"Quick! Make a wish — a big one, so it never ends. I used to think that was impossible. That nothing could last forever. At least, that's what I believed… before that day."
Kiett was lying on the sofa in the living room of his humble home, reading a few pages from The Tales of the Wanderer. Six days have passed since the incident in Threnafell. For two of those days, he'd kept the book to himself — only Claire and Marth knew, having caught him with it that day.
Claire was in the kitchen, preparing one of her best dishes for her brother. Whenever life felt harsh, that dish was a bite of paradise.
"Kiett! Could you set the table?" Claire called out.
But Kiett was so absorbed in his book, he didn't hear her.
"The sun destroyed everything it touched with its radiant, beautiful, yet deadly light. Who would've thought? That warm, life-giving glow was capable of such harsh judgment"
Claire, clearly frustrated, hurled a tomato that smacked Kiett right in the face. The sudden impact snapped him out of his reading with a sharp sting.
"Claire! What was that for?" Kiett shouted, wiping pulp off his cheek.
"Lunch is ready! I asked you to set the table. Didn't you hear me?" Claire shot back, her apron smudged with spices and seasoning. She'd put her heart into preparing that meal.
"Sorry, but I need to learn as much as I can from this book before time runs out," Kiett replied.
Claire glanced at the book, curious about the strange texts that those aspiring to become Sentinels were made to read.
Kiett was setting the table for dinner.
"It's actually a really fascinating book! Strange, yes — but it helps me understand the nature of our vital links much better," he said.
"Have you made any progress?" Claire asked, carrying the pot of food to the table.
"Of course I have! Look at this," Kiett said with a grin.
A small flame slowly formed in the palm of his hand. As it grew, its color shifted, glowing with the deep red of a sunset.
"That's incredible! But I still don't think that's enough to convince the Sentinel leaders to accept you," Claire replied.
Kiett guided his mana into the flame with such precision that, for a moment, it solidified into the shape of a dagger.
"Kiett! What was that?" Claire asked, her voice tinged with awe and curiosity.
Kiett smiled. Even as the fire flickered out, a deep sense of satisfaction and pride warmed his chest.
"The book calls it spiritual transmutation!" Kiett exclaimed.
"What did you say?" Claire asked, her mind racing with questions.
She looked into her brother's eyes and saw the same spark of wonder he used to have as a child — the same look he'd had when they first discovered the presence of mystical energy in their world.
"According to The Vagabond's Tales, spiritual transmutation is a state of mind. If I can master it, I'll be able to create more than just an elemental dagger," Kiett said, his eyes gleaming.
"Claire, you have to try it!" he urged.
Despite her oven mitts, the heat from the pot had started to seep through. She quickly set it down on the table, took off her apron, and picked up Kiett's book.
"You're telling me you figured all this out just from reading these stories?" Claire asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Of course! It's actually pretty complex, but you'll pick it up in no time. You've always been better at this stuff than me," Kiett said with a smile.
Claire glanced at one of the paragraphs in the book and struggled to make sense of it.
"How do you even begin to understand this stuff?" she asked.
"You just keep reading until it clicks. Nothing comes easy the first time — we both know that," Kiett replied.
Their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door.
Kiett rushed over and opened it, finding himself face to face with an elegant man in a butler's uniform.
"Uh… can I help you?" Kiett asked, a bit unsure.
"Good afternoon, sir. Are you Kiett Sigrid, nephew of Joel Montecristo?" the man asked.
"Yes, that's me. What's this about?" Kiett responded.
"My name is Victor," the man announced with a courteous bow. "I am General Montecristo's butler. He has sent me to fetch you. He wishes to see you at his estate immediately."
Kiett, still puzzled, glanced toward the elegant carriage waiting just outside. Its polished wood and intricate details gleamed beneath the fading light.
"Whatever issues you may have with him, I must ask that you come with me. Please," Victor added, his tone gentle but insistent.
"Looks like the whole of Averford knows about our little argument," Kiett thought, biting his lip.
―Averford Castle―
Inside the towering stone walls of Averford Castle, Queen Fiora remained in the guest chamber where Aurora had been staying. She was locked in a tense discussion with the other rulers of the continent.
"We have yet to agree on an alliance, Your Majesty. With all due respect, withdrawing troops from the border is unwise at this time," said King Ezekiel, his arms crossed with restrained defiance.
Fiora turned toward him with sharp eyes, her voice steady and commanding.
"King Ezekiel, the only reason you are here today — alive and standing in my halls — is because I consider you a valuable ally against what's coming. And you know that well."
"Her Majesty is right, Ezekiel!" Mustaffa exclaimed. "You saw it with your own eyes — our squadrons were annihilated. We had the strength of an army stationed at the Eighth Gate, and we were utterly humiliated. Look at me... I owe my life to Fiora!"
The Downmore brothers stood firmly at Ezekiel's side.
"What you ask of us, Your Majesty, is too much — too soon," said Argus cautiously. "We must consult with our councils and sages before making such a decision."
Fiora's gaze shifted to Aurora, who sat lost in thought, staring into nothingness as if her mind had wandered far from the room. Her stillness was unsettling, almost fragile.
"And you?" Fiora demanded, her voice slicing through the silence. "Will you remain quiet in the face of my request?"
Aurora blinked, as if waking from a dream, startled.
"Woodrow! Where is Woodrow?" she asked urgently, attempting to rise, her face twisted with desperation.
"Aurora, calm yourself," Fiora replied, stepping forward. "Woodrow is safe. He's in another room, resting and recovering."
Aurora nearly broke down in tears upon hearing that Woodrow was still alive. Overwhelmed with emotion, she turned to Fiora and whispered her gratitude.
"I owe you my life... Fiora Bright-Windham. I will accept your request — I'll form an alliance with you!" she declared.
Gasps echoed around the room. Everyone was taken aback — even Fiora herself. She hadn't expected Aurora to be the first to agree, and certainly not without argument or hesitation.
"Are you certain?" Fiora asked, her voice low, almost cautious.
Aurora finally managed to sit upright on the bed, her breath steadier.
"As long as your goals align with mine," she replied calmly.
Ezekiel, stunned by her sudden decision, stepped forward.
"You need to think this through, Aurora!" he urged.
But Aurora met his eyes without flinching.
"Fiora is right. Whatever is coming... we won't survive it alone. We must stand together."
A knock at the chamber door interrupted the monarchs' improvised meeting.
"I told them we weren't to be disturbed!" Fiora snapped, clearly frustrated.
To everyone's surprise, it was Liliam who entered.
"Forgive me, sister," she said, a bit breathless. "But the four noble leaders have gathered in the Throne Hall. They're requesting your presence — immediately."
―The Mystical Academy of Averford―
Margott had just returned from a long ride. As she led her horse into the academy's stables, the sound of wooden swords clashing echoed across the training grounds.
Curious, she guided her mount toward the arena and spotted Blumiere and Lon sparring with focus and intensity.
With a swift motion, Margott turned her horse toward her designated space to remove the saddle and settle him in. There was no need to wash him — Averford's relentless rain had already done the job. The animal was drenched, and so was she, though protected by a long waterproof riding coat made precisely for weather like this.
After stabling her horse and hanging her gear in its proper place, Margott made her way toward the arena. As Princess Liliam's protégé — and one of the most skilled swordswomen at the academy — she had been entrusted with a special task: to assist Prince Lon in perfecting his swordsmanship.
Blumiere launched a swift attack at Lon, who leapt backward, parrying and deflecting the incoming strikes. With sharp footwork and remarkable agility, the young prince managed to slip behind his opponent. Just as he moved in to strike, Blumiere spun away, feinting left with deceptive grace and slipping past Lon's guard. He drove the wooden sword into Lon's abdomen with precision, knocking the wind out of him.
From the edge of the arena, Margott watched intently, impressed by Blumiere's skill.
"Your Majesty! May I have a turn?" she called out.
Lon, still catching his breath, looked toward her in surprise.
"How long have you been standing there?" he asked.
"Long enough" she replied with a faint smile. "Blumiere, I'd like a friendly duel, if you're up for it. Do you accept?" She requested.
Blumiere gave her a playful smile.
"Of course! As long as Kiett doesn't get upset if I somehow end up hurting you," he said, teasing her with mock bravado.
"Don't worry — that's not going to happen," Margott replied, brimming with confidence.
As Lon stepped out of the arena, he crossed paths with Margott and handed her the wooden sword. "Your Majesty," she said with a grin, "I ask that you pay close attention to my movements — you might learn a thing or two."
Lon gave a quiet nod and left the ring, leaving the two contenders ready to face off.
Blumiere and Margott took their positions.
"I've been waiting for this opportunity," Blumiere said, gripping his sword with anticipation. "Be careful. Overconfidence could be your downfall," Margott shot back.
―Averford Castle―
The towering doors of the Throne Hall flew open as Queen Fiora entered with firm steps, Liliam following close behind. Inside, the representatives of the great noble houses were already waiting. Their faces showed no welcome — only anger and discontent. The very air in the hall felt thick with tension, the scent of anarchy lingering.
"I hope you have a good reason for interrupting a meeting of great importance," Fiora said sharply, her frustration plain as day.
"Your Majesty," growled Reece LuxFord, stepping forward, "we demand answers — and we're not leaving until we have them. Why are our enemies being brought to our doorstep… and granted sanctuary?"
Rohan and Akira stood silently at his side, their eyes fixed on the queen, waiting for an explanation that could justify such a bold and dangerous move.
Fiora seated herself on the throne, her presence regal and unwavering. Liliam remained by her side, visibly tense — the hostility in the room was thick, and much of it was directed at her sister.
"I cannot answer your questions at this time," Fiora said, her voice firm yet strained. "I ask for patience. I've yet to secure a formal agreement with the other monarchs."
Sensing the rising tension, Liliam stepped forward, attempting to soften her sister's words and plead for the nobles' trust.
But Fiora raised a hand to silence her.
"Enough pleading, Liliam. What I need is time. Once the alliance is in place, I will summon you again. For now, you must all leave."
Her command was met with a ripple of discontent — the nobles did not take kindly to dismissal.
"How can you even consider an alliance with those murderers?" cried Akira Alfgen. "Their armies have slaughtered countless of our Legionnaires out of sheer revenge!"
"Tell us the truth," demanded Rohan Mahogany. "What exactly are you planning?"
Fiora glanced at Liliam, whose face was etched with concern, then turned back to the room.
"I am considering pulling our troops back from the borders," she said at last.
A wave of outrage swept through the hall.
"Fiora Bright-Windham!" Reece LuxFord thundered. "What are you plotting?"
The nobles continued to question Queen Fiora's decision, their voices growing louder with each passing moment. The Throne Hall of Averford had become a temporary home for the echoes of discord. Their shouting reverberated through the stone corridors, reaching distant chambers of the castle.
Fiora and Liliam listened intently as the nobles' arguments dissolved into a chaotic chorus — each one trying to outshout the other, speaking more to be heard than to make sense.
"Please! Speak one at a time — we can't hear a thing over this noise!" Liliam pleaded, raising her voice above the tumult.
Rohan was the first to fall silent. Akira followed shortly after. Only Reece continued rambling, his words disjointed and frenzied.
Fiora rose from her throne, her expression composed but unwavering. She walked slowly, deliberately, until she stood face-to-face with Reece. Her gaze alone silenced him. Intimidated, he sank back into his seat without another word.
The room fell still, and with it, regained the solemn elegance it had lost.
"Now that tempers have cooled," Fiora said, her voice steady, commanding, "why don't we start again?"
Liliam took her seat on the throne beside her sister. Akira raised her right hand, silently requesting the floor.
"Akira, speak your mind," Fiora said, her tone softened by regained composure.
"Your Majesty," Akira began, rising slightly, "I would like to apologize — on behalf of us all — for our earlier behavior and the hostility we showed you. But please understand... having our enemies under our own roof was something we never expected."
Fiora nodded in acceptance. She could see the sincerity in Akira Alfgen's eyes, the unease etched into her expression. Her apology was genuine.
"What happened?" Rohan asked, leaning forward. "What drove you to bring them here?"
Fiora's gaze swept over the nobles. Reece, as expected, looked the most furious.
"They had an entire army stationed in the ruins, guarding the Eighth Gate," Fiora said calmly.
"And in a single moment... that entire force was massacred — devoured. It was unprecedented. A perfect attack."
The nobles fell silent, stunned. Their wide eyes remained fixed on Fiora's face, which bore no attempt to conceal the gravity of what she had witnessed.
"So that means..." Rohan finally asked, voice low, "you and those outsiders were the only ones who made it out alive?"
"That's right," Fiora confirmed. "Destroying the Eighth Gate was the only way we could escape."
Reece's entire demeanor shifted. The anger etched across his brow dissolved into disbelief. His body stiffened, and a shiver ran down his spine. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came — only stunned silence.
"What does Lyle-Hude hope to gain now?" Rohan asked, his voice low and cautious.
"I don't know," Fiora admitted. "But what I do know is that his power has grown — and he's not alone anymore. He has apostles at his side."
The three nobles fell silent, lost in thought. Shock painted their faces. Even Liliam, standing near her sister, imagined the horror of that moment — the bloodshed, the chaos, the unspeakable deaths.
Fiora took a deep breath and stepped forward, her voice steady but urgent.
"Ladie and gentlemen, we can no longer afford to remain divided from the other kingdoms. We must form an alliance — it's the only way we stand a chance of facing him and putting an end to this."
"Are you asking us to forget the crimes they've committed against our kingdom?" Reece shouted, his voice echoing through the hall.
"I'm asking you to trust me," Fiora replied, unwavering. "To trust that I'll do what must be done — because we cannot win this war on our own."
Her voice grew heavier, more solemn.
"After what I faced in that place, I am certain: if he wanted to, he could destroy us all. But for some reason... he's holding back."
Meanwhile, in another chamber, the sovereigns of the other kingdoms were deep in discussion. Ezekiel once again questioned Aurora's decision to unite with Averford, while Mustaffa and the Downmore brothers remained silent, listening.
"This is madness!" Ezekiel burst out. "Out of all of us, you're the one who hates her the most!"
Aurora's eyes narrowed. "You should learn when to hold your tongue, Ezekiel," she snapped. "Yes, I do hate her. But right now, we all know we're at her mercy. I simply told her what she needed to hear."
Dracus stepped forward, visibly frustrated. "Unbelievable! You've chosen to deceive the one who saved us, instead of confronting what truly matters — Lyle-Hude!"
Argus nodded, his face pale. "We all saw what that man did — how he took Everard's life... and he wasn't even using his real body!"
"He nearly killed us all," added Dracus, his tone grim. "And that was with all of us against just one of him."
Mustaffa broke his silence, his voice trembling and worn with exhaustion. He spoke from the weight of fear that clung to him, pleading with the others to reconsider the alliance — not out of politics, but out of survival.
"After everything we went through… how can you still hesitate? You know an alliance is the only chance we have!" he implored.
"His power has grown — and it wasn't even him who attacked us. It was just his servants!" Mustaffa emphasized, his eyes wide with the memory.
Argus stepped forward, more measured in tone.
"Before anything else… we must convince our councils and generals. We need to return to our kingdoms."
Ezekiel shook his head. "And how exactly do we return? We're stranded. Days — weeks away from home."
"Let's wait," Mustaffa said, with a breath of hope. Fiora will find a way. She'll give us a solution.""
Fiora had managed to calm the nobles, reassuring them with a promise: once negotiations with the sovereigns were complete and the necessary terms for the alliance were secured, they would be the first to know.
"Do you think that will be enough to ease their concerns?" Liliam asked quietly.
"Not entirely," Fiora replied. "As long as the monarchs remain here in Averford, the nobles won't rest. I need to find a way to convince them of the military alliance... and then send them back to their kingdoms."
Liliam looked at her sister's face — worn with worry, shadows of exhaustion etched into her expression. She couldn't stop herself from recalling the moment she had found Fiora after her return from the ruins of Aldelviewreld... broken, bloodied, barely conscious.
"I was so afraid you were dead," she whispered, stepping forward and pulling Fiora into a tight embrace.
Fiora held her just as tightly.
"Come with me," she said softly. "I'm going back to negotiate with them."
Liliam pulled away slightly, her gaze firm. "I don't want to see Aurora's face. But I trust you. Just... be careful. I'll be watching over you."
Rohan climbed into his carriage, flanked by two knights and driven by a peculiar young man. He sat in silence, lost in thought as the carriage rolled through the streets of Averford. Through the window, he watched the city unfold — stone by stone, shadow by shadow — while his mind wandered, trying to predict the consequences of the proposed alliance.
How would the people of Averford react?
He knew the truth: discord could erupt. Too many had lost husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters at the hands of armies from other kingdoms — all victims of the chaos unleashed by the very force that now threatened to consume the entire continent.
"Turn around," Rohan said suddenly, his voice sharp. "Take me to Dove."
The young driver nodded and obeyed without question.
Meanwhile, the Sigrid siblings were traveling through the small but vibrant village of Dove, riding alongside the butler Victor in a beautifully crafted carriage. Claire's eyes sparkled with joy — she had never been in such a splendid vehicle before.
"Does this belong to Uncle Joel?" she asked, smiling.
"Indeed it does, Miss Sigrid! This… and many other fine things," Victor replied with pride.
"You can just call me Claire," she said quickly. "I'm not part of any noble family."
Victor gave her a warm glance through the corner of his eye.
"I know, Miss. But as the niece of Lord Montecristo, it is my duty to show you proper respect."
Kiett listened quietly as Claire and the butler exchanged bits of information, his gaze drifting toward the window. The small forest surrounding Dove had a markedly different aura than Threnafell. It was calmer — less enigmatic, less foreboding. Even the rain here felt gentler, not dulling the vibrant green of the trees as it did in that cursed place.
"When did Uncle Joel leave the castle? We barely saw him this morning," Kiett asked, pulling his eyes away from the scenery.
"A couple of hours ago," Victor replied. "I picked him up myself. After bringing him here, he sent me straight back to fetch you."
"How much farther?" Kiett asked.
"Not much now," Victor answered with a slight smile. "Lord Montecristo's parents built this estate as a place to escape politics… and the ever-watchful eyes of the nobility."
Moments later, the carriage crested a rise and entered a wide, open plain. There, nestled among the rolling hills, stood a modest but elegant old estate. As they passed through the iron gates, a sign welcomed them: Montecristo Estate.
Claire's eyes lit up as they drew closer to the structure, admiring the fine stonework and timeless charm. The carriage pulled up to the main entrance, where another servant was already waiting to receive them. He opened the door with a courteous bow, greeting them warmly.
"Lord Montecristo is expecting you in the Grand Hall," the man announced.
"This place has a Grand Hall?" Kiett asked, raising a brow.
"Indeed it does, sir," Victor replied. "It may look small from the outside, but it's surprisingly spacious… and quite comforting, if I may say so."
The butler motioned for them to follow him, lifting his hand with quiet grace. Two other servants stood ready at the grand entrance, opening the tall doors as the siblings approached.
The moment they stepped inside, Kiett and Claire were struck by the beauty of the estate's interior. The warm glow of the chandeliers bathed the room in golden light, revealing finely crafted furniture made of rare woods and walls adorned with polished shields — emblems of old stories and forgotten glories.
But Joel was nowhere to be seen.
What did catch their attention, however, were two stunning swords displayed on a carved wooden stand near the far wall. Both siblings were immediately drawn to them, crossing the room in a few eager steps.
"These are absolutely gorgeous! Were they Joel's parents'?" Claire asked, unable to take her eyes off the weapons.
"Actually… they belonged to his sister," Victor replied softly.
The swords were strikingly different from one another. One featured a violet blade, intricate and refined, with a hilt guard shaped like intertwining rose vines — forming an elegant shield for the wielder's hand. The other bore a black blade, darker than night, with a guard shaped like two vicious barbs curving inward toward the grip, giving it a dangerous, almost feral appearance.
"They're works of art," Claire murmured, completely captivated.
Kiett stood silently, his gaze fixed on the black-bladed sword. He was mesmerized by its strange, haunting beauty — it stirred something deep within him, a pull he couldn't explain. It felt almost like love at first sight, a silent call to wield it.
Victor gently urged them to continue, but Claire had to nudge Kiett away, nearly dragging him along. He walked in a daze, as though under a spell cast by the weapon's allure.
The three made their way through the elegant halls of the estate until they reached the back courtyard, where Joel Montecristo kept his prized horses. At that very moment, Joel was rising from the side of one of the stalls, having just fed a carrot to one of the sleek, well-groomed animals.
"Sir, I've brought your niece and nephew, as you requested," Victor announced.
"Thank you, Victor. Please, give us a moment alone," Joel replied.
With a respectful bow, Victor excused himself and left. A heavy silence settled over the courtyard, broken only by the sounds of horses snorting and pawing at the stable doors.
"Uncle Joel! I'm so glad to see you well again," Claire exclaimed, rushing into his arms and embracing him with heartfelt warmth.
Kiett kept his distance, eyes fixed on the ground. He was watching a tiny trail of ants weaving across the cobblestones, carrying fragments of rose petals, leaves, and stray bits of straw from the stables — a quiet world, undisturbed, to retreat into.
Joel, still holding Claire, turned his gaze toward Kiett. He saw the discomfort in the boy's posture — the way he escaped awkward moments by vanishing into thought.
"Kiett... may I hug you, son?" Joel asked gently.
TO BE CONTINUED…