Celestia offered a delicate bow, her curious gaze lingering first on Emanuelle—as if seeing herself reflected in a younger mirror—and then shifting to Elian, with a quiet intensity that was difficult to decipher.
"My name is Celestia Lysander, daughter of Mage Eduard Lysander," she said, her voice soft yet deliberate, the bow precise with the calculated grace of one trained since childhood to move in the presence of superiors.
Elian regarded her in silence. His golden eyes lingered on hers, but no words came. Celestia, too, said nothing more. Between them formed a moment of charged stillness, a mutual curiosity unspoken, a recognition without shape.
Before the silence could take root, Marduk's voice thundered across the hall once more, cutting through the murmur of conversations. He had returned to the mezzanine, the imposing figure of Count Albert Avenue at his side. Hoffmann, however, was absent—an absence that stirred unease in Elian's chest.
The boy's eyes darted across the crowd, restless, searching for the face he most longed—and dreaded—to see. But before he could find him, Marduk's words rang out:
"Once again, I thank you all for your presence," the Elder declared, his voice vast and commanding, filling every corner of the hall. "I hope you have enjoyed this brief ceremony. But, as with all things that begin, so too must they end. For the safety of your return journeys, I now bring this event to a close."
A solemn hush fell. Only the scrape of boots and chairs shifting broke the silence.
"I must extend special thanks to Count Albert for granting the land on which this chapter now stands," Marduk continued, his tone cold but sincere. "May each of you return to your homes in peace."
The gathering began to dissolve into hushed chatter and soft movement, yet the weight of the Elder's voice lingered in the air like smoke.
From within the dispersing crowd, Iolanda approached the family quietly, her words low and urgent.
"Come with me," she said, guiding them toward a side door on the right.
They passed through a narrow corridor that still trembled with the echoes of the ceremony and entered a smaller chamber.
This room was modest, stripped of grandeur: two worn leather sofas, a scratched wooden table in the center, and a few shelves lined only with common books, their spines dull with age. Dust drifted lazily in shafts of filtered light, the air tinged with the smell of parchment and neglect.
But Elian's eyes were not drawn to the furniture.
There were already three figures inside: a man in his forties with a hardened expression, a woman near thirty-seven whose tired face still carried an austere beauty, and a boy of about fifteen—who rose to his feet the instant they entered.
Elian's golden gaze fixed on the youth, recognition striking him like a blade. It was the same boy who, hours earlier, had spoken of Emanuelle with a vile, lustful contempt. A fire of rage roared awake inside Elian, burning cold and precise. His breathing grew heavier, his jaw clenched tight. The memory of the boy's voice echoed in his skull, an insult branded into him.
Sensing the tension sharpening like steel, Iolanda stepped forward, her voice steady with authority.
"Please, sit, Lady Maria," she said, motioning to the sofa.
Then, turning back to the others, her tone carried the weight of formality but none of warmth.
"Before you stands Baronette Leonardo Javier, his wife, Luna Javier…" her words hung, deliberate, before she finished, "…and their son."
The introductions dropped into the air like a gavel. The baronette and his wife inclined their heads faintly, their rigid posture betraying fear more than respect. They knew precisely why they had been summoned, and there was no honor in it.
Behind them, like an executioner awaiting command, stood Anna—the blue-haired mage. She loomed two paces behind the Javier family, her expression as cold as tempered steel, her gaze locked on the boy. She did not need to speak; her silence alone was an accusation, and the pressure of it filled the room like a storm about to break.
Along the walls, the six Dark Throne mages who had escorted Maria's family earlier now stood in formation, an unyielding barricade of flesh and mana. Their presence was no ornament; it was a reminder of consequence, the inescapable weight of the Order's authority.
The Javier couple wore the look of the hunted—eyes wide, shoulders heavy, skin pale with dread. They knew the balance of nobility and magic in Elveron was fragile, but unshakable in its truth: the mages held the true power. Nobles might govern, might command armies, but it was the Dark Throne that bore the weight of the kingdom's blade.
And there were rules binding that fragile balance. Just as mages were forbidden to abuse their power against nobles without just cause, so too were nobles forbidden from assaulting magi or their kin—with sword, with hand, or with tongue. For many noble houses had no magic in their blood, and to prey upon those who did was to risk annihilation at the hands of the Orders.
The boy Javier had broken that law—not with blade or spell, but with his mouth. To insult Emanuelle, believing her nothing more than a defenseless peasant, was a crime sealed by his ignorance. But ignorance, in Elveron, was never an excuse.
Maria stood silent, her gaze cutting down upon the three as if she were already passing judgment. The boy's words still echoed in her skull, foul and poisonous, crawling like rot beneath her skin. Revulsion surged in her throat like bile. She pulled Emanuelle close, wrapping her arms around her daughter as though to shield her not only from insult, but from the memory itself.
Iolanda's voice broke the silence, steady and deliberate.
"As you must already know," she said, her amber eyes glinting, "you understand why you are here."
Baronette Javier raised his head briefly, only to bow it again, his voice trembling as it scraped from his throat.
"Yes… Maga Iolanda. We know."
"Good," she answered curtly. "Then there is no need to waste words."
In the next instant, the three Javiers dropped to their knees before Maria and Emanuelle, their foreheads pressed to the cold stone floor. The sound echoed in the small chamber—like chains falling, like submission made flesh.
"Lady Maria… Lady Emanuelle…" Leonardo's voice broke as he spoke, muffled against the ground. "I, Leonardo Javier, humbly beg forgiveness for the words of my son."
Elian stood stiff beside them, watching. The sight triggered a memory—of himself once kneeling, not in disgrace, but before Elder Marduk, begging not for pardon but for acceptance. How different, how vast the gulf between the two gestures. One had been supplication for worth, the other—groveling for absolution.
"No apology can erase what was said," Leonardo continued, forehead still pressed to stone. "And yet… we beg you, grant us mercy."
Maria's chest heaved. Her pulse thundered—not with nerves, but with fury. A raw, primal fury that she scarcely recognized in herself, hot and alien. And with it came a hunger for vengeance—sharp, venomous, almost intoxicating. Elian's golden eyes slid sideways to her, startled. He had never seen such darkness in her gaze. His mother, always serene even in grief, now radiated something he could not name.
He could not know what those words had awoken in her—the scars carved by the massacre thirteen years past. He could not know the abyss they pulled her toward. But he could feel it.
The silence thickened, pressing down upon all. Then, at last, Maria's voice broke it—low, grave, steady as a blade drawn from its sheath.
"Iolanda… could you ask someone to take my children outside?"
Iolanda turned her head, surprised. She, too, could feel the blaze emanating from Maria—a fury wholly unlike the woman she thought she knew.
"Of course," she replied evenly, without hesitation. She faced the mages along the wall.
"Take the three of them outside. Let them walk. What follows is for adults alone."