Alistar stepped out of the chamber, walking briskly at the queen's request—quick enough to show purpose, yet cautious not to draw unwanted attention from the watchful eyes scattered throughout Averford. He moved through the kingdom's damp streets, the rain having eased just enough to let merchants and passersby resume their affairs with a touch more ease and cheer.
Rainfall in the kingdom was rarely benign. It did more than soak the stonework—it ravaged crops, flooded the lower quarters, and overwhelmed the ancient, ill-maintained aqueducts and sewers.
But its damage wasn't only physical.
The rain seemed to seep into the spirit of the people. It stirred restlessness, unease… and something deeper. In recent days, melancholia has gripped the hearts of many—grief, sadness, even depression has grown rampant, especially among the young.
The weight of recent events still lingered like a fog. After the massacre of so many young aspirants to the Legion, an entire generation mourned brothers and sisters who would never return. The silence they left behind echoed louder with each passing storm.
The day was ending. The pale light of the sun barely kissed the rooftops of the houses, as if making a final, tender attempt to warm whatever its waning rays could still reach—if only for a few fleeting minutes.
Alistar arrived at the hunters' guild tavern. The place was already alive with members enjoying their first mugs of ale. Yet as he stepped through the threshold, all eyes turned to him.
It was strange—there was a spark of excitement in the room, an anticipation hanging in the air. But the moment they recognized him, that energy faded. He quickly realized the truth: they hadn't been waiting for him.
"What's going on? Why is everyone acting so strange today?" he asked, a trace of unease in his voice. "I need to speak with Arata and Elle. Where's Elle?" he added, scanning the room.
Suddenly, the crowd stood from their seats in unison. Those at the bar ignored his question entirely. Their silence, their dismissal—it stung.
Offended by the lack of respect, Alistar turned sharply toward the door, his pride wounded and frustration bubbling up. As a master hunter, he wasn't used to being brushed aside.
But his anger vanished the instant he saw her.
The cheers, the celebration, it wasn't for him. It was for Grislett, who now stepped into the tavern with quiet strength. She had spent days excluding in her room, recovering from the wounds that nearly claimed her life.
For that moment, her return was the only thing that mattered.
Beyond healing from her physical wounds, Grislett was also grappling with something far more difficult to mend—her brush with death, and the deep depression that clung to her like a shadow. It was there in her eyes, in the quiet, subdued way she smiled as she thanked her fellow hunters for their warm wishes and heartfelt congratulations.
From behind the bar, Rivett suddenly bolted forward, throwing herself at Grislett in an exuberant embrace. Her joy was infectious—so pure, so overwhelming—that even Alistar found himself smiling, the weight of his mission momentarily forgotten.
In that moment, he allowed himself to simply be—to share in the joy of comrades who had all lost something… friends, lovers, siblings. The massacre from just a week ago still echoed in their hearts, yet here they were, celebrating life.
"At last! I thought you'd gone and gotten lost in the northern quarter or something!" Rivett cried with mock indignation.
"Rivett! My hip still hurts… could you maybe be a little gentler?" Grislett pleaded, wincing slightly.
Despite the weariness in her gaze, her smile was wide and sincere, lighting up her small, delicate face like a lantern in the dark.
"Good thing she's still alive," Elle murmured just behind Alistar, startling him.
"I was looking for you, Elle," Alistar replied, turning to her.
"What do you want from me? It's not our time yet, remember—I'm not in my best days," Elle replied teasingly, making Alistar blush despite himself. She burst into laughter, full and unrestrained, then closed the distance between them and wrapped him in a warm embrace.
"Tell me, boss… what do you want from me?" she asked in a playful, flirtatious tone, breathing in deeply the scent of the hunter's cloak.
Alistar stared at her—deeply, seriously. And with just one look into the storm-gray depths of his eyes, Elle knew something was wrong.
"Why do I feel like you're about to tell me something serious?" she asked softly.
"Because you're right, woman," he replied.
Elle took his hand without another word and tugged him away, leading him out of the lively tavern, away from the laughter and celebration.
Inside, hunters raised their mugs high, toasting to fallen comrades, and to the return of Grislett—their dear friend and steadfast guide.
And as the cheers echoed behind her, Grislett began to feel her spirit rekindle—surrounded by warm wishes, unwavering support, and genuine friendship. Rivett clung to her side, refusing to let go, as if holding her together with the force of love alone.
The celebration carried on for several more hours—laughter echoing through the tavern, the scent of roasted meats and sweet bread thick in the air. At one point, a towering three-tiered cake was brought out, to the delight of everyone. Grislett and the rest of the hunters ate until they could barely move, their stomachs full, their minds growing hazy with drowsiness.
Just as the warm fog of sleep was beginning to settle over the room, the tavern doors burst open with a thunderous bang.
A large, rugged man stepped inside, his presence casting a sudden silence across the tavern. The joy evaporated in an instant. A dark cloak draped over his head, and beneath its folds, only a rough beard was visible.
"I'm looking for Alistar Galo!" the man barked, his voice gravelly and commanding. "Tell me if he's here!"
From the back of the tavern, Alistar emerged with Elle beside him, her fingers still wrapped firmly around his hand after hearing the details of his mission to Threnafell.
"I'm here," Alistar said steadily. "What do you want?"
"I need you to come with me. We're heading to Threnafell," the man replied.
Then, with deliberate motion, he pulled back his hood.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Murmurs rose like a tide as hunters exchanged stunned glances—He looked exactly like General Joel Montecristo.
Everyone was left speechless. Few had seen Montecristo's physical transformation after shaving his head—his features now sharper, more defined, exuding a rugged masculinity that hadn't been as prominent before. He looked every bit the image of a war-forged god, and Rivett couldn't help but stare at him from head to toe with open admiration.
"Nowthat's a man," she declared aloud, utterly unapologetic.
Grislett immediately smacked her on the head, trying to pull her back to her senses in the presence of the general.
"Rivett! Show some respect in front of General Montecristo," Grislett scolded.
"Shut up! You like his new look too—you're just as red in the face as I am!" Rivett shot back.
Montecristo ignored the commotion behind him. He stepped toward Alistar with a purposeful gait, each heavy footfall making the wooden floor of the tavern groan beneath him. There was strength in the way he moved, a silent authority that commanded attention.
Alistar met him halfway.
"So… they've told you about the seal," Alistar said, watching him closely.
Montecristo narrowed his eyes. "What seal are you talking about, boy?"
Alistar froze, stunned by the question.
"If it's not about the seal," he thought, "then why would he want to return to Threnafell?"
Joel and Alistar sat across from each other at a table, the entire tavern watching in hushed curiosity. The women, in particular, couldn't take their eyes off Joel.
His new appearance was striking—almost disarming. Never before had they seen him so well-groomed. Ever since the death of his sister, he had let himself go: his hair had grown long, his beard unkempt, his presence heavy with grief.
But now… now he looked like a different man altogether. So transformed, so sharply defined, that it almost felt as if someone else had stolen the name General Joel Montecristo and was wearing it like a new identity.
"That's the inscription we found," Alistar explained, sliding the copied parchment across the table. "Her Majesty has requested you lead the expedition."
Joel remained silent, stroking his beard as he mulled over the information. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes flickered with sharp focus.
"Very well," he said at last. "But it has to be tonight."
"Are you insane?" Alistar replied, leaning forward. "That's just a few hours from now. We need to prepare—really prepare. We don't even know if those cursed beasts are still out there!"
"And we'll never know unless we go and find out!" Joel shouted, slamming his fist on the table. "If you want me to lead this mission, it happens tonight. Because by tomorrow… I will no longer be her general."
His words struck the room like a thunderclap.
A heavy silence fell over the tavern, thick with disbelief.
"What are you talking about? What do you mean you won't be our general anymore?" Alistar asked, stunned, his voice a mix of shock and confusion.
Montecristo looked around the room, meeting the gaze of every hunter, every warrior. All eyes were on him now.
"I'm resigning my command," he declared.
Alistar was speechless.
Whispers stirred among the gathered hunters, tension rising like steam. Joel Montecristo had commanded the forces of Averford longer than anyone alive. His strategies, his battle doctrines, his defensive systems—were near flawless. He had personally trained many of the kingdom's most elite warriors. Among them had been Arthur Windham—the late husband of Queen Fiora, father to Princess Sonia, and one of Averford's greatest heroes.
"Joel…" Alistar said carefully, "I know what happened a week ago was devastating. For all of us. But don't make such a rash decision. This can't be the right path."
Joel's gaze lowered, but his voice remained firm. Deep down, he knew this decision was emotional rather than rational—but he also knew exactly why he had reached it.
"I know," he said quietly. "But this isn't because of that incident… it's because of my boys."
Elle, sitting at the bar near the table, had two empty mugs beside her and a third beer halfway finished. She listened in silence, and something about Montecristo's words touched her. There was a tenderness in his conviction—a man with no blood ties to those young soldiers, yet he loved them enough to make such a monumental decision. That kind of loyalty, that kind of sorrow, was rare… and quietly admirable.
"Alright," Alistar finally said, exhaling. "We'll do it tonight—but we'll need Arata."
"Someone call my name?" came a booming voice from the tavern entrance.
Arata stood there, arms wide, grinning like a king returning to his court. The room erupted in cheers at the sight of him.
He walked in with the swagger of someone who believed the world owed him applause.
He really thinks he's the king of the world, Elle thought, eyeing him with amusement and mild judgment.
Curiously, he wasn't wearing his signature blue cloak—the one he claimed brought him luck. Without it, he looked strangely vulnerable, yet still somehow carried that overwhelming confidence that defined him.
—Sigrid Household—
At that same hour, in the quiet warmth of the Sigrid home, the rain-heavy clouds had already returned, casting the world into early twilight.
Claire and Margott remained seated in the parlor, sipping tea as they discussed a small—yet clearly contentious—matter.
"So… you want to sleep here tonight?" Claire asked, arching a brow.
"But of course, my dearest friend," Margott replied with a theatrical flourish.
Kiett sat nearby, calmly drinking his tea and listening in silence as Claire made her case, trying every argument she could to dissuade Margott from staying the night.
It was a familiar scene: rain tapping the windows, friends sharing warmth, and the quiet comedy of a stubborn guest who refused to leave.
"If I stay," Margott announced cheerfully, "I'll make breakfast tomorrow!"
That was all the reason Kiett needed to cast the deciding vote in her favor.
Claire, however, refused to accept defeat.
"Kiett! Don't forget Uncle Joel could show up at any moment!" she protested, clearly implying that Margott's presence might not sit well with him.
"You really think he'd be upset?" Kiett asked, raising an eyebrow.
Claire sighed in exasperation and pushed herself up from the table.
"Fine! But you're sleeping in my room!" she declared.
The scent of warm tea lingered in the air, curling through the home like a gentle veil of comfort.
With the debate settled, Kiett left the two girls chatting in the sitting room and made his way upstairs.
As he ascended the steps, his thoughts wandered to the past—to the days when this house had felt immense, a world of endless corners and secret places. When they were children, he and Claire would chase each other through the halls, giggling as they hid from their Uncle Joel.
He stepped into his bedroom… and immediately frowned.
It was an absolute disaster.
Claire's right… this place is a swamp, he thought, surveying the mess with reluctant acceptance.
Kiett walked toward his double-door wardrobe. As he opened it, he pulled out a few towels and set them aside—revealing the Black Book, sealed tightly with three heavy locks.
Two of those locks had already been undone—each one unsealed through force and magic, events that had caused significant explosions and left a gaping hole in the ceiling of Kiett's room.
The young Sigrid reached for the book. With his right hand, he focused, channeling his mana into it.
The third lock responded, glowing faintly as it accepted the flow of energy and began to form a connection. But almost instantly, the lock pulsed violently, rejecting the mana and emitting thick red vapor and sharp, flickering sparks of electricity.
What the hell do I have to do to open you? he wondered, brow furrowed in frustration.
But his attempt was cut short—abruptly—by a knock at his door. It was Claire.
"Brother! Are you in there?" Claire called from the other side of the door. "Uncle Joel just arrived—he wants us to get ready for an incursion!"
Kiett blinked, surprised. He turned his gaze toward the bed, where the swords Joel had given them earlier that day still rested.
He reached for his and fastened it to his belt. Slowly, he drew the blade, once again admiring its strange, haunting beauty.
The steel still shimmered with a deep, burning red, and as he gripped the hilt, thin threads of the same crimson hue wrapped themselves around his hand—like living veins responding to his touch.
Let's see what I'm truly capable of… with you.
The veil of night had at last fallen over the kingdom of Averford. The starlight—gently glowing orbs—bathed the cobbled streets in a soft, ethereal light. Along the high stone walls, those same lights cast their warmth over the sentries, standing steadfast in the dark, keeping watch as the kingdom slept beneath the quiet hush of the moonlit sky.
The Sigrid siblings readied their cloaks, boots, and heavy coats—it would be a cold night, and an uncertain one at that.
Margott, meanwhile, was locked in a tense exchange with Montecristo. Her presence clearly unsettled the children's uncle. Though he had never openly opposed her relationship with Kiett, he had always kept his distance from the girl, his disapproval subtle but unmistakable. He'd never offered a clear reason for his unease—just a silent, lingering discomfort.
Now, Margott was pressing her case, insisting on joining the clandestine incursion into Threnafell.
"You're not coming with us. This matter doesn't concern you, miss," Joel repeated, his voice steady but ironclad. He didn't scowl or raise his tone—but the weight in his words made his displeasure palpable.
"I want to stand at his side. If I can help in this, I will—gladly," Margott replied without hesitation.
There was a quiet fierceness in her gaze, a boldness that challenged the tension in the air. Her once-fragile demeanor had vanished, replaced by a calm, unshakable resolve. She stood tall, unwavering before Montecristo's commanding presence—as though daring him to test her will.
What had begun as an interrogation had turned into a silent contest of endurance—of wills. Who would flinch first? Who would speak the final word in this delicate battle of pride and principle?
As he stepped into the modest home, he couldn't help but wonder why the young Blackwell girl remained there, even as the veil of night had already descended upon the skies of Averford.
Claire, meanwhile, was alone in her room, her fingers tracing the fabric of a beautiful green cloak. She sat in silence, staring at it with a mixture of reverence and fear.
The thought of returning to Threnafell chilled her to the bone—memories of the horrors from a week ago still clung to her like shadows.
"Mom… even though I'm terrified to go back, we can't lose your sword. It's the only thing we have left of you besides this cloak" she whispered.
She gently gathered the cloak in her arms, caressing it with tender affection. The faint scent of her mother still lingered in its threads—warm, comforting, achingly familiar.
With delicate care, Claire draped the cloak around her shoulders and turned to face the mirror.
"Do you think… if they see me like this, they'll say I look just like you, Mom?" she murmured.
Her mind wandered in hazy circles, fragments of memories rising and falling like waves. She couldn't remember her mother's face—not clearly—but the sound of her voice remained in ghostly fragments: the lullabies whispered in poetic rhythm, the soothing hum that once lulled her to sleep.
And somehow, deep within, she still remembered the rhythm of her heartbeat.
Kiett knocked gently on the door, interrupting Claire's quiet voyage through the universe of her most innocent longings and heartfelt dreams. Stirred from her reverie, she made her way to the door.
As it opened, her brother stood there, taking in the sight of her from head to toe. He was struck by the presence she exuded—something about the way the cloak hung from her shoulders made her seem stronger, more resolute.
"Claire… is that Mom's cloak?" he asked softly.
"It is," she replied. "How do I look wearing it?"
"It suits you," he said with a warm smile. "It brings out your eyes."
Claire's lips curved into a broad, genuine smile—one so bright that it made Kiett grin just as wide.
"You ready for this top-secret mission?" he asked, his tone light, a hint of playfulness masking the nerves he couldn't quite shake.
Fear tugged at the edges of his thoughts, as it did hers. It was only natural—soon, they would return to that cursed forest… the one they'd barely escaped with their lives.
Meanwhile, Montecristo and Margott were still locked in a tense back-and-forth about her joining the incursion. Joel remained firm, resisting what he saw as Margott's reckless stubbornness.
"I'm Princess Liliam Bright-Windham's apprentice," she argued passionately. "That makes me her representative in this matter—and yes, I'm scared of what might be waiting in there tonight!"
"Don't throw the princess's name around so carelessly," Joel snapped, his patience fraying. "Remember—I'm still your general, young lady."
His voice was edged with iron now, growing weary of Margott's determined defiance and the authority she wielded like a blade.
The Sigrid siblings descended the stairs slowly, the sounds of Joel and Margott's heated discussion echoing through the house. As Joel turned to look at them, he fell silent, momentarily stunned.
To his eyes, Claire looked as though she were dressed for a noble ball—one of those grand soirées hosted by the highborn families of Averford, where the entire kingdom gathered in splendor.
"Well now… you can't possibly be my Claire," Joel remarked with a soft, amused smile.
She looked radiant—graceful, poised—like a seasoned huntress ready to command a room, or perhaps an entire battlefield.
"Of course it's me, Uncle," Claire replied with a playful glint in her eyes. "I just… wanted to wear Mom's cloak tonight."
Joel's expression softened even more. "You look so much like her, Claire. You're her living reflection."
His words, tender and sincere, wrapped the room in a quiet hush—a moment both sweet and sorrowful. Claire's heart swelled with emotion, caught between pride and the ache of loss.
"Well then," Joel said abruptly, clearing his throat, "let's save the sentiment for another time. We've got to move out."
Margott clung gently to Kiett's arm. Joel watched her for a moment, then let out a quiet sigh. He no longer had the will to argue.
"Fine. You'll come with us," he relented, his tone firm, "but you'll follow every one of my commands. Understood?"
Margott nodded without hesitation, accepting his condition.
Kiett then handed Claire the new sword Joel had gifted him earlier—a blade of exquisite make, its crimson shimmer catching the light.
Margott blinked in surprise, unable to hide the awe in her gaze.
"Well, well… looks like you've got yourself a new toy," Margott teased.
"A courtesy from Uncle Joel," Claire replied with a proud little smile. "Kiett has a new sword too."
Margott turned to him, her expression growing more serious. Without hesitation, Kiett unsheathed the weapon—its blade gleaming with a deep, ember-like red. Montecristo had named it Flame fang, or "Igneous Blade," inspired by the fiery hue it took on the moment Kiett first gripped it.
"The runes read 'Hunter'. It's a one-of-a-kind blade," Kiett stated with quiet pride.
Joel's voice rang out from outside, urging them to hurry. He was already seated in the carriage, ready to leave.
The three youths dashed after him and climbed aboard, the wheels beginning to turn as their journey toward Threnafell began once more—this time, beneath the veil of night, when shadows grew longer and danger far more abundant.
Their rendezvous point was Joel's secluded estate, where the rest of the clandestine scouting party was already gathering.
Alistar stood waiting, joined by Rivett, Grislett, Arata, Elle, and Aria—the last of whom sat atop a barrel, casually flipping her twin blue-edged daggers through the air. They caught the moonlight with every spin, glinting like enchanted stars, while above them, wisps of cloud drifted on a gentle breeze that whispered through the sleeping kingdom.
—Montecristo Ranch—
"All right, listen up," Alistar announced, his tone sharp and commanding.
"Joel will be here soon, so we need to divide into teams to cover more ground. We've only got tonight to figure out what's happening in Threnafell at this hour.
"I think we should wait for Joel before we make any decisions," Aria replied coolly.
Alistar fixed his gaze at her, his pride bristling.
"Are you questioning my leadership?" he asked with a note of arrogance in his voice.
"You could say that" Aria responded with calm precision.
"No offense, but there must be a reason Fiora asked Joel to lead this mission."
Alistar's ego took a visible blow—and Arata wasted no time in making it worse, laughing loudly at his expense.
"Don't laugh! I'm still your superior!" Alistar snapped, his voice rising.
"My superior? Only in rank," Arata shot back smugly. "Tell me—who holds the record for the most beasts hunted in a single day across the entire guild?"
He smirked, fully aware that he was the answer to his own question.
"Well, yes, you do hold that record," Alistar replied sharply, "but you still don't meet the qualifications to become a Master Hunter. Your methods are reckless—and downright dangerous."
He crossed his arms, his gaze cold. "Your success is built on sheer luck, Arata. That's the only reason you're still alive."
Arata didn't even attempt a comeback. It was as if he'd lost the argument without ever trying to win.
Aria and Rivett chuckled beside him.
"What's the matter, Arata? Cat got your tongue this time?" Elle teased, a wicked grin playing at her lips.
"You can judge my methods and my tactics all you want," Arata finally snapped, "but you can't judge my results."
Alistar exhaled through his nose, trying not to let his irritation boil over. This is the group I've been given for this mission? he thought grimly.
Just then, the creak of wheels on gravel silenced the debate.
Joel's carriage had arrived. But he wasn't alone. Three others rode with him.
"You brought reinforcements?" Alistar asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Something like that," Joel replied with a half-smile. "Let's call them my personal bodyguards."
Alistar's expression twisted in disbelief as the passengers stepped down.
The Sigrid siblings—and Margott Blackwell, Princess Liliam Bright-Windham's protégée.
"You've lost your minds!" Alistar shouted. "What are they doing here?"
"Watch your tone, Alistar," Joel said firmly, his voice calm but commanding. "You're in my home."
"They'll be joining us on this mission," Montecristo announced. "It'll serve as a chance for them to learn a bit more."
Alistar's expression sorely, he clearly didn't approve of Joel's decision.
"Incredible," he scoffed. "You contradict yourself at every turn!"
"Then explain yourself properly, Alistar," Montecristo replied, his tone steady but challenging. "Don't hold anything back."
Alistar began pacing, his frustration building, while the others quietly prepared for departure. The Sigrid siblings and Margott remained close to Joel, watching the exchange unfold.
"A week ago, we entered Threnafell with a full unit to find her," Alistar barked, pointing toward Claire. "Half the men died. And the boy" he nodded toward Kiett.
"barely made it out alive. They're here by sheer luck!"
"And now you're taking them back into that nightmare. Do you see the problem now?"
Montecristo said nothing.
Because deep down—he knew Alistar was right.
Claire stepped forward, undeterred, ready to challenge Alistar's words head-on.
"It's our decision to return to Threnafell," she said firmly. "Our uncle isn't forcing us to go."
"We want to learn more—through real fieldwork, just like you hunters did," Kiett added, his voice calm but resolute.
The bond between the siblings was unshakable, and Alistar could feel it. It stirred something in him—respect, perhaps, or simply the recognition of their shared will. He took a step back, the fire in his argument dimming.
Without another word, he gave in, silently accepting the presence of the three youths.
"You gave in a bit too easily, Alistar," Montecristo remarked with a smirk.
"Save it," Alistar muttered. "Whatever happens in there, you're on your own. No one's coming to rescue you."
Those final words—sharp and cold—were aimed squarely at the two siblings.
And with that, Alistar turned and walked away, leaving Joel's small band alone in the dim, moonlit clearing.
Joel then turned to Margott, removing the blade at his side.
"Well then, Margott," he said, holding it out to her, "take this. Use it—since you're without your own."
"But what will you use?" the young Blackwell asked.
"Don't worry," Joel replied calmly. "My real weapon is in the wardrobe. Wait for me here."
With that, he turned and strode toward his room.
He went directly to one of his two wardrobes and threw open the black one. Inside, resting in reverent silence, was a magnificent suit of dark armor—its surface sleek and matte, forged for war. Beside it lay a pair of brutal battle bracers, each adorned with sharp, blade-like protrusions that gleamed with deadly promise.
But the centerpiece was the weapon: a massive, breathtaking axe with a silvered blade and a runic inscription etched into the metal.
It read: "Storm-Eater."
Montecristo took the axe in both hands and studied its engraving with quiet reverence.
As he lifted it, the weapon responded. A trail of shimmering blue light wrapped around his hand, swirling with ethereal energy—much like the crimson glow that had danced around Kiett's hand when he first drew his new sword.
The entire group waited in the courtyard, the air thick with anticipation. At last, Joel arrived—escorted by Victor—his presence commanding, resolute.
Without a word, he tossed a runic teleportation stone into Aria's hands.
"Aria, link the rune. Destination: the Threnafell Gate," he ordered.
Without hesitation, Aria dropped to a crouch and pressed the stone against the carved sigil embedded in the stone slab at the center of the courtyard. The glyphs pulsed with light, and a soft hum grew louder until, with a rush of energy, the portal opened—its surface swirling like liquid moonlight.
Everyone stood ready on their horses.
And one by one, they stepped through.
Alistar. Arata. Aria. Grislett. Rivett. Elle. Margott. Claire. Kiett.
Each of them vanished into the shimmer, guided by the unwavering presence of General Joel Reid-Montecristo, as they began their perilous night incursion into the depths of Threnafell.
TO BE CONTINUED...