Sion Ulster:
I'm a noble.
And nobility comes with certain expectations.
All noble houses once traced their roots back to a Great Mage, a Magia Vander.
But such a demand became unreasonable, and exceptions were made.
Not only Great Mages, but war heroes, or those who made great contributions to the magical world, could be granted a title and begin a noble line.
That distinction separated the more elite nobility from the lower houses, but we were nobles all the same.
"The Crest of House Ulster is the Great Falcon."
For as long as I could remember, those were the words my father, Caesar, would tell me in his office at our mansion.
He repeated them as if quoting a heavenly scripture.
"With its keen eyes, the falcon hones on its enemy. Then it descends, sharp talons first, to tear its target asunder."
His broad back, never seeming to waver, would turn toward me, medallions and tokens of valor gleaming on his uniform.
"We are a house of hunters, forever pursuing our foes to the very ends of the world—the embodiment of fiery destruction."
My father was a soldier. A warrior.
Someone as ironically still as the ocean, yet a fire mage all the same. And like a delicate flame that could either be fed to grow or left to whittle, he wasn't beyond change.
"But alas, the time has come for the descendants of the Great Falcon to evolve."
My father was everything a noble should aspire to be. The Noblesse Oblige was his calling, his duty, his purpose.
"From our ancient beginnings as Burdelyons, we were driven by vengeance, retribution, rebellion."
The Ulsters were rare even amongst nobility. We traced our roots not only to a Vander, but also to heroic mages, and even carried the bloodline of a divine beast.
We stood right alongside the Reinburgs and Owenzauses.
Few houses, like the Loires, could claim to be more distinguished.
"...As harbingers of fury and spite, we laid waste to any who stood against us. Ours is a history of immoderate destruction, of wanton ruination."
For the first time, I caught a faint trace of emotion in his voice. A flicker of shame, of regret.
It was subtle, barely there. His expression never faltered. But for me, his son, it was enough.
"However, that bloody history ends with me."
That day he stepped closer, hands behind his back, towering over me as always.
He didn't touch me or console me. He was far too… reserved for that.
Yet in that moment, his words felt less like a command and more like a request.
"From now on, the falcon shall not use its claws, nor its beak, but instead spread its wings to protect those it holds dear."
His voice grew softer. I never broke from his gaze.
"My son. A fierce blaze of passion burns within you, yet you are a tender, kind soul."
That embarrassed me. But just as he respected me enough to open his heart, I held back the fluster in mine and listened to the very end.
"That is why, as the rightful heir of this house, the responsibility of protecting your mother and Syrene falls to you."
He then looked at me, calm, waiting.
And I loved him too much to let him down.
"Yes, Father!"
I had been dismissed shortly after that, so I wandered the mansion's extensive halls, lost in thought.
I didn't even register where I was until a familiar cough froze me in place.
"Ack! Ack! Ack!"
I didn't hesitate to let myself into the room, concern masked behind my gaze.
Creak.
My sister, Syrene, lay in her bed, as she always did. Her skin was paler than it should be, yet it glowed beneath her red hair.
She was a year older than me, and she looked at me with guilt.
"Sion, I heard what Father said. I'm so sorry…" She trailed off, shame heavy in her voice. "I can't believe he thought it'd be okay to put the weight of our entire house on your shoulders. If only…"
I paused.
Syrene was sick; she'd been born with a weak constitution. Even living a full life would be a battle for her.
She'd likely never be allowed to use magic without risking an early death. Perhaps marriage and childbirth would be out of the question too.
I pitied my sister. I loved her as well.
Steeling my expression, I gave a smile and sat casually on the edge of her bed by her feet.
Thump.
"No need to apologize, Syrene. I am the oldest boy, after all. It only makes sense for Father to entrust the safety of our family to me." I kept my tone light, though my chest tightened.
That was a lie. There were many women of renown who made their names on the battlefield or in society.
Heck, the most admired person in Paradise's history was none other than the Mage Queen.
However, even with the likes of Mercedes and generations of Albis Vinas, Elleaf Cannans, and Grantina L'Abysess the patriarchy still held strong in the Nobility.
It wasn't uncommon for the eldest daughter to lose her place to a younger brother unless she was exceptional.
With Syrene's condition and the negligible gap in our age, it felt natural for me to take the mantle.
Knowing my father though, I believed that in another world—if Syrene weren't ill—he likely would have left the house to her and named her his heir. I would have accepted it.
But reality was cruel, and Syrene didn't need that truth.
With living a challenge in itself, my parents never troubled her with more than the bare minimum of education and responsibility needed to live in the noble circle.
Ignorance had its own small blessing; it lightened the burden on her mind and soul.
Still, my sister was far more perceptive than I had given her credit for.
"B-but… I thought your dream was to become a Vander?" she asked, frowning.
I blushed and flinched. "H-how… why do you…?!"
My dream wasn't special; it was a common aspiration—one shared by just about anybody in Paradise. Syrene could have been bluffing to feel me out, but she wasn't that sort of person.
She pointed to the right. "When I was by the window the other day, I could hear you talking about it with Lyril, Gordon, and the others…"
I flushed, cursing myself. S-stupid Sion, how could you be so bold and assume she was asleep?!
My heart sank as she fiddled with her fingers, head hung low. "I wish I wasn't so ill so you wouldn't have to give up your dream…"
My jaw clenched, and then I snapped. "Who said anything about giving up?!" I leaned closer. "I'm not giving up on anything! Not my dreams nor my responsibility to our family!"
"You're… not?" She cocked her head, innocent.
"Of course not!" I exclaimed, pounding my chest. "I'm gonna do both! I can become a Magia Vander and keep our house safe! A-and I'll do it all to protect you!"
Syrene blinked, then snickered, cheeks rosy. "Pfft… hahahaha!"
"Wh-what's so funny?!" I demanded, pouting.
Her next words froze me. "I was just laughing because… well, you almost said the same exact thing to your friends."
I blanked. "...Did I?"
She nodded, then puffed her chest, and in what I could only call her best impression of me, declared, "A-ahem. All right, from now on, you two are under my wing! When I become a Magia Vander, I'm gonna do everything in my power to protect you!"
I must have looked as red as a tomato. Before I could sputter, she reached out and placed her palm on the back of my hand.
"If it means protecting others… you'll take on any duty, embrace any dream, and soar on, no matter how much they weigh you down."
She dazzled me with a smile so like Mother's. "Just like a real Great Falcon. I know you can do it, Sion!"
My eyes widened, and I exhaled with a wry smile. Seriously, Syrene… I'm supposed to be consoling you. You're just too good to me.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Fifth Stratum — Fire Faction:
D-damnit, why did I think of that now?!
Sion cursed inwardly as he stood up slowly, bones creaking and muscles protesting.
He ignored the burns scattered across his skin and the tatters in his Gloria as he fixed his Vander with a glare.
Cariott's smile was as unflappable as ever, standing beside his throne while his Blackflame Lion loomed protectively over him.
"Now, what will you do, Sion?"
He spread his arms, voice smooth and rhetorical.
"You've been trained by me personally—a Vander. As well as Leopold and Logwell. A chance others couldn't even dare to dream of…"
He twirled his wand idly between his fingers.
"You have everything you need. Tutelage. Technique. Incantations. The knowledge of Guardian Circles. You've fulfilled every condition required to call forth a lion of your own."
The Wand of Fire traced a burning line down the throne steps toward Sion, forcing him back onto his toes.
Fwiff!
"Though it's unfortunate your magic lacks refinement and class… the magnitude of your mana should suffice to summon at least a cub."
Sion clenched his jaw, panting, while Cariott cocked his head, eyes sharp with challenge.
"All that's left is the will to do it. Do you have what it takes, Sion?"
Swish!
The trail of fire twisted suddenly, shaping into a flaming cobra that lunged for the Ulster heir.
"W-what the?!"
He froze, then jerked his wand upward.
Sweat dripped down his chin as he chanted desperately.
"Burn! Raze! And Fury Consume! From the dreaded domain of the sable fang, I summon thee! Arise, Blackflame Lion, and heed my—"
Fwoom!
Only vapors of fading flame sputtered from his wand, dissolving into nothing.
Sion ground his teeth. "Damn it!"
"Crimuth Selbe." Cariott smirked. The cobra struck.
Bwoom!
A spiraling pyre erupted with Sion at its center, hurling him backwards into a pillar like a broken record.
"Augh!" he groaned, slamming his palm against the floor. This is ridiculous!
Why am I being put through this nonsense?! The Blackflame Lion is a supreme grade spell, passed only to Ascendants! How could he expect me to use it when I haven't so much as set foot in the Domain of Trials—!
"You think it's too soon, don't you?" Cariott's voice cut straight through his thoughts.
Sion gasped, eyes snapping to his chief. Déjà vu coursed through his very being.
"You presume you couldn't possibly know how this spell works? You can't hide your excuses from me, Sion."
Cariott chuckled, tone almost mocking. "I know better than even you how absurd this task is. Perhaps even nonsensical. Yet Leopold, Logwell, and I all grasped it before reaching the tower's top. Though, we were already well on the way."
"You, on the other hand, have yet to even glimpse the seventh stratum."
Sion's eyes widened. "Then—"
"Meaningless." Cariott shook his head. "You've said nothing, but I can hear your complaints. Normally, I'd agree with you. However, these are troubling times. And there is no room for excuses against the truly absurd. Not here, not in the academy, not in The Dungeon, nor on the battlefield."
Fwoosh.
Embers flared in Cariott's palm before he crushed them into ash.
"Real violence. Real evil. The indiscriminate cruelty festering in this world, waiting for the opportunity to strike, will not return you the same courtesy to grow strong enough to face it."
Sion froze as his chief's next words made him want to vomit.
"Understand this—the only reason you stand before me today is because you were lucky. Not everyone has someone that strong on their side. Not everyone gets a Will Serfort."
"Grrrr!" Sion's eyes bulged with fury and self-disgust as bile threatened to rise in his throat.
From the doorway, Leopold's eyes flickered.
Perhaps Sion saw the shadow of Will. Leo had once been entangled in chasing his brother and sister, Asta, Yuno, Noelle, and so many others.
Beside him, Logwell's gaze stayed unreadable behind his blindfold.
Roiling anger. A gnawing sense of inferiority. Humiliation—the greatest motivator. But is he a volcano on the verge of eruption? Or a blazing flower waiting to bloom?
If I were you, Cariott, this is where I'd make my move.
Cariott caught his adjutant and former mentor's glance, nodding.
Yes, I know, Logwell. Perhaps too well. After all, just like Edward-senpai and the others before me, I've experienced your lessons firsthand.
He sighed wistfully. No use remembering days that would never be again.
His eternal smile stayed plastered in place. The man who hated lies most of all wore one endlessly, upholding his purpose.
"Well, since you're struggling, here's a hint."
Sion perked up.
"We Rhizanth are often called the People of Paradise. But what does that mean? By nature, we are flowers. Though not the beautiful kind." Cariott chuckled.
"W-what?"
Fwoosh.
"Call it a gift. A font. A blessing, what have you." A flame gathered in his palm, swirling into a botanic embryo.
"In each and every one of us lies a dormant bud."
Fwoom!
The bud sprouted, unfurling into a dazzling flower of flames.
"This bud thirsts, as any would, and won't bloom until it's given what it seeks."
"What it thirsts for?" Sion repeated.
Cariott nodded. "But unlike others, this bud can take for itself. We can water and provide for ourselves. So the question isn't can or cannot, but when and what. Your when is now, Sion. The only thing left is what your bud desires."
His voice deepened. "What is the impetus behind your aspirations? Why do you live, train, and fight? Why do you continue down this path?!"
Sion froze. My… impetus?
Cariott was finished.
"And now that I've practically given you the answer, let's end this, shall we? Fail again, and my magic will kill you. Simple as that. You have my word as the Wand of Fire."
"Growl!!" The Blackflame Lion opened its maw wide once more.
"If you want the answer to your doubts—and to save this tower—then I suggest you feed the bud within. Quickly."
"Rahhh!"
A searing laser of black flames erupted from the Guardian's jaw.
"Iflamme Burdelyon!" Sion roared back with his signature spell, crimson crashing into black.
He gripped his arm tight, forcing it level, pouring every drop of mana into the blast. But the pressure pushed him back again and again, dragging him across the red carpet.
He was losing ground. Soon, he'd be trapped against the wall. And when that happened—it was over.
The boy bit down on his lip.
What does my bud thirst for? Do I even yearn for anything at all?!
I don't even know where to begin!
Is that why I thought of that? Is that what drives me?
Is it really a desire to protect others from harm? Maybe that's where it began.
Mother. Sister.
Gordon. Lyril.
Colette. My other friends.
Even him… but that desire twisted, rotted. I tormented him for years.
When I was younger, I wanted to be some hero out of legend… but not anymore. I'm not worthy.
I don't want to be protected by anyone. I want to do the protecting.
I want to live and grow so I can fight beside everyone.
I want to be reliable—so if they come to my aid, they can count on me to do the same!
What I desire is to be dependable. Someone people can trust!
But not some single-minded fool who only thinks of saving others while destroying himself!
That's self-destructive. Idiotic.
I've seen it. How many times did that damn Learner nearly kill himself, empty himself, forget himself—all for chasing Albis Vina?!
Never caring about those around him. Not Workner-sensei. Not Colette. Not the Headmistress. Not any of our classmates!
I never want to be that kind of person. The one who makes others constantly worry.
True strength isn't just the heart to shield others. It's shielding yourself as well.
Someone who can't protect themselves has no right to save another!
There is a fine line between defend and sacrifice!
The kind of person I want to be is someone Mother, Father, Syrene, everyone—even Will—don't ever have to worry about. Someone they can trust as an ally.
Never to be the source of someone else' tears or sorrow.
Only a mage who has their own affairs in order, can fully dedicate themselves to their responsibilities and duty as guardians of Paradise!
Crack!
His spell circle shattered, hurling Sion back as the Blackflame Lion charged.
But for once, he didn't fear it.
I don't need claws. I don't need fangs. A lion won't help me soar past him.
Fwoosh.
A burning sphere of flame materialized over his palm, hovering, revolving.
His eyes hardened.
If I want to fly… I need wings!
Fwoom!
He slammed the construct of fire into his chest. The burning sensation seared him, but he felt it—the bud in his soul, not watered but ignited, bursting alive in flame.
Fire whirled around him, taking form—crimson wings unfurling into a radiant bird.
A falcon, feathers flowing like a peacock's, tails blazing like a phoenix, gilded as the sun itself.
Blackness bled into red and gold, betraying the spell's origin.
"Incindia Halcon!" he roared, wand thrust skyward.
Cariott's eyes narrowed.
"Is that a…?!"
Well, clearly that's not a Blackflame Lion. Did he just create a new spell? No… he adapted it and made it his own!
Ah yes, the Ulsters trace their origins back to the Great Falcon. The spell and his lineage merged, birthing this new, extraordinary beast.
Leopold cast a sidelong glance at his superior, searching for any reaction, but as always Logwell remained expressionless and indifferent.
"..."
The Blackflame Lion and Great Falcon charged, claws swiping against talons, jaws snapping against beak.
"Wings of the guardian… shield us from harm. Surge forth, Halcon!" Sion roared.
The Great Falcon angled and slammed down upon the Blackflame Lion. Their guardian cores struck together and shattered like glass, both beasts dissolving into drifting flame.
"Hah." Cariott let out a soft laugh, then covered his eyes with a gloved hand and howled. "Hahahahaha!"
Sion collapsed to his knees, mana completely drained, gasping for air. Cariott's joy didn't fade in the least.
"So the bud thirsts to protect! You remind me so painfully of a certain imbecile by the name of Cariott! The successors of fire never fail to surprise!"
Cariott stepped forward.
Thump.
"I put so little magic into my lion, one would think I was bluffing about killing you. But perhaps that's just my excuse for falling short."
A pause.
"Though I don't recall asking you to, you've bested my lion. And for that…"
Pat.
"I give you kudos. Well done, Sion."
He placed his hand gently on the boy's head.
Sion froze. "...What?"
Then he scrambled back on his butt in disgust. "W-what was that for?!"
Cariott chuckled. "Hehe… apologies. What can I say? Your performance was just that exciting."
Sion cringed. "Eugh…"
Cariott smiled innocently. "Is it so strange to forget yourself when faced with such an unexpected outcome? I believe Sera and the others would call this being a… softie."
Sion blanked, then looked up, bewildered beyond words. "W-wait, so are you my enemy or not?! Enough of this silliness! Just tell me already!"
Cariott sighed dramatically. "After all the time and effort I've invested, molding you into what you are… to still doubt me is greatly upsetting."
"H-how could I not?!" Sion stuttered. "You've done nothing but threaten me and spout vaguely profound statements."
"Merely vexations to stoke your flame, Sion. Try to keep up, will you?" Cariott replied, amused.
V-vexations?!
"If I were your enemy I wouldn't waste time with threats. I'd have long disposed of you and your friends, covering it up with some extended expedition in The Dungeon. People disappear down there all the time. As a noble, you should know that."
Sion flushed in embarrassment as Cariott spun around and walked back to his throne.
"In any case, I promised I would tell you what I know if you passed this trial. So listen well—I'm only going to say it once."
He plopped down in his chair and pointed his wand at Sion.
Bwoof.
A flame burst forth, vaporizing the brooch on Sion's robe in an instant.
"W-whoa?!" Sion fell back onto his butt again.
He just burned our faction emblem. But why?
Cariott spread his arms wide.
"Sion. You and your friends have only just entered the tower, yet already you've been entrusted with something as delicate as espionage. Don't you find that odd?"
Sion blinked, then opened his mouth. "Madame Creirwy said—"
"But logic tells you otherwise, doesn't it?" Cariott cut him off. "Even if the tower wished to investigate itself, it shouldn't have been so desperate as to leave such a grave matter to new recruits. Especially ones whose loyalty should too be in question."
Snap.
"Yet they did," Cariott went on. "And so you've been marked. Your superiors have grown suspicious, causing you to be monitored in turn. One of you lost your life after nearing the truth, sacrificed, while others were specifically targeted—all in the name of accelerating and uncovering the traitors' plot."
His smile turned sly.
"It's almost as if from the very beginning you and your classmates were nothing more than bait. Irresistible and unavoidable bait. A catalyst to force a confrontation before it grew into something even the tower couldn't endure. A confrontation with someone who already knew your purpose and what you were up to."
Sion froze.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His eyes widened. His heart pounded. N-no… it can't be—
"Let me put it this way. Perhaps your conversations haven't been as private as you thought."
The Ulster heir stared down at the burnt remains of his brooch.
Once again, his stomach turned.
He didn't want to believe it.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Clang!
A silver chalice landed in the dark chamber, wine spilling across the cold stone.
"Ughhh, damn it!" Shade slammed the eerie table before her, her pitch-black sclera bulging with fury.
"Those meddling brats… and that deceptive bitch… next time I see them, their heads are mine!" she snarled.
She placed a hand over her chest. Vertically between her breasts, the faintest shadow of a scar still showed, one that burned with humiliation.
One of the six masked figures spoke up, drawing the room's attention to him.
"The so-called sword wielder is almost constantly by Zeo's side, putting him under the protection of the Wand of Thunder."
"Gr…" Shade ground her teeth as he continued.
"The Owenzaus seems to be under Theralde's supervision, while Guilford and the rest of the Thunder Faction have tightened their security, making infiltration essentially impossible. I'm almost certain Creirwy Serah is behind this development."
He sat back in his seat and straightened. "As it stands, we can't even manage to capture the boy as instructed by Headless, let alone kill him—"
"Instructed?!" Shade snapped. "Who does that freak think he is, making demands of us after he and Marze completely botched the Terminalia?!"
"Heh heh heh."
Another masked individual chuckled, and Shade's ghostly skin darkened.
"What's so funny, you bastard?!" she hissed.
The man spread his arms. "I just find it amusing you have the shame to call them out after nearly falling to two children yourself."
"T-they're not ordinary brats!" Shade stammered. "Especially that four-eyes!"
"My point stands." The man grinned. "Headless, Marze, and even you nearly lost everything to that boy—needing Nacht to save you all the same. You're in no position to find fault with them."
"F-fuck you!" Shade spat.
From across the chuckling man, another masked figure smiled. "You never know who's listening; names should be avoided. Walther." He reminded him.
"My apologies, it slipped my mind." Walther snickered. "Regardless, unless they opt to play dumb, the tower should now be well aware of the puppets roaming among them. Before those heretics in the Upper Institute find a method to undo the spell, we must strike."
He snapped his fingers. "And with those barbaric fools of Thorzeus Fasce leaving for The Dungeon in three days' time, the perfect opportunity has presented itself."
He turned to Shade, his grin widening. "You will carry out the plan as soon as they depart. I assume you have no issue with—"
"Ugh, just shut up already, you creep! I know what I need to do!" Shade cut him off, climbing onto the table.
"My puppets will make quick work of that stupid domain of trials!" She clenched her fists and her chains rattled.
"And then I'll hit them right where it hurts… the secrets of the Caulis Panel will be mine!"
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
First Stratum:
"What are you doing here… Tony Harvey?" Kreutz Harlon asked softly in the floating castle, Charles beside him.
A Colorless with red hair turned, surprise flickering in his eyes.
This was one of the three Colorless who had ambushed Julius days ago while he oversaw Will's training.
Once, he had been a one-year senior to both of them during their Academy days.
A trickle of sweat ran down the redhead's cheek as he tried to steel his expression.
"P-Paramount Kreutz? I just, um… I got lost and wandered into this odd place by—" he stammered.
"Enough of your babbling, Puppet." Kreutz cut him off, adjusting his glasses.
Wzzt.
Charles whipped his wand out and fired a blast of dark magic that knocked the Colorless to the ground, unconscious.
"Aagh!"
The redhead cried as he hit the stone.
Kreutz looked at him with indifference and thin disgust. "How little do you scum think of us? Not even bothering to hide the scent of Belledors."
Charles gripped his wand tighter. "I can't believe they managed to infiltrate this far. The tower's control system is only a few meters away."
He bit his lip.
Oh gosh… could they be after the Caulis Control Panel? he thought.
That's the heart of the tower. If they gain access, Mercedes Caulis will be theirs to control.
The factions and Vander could lose authority over everything, the thought continued. The gates. The platforms. The domains of trials — everything.
Kreutz's expression hardened.
I shudder to think what could happen if they, say, managed that and unsealed the guards of each stratum. If all rampaged at once, perhaps even the Vander would be helpless.
Charles turned to his superior. "Paramount Kreutz, what do we do? We have to come up with a plan!" he pleaded, panic in his voice.
"If the traitors in the tower stage another attack, I'm almost certain they'll use the Mage Killers again," Charles blurted.
"W-we need to deploy our Anti–Mage Killer gear quickly! It's finished, right? The factions have been pressing us to get it done!"
Kreutz remained unbothered. "It's still in the testing phase — certainly not something to entrust to those war-crazed, impatient factions."
He looked back at Tony while holding a small spherical device in his hand. I smell no Belledors on Charles, he observed.
And the "Super Advanced Traitor Tracker" I developed is silent. If he meant ill, my tracker would have reacted. Simple as he is, my deputy appears clean.
The Paramount paused and shook his head.
Yet, if Creirwy's intel is to be believed, the only person I can trust is myself. Not to mention that damn elf's warning and what Solphis Neamhain said during the second Bloom… Best to assume all who approach me are wolves in sheep's clothing.
Until the situation changes, I shall trust no one!
From behind Kreutz, Charles fidgeted awkwardly before letting out a teary sigh.
Oh yeah, he definitely suspects me… Looks like the next few days are going to be tough.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Fiftieth Stratum:
"And that concludes my report." Finn chuckled. "Based on everything, I'd say this conflict will settle as soon as Zeo's group heads for The Dungeon."
"..." Aaron sat silent for a moment on his throne before parting his lips. "And what of outside The Tower? Anything to report?" he asked, gazing through the narrow window.
Finn paused, then shrugged. "Well… something might be brewing in Garzaronso."
Aaron raised a brow. "Might?"
Finn nodded. "Yeah. Can't be certain."
The Finns had always been a unique case among dwarves.
People of light — a small, reclusive bunch with strange powers among a race meant for raw strength.
It was largely thanks to those gifts that the Finns escaped their old world and the Heavenly Invaders, taking refuge in Paradise.
It was also for the Finns' sake, and their face, that the elves and Rhizanth granted the dwarves a kingdom of their own.
So, the dwarves once held gratitude toward the Finns.
But after four centuries of ridicule and slavery, while the Finns earned respect from elves and Rhizanth, that gratitude soured and vanished.
Many dwarves no longer even considered the Finns their kin. The way they lived was simply too different.
Because of that, the Finns had little presence or network in Garzaronso. It was technically their kingdom too, but not one where they were welcomed.
And a little over five years ago, what few ties remained were cut off, as the kingdom grew more reclusive for reasons none could grasp.
Finn spread his arms helplessly. "An old friend of mine sent word about two months ago… then again three weeks ago. Said something was up."
"The Food Goddess?" Aaron asked flatly.
Finn nodded. "That name pops up now and then. But you've been running me ragged these past few years — these past months especially. I've never had the chance to pop over and get to the bottom of it."
Aaron shook his head. "You'll have to stay here a while longer. At least until the traitors are dealt with."
Finn chuckled. "I know. If these Gohtia wannabes use the Mage Killers again, I might have to lend a hand."
The Wand of Light's eyes narrowed. "You think Will could handle it without you?"
Finn shrugged again. "Maybe. But even if he couldn't, I doubt his master would sit back and watch."
"What do you think of that man?"
The dwarf went still for a moment, then sighed, leaning over the edge. "No clue. He refuses to show his hand to me. Unless something forces him to use that strange power of his, I can't make a reliable assessment."
"..." Aaron studied the dwarven guide, then shifted his gaze past him to the elf who had stood silent all this time.
"What of you, Patri? Do you have anything to tell us?"
Finn turned his attention to the elf as well.
Patri cocked his head innocently. "Tell you? What for? I don't know anything about this… Asta fellow."
Aaron rolled his eyes. Finn's smile twitched wryly. At least put some effort into your lies.
Finn sighed and looked up toward the Great Barrier, a faint emotion flickering in his gaze.
"A tower mired in speculation. Suspects left and right, but no one to really point a finger at. Makes you wonder… who's really pulling the strings here."
Patri beamed. "As they say, only time will tell."
"..."