Saveros – Raispon – At the Top of the Tower
When the men reached the top of the tower, Liana was already standing there, her anxious gaze darting between the attackers and Raymond, who remained utterly silent, as if nothing within him had changed.
Liana's heart began to pound violently, unease and confusion seeping into her chest, while Raymond's features betrayed no trace of fear or tension. He stood firm, his eyes radiating an aura of lethal calm.
With quick steps, Liana moved forward slightly, but the wind howled around her, growing stronger. Her heart raced, the air heavy with dread and turmoil, and she could not stop herself from trembling. In a moment of hesitation, she whispered in a broken voice:
Liana: "No, no, no... What are we going to do now?!"
But before she could finish, the shouts of the men rising from below pierced the horizon with a grim threat:
"You won't escape this time!"
Liana glanced at Raymond, then stepped back slightly, her eyes shifting between him and the looming danger. Her breaths grew quicker, yet his face showed no sign of fear, though the situation surely called for it. He turned toward her, his eyes steeped in an unshakable stillness. Before she could utter another word, he spoke in a cold, measured tone.
Raymond: "We either stand and fight... or choose to flee. The decision is yours."
Then his gaze sharpened as he added, his voice unchanged:
Raymond: "But I cannot promise you survival if you leap from this height."
Raymond strode forward with steady steps, his eyes ablaze with focus, and drew his sword with practiced grace. Yet he felt Liana's hand grip his arm tightly, anxiously, catching his attention for an instant. He turned to her in silence; her eyes were filled with tension. She hesitated, and then he spoke softly, as though to reassure her without the need for many words:
Raymond: "It's alright... this won't take long."
With those words, he surged toward the men, his body flowing like water, his gaze tracking their movements with a hawk's precision. In the next moment, the hulking man to the left lunged forward, but Raymond was faster. His sword gleamed in the dim light, slicing through the man's strike with a single swift motion, shifting instantly into offense. At the same time, the man in the center charged, but Raymond caught him off guard with a rapid reaction, reversing his blade to parry the blow in one precise move. The clash of steel rang out sharply.
Raymond's heart pounded, but his mind remained calm, tactical. The hulking man attacked again, but Raymond had already anticipated his move. With fluid strength, he wrenched his blade violently, sending his opponent's sword flying aside, and closed in. He was poised to deliver a fatal strike—yet suddenly, Liana's words echoed in his mind, still ringing in his ears: "I don't want to see more blood spilled on this land... at least, not today."
In a flash of clarity, he shifted his sword's path, striking the man with the flat of the blade against his temple. The attacker crashed to the ground screaming, his tears mingling with curses hurled at Raymond... but Raymond did not stop.
Another man rushed at him with brute force, but Raymond dodged fiercely, evading the strike with practiced grace. As his foe tried to recover for another blow, Raymond's sword cut through his defense with overwhelming power. Then, with a piercing gaze, he sheathed his blade, stepped in close, and—
With astonishing speed—he drove a brutal punch into the man's face. The crack of breaking bone resounded as his nose shattered, and the man staggered backward before collapsing unconscious.
The last attacker hurled himself forward, but Raymond was already prepared. With a swift maneuver, he seized the man, slamming his head against one of the tower's pillars. The body crumpled to the ground, limp and motionless.
All this unfolded as Liana watched from behind, her eyes widening in shock, her face frozen in disbelief and confusion. She could hardly comprehend what she had just witnessed. Everything had been so swift, so fierce, so violent. And yet Raymond... had ended it all. His movements had been precise—like a dance of death.
Raymond stepped lightly toward Liana, extended his hand to her, and pulled her gently along. Together, they moved away from the tower, descending the narrow steps, disappearing into the shadowed alley where their hideout once was.
Raymond: "Back to where we started... isn't"
But Liana was in no mood for jesting. She remained silent, dazed, consumed by worry. She looked at him with concern, placed her hands on his face, and whispered:
Liana: "Are you alright?! Were you hurt?!"
In that moment... Raymond felt something strange—something long forgotten. A warmth that reminded him of his mother, the only person who had ever given him such comfort. He clasped Liana's hands and smiled faintly.
Raymond: "Come with me."
Liana blinked twice, as if time itself had paused between the words and their echo. Her gaze turned vacant for a moment—not because she hadn't heard, but because her mind could not yet accept that he had truly said it.
A heavy silence fell. Not the kind that waits for an answer, but the kind that betrays an inner trembling... as if the universe itself had stopped breathing.
She flinched, swallowing hard, then whispered in a broken, trembling voice, as though her throat resisted the words.
Liana: "W-what?..."
Raymond lifted his head slightly, his eyes unshaken by wind or fear, and spoke in a voice carrying the tone of one who had chosen a path with no return:
Raymond: "Come with me... Let's leave everything behind. No chains, no titles, no past. Only us... we go together."
Liana seemed as though she had fallen into a whirlpool of time. Her eyes widened, her lips trembled, as if everything within her had shattered in a single moment. She lowered her gaze briefly before whispering, her voice faint and laced with dread:
Liana: "I… I can't."
But her voice carried no finality—only the echo of a refusal her heart had not yet accepted. It was as if she were trying to convince herself that hesitation was still an option, though something inside her had already begun to crumble before that invitation.
She looked at him, her eyes heavy with doubts she could not conceal, as if the world around her had suddenly turned upside down. Then Raymond spoke quietly, with a calm certainty in his tone.
Raymond: "I have a castle in a remote place… there, where the rivers and mountains lie, just as you described. It was a gift from my mother. It's the place I always thought I would return to when I decided to leave everything behind. Even them."
A deep silence followed, heavy upon Liana's heart. She tried to balance Raymond's words with the reality she could not ignore. Then, after a moment, he spoke again, his voice low, sorrowful, yet sincere:
Raymond: "Perhaps I am the shame of my family. Without a title… nothing to them. But I know this place, this world—it isn't mine. Here, in this suffocating void, I cannot remain. And I am ready to give it all up… for this. For us."
As she listened to his words, something unfamiliar crept into Liana's heart. It was not love, but a slow, quiet comfort pulsing in her depths. A man she barely knew, and yet he had spoken words… uncommon words. Enough to stop her, to make her think of a choice she had never been prepared for. Escape—fleeing from hell itself.
Inside her, a storm raged. She recalled all the moments of pain, of shock, of betrayal. How could she abandon it all? How could she uproot herself from a past that still haunted her? The decision felt like a leap into the unknown… and her mind strained desperately to retreat. But something in Raymond's words reached her in ways she had never expected.
She felt fear seep into her—not fear of him, but of herself. Of the decision that might change everything.
After a long silence, Liana's voice fell into broken whispers, like confessions to shadows within herself, far from reality.
Liana, whispering faintly: "[Can I truly… run away?
Do I have the strength to withdraw from it all? All the memories, all the pain, all the scars… How do I let everything go? How do I release myself?
Will I find peace there? Or am I only running from myself? Running from fear—or from truth?
No… I can't… I can't be weak…]"
She paused, then slowly raised her gaze, her eyes drifting into the void for a moment before her focus gradually returned—until they finally met Raymond's steady gaze, glowing with a calm, solemn strength.
In a soft voice, carrying a new weight of realization:
Liana: "[But… what if this isn't weakness?
What if it's salvation?]"
After a long silence, Liana nodded, her voice low.
Liana: "Perhaps this… is more than I can bear. But… maybe I have no other choice."
Her words were steeped in hesitation, yet they carried the trace of a decision taking root within her heart. She looked at Raymond, and in him she saw the man who might be her doorway to a new world. A world she had never lived in before.
Raymond gave a small smile, one heavy with both pain and resolve. He knew that moving forward meant relinquishing everything he once thought defined him.
Raymond: "We'll take only what we need… nothing more. Not the past, not the burdens. Only us… together."
Liana smiled through her tears, her face reflecting a fragile blend of strength and vulnerability. She did not know him well, but something deep inside told her this choice might be the path to salvation.
Liana: "Yes… then let us leave… together."
That was the moment of transformation. The moment she chose to leave everything behind: her family, her past, and the chains that had bound her all her life. She was not entirely certain, but her heart felt lighter than it had ever been.
Night began to descend, and the distant horizon glowed with a different light. Something had shifted in the air. Together, they were about to begin a new journey… filled with fears, yet equally brimming with hope.
With slow steps, Raymond led her toward the horizon, to where the mountains met the rivers, where the clouds wove dreams that might yet come true. And with each step… they drew closer to the peace they had long sought.
But…
While some whispered words of love beneath the moonlight, others screamed in agony under the blaze of fire.
Vulkorth – Draxul – at the heart of battle
The wind carried the scent of blood, mingled with the sound of steel tearing into flesh, and the cries of men whose bodies were broken before their souls left this earth. Beneath a sky shrouded in the smoke of war, death reigned over the battlefield, and the ground drank the blood of those who tried to stand but could not.
The torn bodies piled upon each other like human wreckage, and the terrified horses neighed madly before collapsing, arrows buried deep in their bellies. There was no honor in this battle, no glorious victory, no eternal heroism—only bloody chaos, where men were slaughtered mercilessly, and the strong trampled the weak to live just a few more fleeting minutes.
Ser Darren Castro was in his late forties, the harsh traces of time etched into his face, yet something eternal lingered in his deep blue eyes, glowing fiercely like the vast ocean. His long hair, pale green streaked with white strands, fell over his shoulders—an almost mythical blend, as if time itself had passed over him slowly.
Around him, the battlefield was a chaotic dance of death—men and horses locked in savage struggle, their screams mingling with the cries of the fallen. It was as though the earth itself groaned under the weight of destruction.
Darren stood at the very heart of it all, his armor smeared with the marks of war, his body weary, his breath heavy. His sword—once a shining symbol of his family—now dripped with the blood of both foe and ally alike. He leaned on its hilt, feeling the weight of the blade sink into the soft earth beneath his boots, as though the weapon itself had grown tired of fighting.
The clash of steel and the screams of men filled his ears, but his mind was distant, drowning in a flood of thoughts carried with each ragged breath. He watched warriors fall around him—some screaming, some silent—all of them lost to the merciless fury of battle. Blood stained the ground at his feet, a dark, glistening pool of death stretching across the field.
The sight of blood, the endless slaughter… it was strangely familiar, as if the very land itself called out to him. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he felt the crushing weight of his family's legacy pressing down upon him.
Then, without warning, he spoke. His voice carried through the chaos with a calm intensity, as though he wasn't speaking to the men around him, but to the very earth beneath his feet. His words were old, heavy with the weight of his forebears, resounding like a war cry.
Darren, steady yet resolute: "We are the blood of the earth, the fire of battle, and the heirs to an eternal legacy."
The words lingered—both proclamation and prophecy—hanging in the air as if the soil itself acknowledged their truth. He inhaled deeply, the stench of blood and smoke filling his lungs. With a whisper, he straightened, his body stiff from exhaustion, yet his resolve unbroken. The battle was not over.
With a swift motion, he pushed himself off his sword and advanced, his eyes locked on a knight before him. The man charged forward, blade raised, his face set in a mask of determination. Darren's senses sharpened—every movement of his foe seemed slowed. The knight lunged with a vicious strike aimed at Darren's head.
But Darren was faster.
Twisting aside, he narrowly dodged, his blade flowing with effortless grace. With a low growl, he swung his sword in a wide arc toward the knight's midsection. The knight barely raised his weapon to block, and steel clashed with a thunderous crack that echoed across the battlefield. Sparks burst as metal struck metal, the impact surging up Darren's arm.
But he did not relent. With a furious snarl, he pressed harder, pouring his strength into the clash. The knight's blade groaned under the pressure—until, with a sharp, hateful crack, it shattered in two, leaving its wielder defenseless.
In a single fluid motion, Darren surged forward, his sword a flash of deadly precision. Before the knight could react, Darren drove the blade deep into his chest, piercing through armor and into his heart. The knight's eyes widened in shock as life drained from them. Blood gushed freely, soaking Darren's hands and the ground beneath.
The man crumpled lifelessly, and Darren stood above him, his chest heaving with effort. He did not spare the dead knight a glance—there was no need.
Instead, his blue eyes swept across the battlefield, no longer green as it once was, but a grotesque painting of mud and blood. His breath came heavy—not only from exhaustion, but from the grim realization that this war would not end easily.
Turning, he caught sight of one of his soldiers—a boy barely twenty, clutching his sword with trembling hands, eyes lost in the storm of death around him. Darren's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and demanding, as he gripped his sword tighter.
Darren: "What happened to the Third Battalion!?"
The boy could scarcely speak, his lips quivering as if cold had seized his bones—though there was no cold in this hell, only the fire of war devouring all. Swallowing hard, his words stumbled out, strangled by fear.
Young soldier: "I… I don't know, my lord… the last thing they told us was—they weren't ready yet…!"
Darren's eyes narrowed, his teeth clenched with fury. Seizing the boy by the collar of his armor, he yanked him forward violently, his voice a caged beast's roar.
Darren: "Not ready yet!? What do you think this is, a training yard, you fool!? Every minute of delay means another massacre of our men! Do you want to die here for nothing—or fight like real soldiers!?"
The boy trembled, but his grip on his sword tightened, clawing at some scrap of courage in this inferno.
Darren drew in a deep breath before shoving him back, his gaze fixed on the chaos ahead. He knew reinforcements would not come in time—perhaps not at all. They had no choice but to fight to the last breath… or become another layer in this open grave.
Raising his blade, he unleashed a war cry that shook the field.
Darren: "Reinforcements will not come… Soldiers! No more waiting! Whoever wants to live, stand with me—and whoever fears death, let him be buried here!"
Without hesitation, he charged forward, cutting his path through blood and fire. Pain flared in his wounded shoulder, but he ignored it, and those who had no choice but to fight—or perish—followed behind.
Taking another step, Darren's voice thundered deeper, more unshakable.
Darren: "If you fall without staining your blades with blood, your names will be remembered only as cowards. But if we triumph, our names will be carved into history. The choice is yours!"
A moment of silence… then a chorus of cries erupted. Swords lifted high, the soldiers surged back into the fray, with Darren at their front—a silver storm at the heart of the tempest.
Draxul – In a camp beneath the banner of the Kingdom of Arcadia, snapping in the fierce winds, bearing the sigil of a red eye slashed by two claws, preparations were at their peak.
Soldiers and knights sharpened their swords, donned their armor, and steeled themselves for the battle to come. Amidst the roar of activity, one figure commanded absolute presence.
The Marchioness Atris Starkov, a woman in her late thirties, radiated the authority of her station. Her wavy blonde hair was tied into a side braid, and her blue eyes shimmered like a tranquil sea at dawn. Her sharp features exuded confidence and strength. She wore a fitted black coat adorned with rich golden embroidery, her cloak lined with crimson fabric that fluttered with every step. At her belt gleamed a crimson gem, as if her enemies' blood had been set into her very attire.
Before her stood Ser Variss Sathray, commander of the Third Battalion. A man in his thirties, his features bore the scars of wars past, while his present struggled against an inevitable end. His short brown hair, brushing just to his chin, was streaked with dark gray like the ashes of battles still smoldering. His black eyes, like extinguished embers, carried the weight of years steeped in blood and fire. He wore a blue armor inlaid with golden designs, a dark cloak draped over his shoulders—not for warmth, but for the cold of death creeping ever closer.
Atris approached with steady steps, her gaze locking onto his, silencing any doubt.
Atris: "I will rely on you at the front line, Ser Variss."
He bowed slightly, his voice bearing the weight of a seasoned warrior.
Variss: "It is an honor, my lady."
With a single gesture of her hand, the horns sounded, heralding the battalion's march. Their steps were heavy, as though the earth itself trembled beneath them, and the night awaited eagerly for the moment when moonlight would reflect on shining blades soon to be dulled and drenched in blood.
As the armies marched toward the unknown, far from the noise of orders and the clamor of preparations, there was another place, secluded from the chaos of the coming war. Deep inside the camp, among the large tents, stood one tent steeped in a strange silence, broken only by the breathing of a man lost in sleep.
The sound of metallic footsteps cut through the stillness of the tent, as though the echo of battle followed them. At the entrance they paused for a moment, letting the darkness behind them dissolve into the glow of the torches. It was Lady Barbara Starkov, the twenty-year-old knight. She looked as though she had just stepped off the battlefield, yet her face bore none of war's harshness. Instead, it carried a youthful vitality, oddly at odds with the black armor embroidered with golden threads that embraced her frame. Her pale wavy blond hair cascaded down her shoulders, with a few strands neatly braided at the sides of her head. Her blue eyes shimmered with a mysterious gleam.
Without hesitation, she shoved aside the leather flap of the tent. She cast a quick glance around before calling out in a teasing, provocative tone:
Barbara: "What a lazybones… Hey, you! When will you wake up!?"
She did not wait for an answer. Instead, she walked straight to the sleeping man in the corner of the tent. Sitting down before him, she rested her chin on her hands with childlike innocence, watching him as though observing some strange experiment. After a moment, she began to tap his head gently, as if she hadn't the slightest intention of bothering him.
Barbara, whispering: "Hmm… Fool. How can you sleep like this? The battle has already begun. We just sent out the third battalion."
Before she could finish her words, the sleeper suddenly stirred. The blanket slid off smoothly, revealing a young duke—Lord Aqua Nightover, a man in his twenties whose appearance was closer to that of a ghost from an old legend. His skin was so pale it seemed almost translucent under the torchlight, as if his body were woven from cold mist. His messy silver hair spilled over his ice-blue eyes, eyes that carried a frost too deep to ever melt. His features were sharply chiseled, yet his face betrayed no emotion one could easily read.
He wore a long white coat fastened with silver buttons that caught the light in a dignified gleam, beneath it a dark shirt that only deepened his cold aura. He moved just enough to lift his head slightly, leaning toward her in an unsettling way, his frigid gaze fixed on her with no expression—studying her, perhaps, or simply wondering why she remained there.
Only a few inches separated their faces. Close enough for her to feel the chill of his breath, as though it rose from a wintry grave. Barbara froze, watching his unblinking eyes, so devoid of feeling, as if he were still asleep—or as if his wakefulness itself was part of an ongoing nightmare.
His stare locked onto her in a silence so oppressive it seemed time itself had frozen. He neither spoke nor moved. Only that eerily calm face, so close, made her feel as though she were before not a man, but a snow leopard roused from its slumber—gazing at her with a deadly stillness, as though deciding whether to devour her or let her pass.
But Barbara, true to her usual spontaneity, was not shaken. She smiled faintly, lifted a finger, and pressed it to his forehead, pushing him gently back until he fell to lie down once more. Before he could respond, she had already pulled the blanket back over him, as though tucking in a spoiled child.
But before she could speak again, the tent shook violently as the flap was thrown aside with force. Marchioness Atris stormed in, her steps like fire smoldering beneath the earth, her eyes blazing with unrestrained fury, her scowl a storm waiting to break.
Atris: "You damned boy! The war has begun, battalions are moving, blood is being spilled outside—and you lie here asleep!?"
Her voice was sharp, like the rasp of steel being drawn from its scabbard, charged with scorn. She stepped toward the bed, seized the blanket, and yanked it away. Aqua opened his eyes slowly, as though surfacing from a long hibernation.
He looked at her for a moment with his cold, unreadable eyes, then lazily raised a brow and whispered in a low voice:
Aqua: "Oh… has the war begun? Why didn't anyone tell me?"
Barbara watched silently, stifling a laugh, while Atris clenched her fist tight, clearly fighting the urge to strike him.
Atris: "If you weren't his son, I'd make sure you slept forever. Fool! How do you expect to fight now? Or perhaps you never intended to fight at all!?"
Aqua Nightover rose slowly, as if time itself were his to command. He adjusted the coat that had slipped from his shoulders, then began to stretch his body with languid grace, as though warming up for nothing more than a casual match. Afterward, he picked up his sword with his right hand and walked forward in deliberate, unhurried steps.
He left the tent, circled around it, and headed directly toward the battle raging below the hill, every step seemingly preordained.
Atris followed, her voice ringing with command:
Atris: "And where do you think you're going? Your battalion awaits you there!"
But Aqua did not look back. He did not utter a word. He simply continued, his stride steady, cold, as though time itself shattered beneath his feet. His hand remained poised on his sword's hilt, as though the war awaited his gesture to truly begin.
Then, before she could speak again, his words came—strangely calm, quiet, yet striking with the weight of a blade cutting through silence.
Aqua: "No need… Keep them here."
He did not explain. He did not justify. He simply went on, as though his voice were the final word in this world before everything changed.
It was not loud, yet it carried an undeniable authority and gravity. Every movement of his body revealed it—his decision was made, and nothing would alter it.
The air around him grew heavier, the shadows stretched longer, as though the earth itself held its breath in anticipation.
He walked, not as a commander… but as a storm advancing.
Aqua continued as one moving through a dream he had no wish to wake from. The wind passed around him as if it knew his path, and his white coat swayed like a shadow barely touching the ground.
Behind him, Atris stood frozen, uncertain what had silenced her fury—was it his quiet? His presence? Or that strange feeling that suddenly cloaked the place, as though some law of reality had just fractured?
Aqua walked on as though the world behind him held no meaning, as though the coming war was but a distant memory of something buried for centuries… as though he was not heading toward the battle, but drawing it toward himself.
Behind, the kingdom's banner trembled in the wind. Ahead, there was nothing but silence—and the steps of a man walking with the confidence of one who knew there awaited him neither victory nor death, but only a reflection of himself.
Not as an heir. But as a bare blade—as a childhood dream unfinished, as a passion bleeding since the first time he gripped a hilt.
To complete a poem he had begun as a boy…
A poem written in steel, yet left without an ending.
The battle was at its peak. Soldiers clashed in utter chaos, shouting and exchanging arrows, while swords collided with sharp echoes that reflected the struggle of life and death. Dust filled the air, and blood spilled onto the ground as bodies fell one after another. Amidst this hell, Aqua Nightover walked forward with calm steps, as if the world around him had frozen, granting him passage unnoticed.
The soldiers on both sides were consumed by fierce combat; none expected that someone could walk through the heart of this inferno undeterred. They faced death with courage, but Aqua knew that none of them possessed his kind of bravery.
Then, suddenly, in a strange moment of silence amidst the uproar, Aqua stopped. He slowly raised his head and unsheathed his sword in a swift motion. The blade gleamed under the dim moonlight, as if the next wave from his sword would strike down everyone in its path.
His once-calm gaze sharpened, his eyes filled with focus, as if they had been frozen in time at the moment of battle. With his first movement, his body glided between the soldiers like water, as if the ground beneath him offered no resistance. He moved with agility and smoothness, as though he had not been resting moments ago but was instead a killing machine.
He surged forward, like a tiger in the midst of the crowd. Swords clashed in the air with piercing sounds, and he was at their center, evading attacks with expert maneuvers, parrying blows effortlessly, as if the swords were nothing more than the wind to him. His blade sliced through the air before striking his opponent directly... heads fell to the ground, or weapons were stripped from enemies' hands in an instant.
In a blink, he faced a towering knight wielding a long sword, swinging it like a raging storm. Ser Darren stood at a distance, watching in stunned silence, while Ser Variss glanced around frantically, unable to believe that the calm figure who had entered the chaos moments ago had now become a combat monster.
"This is..." Darren whispered, watching as Aqua swung his sword, bringing down the knight before him in an instant.
Aqua moved between soldiers and knights with ease, stepping like a shadow. The soldiers couldn't comprehend how he was felling them one after another. Swords scattered through the air, bodies collapsed to the ground, unable to escape his cold, calculated blade.
Then, he approached the nearest knight who dared to challenge him. Aqua raised his sword high, and in a flash, his strike descended like an arrow. The blade cut through armor and steel as if they were nothing, and Aqua moved to the next opponent. One after another, swords dropped from their owners' hands in rapid succession, as if Aqua existed in a realm of his own... every move precise, every step bringing him closer to swift victory.
It seemed as if the entire battlefield had frozen, watching this astonishing solo combat. Aqua knew exactly what he was doing, and he knew that the soldiers before him stood no chance against the agility and grace he had chosen to wield against them. Before anyone could catch their breath, another knight fell, and there was Aqua, moving through the chaos of battle as if life had abandoned everyone else, leaving only him to continue forward without hesitation.
In a fleeting moment, Aqua suddenly stopped. His body began to sway as he spun around himself, as though he carried the weight of the world. He staggered, panting heavily, his breath cutting through the battlefield's silence. Each inhale burned like fire in his chest. This was no longer the deadly calm they knew from him... this time, he was on the verge of collapse. But something within him urged him forward.
He lowered slightly, as if his strength had faltered for a moment. But at that very instant, a knight ambushed him from an unexpected angle. Aqua reacted in a blink, shifting his body swiftly to the left, causing the knight to lose balance and crash onto the ground face-first... a pivotal moment.
Aqua would not grant the knight a second chance. With unnatural speed and fluidity, he leaped, delivering a final strike that severed the knight's head from his body. The corpse fell to the ground, swept away by the wind as if it had never existed.
A moment of sudden stillness followed, as Aqua dropped to one knee, gasping heavily, as if his body had begun to bear the weight of this battle. Yet, his hoarse breath shattered the eerie silence of the battlefield.
Darren: "Fall back and rest for a bit!... You fool, you weren't even prepared, were you?!"
Ser Darren shouted from afar, unable to contain his concern. His gaze was filled with anger and frustration, as if the boy before him had chosen to play the hero despite every warning.
Aqua panted, his breathing heavy in his chest, but his eyes burned with fury... an endless challenge. He knew Darren was right, but he couldn't stop now. He wouldn't.
Aqua stood up with determination, as if every step burned into his body. His legs tensed, his heart pumped more blood through his veins. He insisted on pressing forward, his anger rising just as his strength waned. He was fighting for something greater than himself, and he couldn't stop now.
Aqua: "Not yet…"
He whispered to himself, then looked at Sir Darian with defiance before continuing forward.
Aqua: "I won't stop until I bring down that arrogant ravens."
At that moment, Ser Darren watched him with worried eyes, but at the same time, he knew that this stubborn boy would fight to his last breath.
Darren: "That stubborn boy is going to get himself killed!"
Darren muttered, watching Aqua push forward, struggling but still moving through the heart of battle.
Eastern Lands of Varlom – At the Gates of a Dark, Isolated Castle
In a place completely secluded from everything, where the sun hid behind heavy clouds, Castrophil Keep stood tall... dark, wrapped in an ancient mystery. Its walls were as black as if they had been crafted from the night itself, and its towering spires whispered secrets yet to be uncovered. Its massive gate stood open, but within it loomed a dense darkness, as if the castle called to those daring enough to enter.
Raymond Vanheim, with his composed demeanor and sharp eyes, arrived at the castle. He rode his black horse, which slowed to a stop at the grand entrance. He glanced at Liana beside him, whose eyes widened as she took in the vast surrounding lands. The horizon stretched over rolling hills, the land lush and green... radiating an indescribable beauty.
Raymond dismounted, then extended his hand gently to help Liana down. Her steps were slow, her eyes filled with awe as she gazed at the scene before her. When her feet touched the ground, she lifted her gaze toward the grand castle, then back to Raymond. Suddenly, she smiled... a radiant expression that seemed to light up her entire face.
Liana, in a quiet yet passionate voice: "I can't believe it! Are we really going to live here?!"
Raymond gave a faint, slightly sarcastic smile, as if he saw only the castle's mysteries.
Raymond: "That is… if you don't change your mind and decide to return home."
Liana playfully shoved him, laughing softly.
Liana: "Impossible!"
She said, beaming at him, then glanced around once more, her eyes absorbing the sight of the castle.
Liana: "I've always dreamed of this… but I never imagined I'd leave everything behind and come here for real… But I'm glad I did."
Before they could say anything else, their moment was interrupted by a familiar voice approaching in excitement.
"My lord… I can hardly believe it!"
Raymond turned immediately to find the head servant 'Rinus' rushing toward him, his face radiating joy as he clutched a letter in his hand.
The head servant, with a bright smile, his eyes filled with amazement and relief.
Rinus: "Welcome back, young master. When I received your letter saying you would return, I almost swore I was imagining things… but you're really here!"
Raymond nodded slightly, his voice calm but carrying a trace of warmth.
Raymond: Hello, Rinus. I apologize for the delay... I met my mother on the way here."
In that instant, Rinus's smile slowly faded, as if something unseen had drained the joy from his face. He took a deep breath, then silently extended the letter toward Raymond.
A black seal adorned the envelope.
Time paused for a brief but heavy moment. Raymond stared at the seal, hesitating to reach for it. Something deep inside him sensed misfortune... a strange feeling creeping into his chest like a cold breeze on a suffocating summer day. This was not normal.
Finally, he reached out, hesitantly breaking the seal. He unfolded the letter and began reading in silence.
The air grew unnervingly still.
Meanwhile, Liana was too captivated by the castle to notice. She explored the courtyard, admiring the plants, then tilted her head up, marveling at the towering spires, as if trying to take in the entire scene.
Breaking the silence, Rinus spoke again... his voice now quiet, but carrying a weight heavier than any scream.
Rinus: "The Battle of Draxul… began two hours ago."
Raymond's eyes froze on the letter, his mind refusing to process what he had just heard. He looked up at Rinus in shock, while the servant continued in a voice filled with deep concern.
Rinus : "The message arrived about half an hour ago... Our kingdom Arcadia faces the kingdom of Atheria... The families involved are the Solaris, Malacard, and Volmar."
Raymond continued reading the words in the letter, while his mind translated them slowly, as if each letter was a dagger piercing his chest.
Meanwhile, Liana had moved away from him slightly, wandering in the courtyard. Her eyes carefully examined the plants that had been nurtured along the edges of the stone paths. She was unaware of what was going through his mind, lost in her own moment, exploring the place that had now become her new home. She lifted her head to gaze at the tall towers, and felt a gaze directed at her. She suddenly turned to find Raymond staring at her.
Their eyes met for a few seconds. She couldn't understand what was going on inside him, but she immediately smiled at him, a warm and genuine smile. Then, she felt embarrassed and gently turned her face away, as if trying to hide the redness of her cheeks.
But Raymond did not return her smile. In fact, his eyes shone with that look of determination that preceded a decisive decision. He then began to breathe heavily. Slowly, he turned towards the horizon, the roads leading out of Varlom, to where the battle raged in Draxuol. The wind was light, but in his ears, it sounded like a call he couldn't ignore.
Raymond, still holding the letter, felt his breath grow heavy. He wasn't breathing smoothly, as though his heart was waging an internal battle before his feet even touched the battlefield. He looked away, towards the horizon that led to Draxuol's lands, to a war he perhaps didn't want to return to, but the blood running through his veins wouldn't let him stand idly by.
Then, in a quiet voice, as if testing his decision before uttering it aloud, he asked.
Raymond: "How long will it take to ride at full speed from here to Draxul?"
Rinus felt a chill run through his body, his gaze deep with concern. He stammered as he replied.
Rinus: "M... My lord... Are you planning to go?
Raymond raised his eyes to him, his look filled with agitation he couldn't hide. It wasn't a simple matter. He was at a crossroads, with two choices before him, each one meaning the sacrifice of something important.
He had finally found the life he had dreamed of, a life he could take care of, build with Liana... But at the same time, how could he turn his back on a battle that might change the fate of everything?
He knew the answer, but he wasn't ready to say it yet.
Raymond stood, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his thoughts wrestling inside him. Then he turned sharply towards Rinus and asked in a low voice, yet filled with concern.
Raymond: "How many men do we have on our side?"
Rinus hesitated for a moment, as if carefully choosing his words before answering in a quiet voice.
Rinus: "The Arcadian families involved are... the Starkov, Windsword, Blackmirth, and... Nightover."
At the mention of the last name, Raymond's expression froze for a moment, as if his entire body had stopped moving. He stared at him in shock, then suddenly, he turned quickly and rushed toward his horse, his steps fast as if racing against time.
Rinus: "My lord... My lord!, what's wrong?"
Rinus called out as he ran after him, concern evident on his face.
Raymond leapt onto his horse with swift motion, gripping the reins tightly. Then, he whispered to himself in a barely audible voice.
Raymond: "Nightover... They're involved in this war with only one man they rely on."
As soon as he finished his words, he struck the horse's reins, and it shot off at incredible speed, releasing a loud neigh that echoed throughout the palace, as if signaling the beginning of a race with no return.
At that moment, Liana was still wandering in the courtyard, enjoying the beauty of the place, when she heard the sudden sound. She turned quickly, her eyes widening in surprise when she saw Raymond speeding away, as if racing the wind. She felt a strange tightening in her chest, something she didn't understand, but it made her run immediately toward Rinus, who was silently watching the scene.
Liana: "What's happening?! Where did he go?"
She asked in a voice full of concern, while Rinus glanced at her for a moment before replying with a false tone of reassurance.
Rinus: "He's gone somewhere... He'll be back."
But Liana didn't fully believe that. She stared at the path where he had disappeared, a sense of unease creeping into her heart, as though something was wrong, something she shouldn't ignore...
Dreamcrown – In the royal garden of the palace.
The royal garden was a masterpiece of beauty and luxury, with stone pathways winding through vibrant green spaces dotted with rare flowers in vivid colors. Gentle fountains whispered softly, reflecting the sunlight that filtered through the blooming branches of trees, while small birds danced among the limbs, singing peaceful tunes. Elegant marble benches were scattered throughout, and kiosks draped in silky curtains provided shade for visitors. The entire place exuded an elegance befitting the masters of the royal court.
The sound of footsteps echoed through the stone-paved path.
Viscountess 'Talia Vanheim', twenty years old, walked calmly under the faint moonlight that cast silvery shadows across the garden. Her short red hair shimmered under the glow of the hanging lanterns, appearing like a crown of fire framing her slender face. Her wide, calm gray eyes held a deep gaze, as if reflecting secrets she chose not to reveal. Her features were delicate and elegant, with a straight nose and softly rosy cheeks, giving her an appearance that blended strength and grace.
She wore a long white dress, simple in design yet retaining elegant details that reflected her high status. The soft fabric flowed with her movements, while the long sleeves, adorned with subtle silver thread embroidery, added a touch of sophistication without excess. Around her waist, a silk sash accentuated her slenderness, and the folds of the dress swayed gracefully with every step she took.
Talia did not wear much jewelry... only a simple silver ring on her finger and small pearl earrings that glimmered in her ears. Her steps were quick and decisive, as though she were trying to avoid any unwanted conversations.
But a voice called her name.
"Lady Talia?"
She paused for a moment, exhaled softly, then slowly turned. She walked toward the table with steady steps, although she could already hear hushed whispers and muffled laughter before she reached them.