"I am Fiora Bright-Windham, sovereign Queen of the powerful and majestic kingdom of Averford. If you could see me now… Would you be proud of what I've done?"
The beautiful Queen murmured the question to her reflection, her eyes fixed on the mirror within her vast and slightly cluttered chamber. Upon her head rested a crown of gold, forged with three towering peaks—the central spire, the tallest of all, symbolizing the royal throne of Averford. The other two, now mere echoes of a lost past, stood for the once-glorious citadels of Akerhill and Rocaforte, long vanished from the world, yet immortalized in her regalia.
With a soft, resigned sigh, Fiora lifted the crown from her brow. The weight of it—though physical—seemed to carry the burden of generations. The simple act of removing it brought a strange relief, like surfacing after being submerged too long. She tossed it carelessly onto the bed, as if casting away a relic of sorrow. To her, it was no longer a symbol of honor or authority, but of mistakes made, impossible choices, and sacrifices she wished she had never been forced to make.
She unclasped her velvet cloak and let it slip to the floor, forgotten, like the warmth of her youth. Crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps, she reached her desk—an untamed sea of unopened letters, torn scrolls, and half-read documents. Fiora sat in silence, the chaos around her matched only by the storm within. Her eyes drifted across the scattered parchments, yet her thoughts clung to a single thread—one lingering, inescapable question.
"Father... am I doing well so far? Am I a good Queen?" she wondered aloud, her voice a whisper carried only by the silence of the night. Her thoughts drifted back to the last time she had seen him alive—charging into battle with his sword drawn, side by side with Arthur, her beloved husband and the now-deceased hero of Averford.
Weary of the chaotic mess on her desk, Fiora turned away and walked toward her bed. With slow fingers, she removed her heavy gown, and for the first time that day, she felt truly alive. Clad now in a simple white slip, her body felt weightless, like a feather caught in a gentle breeze. In that moment, her beauty was nothing short of breathtaking—her long, sculpted legs, firm and graceful, would have left any knight in awe. There was no denying it: the Queen of Averford was radiant beyond compare.
As she lay upon her bed, seeking the comfort of sleep, a sudden knock interrupted the stillness—three firm raps followed by four soft, rhythmic taps. The pattern was familiar. It was the signal.
"You may enter," Fiora called out gently.
To her quiet surprise, it was her daughter, Sonia, who stepped into the room, her face barely illuminated by the soft candlelight.
"What is it, my dear?" Fiora asked.
"Mama… may I sleep with you tonight?" the young princess pleaded, her voice tender and uncertain.
Fiora smiled, warmth blooming in her heart. She reached out her hand and welcomed her daughter into the bed. Wrapped in a loving embrace, the two laid down together, mother and child, finding solace in each other's arms beneath the hush of the moonlit night.
"Mama, your heart is beating fast... are you okay?" Sonia asked softly.
"I'm just a little nervous," Fiora replied with a gentle smile. "So much has happened... too many things, too many emotions for one week."
Sonia wrapped her arms tightly around her mother, offering silent comfort. Fiora returned the gesture with a tender kiss on her daughter's forehead—a silent thank-you for the warmth and strength of that embrace.
"Everything will be alright. I promise," Fiora whispered.
―Threnafell Forest―
Montecristo and his companions had crossed through the teleportation portal, emerging beside the rune-carved Ark of Threnafell. Night had fallen quickly, both in the skies of Averford and above the shadowed canopy of Threnafell.
As they stepped through, all took a moment to glance around—the forest loomed vast and silent. Their horses shuddered at the sudden drop in temperature, their breaths turning white in the frigid air.
"Goodness, it's freezing out here at night!" Aria exclaimed, wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to stay warm.
Montecristo gave the order to move forward. The Sigrid siblings followed closely behind the group, riding the horses Joel had lent them from his estate. As their hooves beat rhythmically against the forest floor, fragmented memories of that fateful day flooded the minds of the Sigrid twins—and of Margott as well.
In Kiett's ears, the screams of his comrades echoed with agonizing clarity—cries of terror and pain, cut short as they were torn apart and devoured by the Scarlets. The young man, haunted by the weight of those memories, began to lag behind, becoming the rearguard of the procession, isolated in his own torment.
The group pressed on at a steady pace, careful not to exhaust the horses. They knew that preserving their strength might mean the difference between life and death should they need to flee.
Eventually, they arrived at the camp where the hunting examination parties were being assembled. Claire dismounted, her gaze sweeping the area, absorbing every detail. As her boots touched the ground, Joel called out to her with a sharp tone.
"What are you doing, girl?" he asked.
Claire didn't answer immediately. She moved slowly toward the nearest tent, drawn by something—perhaps instinct, or a growing sense of unease. Pushing aside the flap, she stepped inside.
The tent was torn in several places, deep gashes slashed through the fabric. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of dried blood. The ground and walls were stained with it—evidence of a violent and recent slaughter.
Kiett and Montecristo stepped into the tent after Claire, immediately struck by the oppressive weight of death that lingered in the air.
"Claire, come on. We need to keep moving—time isn't on our side," Montecristo urged, his voice firm but understanding.
Claire's expression softened into sorrow. Her eyes shimmered with restrained tears as she turned to Kiett and pulled him into a fierce embrace. Trembling, she whispered a prayer of gratitude to the god Throme, thankful that they had both survived that day when so many others had not.
Kiett returned the embrace with warmth and placed a gentle kiss on his sister's forehead.
"It's alright, Claire. I'm here—we're going to be okay. I promise," he murmured, anchoring her to the present.
Just then, Montecristo wrapped both Sigrid siblings in a bear hug so powerful it knocked the breath from their lungs.
"Don't you dare forget about me, you brats!" Joel exclaimed with a wide grin. The hug was so crushingly energetic that Kiett and Claire gasped, struggling to catch their breath as he finally released them.
Outside the tent, Margott stood with Alistar's group. Alistar held a sealed scroll in his hands, ready to unroll it.
"You think this will lead us somewhere in the forest?" asked Rivett, eyeing the parchment with suspicion.
"I doubt it," Alistar replied with a shrug, "but there's no harm in trying."
Margott, meanwhile, cast a wary glance toward Grislett. The girl stood motionless, transfixed by the sinister aura emanating from the trees and undergrowth of Threnafell. Shadows clung tightly to the forest like smoke, thick with dread.
Noticing her distress, Rivett stepped closer, concern etched across his face. He knew how hard it must be for her to return to this place—how deeply it had marked her.
"Grislett, are you alright?" Rivett asked gently, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder.
She turned toward him, eyes brimming with tears, and collapsed into his arms.
"I couldn't save them… I wasn't strong enough. They died because of me!" Grislett cried out, her voice breaking as she fell to her knees before the vast, brooding expanse of the forest.
The weight of guilt pressed down on her shoulders like a stormcloud. Her sobs were quiet but full of agony, and her gaze was lost somewhere in the shadows of memory—reliving the moment when the Scarlets struck, and the young ones under her command fell.
Rivett knelt beside her, drawing her close, gently running his fingers through her raven-black hair with the same tenderness a mother might offer a child. He whispered soft, soothing words, though none seemed enough to lift the burden from her soul.
Montecristo and the Sigrid siblings approached the two, their presence grounding the moment with silent solidarity.
"Grislett, listen to me," Joel said softly, kneeling beside her. "None of what happened in there was your fault."
His voice was firm, but not unkind. "No one could have foreseen what was waiting in that place. If you're looking for someone to blame, then let it be me."
Aria and Arata stood quietly nearby, their eyes lowered in respect. Alistar watched from a distance, his arms crossed, the tension in his stance betraying a desire to move on with the mission. But he said nothing—for now.
"What are you saying, sir?" Grislett asked through trembling breaths, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.
"I should have acted better myself," Joel replied, his voice tinged with regret. "But I was afraid too. I bear the blame for the lives that were lost—both the young ones and the hunters."
He reached out, cupping Grislett's face with care. Then, taking her hand, he helped her to her feet, lifting her gently from the ground as if to tell her that grief, though heavy, need not be carried alone.
"If you wish to turn back, you may," Joel offered gently. "Victor will be waiting at the estate with a fire and hot chocolate. You can wait for us there."
"I'll be alright, sir," Grislett replied, her voice steady. "I need to face this… it's the only way I'll ever get my life back."
Her face, once shadowed by sorrow, now shone with quiet resolve and unwavering determination. The fire in her eyes—tenacity forged through pain—drew a silent nod of respect from General Montecristo.
"Joel, we need to move," Alistar called, his tone clipped. "We only have tonight."
Montecristo turned and walked toward the master hunter. Alistar unfurled the scroll in his hands, releasing once more the strange blue smoke. It curled into the air, thick and alive, before rising into a dense column that slithered through the trees of Threnafell like a serpent of mist and arcane intent.
"I suppose we're meant to follow it, aren't we?" Alistar said, eyes fixed on the spectral trail.
"Then let's move," Montecristo answered. "We'll follow it—see where it leads."
One by one, the group mounted their horses and rode deeper into the forest. The cold struck them with renewed force, wrapping their bodies in icy tendrils, stealing warmth from their skin and breath from their lungs. They hunched forward, shielding themselves from the deepening chill.
"It's even colder in here!" Arata exclaimed, teeth chattering.
At the front, Alistar and Montecristo led the way, their blades slicing through the thick underbrush. They pressed forward for what felt like miles, until the dense vegetation gave way to the soft murmuring of a stream. There, scattered along its banks, lay swords—some broken, others still slick with dried blood.
The memories returned like a flood. The air itself seemed to carry the cries of the fallen—their wails, their agony—echoing like ghosts in the wind. The past clung to this place like a veil.
Then, slowly, the darkness began to retreat.
The silver light of the moon broke through the tangled canopy above, bathing the glade in a soft, ethereal glow. As the moonlight touched the fallen blades, they shimmered, casting reflections across the clearing. It was as though the earth itself had been sprinkled with a thousand diamonds, glittering across the valley and along the stream's edge—beauty born of tragedy, light born from sorrow.
"Regardless of what happened here, I'd say this is something beautiful… almost poetic," Aria murmured, her voice hushed by the weight of the moment.
"You're not wrong," Elle replied softly. "It's sorrowful… but undeniably unique."
Claire stood in silent awe, captivated by the shimmering scene before her. To her, it looked as if the stream had become a mirror—one that reflected the stars themselves. It was, without question, something exquisite.
"It's as if Throme were paying tribute to the young ones who died here," Grislett whispered, her voice thick with wonder and melancholy. She brought her hands together and, in a quiet, symbolic gesture, gave thanks for witnessing something so hauntingly beautiful.
"Do you really think Throme would do something like that?" Elle asked, a subtle edge of doubt in her tone.
"What do you mean?" Grislett turned to her, slightly taken aback by the question.
"Don't take it the wrong way," Aria said gently behind Grislett, "but both the great Throme and the Dragon sound more like myths than gods, don't you think?"
Grislett didn't respond immediately. Her expression grew thoughtful, and she found herself unable to fully dismiss Aria's words. After all, the faiths devoted to both Throme and the Dragon were built upon ancient and fragmented texts—remnants of a time nearly lost to the world, recounting the fall of Aldelviewreld over nine hundred cycles of blood moons ago.
Alistar noticed that the light emanating from the scroll had resumed its slow, ghostly expansion—stretching now across the stream and into the thickets beyond.
"We need to cross the stream," he suggested calmly.
But as he urged his horse forward, the animal halted at the water's edge, nostrils flaring, refusing to take even a single step into the current. Alistar insisted, his commands firm, almost stern—but the horse would not yield.
"What's wrong with the horses?" Arata asked, frowning, as he noticed that none of the other mounts were willing to go forward either. The animals stamped and snorted, clearly agitated by something unseen.
Aria, Elle, Grislett and Rivett exchanged wary glances and began scanning the surrounding woods, a creeping suspicion settling over them.
Perhaps… they weren't alone.
"There might be something else here," Rivett exclaimed, his tone sharpened by unease. "The horses are getting really nervous!"
The girls gripped the hilt of their swords, ready to draw steel if needed—whether against the Scarlets or one of the legendary beasts that prowled the shadowed depths of Threnafell.
"If we want to find where the scroll's light leads, we'll have to go on foot!" Montecristo declared with resolute urgency.
"He's right," Alistar agreed. "Dismount and cast Falscher Wille on your horses. Instruct them to flee back to Averford at the first sign of danger!"
Everyone obeyed without hesitation. As they dismounted, the horses began to graze peacefully, seemingly unfazed by the chill or the tension that gripped their riders.
"Well, would you look at that—they're just like us," Arata remarked with a grin.
"What are you talking about?" Rivett asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion.
Arata walked up to her, still smiling wide.
"Even in the worst of situations, there's always time to eat!" he replied cheerfully.
Laughter rippled through the group. Even the gloom of Threnafell couldn't completely smother their spirits—not with Arata's wit lighting the way. "He's always so clever," Grislett thought with a smile.
Alistar and Montecristo were the first to brave the stream, their boots sinking into the frigid water.
"Damn it… that's freezing!" Montecristo cursed, wincing as the cold bit into his skin.
The others followed, groaning at the cold that gripped their legs like chains of ice. But all stopped in their tracks when they saw Kiett calmly conjure his signature spell—"God's Hand"—a golden construct lifting him, Claire, and Margott above the water. They floated effortlessly to the other side, untouched by the stream.
A heavy silence fell. The group stared at him, visibly annoyed.
"What?" Kiett asked, puzzled.
"If you could do that all along," Alistar snapped, "why didn't you say anything?"
Kiett gave a sheepish smile and offered a quiet apology.
"Leave him alone," Montecristo cut in. "Let's keep moving."
Without another word, the general, his nephews, and the band of hunters vanished into the dense underbrush and towering trees of the enigmatic Threnafell Forest, their silhouettes swallowed by the deep green shadows.
"Gods, it's freezing... I should've stayed at the tavern," Aria grumbled to herself as she trudged forward, rubbing her arms in an attempt to summon warmth. "Though by now, I'd be drunk out of my mind."
Her long black coat was more suited for rain than for cold, and while the skies had ceased their weeping, the chill still clung stubbornly to the air, biting at her skin through the fabric.
At the front of the group, Alistar led with unwavering focus, followed closely by Montecristo, who kept a vigilant eye on their surroundings. Beside him, Kiett and Arata flanked the path, alert to every shadow and whisper of the forest.
Rivett, Claire, and Aria held the rear, scanning the trail behind them for signs of danger. In the center walked Grislett and Elle, silent but watchful.
"We've been following this for a while. We need to be careful, or we'll lose ourselves in this place," Montecristo warned, his voice carrying just enough weight to press urgency into the moment.
"Don't worry, Uncle," Claire replied confidently. "I've been marking the trees ever since we left the horses."
Montecristo beamed with pride.
"That's my girl!" he declared warmly.
Suddenly, the glowing smoke from the scroll halted—its wisps swirling and curling until they came to a still rest above a lone stone in the heart of the forest. The light faded, then vanished completely, leaving only silence and the darkened parchment.
"Now what?" Montecristo asked, eyes narrowing.
"I... I don't know. I have no idea," Alistar admitted, staring at the scroll as if willing it to answer.
Montecristo let out a sharp exhale of frustration.
"You've got to be kidding me!" he barked, clearly exasperated.
Pacing back and forth, the General scratched his head in frustration, trying to make sense of something that had offered no valuable insight—no clues, no riddles to decipher, nothing but silence cloaked in mystery.
"Alistar, tell me—was there anything else you uncovered when the scroll was first opened in Callaghan's workshop?" Montecristo asked, his tone edged with urgency.
Alistar furrowed his brow, thinking carefully, sifting through the fragments of memory—specifically the symbols Cosette had managed to decipher.
"The seal lies between waters that know no end," he began, reciting from memory. "It sleeps by day, and walks by night. Every beginning has an end, and every end, a beginning. Meet me in Threnafell."
Montecristo fell silent, trying to draw a more precise meaning from the cryptic lines—the idea of a seal between waters that know no end lingering in his mind like mist.
"I don't understand it… It's honestly quite confusing," Montecristo admitted.
"The sea. The ocean," Claire offered thoughtfully. "Their waters… in theory, they have no end."
The group turned to her in stunned silence—Alistar, Montecristo, and the others staring at the young Sigrid as if uncertain whether she was serious or jesting.
"Claire... do you truly believe what you just said?" Elle asked cautiously.
"It makes sense," Claire replied, her voice steady, filled with quiet certainty. "Lakes and rivers have limits, edges you can find. But oceans and seas… they stretch across the entire continent. They don't end. Not really."
"She's right," Montecristo muttered, eyes widening. "We never should've come here. We should be searching the seas—you idiot!" he snapped, giving Alistar a light smack on the back of the head.
"Then how do you explain the last part? Meet me in Threnafell" Alistar countered, rubbing the spot with a frown.
Arata and Aria remained silent, their gazes sweeping the dark forest with a strange mix of focus and unease.
"What is it, Arata?" Montecristo asked, catching the change in his posture.
"Something's off... You don't feel it?" Arata replied, his voice low and tense.
Suddenly, the atmosphere around them shifted. The very air seemed to grow heavier, pressing down on their shoulders like invisible stone. The forest fell into an unnatural silence.
"On guard!" Montecristo commanded.
In an instant, the group drew their weapons. A crimson glow burst forth from Kiett's sword—his flame-forged blade gleaming like molten blood in the shadowed clearing, casting eerie flickers of light on the surrounding trees.
"Circle formation! Back to back—now!" the general barked.
They moved quickly, forming a tight ring. Claire's new sword began to hum with energy, its blade aglow in brilliant violet—an ethereal contrast to Kiett's searing red. The ground beneath them began to tremble, then shake violently, as if the forest itself were rejecting their presence.
The earth groaned and convulsed.
With a deafening roar, the tremor brought them to their knees. Panic spread like wildfire. Cries broke the silence, voices calling out in confusion, in fear. The forest had awakened, and whatever was coming for them… it was terrifying beyond reason.
The ground beneath their feet split open with a deafening crack, forming massive fissures that began swallowing them one by one.
"Elle!" Alistar shouted, watching in horror as the woman was lifted skyward atop a column of earth that surged several meters into the air like a pillar of divine judgment.
Montecristo, along with Aria and Grislett, was consumed by a gaping crevice that opened beneath them. Rivett and Margott were hurled upward by yet another earthen spire, while Alistar found himself suddenly cut off from the others as two towering walls of stone and roots erupted between him and his companions.
Claire cried out as a massive root shot from the ground, striking her with brutal force and flinging her far from her brother. Kiett and Arata, paralyzed by dread, were swallowed whole by another chasm, the earth closing over them with a thunderous groan.
The roots of ancient, colossal trees burst forth, twisting and tangling together until they formed towering walls of vegetation fused with rock and earth. Behind Kiett and Arata, colossal waterfalls suddenly cascaded from above, their roar deafening, forcing them to run for their lives through the shifting terrain.
No matter how fast they ran, the water surged faster—unstoppable. It swept them apart, dragging their bodies across jagged stone and tangled roots for what felt like an eternity. When the current finally spat Kiett out, he was left surrounded by nothing but walls—thick with roots, rock, and moss, like the bowels of a living maze.
Soaked to the bone, he shook his head, strands of his black hair clinging to his face.
"Claire!" he called, his voice echoing through the twisted halls of this strange, breathing place. The rumbling of the earth had finally ceased, but silence brought no comfort—only the chilling realization that he was alone.
Utterly alone.
"Claire! Where are you?!" he cried again, desperation tightening in his throat, his voice breaking under the weight of fear. Whatever had happened here was beyond his understanding, and the unknown pressed in from every side, suffocating and real.
Montecristo, Aria, and Grislett struggled to comprehend what had just happened—everything had changed in the span of mere seconds.
"What the hell is going on here?!" Montecristo shouted, spinning in place as he tried to make sense of their surroundings.
"Claire? Kiett? Where are you?!" he called out, his voice cracking with genuine fear.
Elsewhere, Rivett and Margott scanned the unfamiliar terrain around them, disoriented and unsure of where they had been cast. The forest had twisted into something unrecognizable, a place untethered from the world they knew.
"Joel… what's happening?" Aria asked, her voice barely a whisper. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, fingers cold and rigid with dread.
"Stay calm, Aria. We'll be alright," Montecristo said, forcing a steadiness into his voice that even he didn't believe.
Aria turned to him, locking eyes with the man she trusted—but in his gaze, she saw the same fear that haunted her own.
"How can you say that—when you're just as scared as I am?!" she cried, voice rising.
Montecristo's jaw clenched, and he spoke with grim clarity.
"Because if we were meant to die… we'd already be dead."
High above the others, Elle found herself standing atop one of the towering walls.
"What in the hell is this?!" she cried, rising shakily to her feet.
Her breath caught as she looked out across the landscape below—a vast, monstrous labyrinth had risen from the earth itself. Its walls were crafted not of stone, but of ancient trunks, tangled roots, jagged rocks, and a mixture of both living and dead vegetation. Trees stood interwoven into its very structure, as if the forest itself had been twisted into a single, breathing entity.
A labyrinth? she wondered, her mind struggling to grasp the scale of it.
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't find its center—or its edge, for that matter. It seemed endless, an unnatural construction that defied logic and geometry. Whatever it was, it was massive… and it wasn't meant to be understood.
"Alistar!" she screamed with all the force her lungs could muster.
"Where are you, Alistar?!"
She kept calling his name, hoping her voice would echo far enough to reach someone—anyone—through the endless corridors below.
From her vantage point, she counted herself lucky not to have been swallowed by the maze like the others. But even standing above it, safe for the moment, a cruel truth settled into her bones:
She had no idea what to do next.
Claire lay motionless on the ground, slowly stirring from the haze of unconsciousness left by the violent blow. Her hand instinctively went to her head—an intense, throbbing pain pulsed through her skull.
"Kiett? What happened?" she murmured, disoriented.
But no answer came.
As she opened her eyes fully, a sinking feeling crept into her chest—she was completely alone. Her new sword was buried in the earth just beside her, the blade sunk deep into the ground.
"A little farther to the left and I would've died impaled by my own sword," she muttered, attempting to laugh at the absurdity of it.
She tried to stand, but a sudden wave of dizziness forced her back down. Her vision blurred momentarily, and she winced.
"That must've been one hell of a hit," she thought grimly.
Still seated, Claire took a moment to observe her surroundings. Towering walls loomed in every direction, a mixture of ancient wood, twisted roots, and stone. That's when the realization struck her.
She was inside the labyrinth.
"Damn it… what's happening here?" Claire whispered, a tremor in her voice.
"Kiett! Where are you?!" she shouted, her voice echoing endlessly through the maze.
Only silence answered—an oppressive, all-consuming silence that seemed to feed on her fear.
With no response, she tilted her head back, staring up at the sky above the high walls, and whispered to herself.
"What am I supposed to do now?"
Meanwhile, Kiett summoned the courage to explore the winding passages of the labyrinth, though dread coiled tightly around his heart. The fear of the unknown clouded his judgment—his usual clarity, his instinct for deduction, was dulled to nothing. He wandered with no sense of direction, no understanding of what fate had led him here, each step taken in uncertainty.
His thoughts betrayed him.
They twisted and turned in his mind, manifesting as whispers—faint, eerie voices that slithered through the silence. Laughter, hollow and distant, echoed through the walls around him. Thudding sounds, strange and rhythmic, pounded like war drums just beyond reach.
"Shit… what the hell do I do now?" he thought, a cold bead of sweat trickling down his temple despite the biting chill that wrapped around him like a vice.
The wind had grown fiercer within the maze's corridors, howling between the roots and stones like a creature starved of warmth. His clothes, still soaked through, clung to him uncomfortably, amplifying the cold until it gnawed at his bones.
Then—
A crack.
A subtle crunch of something shifting behind him.
His blood froze.
He felt them—multiple presences just out of sight, creeping close, pressing in like shadows come alive.
In a swift, fluid motion, Kiett drew his blade, the metal singing as it left its sheath. He leapt backward, landing in a defensive stance, heart racing, muscles tensed. Magic surged to his fingertips, the incantation for his original spell—"God's Hand"—already forming on his lips.
He turned sharply, ready to face whatever horror awaited him in the dark.
His fear melted away the instant he laid eyes on them—a small group of elegant white-tailed deer, their presence ethereal under the cold, filtered light of the maze. The fiery glow of Kiett's blade flickered softly, pulsing in rhythm with the rapid beat of his heart. He exhaled a long, relieved breath, then laughed quietly at himself.
"You're a hopeless paranoid," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
Among the gentle herd, one figure stood out—a magnificent alpha stag. Towering and strong, its frame was both regal and wild, crowned by an antler rack so grand and sharply sculpted it looked forged by the gods themselves.
"You really are a stunning creature," Kiett whispered, his voice barely audible.
The stag turned to him slowly, locking eyes with an intensity that suggested not just awareness—but understanding. It stood still, unflinching, as though weighing the boy's presence. Kiett, in turn, didn't dare move a muscle, entranced by the quiet majesty before him.
Meanwhile, in another corner of the sprawling labyrinth, Alistar had shed all semblance of calm and reason. Far from his usual collected self, he was throwing what could only be described as a tantrum—pacing atop one of the maze's massive walls, shouting the names of his scattered companions.
"Claire! Kiett! Anyone?!" he bellowed, voice hoarse and cracking.
Trapped with no clear path forward, his frustration erupted like a storm—until finally, a faint reply reached his ears. His breath caught.
He knew that voice.
"Elle? Where are you?!" he cried, his tone laced with desperation.
"Alistar! Over here—follow my voice!" came the distant response.
He spun in circles, frantic, scanning every direction. His heart pounded as he tried to trace the origin of Elle's voice through the twisted corridors and towering walls of the labyrinth—praying for a glimpse of her silhouette somewhere in the distance.
"Elle, keep talking to me!" Alistar shouted, rushing along the wall as far as the ledge would allow him.
"Alistar! Where are you? I can't see you!" Elle's voice rang out, trembling with urgency. Judging by how close it sounded, they were nearer to each other than either had realized—separated only by a towering wall between two parallel ridges.
"Elle, I'm here! Just on the other side!" Alistar called back, his voice echoing across the maze.
Relief flooded Elle's chest at the sound of him so close.
"Alistar… what is this place?" she asked, her voice laced with fear and awe.
"I don't know how it happened," he replied, "but we're trapped. In some kind of enormous labyrinth."
Elsewhere, deep within the maze's twisting, shadowed corridors, Montecristo led the way through the darkness. Every step felt heavier than the last, the oppressive air thick with tension. Aria was visibly on edge, her eyes darting to every sound—each creak, each whisper of leaves, each breath of wind setting her nerves alight.
Grislett followed with uncertain steps, her mind reeling, the only clarity in her heart being to stay close to Montecristo and trust his lead.
"Joel… don't you think we should call for help?" Grislett asked timidly.
Aria nodded in immediate agreement.
"She's right. I'll cast Rotes Schicksal right now!" Aria offered, already channeling the energy for the powerful signal spell.
But her hands froze mid-motion.
Montecristo had stepped in, firmly halting her desperate attempt.
"Don't even try it!" the general barked, his voice sharp as steel.
"Are you insane, Joel?!" Aria snapped back, her frustration rising. "We're in a critical situation—we have to call for help from Averford!"
Montecristo turned to face her, his gaze hard and unwavering.
"This is a covert mission," he said grimly. "We're not supposed to be here.
If you cast Rotes Schicksal, the one who answers… won't be Averford. I guarantee it."
His words struck with chilling finality. The weight of his tone silenced Aria and Grislett instantly. They lowered their heads, dread settling heavy in their chests. Whatever truth Montecristo had hinted at—it was enough to terrify them more than the labyrinth itself.
Elsewhere, in another twisted corner of the vast maze, Rivett and Margott had managed to climb to the top of one of the towering walls. But instead of clarity, all they found was uncertainty stretching in every direction.
"What do we do? Which way are we supposed to go?" Rivett cried out, panic edging into her voice. The fear of the unknown, the helplessness of not knowing what lay ahead—it was chipping away at her resolve, testing her courage to the limit.
"What in the name of Throme is happening in Threnafell?" Margott wondered, her eyes scanning the strange, endless expanse before them.
To Be Continued…