The man was kneeling on the ground in a dark room, surrounded by stone walls. The flickering light of a fire cast shadows around the terrified man, his forehead pressed against the cold stone floor, sweat dripping down his pale face.
"Please… give me a second chance. This time, I won't fail."
Suddenly, golden light flickered in the man's remaining hand, slowly crawling up the rest of his body like a burning oath.
Meanwhile, the shadow of a cloaked figure loomed on the wall—unyielding and merciless.
Yet his kneeling body remained motionless,
as if his loyalty had become something far darker than death.
An old woman stood in the darkness, her face ugly and partially hidden beneath a dark cloak that covered her head. It seemed she was blind, her eyes barely visible under half-closed lids, yet she looked deeply into the soul before her. With a hoarse, broken voice mixed with tones of grim certainty, she said:
"I told you... this would come to pass. Fate cannot be changed, no one can break or alter it."
Her words echoed in the air like a curse running through the veins, enveloping the place in hellish darkness.
The last thing seen was the reflected light of a fire bouncing off the face of a sacred statue inside the chamber.
She opened her eyes in the darkness, her head resting on a pillow.
Beside her, a woman sat on a nearby chair, gently placing her hands over the girl's chest to ease her wound.
The woman's features were unclear, but her long hair and puffed black dress stood out in the gloom.
A soft smile rested on her face.
Sikakama gazed at her, eyes welling with tears, then slowly closed them again and drifted into a deep sleep.
Perhaps... she remembered someone.
Sikakama opened her eyes to a decorated ceiling, where a crystal chandelier hung like falling droplets of light. She slowly sat up in bed, blinking as she took in the room around her.
It was warm and charming—furnished with cozy decor and wallpaper patterned with delicate flowers. The bed was large and soft, a thick carpet lay in the center of the floor, and a tall window to the left overlooked a massive tree whose leaves nearly touched the glass. A vase of fresh flowers completed the peaceful beauty of the room.
She rose from the bed, her feet meeting the floor as she walked toward the door.
"Hello."
She spun around instantly, startled, and took a few steps back, raising one arm to shield herself.
"Who are you?"
Standing behind her was a girl with a mischievous grin—like a cat that had just pulled a clever trick.
Her hair was a deep, dark red—loose and slightly tousled, cascading past her shoulders in soft waves. Strands shimmered subtly under the light, giving it the rich hue of blood-red velvet. She wore a dark skirt that fell just below her knees, revealing her tall, lace-up leather boots. A short crimson scarf wrapped around her neck.
"You must be hungry. Come, follow me." She clasped her hands behind her back and started walking down the hallway.
A low growl rumbled from Sikakama's stomach, and a smile spread across her face as she placed a hand behind her head.
Sikakama hesitated, then followed.
"Is your wound alright?" she asked calmly.
She glanced inside her shirt. Her chest was wrapped in a white bandage.
"Ah... it doesn't hurt anymore," she replied with a faint smile.
A sharp pain struck her head as she tried to remember what had happened last night.
"Relax. You're in the Raven's Territory now. They can't enter this place. It's under Master Lucian's protection."
"Master... Lucian?"
" Luckily, you collapsed right on the edge of his territory."
"His territory?"
"Exactly. This tower belongs to him."
She thought to herself, He must be incredibly wealthy to own all this.
The place was vast, filled with many rooms—like an ancient place that had been revived through magic.
"Then it was you who drew the sacred sword."
"The sacred sword?" She recalled gripping the hilt and pulling it that night.
"Yes," she said. "It is a legendary blade. No one—no matter how strong, not even the greatest knights from across the lands—has ever succeeded in moving it."
Then they reached a great hall, its entrance sealed by a heavy wooden door.
When it opened, it revealed a long table stretching through the center, lit by hanging candles, a red carpet running beneath it. Large windows and a balcony completed the majestic room.
She stopped with a smile and said,
"By the way, my name is Mirelle."
"I'm Sikakama, pleased to meet you."
She laughed happily and said,
"I know, the Silver Wolf told us about it."
She whispered softly,
"What?"
Then, the sound of a plate being set down was clearly audible in the room.
A maid had just placed a delicious meal on the table. Warm aromas filled the air.
Suddenly… the sharp sound of fast footsteps echoed through the corridor.
The sound of tall boots striking the floor, each step ringing with a metallic rhythm. A black cloak fluttered behind, and rapid murmurs—some unintelligible—bounced between the walls.
"How can you say the knight has arrived?!" came a voice, sharp and urgent.
The hall doors burst open violently, making the candles flicker.
A tall man stormed in, wearing a dark grey shirt with puffed sleeves, a dark belt wrapped around his waist, and tight black trousers. His high-collared cloak flared open slightly, revealing a deep crimson lining. He had sharp features and wore a small round monocle over one eye. His long black hair was tied neatly at the back with a ribbon.
The first thing his eyes landed on—was Sikakama.
She was devouring the food like a stray dog who'd stumbled upon a feast after days of wandering. She stared at him, mouth still smeared with traces of food, her eyes wide with surprise—caught completely off guard.
Mirelle stepped back with a calm smile on her face.
At that moment, the door shut behind the tall man, who walked in with a confident stride, scanning her with a condescending gaze from head to toe.
Sikakama, trying to break the tension with a hesitant smile, said,
"Hello… My name is Sikakama."
She reached out her hand to greet him, but it hung in the air—he didn't take it.
Instead, he looked her up and down, then slowly began to circle around her, as if weighing her presence with his eyes.
"A woman…" he finally muttered after his silent inspection.
"Excuse me?" Sikakama blinked, surprise flashing across her face. But she quickly regained her composure and added with a dramatic flourish:
"I am the one who pulled the sacred sword." She lifted her finger and pointed at him confidently.
He stared at her for a moment, his gaze cold and unreadable, before stepping past her, hands clasped neatly behind his back.
"So… you think this is just a game."
"What?" she whispered.
He turned his back to her, his voice low and cutting.
"It was merely a coincidence."
Sikakama's eyes flashed, her voice firm.
"It is not!"
"And how can we trust you?" he asked.
"Give me a test," she said.
A sly, wicked smile spread across his face before he spun around.
"The legendary creature…"
Mirelle shifted slightly forward, speaking in a worried tone, "But—"
Alister raised his hand straight up, silencing her.
"It is said that a mythical creature awakens only when it finds the chosen knight," he explained.
Sikakama's expression faltered slightly, concern creeping in.
"If you do not wish to accept the challenge, you may leave by tomorrow."
Their conversation was shattered by the sudden slam of the doors. A servant hurried inside, his hair dark with streaks of silver running through it, slicked back neatly, face lined with the marks of late fifties. He wore a sharply tailored suit, every detail immaculate despite the urgency in his steps. Clutching a folded newspaper, he bowed quickly, voice tight with tension.
"Sir," he said, presenting it to Alister.
The headline screamed in bold letters:
"Massacre of a Secret Cult During Attempt to Summon an Unknown Entity."
Beneath the headline, a blurred-edged photograph filled the page—captured in dim light yet steeped in cold brutality: a stone hall, at its center a ritual circle marked across the floor, surrounded by melted candles pooled into hardened wax. Across the shadowed ground lay the lifeless bodies of figures clad in black robes, sprawled in eerie stillness.
"The man…," the servant said, his tone carrying the weight of a shocking revelation.
Alister's expression hardened, crumpling the newspaper in his hand before striding swiftly out of the hall.
He froze, his eyes locking onto a man bound to a chair—his body trembling with the last traces of life, pale lines creeping from his neck to his eyes as if draining the very soul from within.
"What happened?" he muttered in disbelief.
But the scene left no time for questions—memories of the previous night surged back…
Deep underground, in a shadowed stone chamber, the same man had been tied to a chair, blindfolded, a precise, narrow wound piercing his shoulder, staining his clothes with blood—a calculated injury meant to keep him alive.
Strange, unintelligible murmurs spilled from his lips, like chants laced with dark sorcery.
As the spellcaster wove his magic, shadows devoured the walls and the floor stretched into infinite darkness. A chilling aura bent reality itself, turning the very air into a conduit for extracting secrets. The light vanished, leaving him isolated in a realm forged to reveal what lay hidden within the mind—Alister's formidable magic at work: the Mindsear.
The man screamed—a raw, guttural cry—followed by broken laughter.
"Who sent you?" The voice was cold, the question sharp.
The reply came between fractured chuckles and ragged breaths:
"It is… the Light."
"And what do you seek?" the voice asked again.
"Salvation…"
"Why did you try to kill her?"
His voice trembling, almost breaking into madness,
"Her ticking reverberated in my head—same time every day, same routine—tick, tick—"until he shouted, trembling: "Stop it! Let someone stop it!"
The echo of the relentless ticking seemed to chase him, wrapping around his mind like a tightening coil. Sweat poured down his face, and his hands clenched tightly—bound to the chair.
Then—without warning—a sharp golden radiance burst into existence.
The bound man's head drooped, half-conscious, as if the magical struggle had drained the last of his strength.
Alister snapped his fingers, and the spell dissolved.
"Push any further, and his mind will be destroyed. What kind of power is this?" Alister whispered, placing his hand under his chin, lost in thought.
Then a faint sound escaped the captive's lips. Alister leaned in, lowering his ear to the man's mouth to catch the last words:
"kill… him."
The lone candle's flame guttered out, leaving only a thin wisp of smoke curling into the cold darkness—over the lifeless body in the chair.
The darkness had settled, and the soft candlelight flickered inside a golden round holder. The vast library was silent, its tall wooden shelves lined with countless old books and scrolls, their spines worn by time. Dust motes floated gently in the dim light, and the faint scent of aged paper filled the air.
Sikakama stood on her tiptoes, wobbling slightly atop the old round chair, and pulled a dusty book from the highest shelf. She sat down and flipped through its tattered pages, eyebrows knitting.
The candlelight flickered softly as Sikakama turned another page. Dust rose from the ancient book, its pages yellowed and cracked with age.
Her eyes scanned the faded ink, absorbing every word:
"The legendary creature aided the knight in battle; it was said that it allowed the knight to see events from above."
In the book, there was a picture of a mythical creature—its beak sharp, wings massive—standing before a knight.
Sikakama was gazing at the picture in the book when she heard a calm, friendly voice say, "Reading at this late hour?"
She turned her head. Mirelle was standing there, her presence quiet yet steady, as though she had always been part of the library's shadows.
"I didn't feel like sleeping," Sikakama replied, closing the book slightly as her hands rested on its cover.
Mirelle tilted her head slightly, her playful eyes soft with concern.
"Is something troubling your mind?" she asked gently.
Sikakama let out a weary sigh, her shoulders sinking as though the weight of the words she carried pressed down on her.
"He said I'm just a woman," she confessed in a low voice, her gaze dropping to the book in her lap. "I believe I only managed to draw the sword by chance… nothing more."
There was a faint sadness in her eyes.
Mirelle's voice grew firmer, carrying the weight of distant battlefields.
"Boudica was a woman—the queen of the Celts—who burned Roman cities and made their armies tremble under the sound of her spears."
Before Sikakama's eyes, the queen seemed to rise from the shadows of the library—fiery and unyielding—at the head of her warband. Her long red hair streamed behind her like a banner of flame, catching the light as smoke curled from burning Roman camps in the distance.
"Tomyris, the queen of the Scythians, was not stopped by the pride of Cyrus the Great; she cut off his head and raised her cup of victory high—she was a woman too."
The image shifted—windswept steppes stretching to the horizon, Tomyris standing proud over her fallen foe, the golden cup glinting in her hand.
"And Joan of Arc, the French knight, who carried her armor through dark times, led a holy army with the fire of faith and unshakable courage."
Joan stood within the gates of a liberated city, sword in both hands, her gaze alight with purpose as soldiers rallied behind her.
Mirelle's voice softened, drawing Sikakama back into the candlelit library.
"No matter if the person is a she or a he, the one who will stand till the end is the one who will be the winner. Of all the voices a person hears, one must listen to their own inner voice—there lies the truth."
The visions faded, and Sikakama found herself once more surrounded by books and silence. She glanced back at the open pages, her heart still echoing with Mirelle's words.
The quill danced lightly in Alister's hand, tracing black ink across the parchment as the warm orange glow of candlelight spilled over the ornate wooden desk.
He made it appear as an accident.They all fell, as if life itself had been ripped out of them, without a single drop of blood spilled.
At last, the one destined to draw the sacred sword appeared—but it was none other than a girl. Now, we must find the book—the one written by a man without a name.
I don't know if these letters will ever reach you, butwe need you.
—Your faithful student, Alister
He folded the letter and walked toward the tall window. A raven fluttered in, perching by his arm. With careful hands, he tied the letter to its leg and released it once more into the night sky, its wings beating against the silence.
He was staring in that direction—the clock tower—its hands pulsing, the sound reverberating in his ears.