Thian: "Swordmaster?… What does that mean?!"
Sathiron cast a sidelong glance at his son, as if weighing his readiness to absorb what he was about to hear. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
Sathiron: "It is not a medal hung upon your chest, but a curse carved into your very bones. It is not given… it is seized by the sword. To become a 'Swordmaster,' it is not enough to be the strongest… you must be the last one left standing.
Each year, in the all nine kingdoms, nine of the greatest duelists rise—each one sharpening his skill through blood and sweat, each one wielding a blade that has seen hundreds fall. The rule is simple…
You must defeat them all, one after another, without rest, without pause. There is no room for error—for error means death. No room for fear—for hesitation opens a gap, and a gap invites the end. Not even the bending of a single knee, for the Master of the Sword does not kneel.
But that is not all… after each duel, your fallen foe is not carried away. His body remains before you, his empty eyes fixed upon you, as though his spirit refuses to depart until you too are defeated. You cannot avert your gaze. You cannot ignore them. For a Master of the Sword is measured not only by his skill, but by his ability to face the eyes he has extinguished.
With every battle you survive, the corpses line up behind you, forming an indelible legacy, a shadow that lengthens with every step forward. You do not bear their swords… you bear the weight of their stares, the echoes of their last breaths, the silence they left behind. And with each opponent you strike down, it is not your weapon that grows… but something else. Something unseen, yet felt.
In the end, when the warrior reaches the ninth… he ceases to be merely a fighter. He has crossed the line between man and beast. His very name becomes a blade that cuts through conversation before it is ever drawn in battle. Its mention alone a burden upon the shoulders of any who dare speak it. The Master of the Sword is not he who carries ten blades… but he who carries ten unfinished stories… because he is the one who placed the final stroke in each of them."
He lifted his eyes toward Thian, his face heavy with the weight of the events he had cast into the present.
Sathiron: "Irvin did not merely defeat them… he broke them. He was not fighting for a title… but as though the sword were an extension of his very soul, as though he sought something in every strike. As though he were trying to prove something… something only those who witnessed him that day could ever understand."
He paused, studying his son's expression, then continued.
Sathiron: "But that is not all. Do you want to know when he truly became a king? It was not when he sat the throne… but in the Battle of the Final Melody."
Ronissa raised a brow with faint interest, while Cyril lifted his gaze toward him. He had heard the tale before, yet he knew that hearing it from their father carried a different weight. As for Thian, his brows furrowed, eagerness creeping into his voice.
Thian: "The Battle of the Final Melody?…"
Sathiron smiled, though it was not a smile of mockery or pride… but of one who had witnessed something unforgettable.
Sathiron: "When Irvin ascended the throne, not all were convinced of his right to it. He was young, too much a dreamer… far too much, in a world ruled by beasts wearing the masks of kings. And there was one man who chose to declare his refusal openly… Earl Ragnar River. A man who had bowed to seven kings before him, yet refused to kneel to the boy who had become king. He did not travel to Dreamcrown to swear his fealty, but remained in his province north of the capital, claiming that Irvin did not deserve the throne."
Theon clenched his hands, caught up in his father's words.
Sathiron: "When Ragnar River was declared an enemy of the crown, he sought aid from Evalen and Atheria, but found only closed doors. And when word reached King Irvin Luskarth, he did not rage, did not threaten, did not send an army. Instead, he did something no one expected."
He raised his cup, took a small sip, then set it down before continuing.
Sathiron: "He ordered only two battalions assembled. Nine hundred men. No more. And he marched them westward, to the plains of Arkith… where Ragnar's forces awaited him—four full battalions, more than two thousand men, over twice his strength."
He paused, as though the scene emerged vividly in his mind.
Sathiron: "Imagin it, son. A young king, in his first year of rule, facing an army more than double his own. And their commander? A man seasoned in many wars. But Irvin… Irvin was not merely a boy with a sword. He was a storm walking on two legs."
The wavering lights of the hall reflected in Sathiron's silvery eyes as his voice grew heavier.
Sathiron: "In that battle… Irvin alone slew seventy men."
Thian gasped softly, and a silence settled over the entire table. Even Ronissa, who had scoffed moments before, could not conceal her reaction to the tale.
Sathiron: "When the fighting ended… only one sound remained upon the plains. A strange hymn, faint, yet echoing everywhere. It is said the soldiers could not tell whence it came, as though the earth itself were singing it…
And amidst it all, Irvin stood over the body of Earl Ragnar River, his sword driven into the man's chest.
With that hymn… victory was declared."
Sathiron fell silent, staring at his cup for a moment, then raised his eyes to his son, who sat stunned, unable to grasp what he had just heard.
Sathiron: "Do you think anyone would dare question a king who carved his glory with the sword?"
He regarded his son with eyes carrying decades of experience. Then spoke in a quiet voice, heavy with the echo of history.
Sathiron: "And from that moment, Irvin uttered his famous words…
'To reach the top, you must swim in blood.'"
His eyes lingered on Thian's face, measuring the effect of the words, noting the subtle tremor of realization as it sank deep within him. They were no mere lines from history books, but a law engraved with the blood of those who dared overstep their bounds.
Then he added, in a softer voice, bearing an unspoken warning.
Sathiron: "That is why… those who witnessed that age named him… the Killer Whale."
Thian gave no reply. He only lowered his gaze, realizing he would never look upon King Irvin the same way again.
At the far end of the first long table sat Duke Blatir Vanheim, leaning back in his chair—not as though resting his spine, but as though propping up a chest burning with hatred. His features were still, yet in his eyes smoldered a fire that needed no shout to be understood. He did not speak; he seethed in noble silence, as if hatred within him had ceased to be an emotion… and had become an identity.
The hall simmered with toasts and feigned laughter, the clinking of cups rising, but never loud enough to drown out the silence that dwelled in the eyes…
And in a corner of time—time not measured in minutes, but in the heaviness that clings to the heart—it happened.
King Irvin Luskarth, clad in dark garments like the shadow of glory itself, sat with the composure of a monarch who had no need to prove anything.
He listened, calmly, to an old nobleman speaking across from him. Nothing seemed unusual…
Until the rhythm broke.
A moment—not seen with the eyes, but felt upon the skin.
No one knew who began it…
But he turned, with his eyes only—slowly, as if the motion were summoned by an inner call that could not be resisted.
And he saw.
He saw him.
Blatir Vanheim. Sitting at the opposite table. He was not speaking, not smiling, not drinking.
Blatir was looking at him… no, not merely looking—but driving his gaze into him as though the stare itself were a cold blade.
There was no explicit hostility, no clear challenge… yet within Blatir's eyes lay an accusation.
An ancient question.
Silent contempt.
A pain unacknowledged.
And a threat… one that required no words.
Silence.
Only seconds…
But between the king and the duke, they stretched like an age. An age of mutual failure, of promises never given, of a throne never sworn to.
Irvin did not frown. He did not smile. He revealed nothing.
He merely… ended the stare.
He shifted his eyes quietly to his right, toward those still speaking, as though nothing at all had happened.
He did not turn his head.
As if Blatir were nothing but a shadow on the wall… or as if he already knew, with certainty, what that gaze carried… and what the coming days would conceal.
Beyond the palace – in the edge of the farmland, under a sky beginning to bleed with the shades of night—Aqua and Raymond still lingered, far from the hall, closer to nothingness.
Raymond lay on the ground, one arm tucked beneath his head, eyes closed, as if nothing was worth seeing. Aqua, meanwhile, leaned against the wooden fence, head poking between its beams, arms dangling over it with childlike boredom.
Aqua, with a groan: "Ah… damn it, I wish I'd never listened to you. Here we are starving, with nothing to do but listen to that damned cricket… I swear I'll crush it if it doesn't shut up."
Raymond remained silent, then spoke without opening his eyes.
Raymond, lazily: "If you go inside, your father will force you to put on a noble's mask… and congratulate that foolish boy."
Aqua sighed, glancing at the glow of the palace seeping from the windows, listening to the distant echoes of laughter and music, then muttered bitterly:
Aqua: "That little boy… we're three years older than him, and yet he's already got a woman… hahaha."
Raymond opened his eyes, stared at the sky for a moment, then said lightly: "Heh… but you've got a girl too, you sly boy."
Aqua turned to him slowly, confused: "Hm? What? Who do you mean?"
Raymond exhaled, a crooked smile forming: "Come on, don't play dumb. You've got Barbara, man. Don't tell me you haven't noticed how drawn she is to you? Be honest… and tell her."
Aqua chuckled softly, closed his eyes, and rested his head back against the wood, speaking with quiet sarcasm.
Aqua: "Huh?... Barbara!? We're just… friends."
Raymond, smirking as he turned toward him: "Riiiiiight… sure, sure…"
Aqua fell silent for a moment, then slowly opened his eyes, fixing Raymond with a long look before whispering.
Aqua, softly: "I'm serious… alright? You could say she's…"
He stopped, leaving it unfinished.
His gaze suddenly drifted, breaking away into a deep inner silence, eyes distant as though recalling a heavy memory.
Then he spoke, coldly, as if torn straight from his heart.
Aqua: "She's like… a sister to me."
When Aqua uttered his final words, Raymond's heart trembled—as if the voice was not a voice at all, but a fracture echoing through the walls of the soul. There was nothing suspicious in the phrase itself, yet its weight upon his ear was heavier than a stone cast into a still well. He turned to him slowly, and when his eyes met Aqua's, he saw a shadow stretching beyond the present, a wound unhealed, a void that time had never managed to fill.
Aqua needed neither to recount nor explain… the silence that followed was more eloquent than any confession.
But Raymond felt a sudden heaviness in the air, as if something unseen had pressed down on both their chests at once.
He rose slowly, eyes laced with worry, understanding without a word being spoken.
Then—
Rustle.
Raymond turned sharply, scanning the darkness with his eyes.
Raymond, nervously: "…hey. Did you hear that!?"
Aqua, coldly, averting his gaze: "Man, if you're just trying to cheer me up, spare me these childish tricks… Just—"
But Raymond cut him off, his voice edged with urgency.
Raymond: "You idiot!! I'm telling you there's actually something… Just stay quiet!"
Aqua froze for a heartbeat, then calmly shifted his gaze toward the low trees to the right…
And he saw a face.
A shadowed face, watching them from between the leaves.
In a flash, Aqua snatched the dagger from Raymond's thigh and hurled it with sharp precision. The sound of steel piercing flesh cracked the silence, followed by a muffled cry from behind the trees.
Both men leapt forward, rushing toward their target.
The wounded man writhed on the ground, groaning, blood seeping from his shoulder.
Man, in pain, shouting: "Damn it!! I didn't know Aisdeyth was here! If I had known, I'd never have taken this cursed job!"
But suddenly, his companion bolted, abandoning him where he lay.
Man, shocked, screaming: "W-what are you doing!!? Get back here, you bastard!! Don't leave me!!"
In the next instant… another dagger cut through the air and drove into the back of the fleeing man's skull. He collapsed to the ground like a straw doll.
The first man's eyes froze wide. Slowly, trembling, he turned his head… searching for the shape of his own end.
And then he felt it—
A strange warmth brushing against his neck.
It wasn't the warmth of flesh, but the cold edge of a dagger.
Yet what terrified him most wasn't the steel…
But the voice behind him.
Aqua, low, razor-edged: "Speak… unless you'd prefer to share his fate."
The night around them was no longer as it had been moments before; it seemed as if the very silence had changed. It was no longer a passing quiet, but a silence that watched, that stalked, pressing heavily upon the soul.
The drops of blood that fell onto the earth were not merely the trace of a wounded body, but a red tattoo upon the page of events—a mark that what lay hidden was greater still, and that what awaited them was no less dark than what pursued them.
Skyrock Palace – Inside the Grand Hall
Blatir sat still, silent, yet the tension in his fingers gripping the edge of the table was enough to reveal the storm raging within him. His eyes followed the proceedings with detached indifference, while hollow laughter and polite chatter flew around him like distant noise that mattered little. Yet something… those fake smiles, the disregard, the way no one even bothered to glance at him as if he were merely a piece of furniture in the corner… all of it was enough to shatter the last thread of self-control.
His fingertips traced slowly along the rim of his cup, as though that motion was his only way to express the inner irritation, while he observed King Irvin, surrounded by nobles speaking as if the world revolved effortlessly around him.
Blatir: "Look at them… they haven't stopped talking since they sat. If I'm there, they'll finish dinner in silence, without letting their foul mouths utter a single word."
Talia, sitting beside him, raised her cup quietly and stared into its liquid as though contemplating her own reflections within, then spoke in a calm, unflattering tone.
Talia: "Father, their gaze upon you will not change as long as you continue chasing the throne at any cost, ignoring the established royal chosen one."
Blatir stopped tracing his fingers and placed his cup slowly on the table. He then turned to her, leaning slightly forward, letting his words escape like a whisper that sliced the air like a blade.
Blatir: "Twenty years… twenty damned years of service, of carrying this kingdom on my shoulders, of pushing its economy forward, while the others… mere trash appearing from nowhere, scoundrels without lineage… and yet… they are the ones sitting on the throne while I continue bowing to them."
His eyes glowed with a hidden fire, not merely anger, but something deeper… rooted hatred, a sense of betrayal that had never died. He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing his words, then continued in a low, bitter tone:
Blatir: "More than eighteen percent of the kingdom's economy, its wealth, its strength… came from me. From my name. From my effort. And yet, here I sit, watching, while others toy with our fates as if it were a game!!"
Talia did not respond immediately, instead looking at him with calm eyes, as if seeing beyond his words… beyond his tone. Something deeper than ambition… a wound never healed.
Outside the Palace – Aqua and Raymond ran with every beat of their hearts, each breath sharp, the gravel cracking beneath their feet, tension rising.
Aqua, with suppressed anger: "Forty men camped near the palace!? And reinforcements coming too!? How… the hell… did they get here!?"
Raymond, panting, anxious: "Right now, forget 'how they got here'! The question is: how do we stop them… before their feet reach the palace corridors!"
The air around them was warm, heavy, the night's humidity mingling with the sweat of their worry on their brows. The distant palace lights shimmered, oblivious to what was approaching.
Suddenly, Aqua spotted a convoy bearing the Blackmirth emblem.
Aqua, sharply: "I'll send a falcon to the nearest military headquarters, I think there's one south of here.
I'll request reinforcements. You… alert the guards and knights. Prepare them."
They parted ways.
Aqua veered left, the muddy roads splitting beneath his steps,
Raymond toward the palace, head lowered, eyes blazing, as one who cannot afford hesitation.
At the wagon, under the shadow of a half-tattered cloth, a man bent over the wheels, scraping mud with a short stick, humming softly to himself. He expected nothing. He felt no passage of time… until he was confronted.
A sharp voice came from behind.
Aqua, hoarse, pressed by exhaustion and urgency: "You!"
The man spun around, eyes searching the darkness, then froze, hands gripping his sword when he saw the newcomer, clothes stained, breaths broken, eyes… ablaze, yet cold as ice.
In less than a blink, the sword was drawn, shining alone beneath the flickering torchlight.
Aqua, stepping forward quickly, sword at throat level: "Give me a falcon, now!"
The man faltered, stepping back while raising his other hand nervously, able to recognize this noble youth before him, yet unable to comprehend why he seemed to have emerged from battle itself.
The man, stammering: "F-falcon? Excuse me, young duke… I don't u-…"
Aqua, shouting with a force that nearly pierced the silence: "The falcon! I know you always keep them for correspondence, where's the cage?!"
He did not wait for an answer. He moved suddenly toward the stacked boxes beside the wagon, opening them violently, one after another. Wood creaked, locks snapped, and Aqua did not pause for breath, searching like a drowning man.
The third box… he found what he sought.
A small cage, inside which a black falcon fidgets, blinking with gleaming eyes as if aware of the burden of the message it will be tasked to carry.
He thrust his hand in and pulled the cage swiftly, then turned to the man as if demanding the last thing he needed before the world erupted:
Aqua, in a commanding tone that brooked no delay: "Paper! Ink! Now!"
The man's hands trembled as he produced the tools from his coat, handing them over quickly.
Aqua knelt, back against the wagon wheel, placing the message on his knee, and began to write…
Aqua: "You will send this to the nearest military headquarters. Do you hear me!!"
The man nodded, confused, as Aqua continued writing rapidly.
His fingers shook. Ink spilled heavily. Words poured out faster than his awareness could follow. His heart pounded in his ears, each letter written as if trying to outpace an arrow in flight.
The message was not merely words. It was a cry for help, a curse attempting to be imprisoned in paper before screaming its truth in everyone's faces.
On the other side, Raymond was running, then slowed his pace. The ground was paved, stretching before him like a banquet table overflowing with indifference. Dozens of men—knights and guards—lay sprawled or sat in clusters, laughing, raising their cups, tossing bones beside their plates, as if war were nothing more than a distant rumor.
They were there, beneath the torches, reclining, unbound by any sense of duty. And behind them… the dark hills, silent far more than they should be.
Raymond stopped, his breath rising and falling, then raised his voice.
With restrained fury, his voice struggled to break free: "Everyone! Ready yourselves at once! Raiders camp behind those hills! Hundreds of men, coming this way… and here you are? Drinking and laughing as though your king were not in danger!"
The cups froze in the air. One man never finished his bite of bread. Many eyes lifted toward him, slowly. The tension was not of readiness… but of doubt.
Then, the silence was broken—by a hoarse, mocking voice, heavy as scalding rain.
The knight didn't move from his spot. He didn't even bother to look toward the source of the voice. He simply leaned back in his heavy wooden chair, his engraved kingdom-crested armor grating faintly with the motion.
Then came his words—not as a question, but as a veiled insult. He wasn't asking; he was mocking.
"Identify yourself?"
He said it slowly, drawing out each syllable as though addressing a foolish child who had lost his way. His tone was condescending, laden with privilege and self-importance. It wasn't a request for information—it was a declaration that the other was nothing.
Laughter rose suddenly—not loud, but tinged with a childish scorn.
Raymond stood in their midst. His fists clenched like stone, his chest heaving.
He did not answer. Instead… he gave a single sharp look, sweeping across their faces. Then stepped forward.
That alone was enough to silence some of them. His eyes did not beg for understanding… they warned against folly.
Then… footsteps. Quick. Mud-slick.
Shadows moved near the entrance of the yard, then broke into the torchlight.
Aqua entered. His tunic was soiled, his stride steady despite exhaustion, his arm dripping with dried mud. And in his eyes… something no child of a palace could ever inherit.
Aqua, in a loud voice, like a sword drawn for the very first time: "Will you ask me who I am as well?"
Silence.
Aqua: "Or will you shut your mouth… and ready your men, ser?!"
The torchlight caught Aqua's face, and in it revealed a legacy no one could mistake.
The features of House Nightover—hair like poisoned snow, skin pale as though torn from moonlight. His tone, his stance, and that smoldering shard of ice in his eyes… enough to shake even the steadiest hearts.
The knight rose quickly, stepping forward twice, his head lowered.
The knight, in a hushed voice, heavy with shame: "My apologies… young Duke… I did not recognize you at first glance…"
The men exchanged glances, then stood in turn, bowing their heads. The laughter vanished, and the scent of gravity returned to the place.
As for Raymond, he remained standing where he was. He did not turn, did not smile… only cast his gaze aside quietly, like one who wishes neither to be seen, nor to see.
As if none of the commotion concerned him… as if, despite everything, he still bore the burden alone.
Above, across the polished marble of the palace halls, footsteps rang like muffled drums in the dead of night. Ser Darren Castro, his armor scraping softly with each movement, walked with heavy yet unhesitant strides. Something in the air did not sit right with him…
Not the loud music from the feast hall, nor the scattered laughter of nobles… but that false stillness, fragile, concealing what could not be spoken.
His eyes moved between the shadows, as though the walls of the palace were breathing something unseen. Darren was not a man prone to fear, but neither was he a fool…
That cold sensation creeping down his spine was not natural.
Then, he saw them.
In the lower courtyard, by the eastern gate, Aqua Nightover stood among knights and guards, issuing orders in a loud voice, his tone sharp and beyond dispute.
Darren halted where he was, his brows furrowing, his hand lowering slowly toward the hilt of his sword.
"...Aqua?" he whispered to himself, stunned.
Without thinking, he turned swiftly, descending the marble steps, his pace faster than usual. As soon as he passed under the stone arch, he veered right, and called out in a booming voice:
Darren: "Aqua! What are you doing? Why are you addressing the guards in this way?!"
Aqua turned at once, his gaze preceding his words—something strange in it… a deadly stillness, a faint blaze in his eyes.
Beside him stood Raymond, tense, exhaling slowly as though each second weighed on his chest.
Aqua, with a grave tone: "Ser Darien!"
His voice was an omen, not a greeting. He strode toward him quickly, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. His stance was not one of defense… but of delivering news—like strikes.
Darren, now close, said nothing. His eyes shifted toward the boy standing at Aqua's left.
He stared at him for a second… then stepped closer, placed a hand gently on Raymond's shoulder.
Darren, his voice carrying sudden, faint warmth: "Raymond? …Heh, I did not expect to see you here, son. It gladdens me."
Raymond, in a low voice, heavy with the weight of the past hours: "Me as well, Ser Darren…"
Darren did not reply. Instead, he turned his head toward the guards scattered around them, fastening armor, tightening straps, sharpening blades. Something was moving, something being prepared that went far beyond a patrol.
Then he asked, his tone shifting from warmth to tense steel.
Darren: "What is happening here?! Why are you readying yourselves as though battle were at the gates?"
Aqua fell silent—for a heavy second. He cast a brief glance at Raymond, then spoke in a quiet voice, one that carried the echo of truth.
Aqua: "Because it is, Sir Darren."
Darren stared at him, a cloud of confusion and suspicion etched on his face. He spoke in a quiet yet unmistakably bewildered tone, without so much as a blink.
Darren: "What do you mean?"
Aqua stepped forward, the shadows trailing behind him as though pulled by something within him, and spoke with a tone steeped in both urgency and confidence.
Aqua: "Forty-four men from the Kingdom of Evalen are camped now behind the trees east of the palace. We tracked them through the scouts, and we captured two of them—spies watching us."
He paused, catching his breath, avoiding Darren's eyes. Then Raymond, his voice steady, finished the sentence.
Raymond: "And not only that… reinforcements are on the way. A thousand men. Likely less than half an hour before... Their arrival."
At that moment, Darren's face shifted completely. His eyes widened, his lips tightened, as if something inside him crumbled. One thousand? Behind the hills?
He looked toward the horizon. For a fleeting instant, he thought he saw smoke rising in the distance—or perhaps only imagined it.
He lowered his head slowly, then raised it, his voice emerging faintly:
Darren: "…This is madness. How did they cross the border? Where were the patrols? What are Windsword's garrisons doing!!?…
And the king… everyone in this palace… they're in mortal danger…"
His words were shaken, but not defeated. A man who had served the kingdom for decades knew well how wars are waged. And he knew this moment… was unlike any other.
Aqua, sharply: "There's no time for that now, Ser Darren. We must act first. The men camped there are only the storm's vanguard. If we crush them, we gain ground… and time."
Darren stepped forward abruptly, glaring into Aqua's face.
Darren: "Time? Time for what, boy!? Do you think thirty royal guards and twenty knights can stand against nine hundred armed soldiers?"
He stopped briefly, then continued, his voice sharper:
Darren: "We must evacuate the king immediately! Get him out before everyone here is ground to ash in this fool's feast!
Otherwise… this land will drown in blood, and Skyrock will turn into an open graveyard. Do you understand?!"
Aqua's voice began to tremble—not from fear, but from the weight of choice.
Aqua: "If we abandon the palace now, we'll be exposed, hunted, without walls or defense. We don't know from which side their reinforcements will strike, and they may cut the roads faster than we imagine.
Retreat now is slow suicide. But if we hold… even for a few hours… we might give the kingdom a chance."
He fell silent for a moment, then continued, his tone quieter, but carrying the edge of steel.
Aqua: "We must make them regret stepping onto this land."
Ser Darren stared at Aqua, fire blazing in his eyes. His voice came like a sword splitting dry wood:
Darren: "So you would have us stay here, silent, and let them trap us like rats in a cage?! Are you mad, boy?!"
He flung his hand through the air, his tone rising:
Darren: "We have no more than thirty royal guards! And the Windsword knights here are barely twenty!
And you suggest we charge into battle… like locusts leaping into a field of fire?!"
Aqua stepped forward, cutting across the old knight's fury, and shouted with urgent force.
Aqua: "I sent a falcon!"
Darren froze where he stood, his eyes blazing, though his body stilled.
Darren: "What?!"
The single word carried all his disbelief and scorn.
Aqua, more resolute now: "I sent a falcon southwest, toward Nerossia. There's a military outpost near the mountains—it's the closest to us. Reinforcements will move as soon as the message arrives."
Darren stepped forward twice, closing in on him, his tone bitter and edged with panic.
Darren: "A falcon? You sent a falcon?! Do you realize how long it takes a falcon to reach them? At least twenty minutes… then a full hour before reinforcements arrive!!"
Aqua did not back down. He raised his head, locking eyes with Darren.
Aqua: "The Blackmirth falcons—best in Arcadia. Trained to cross long distances without pause, swift and precise, faster than any other means.
The message could arrive in ten minutes… maybe less. As for reinforcements, we won't stand idle until they come. All we need… is time. Just that."
Darren turned his head aside, a gesture that betrayed the erosion of his faith, and spoke with a voice sharp as a blade.
Darren, with strained composure, waved his hand as though cutting the conversation short: "I don't even know why I'm still arguing with you… I'll go and tell the King."
The knight turned sharply, with the violence befitting his age weighed down by battles. His first steps appeared steady, but the creak of his armor and the echo of his boots on stone betrayed the turmoil within. His heart wanted distance, but he could not escape the gravity of the moment.
Aqua froze where he stood, his fists trembling unconsciously. Blood boiled in his veins, and the air constricted in his chest. For a fleeting moment, he seemed like a child standing at the edge of confessing to a crime he had not committed—but whose ending only he could see.
His voice broke through, hesitant, torn between warning and plea.
Aqua: "Sir Darren…"
Darren stopped. He did not turn. He remained standing, his back a solid wall, but he felt the weight of the words nail themselves into his shoulders. He wanted to ignore them, to keep walking, yet the echo of the call froze his steps.
And then… the darkness was pierced by another voice. Low, but deep as the belly of the earth—powerful enough to halt any man, no matter how unyielding.
Raymond: "He… saw it."
Darren turned slowly, his eyes narrowed as though staring at a blade thrust through his chest. He said nothing. His gaze fixed on Aqua, who had lowered his head, shoulders slumped as though the whole weight of the world had been dropped upon them.
Aqua lifted his eyes slowly, as though dragging his soul out of the depths of hell. His voice quivered for an instant, yet did not falter. It carried something akin to revelation—the tone of a man who had not chosen to see, but had seen nonetheless.
Aqua: "I had seen it, Sir Darren… I saw… the end of the kingdom."
The air in the room contracted. Even the tongues of fire upon the torches seemed to bend toward his words, as though the flames themselves were listening.
Darren did not move, but his eyes widened slightly, reflecting a fire he had never known before. The old knight—who had never been broken by wars or bloodshed—stood there as though he were seeing a specter behind Aqua's shoulders.
Aqua continued, his voice darkening, falling upon them like an inescapable judgment.
Aqua: "The death of King Irvin… my father… everyone.
I saw blood flowing through the pillars of the palace, swords waiting behind the trees, and betrayal bursting from beneath the earth… as though a trap woven years ago.
Every road… every choice… led to the same end."
Silence descended. Heavy, suffocating silence—as though the walls themselves had stripped away the air. Nothing could be heard but the beating of their hearts, slow, burdened, like the toll of a countdown to the final hour.
Darren swallowed hard. He stared for a long time, then retreated a single step. He muttered, his voice barely audible, each word wrenched from him with difficulty:
Darren: "So this is it… the vision… the gift of House Nightover."
But the tremor that slipped into his tone was no gift—it was a curse. A truth standing before him, undeniable, one that even a man unaccustomed to fear could not resist.
He remained there, motionless, as though his body fought against a power he knew well, and knew was inescapable.
Then he closed his eyes, releasing a long, heavy breath—followed by words that sounded less like resolve, and more like measured surrender.
Darren: "Very well… but the king must be told."
Aqua nodded, and so did Raymond.
Darren turned and called out to one of the royal guards behind him.
The soldier approached, noting the solemn expressions on the three men's faces.
Darren whispered a few words to him—no one else heard, but their effect showed instantly upon the guard's face.
His eyes widened, but he did not object. Instead, he bowed swiftly… then sprinted toward the grand hall, vanishing among the palace's heavy pillars.
Darren remained where he stood for a moment, silent, gazing into the horizon. Then, slowly, his hand closed around the hilt of his sword.
And he stepped forward.
Darren, in a resounding voice of iron and resolve: "Let us cut down those bastards in the forest first."
Raymond looked at Aqua. Their eyes met in silence… then the three of them moved, Sir Darren leading with firm steps.
The knights and guards were already at the ready.
As they approached, Darren's voice thundered across the palace halls:
Darren: "To your posts! Every knight, every blade, every shield… today we are the wall of the kingdom!"
He drew closer to Aqua and Raymond, asking: "Where exactly are they?"
Aqua pointed toward the forest, where shadows spread thick beneath the towering pines.
Raymond: "Midway through the forest, between the stone cliff and the dry riverbed. They camp there."
Darren tightened his grip on the sword's hilt and roared, his voice crashing like thunder over the ramparts, without turning back.
Darren: "Then let us die, if we must… but let us first teach them the meaning of defiling with their steps a land made sacred by the King's tread, and guarded by glory with the sword."
Silence fell for a heartbeat… as if time itself froze in their veins— before the front ranks of guards erupted in a cry that shook the earth.
"For the King!"
"For Nerosisa!"
Spears trembled, swords lifted high, and the shouts burst forth from throats like the herald of a storm… a storm that would leave nothing but ash in its wake.
Then they surged forward… toward the forest.
The knight's footsteps upon the cold stone floor rang with a sharp metallic echo, reverberating through the palace corridors like hidden war-drums.
He walked swiftly, yet with measured pace, as though something in his heart urged him on, while something in his mind forced composure upon him. He reached the great door of the grand hall, where two royal guards stood in full solemnity, living statues.
He approached them and spoke in a steady tone, though laced with an urgency he tried to conceal: "I carry an urgent message… from Sir Darren, to His Majesty the King."
The left guard glanced at the other with silent understanding, then bowed slightly and pushed the door open with his weight. And beyond it, a world unfolded—one yet unaware of what was drawing near.
The knight entered. The moment he crossed the threshold, the sounds around him shifted: violins cascaded, lords' conversations mingled, goblets clinked together—
as though the place itself had no inkling that death lingered beyond the hills.
But he did not walk toward the heart of the hall. Instead, he leaned left, striding along the marble columns, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, until he reached a torch hanging upon an iron sconce.
He grasped it gently, then moved it slightly in the air—half a motion, subtle enough to pass unnoticed, yet clear enough for the one who understood. He returned it to its place.
At the far end of the hall, directly behind the King's throne, stood Ser Variss… vigilant, the tall shadow of military wisdom.
He caught the signal, saw the hand move discreetly. He stepped forward—just one step. As though he wished not to appear hurried, yet could not afford delay.
The guard bowed his head and quietly raised his right hand. The torchlight flickered against his face. He placed his fist against his chest, a gesture of knightly honor—then extended two fingers, joined as one blade, toward the distant sigil of the kingdom carved upon his breastplate. It was not the motion of a royal guard… but the sign of a vassal to a noble house. For the difference between service and loyalty is measured in the angle of the sword toward the kingdom's emblem.
Then, slowly, the royal guard raised his hand again, as though counting invisible coins. His fist opened and closed… once… twice. Then his index finger extended—he had no need to speak the number. Every guard of the palace knew it: Five… five… one.
The eleventh.
But he did not keep it fully straight… he bent it slightly at the joint, like a branch bearing heavy snow. Then, the finger brushed swiftly against his lower lip—a fleeting touch, like a butterfly alighting on cold stone.
These were secret signals, passed down among the royal guards since the reign of King Acess Redhorse. Every new guard was required to memorize twenty such signs before being permitted to carry a sword.
"Let your silence be deeper than the castle's darkness, and your signs swifter than the traitor's blade." —from The Chronicles of the Silent Guard.
The signal was complete. Ser Variss held his ground, carving its meaning into his mind: "A knight, loyal to a noble house within the kingdom, carries urgent news for the king."
He understood the message. Without a word, he moved slowly toward King Irvin, who had already noticed him from the start, watching with eyes half fixed on the present, half on what the future concealed.
Ser Variss bowed with perfect discipline, then whispered into the king's ear.
Variss: "Your Majesty… an Arkadian knight bears a message for you, and it seems to me of great importance."
The king did not speak. He merely turned his dark eyes toward the far end of the hall, where the knight stood, half drowned in shadow.
Quietly, the king nodded.
Ser Variss gave the guard a sign of approval. The royal guard bowed, then retraced his steps, opening the rear door. He gestured for the knight to enter.
The knight crossed the threshold like one passing from day into night, from feast into funeral. He walked behind the guard, his footsteps producing a faint sound that mingled with the distant music—like a discord hidden inside a symphony unaware of what awaited it.
He approached the king's smaller throne, where Irvin sat in his splendor. The knight knelt on one knee, lowered his head, and spoke in a voice he tried to keep steady:
"Your Majesty… I bear an urgent message from Ser Darren."
Irvin remained still, showing no sign of turning toward him, as though waiting for him to continue without being asked.
But the silence stretched on…
At last, Irvin tilted his head slightly, his gaze catching details like a hunter watching the twitch of prey.
He saw the knight's trembling fist pressed to the floor, veins bulging under the skin, sweat dripping silently down his brow. Then Irvin spoke, his voice faint, tinged with doubt and suspicion, not fully turned toward him:
Irvin: "You can't spoke it here…?"
The knight shuddered, lowering his head heavily.
Irvin, Lucas, and Ser Variss exchanged fleeting glances as the knight slowly shook his head, as if even the air was too heavy to resist.
In that gesture lay meaning: what he bore… was not fit to be spoken here.
But the knight gave no answer. He remained kneeling, hand upon his chest, eyes fixed on the ground. His fist trembled slightly, and cold sweat ran down his temple.
Here, the king, Ser Variss, and Duke Lucas shared short, knowing looks. The looks of men who had lived through wars… they recognized this moment—the kind of message that belonged only to stone walls and silence.
Irvin understood. He lowered his cup with deliberate slowness, as if he were setting down the weight of an entire kingdom. His breath deepened, like the distant echo of a call not yet declared… and the faint sound of the cup touching the table was like a small warning bell.
Then he rose.
The instant his feet touched the hall's floor, the scraping of dozens of chairs echoed. The entire hall stood as if a silent quake had passed beneath their feet. Everyone rose, without command—only in answer to the sound of one chair… the king's chair.
Yet they did not fully stand.
With a single motion of his right hand—as though commanding time itself to halt—he froze them in place. His open palm was raised firmly. It did not ask for silence… it imposed it.
His hand remained aloft for a few seconds, then he turned his body and walked away.
In solemn silence, a procession followed him: Duke Lucas, with the steady stride of a confident deputy; Earl Yukron, with the dignity of a man of wisdom carrying the weight of the earth in his gaze; Ser Variss, sharp and unwavering, as inseparable from the king as a shadow; and the knight of House Windsword, walking in silence, as if his breath were split between loyalty and caution.
And with the same silence, other figures moved as well, realizing this was no ordinary moment.
Earl Nicholas Sparoff rose without a word, as firm as he had always been on the battlefield. His son Felix followed with disciplined steps.
Isabele Windsword, sensing the change in the air, rose at once, worry etched across her face as she hurried toward her husband.
Countess Abigail Windsword arched her brow, her noble restraint masking unease as she watched Yukron move, then followed with hesitant steps.
The Marchioness Atris Starkov, moments ago drowning in boredom, now shed her stern indifference, standing with newfound resolve.
Her daughter, Barbara, looked uncertainly from her mother to the shifting crowd, then followed with heavy reluctance.
They crossed toward the right side of the hall, weaving between marble pillars as steady as history, until they reached a stone wall dividing the chamber. There, in a dim corner, a faint torchlight flickered, like a witness to what could not be spoken aloud.
As for those who remained in the hall… they returned to their seats in silence that resembled reverence, as though what had happened was not merely a departure, but a sacred moment… etched into memory.
And slowly, the noise of the hall crept back—gradual, hesitant. Yet something had changed.
No one heard the violins quite as they had a few minutes before.
Outside the Palace, within the Forest – The Pre-Dawn Hours
The leaves swayed gently with the night breeze, while the moon bathed the earth in its silver glow, giving everything around them a pale shimmer that danced across the blades of swords and beneath the tangled shadows of branches.
Darren Castro led them with measured steps, his eyes scanning the path, one hand resting firmly on the hilt of his sword, as if at any moment flames might erupt from between the trees.
Behind him, the battalion moved in silence, their gazes darting between the dense woods, their feet avoiding dry twigs with strict military precision.
Darren suddenly raised his fist. Everyone froze. He crouched slowly behind the trunk of an ancient tree whose roots intertwined with a slanted rock, then motioned for them to advance and conceal themselves.
One by one, they crouched, hiding, each poised for battle or flight. Aqua bent beside Raymond, his hand clasping his sword's hilt with a cold grip, whispering in a low voice.
Aqua, quietly, with disdain: "Can't we just strike? They won't feel a thing before their heads roll off their shoulders… when we come upon them like a storm."
Raymond, calmly, with a steady, rational tone tinged with irony, replying without looking at him: "One word from those lookouts is enough to wake the whole camp like a pack of hounds…"
Darren, in a low voice as he watched through the branches: "Raymond's right. It's good to have someone here who actually uses his head. This isn't some stage play where we put on solo acts."
A charged silence followed. Aqua frowned, turning his gaze to the left, where he met a sidelong smirk on Raymond's face—an expression laced with quiet defiance.
Aqua narrowed his eyes, then sighed, turning his gaze away, while Darren stood ready and spoke in a steady voice to the men behind him.
Darren Castro—his scarred face etched with records of battles, his pale-green hair twisted like the roots of an old tree—stepped forward. His voice came out hoarse, like a stone rolling down a deep well.
Darren: "Archers… get ready."
No reply.
No movement.
Only the rustle of black oak leaves stirred by a treacherous wind.
Darren turned his head slowly, as though his neck had turned to stone. His blue eyes—an ocean frozen in the heart of a storm—swept over the rear ranks. The knights stood like statues of rust, their eyes darting between each other like trapped rats. Their hands rested on sword hilts, but the pulse of fear betrayed their grips.
All of them carried swords… their faces uncertain… their eyes searching one another, as if waiting for someone else to move first.
Darren, his voice slicing the silence like a blade: "Wait… are you joking with me?! There are no… archers?! Where's the damn archers!!"
At that moment, the soldiers murmured among themselves, some glancing at others, until… a youthful voice rose from the middle—hesitant, yet sincere:
"Umm… I'm here, Commander."
The knights parted slightly, revealing a young man who stood firm despite the unease in his features. Darren stared at him, his eyes narrowing slowly, as though trying to confirm what he was seeing.
A frail youth emerged among them, like a broken tree branch amid a forest of stone. His simple wooden bow looked like a child's toy beside the knights' weapons. His green eyes—the color of moss beneath rocks—widened in the moonlight.
Darren stepped toward him, each footfall heavy as the toll of a funeral bell. The stench of rot and sweat mingled with his sharp breath.
Darren, in a low growl: "This is him? The one we're supposed to rely on to defend the kingdom? A child holding a stick?"
The youth, lifting his chin, the veins in his neck trembling: "My name is Laif, ser. I trained at the Mirval yard. I hit the mark at two hundred paces… seventy-two out of a hundred."
Raymond, muttering from behind Darren: "Mirval? Isn't that some commoner's amateur school in Dunmer?"
Aqua Nightover, his cold shadow coiling around the group, his voice like frost: "For God's sake… are we handing the fate of the battle to—"
Darren, cutting them off with a snarl, eyes locked on Laif: "Shut your mouths!"
He leaned down until his face was level with Laif's, the stench of dried blood on his armor choking the air.
Darren: "Can you drop those two guards… without a sound? As if you could rip two souls away in a single breath?"
Laif, unblinking, with a cold tone: "Yes."
Laif drew an arrow from his quiver. The wooden bow became an extension of his frail arm. He closed his eyes.
Not just two targets… but an equation of life.
The left guard, heavyset, swaying like a drunk, his hood hiding half his face.
The right guard, standing tall, his helmet gleaming under the moonlight… his weak point? The neck, where iron met skin.
Aqua, whispering: "Do it, shoot! What are you waiting for?"
Laif did not answer. His breathing vanished. He became a statue of flesh and dread. He stepped forward half a pace… his body bent like the bow itself. The first arrow rose.
He waited… the left guard leaned forward…
Now!
Thack!
A faint snap, like a twig breaking. The arrow pierced the neck beneath the helmet. The guard collapsed forward, a sack of cut wheat.
Seconds became ages.
Laif did not pause. His hands moved like a machine—draw, place, pull the string…
The second guard turned… his eyes widening—
Thack!
The arrow slid through the gap in the helmet. Black blood spilled like spoiled wine. He fell without a sound.
In the silence that followed, the forest held its breath. Raymond Vanheim opened his mouth, but no words came. Aqua Nightover raised his left brow slowly… then smiled. The smile of a wolf watching a rat kill a serpent.
Darren, his voice rough with restrained admiration: "I think we've found our archer."
Aqua stepped toward Laif. His gloved hand lifted the boy's chin.
Aqua: "Where did you learn this, boy? As far as I know, Mirval is just a minor, common school."
Laif, avoiding his gaze, sweat glistening under the moon: "No one else would take me…"
Aqua paused, then smirked lightly, before resting his hand on the boy's shoulder—a touch carrying a trace of respect.
Aqua: "Your blood is Arcadian, like ours. That alone is enough… We'll burn the enemy together."
In the distance, a cry of alarm split the night. Time had run out.
Darren's sword slid from its scabbard like lightning, its whistle tearing the battle open before it even began.
Darren, roaring: "Arcadians!.. Forever!"
The knights surged forward like a black death. And at the heart of the metallic storm, Laif prepared his arrows. The bow was no longer a toy—it was a weapon. The tailor's boy had become a killer. In his green eyes, the fire of the enemy camp reflected… the first sparks of the blaze.
The night was heavy, as though the darkness itself had frozen between the trees. Raymond ran, his breath rising into the cold air like ghosts chasing his steps. His left hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, as if within his fingers lay the last solid ground he could hold on to. His eyes—usually calm, like still waters—now glowed with a strange resolve, like embers rekindled by the breath of a storm.
Then, suddenly, like a voice piercing through fog, Aqua's words returned to him: "I know Ser Darren told you to return… so don't worry. You can rely on me here."
Raymond stopped for a moment, his body tensing as if struck by an invisible blade of memory. He drew in a deep breath, the cold seeping through his armor. He remembered Aqua standing before him, hand pressed firmly against Raymond's chest, as if sealing upon him a vow. That touch—steady, heavy, like a stone cast into a lake—still burned upon his skin even now.
Raymond: "Just… don't do anything foolish."
Those had been Raymond's last words to him, laced with that light sarcasm that masked a far deeper worry. He had smiled then, but it was the kind of smile men wear before battles, when they know that some promises are meant to be broken.
Raymond: "And count on me to protect the palace."
Now his feet resumed their run, grinding against the earth like a horse fleeing from fire. The forest around him groaned with unknown voices—the creak of branches, the growl of distant beasts, the whistle of wind weaving through dead leaves.
Skyrock palace – The Grand Hall
Ancient stone walls echoed with the flickering glow of torches. At its far end, a shadowed corner had become the stage of a gathering steeped in dread.
King Irvin Luskarth stood, leaning on his black cane capped with silver. His breath rose heavy, his chest rising and falling like a man restraining a fire devouring him from within. His eyes—eyes of burning steel—were fixed upon one man: Earl Yukron Windsword, who stood tall despite the oppressive shadows.
Silence wrapped around the hall like a strangling coil.
Duke Lucas Nightover stood motionless, features as solid as stone, eyes sunk in shadow, revealing nothing. Beside him, Ser Variss Sathray, his expression sharp as a blade, waited in stillness, observing every move. Not far off, Abigail Windsword stood cloaked in quiet dread, her hand clutching the edge of her garment as if to conceal an unspoken tremor. Her daughter, Isabel, wide-eyed, watched the scene with anxious confusion, uncertain if this was merely a quarrel among men… or the beginning of the collapse of her entire world.
Marchioness Atris Starkov stood with features carved from steel, her faint smile of sarcasm and boredom long gone since the king's voice first rose. Her daughter, Barbara, looked unsettled, glancing between the adversaries as one might before a storm they cannot tell the direction of.
On the opposite side stood Earl Nicholas Sparoff, bearing himself with military dignity, his back straight as a sword, and at his side his son Felix, watching in silence.
Then came the king's voice… low at first, tinged with suppressed fury.
Irvin, his voice like a sheathed blade: "Did I not tell you…"
Yukron raised his eyes toward him, steady though heavy with the weight of royal wrath. The king's tone grew louder.
Irvin: "Did I not tell you… to fortify the eastern borders of Nerossia? Did I not warn you?!"
He struck his cane against the ground, and the echo thundered through the stone columns.
Yukron: "Two years have passed since I commanded you to expand your garrisons there. Two years! And look where we stand now!"
Yukron, exhaled slowly, as if weighing every word on a scale: "Forgive me, Your Majesty… the eastern borders had not posed a threat for seven years. I directed my strength toward the fronts that bled daily. I did not neglect my duty, but perhaps… I overlooked one front."
The fire of fury deepened in Irvin's eyes, but before it could blaze further, Duke Lucas stepped forward, his voice deep, unwavering:
Lucas: "Enough. Quarreling will solve nothing. We must think of what lies ahead."
The king breathed deeply, pressing his hand against his brow—a gesture all present recognized as a sign of mounting pressure.
Lucas spoke with steadiness: "Your Majesty, Ser Darren would not have sent such word unless he had a plan. He does not trifle with matters of this weight."
Irvin's head snapped toward him: "A plan? To face one thousand men with fifty? Or shall we count our guests in the tally of our army as well?!"
From the back came a timid murmur. Barbara Starkov, almost childlike in her worry, whispered: "That sounds… like a bad plan."
Her mother, Atris, cut in dryly, folding her arms: "Indeed..."
But Yukron pressed on, stepping forward, his voice carrying the resolve of an old knight: "Your Majesty, there is no need for despair. My men are ready to die defending their king, as am I. We will face the enemy with every ounce of strength we have."
The king, without turning, replied with a chilling calm: "No one doubts your loyalty, Earl Yukron."
Still, Yukron's tone sharpened further, stepping close enough that his shadow merged with the king's: "If endurance does not please you… then we may flee. The secret passages of Skyrock lead east, into the forest. The enemy does not know the way."
A heavy silence fell. The king turned his gaze toward Lucas, who met it with measured coldness. Lucas closed his eyes briefly, as if weighing his soul, then exhaled slowly.
Lucas: "I believe… leaving now is the wiser choice."
The words echoed through the hall like a tolling bell, heavy and grim. The king's grip slackened slightly on his cane, a moment of reluctant concession.
But suddenly… the thread snapped.
A hesitant voice broke from the corner of the hall: "F-Forgive me, Your Majesty…"
All heads turned at once. It was the knight who had delivered the message, sweat glistening on his brow beneath the torchlight. He faltered under their collective gaze, but swallowed hard and forced the words:
"I… I forgot something. I only just remembered now, when you spoke of leaving."
The king raised a brow, his eyes burning into him, waiting.
The knight stammered on: "Ser Darren said… if you choose to flee, you must know… that Aqua… has used the Frozen Eye."
A black weight descended upon the hall.
Faces froze. Isabel clasped her hands against her chest, eyes wide with incomprehension. Abigail gasped faintly, hand to her mouth. Nicholas Sparoff's eyes narrowed sharply, while Felix blinked as though unable to grasp the meaning. Marchioness Atris' features stiffened, while Barbara whispered in nervous disbelief.
Barbara: "A—Aqua!?"
But King Irvin… stood unmoving, like a statue of stone, his eyes fixed ahead, caught between shock and disbelief. A long moment passed, broken only by the pounding of hearts.
Then, slowly—terrifyingly slowly—he turned his head.
His gaze fell upon Lucas Nightover.
Lucas remained still, staring at the floor, then lifted his eyes slightly to meet the king's. He did not speak. He did not defend himself. His silence was confession enough.
The king's voice came, sharp and cold, like a blade scraping glass: "Aqua… has awakened Frozen Eye?"
Breaths trembled. All eyes turned to Lucas again. He shut his eyes for a moment, torn by an inner struggle, then opened them slowly, drew a deep breath, and said…
Lucas: "…Yes."
Irvin fixed his gaze on him, as if trying to pierce through his very soul. Their stares clashed like brittle swords of glass, until at last the king's voice returned—soft, strained, wounding all who heard it:
Irvin: "We... will speak… later."
The hall lay drowned in silence, as if thick fog had swallowed the sea. At that moment, Isabel Windsword turned with a pale face, her wide eyes trembling with dread. Her voice, fragile and breaking, whispered:
Isabel: "The Frozen Eye…? What is that!?"
Barbara Starkov knew… but she did not answer at once. She stood firm, her right hand brushing the hilt of her sword, her eyes calm yet burdened with a deep frown. Within her, concern weighed heavy—not for the fate itself, but for the one who bore it. His name repeated endlessly in her mind. She cast Isabel a long, silent look, one laden with more than words could carry—worry, sorrow, and a hidden resignation.
Then came the voice of Marchioness Atris Starkov, sharp and low, as though drawn from the depths of a well.
Atris: "It is… a vision. A power bestowed from the heavens upon House Nightover. Not a gift easily gained… nor easily controlled."
She did not turn toward her daughter or Isabel, her eyes fixed ahead, unwilling to face the truth she uttered. She continued, voice low: "From what I know… when one awakens Frozen Eye, they see visions of the future… visions of one thing that never errs."
She paused, as though fearing the final word. Then she said, slowly, firmly:
"Death."
The hall froze.
Isabel's eyes widened in shock. Barbara remained still, frowning, though within her eyes glimmered a faint light—the light of someone who knew this was no myth, but a truth she had once seen made flesh.
Meanwhile, King Irvin turned his back slowly, his steps heavy. Yet his voice carried bitterness as he spoke:
Irvin: "If Aqua has used Frozen Eye… then it means he foresaw our defeat the moment we chose to flee."
He stopped. Silence pressed upon the hall like a hand upon the throat. All stared at the king in awe, fear, and bewilderment. The flames of the torches flickered, as though listening.
Irvin turned sharply toward Earl Yukron Windsword. He stepped closer, fixing his eyes into his, and said with firm, commanding tone:
Irvin: "Earl Yukron … you know Nerossia best—its land, its borders, its people. What is your assessment of the enemy's strength? And why have they marched directly here, unopposed, without meeting true resistance?"
Yukron's eyes narrowed. His voice came heavy as iron: "Your Majesty, no army of such size can move without being detected… unless there was one among us who knew our weaknesses. A traitor… one with authority, or a man given trust he did not deserve."
Ser Variss' hand tightened faintly at the word traitor, while Nicholas and Felix exchanged a quick, uneasy glance.
But Yukron continued, more resolute: "Still, we must understand—the enemy's army is not at full strength. If they pierced through Nerossia's eastern gates, then they paid a price in men and force. Your Majesty… the Nerossian host would not have allowed them passage without battle. I am certain… blood was spilled, and they paid dearly for their advance."
His words bore the weight of mountains, restoring to some faces a trace of conflicted hope, though fear still held dominion.
The king lowered his head briefly, as though pressing down the ache crushing his skull. Then… he raised it high, his throat catching the firelight, drawing in a long breath that sounded like the sigh of a man standing on the brink of fate.
The hall grew so still that even the hiss of torches sounded like whispers of ghosts. Sweat slid down foreheads. No one moved.
Then the king stepped toward Ser Variss Sathray, his gaze slicing the silence like ice-wrapped blades.
His voice left no room for doubt: "Sir Variss… gather the lords present, their commanders and fighters, and all who came with men or true knowledge of war. Gather them in Earl Yukron's chamber on the third floor… I will meet them there."
Breath caught in every chest. The words fell like thunder. Tension swelled, until—
The king turned, his steps steady, his voice echoing low as he left them behind:
"Then we fight..."
This word.
It landed like blood in fire.
Everyone was flustered at first… a dazed look here, a short gasp there, then… they steadied themselves. Abigail tightened her grip on her daughter's hand, and Barbara laced her fingers together nervously, but the other faces began to regain a measure of firmness. Ser Varris bowed his head with confidence, and Earl Nicholas gripped the hilt of his sword as though impatient for the moment of deliverance.
The King continued his march out of the hall, but the echo of his footsteps seemed to pull everyone along behind him, as though he were dragging them with an iron will.
They followed him… with resolve.
In silence.
And with a fragile confidence trying hard to become certainty.
They knew a decision had just been made… and that there was no turning back.