see them!!"
The shout came from the roof of a nearby building. It was the man who had chased them earlier with the old man, waving his hand toward them with a tense look on his face. Moments later, the rest of the men appeared, running toward the tower—climbing stairs and rooftops with determination, as though something were driving them, and all they could think of was catching up.