THE LOCKET:-
When the sun tilted past its highest point, Elarion finally said:
> "Let me see the locket."
Leoriness handed it to him with no delay.The rusted silver had long since lost its luster, and the seams were sealed tight with age.
> "I never knew how to use it," she murmured. "I thought it was broken."
Elarion turned it over slowly, his gloved thumb brushing over the surface. His eyes scanning every part of the locket.
He then put his finger on top of a screw and closed his eyes.
His aura pulsed—sharp and exact.
Tiny mechanisms inside the locket shifted. Some failed to respond. Others groaned under years of decay.
> "Thirty components," he muttered. "Too many to be decorative. This was made to carry sound."
A faint click.
Then another.
He slipped off one glove, exposing his bare hand. Long fingers, pale and unmarred—flesh that looked untouched, like pain had never lived there.
But it had.Just forgotten and dull now.
He placed two fingers against the locket's center. A thin glow spread. The rust evaporated in tendrils of dust.
A second layer beneath the metal clicked open.
A faint hum.
> "Speak now," he said.
Leoriness looked startled. "To who?"
> "The castle. Your voice will reach your mother and father. This is a signal device. Old court tech."
She froze.
He waited.
But when she said nothing for a long time, he turned the locket slightly, raised it to his mouth, and simply spoke:
> "The princess is alive. We will arrive within three days."
He clicked it shut.
> "That's enough."
---
FINAL MOMENTS ON THE STREET
They walked again through the winding street—this time slower.
Children peeked at them. One boy ran up with a small sugar cube and shyly held it out to Elarion.
Elarion looked down at the cube. Then the boy. Then gently took it.
> "Thank you," he said, calm and low.
The boy beamed—and ran off.
Leoriness watched from the side. Her lips parted.
He hadn't smiled. He hadn't changed tone.
But there was something in the quiet way he accepted the gift.
Not warmth.
Just… something almost forgotten.
Almost human.
> "You're full of sweet things too," she said suddenly.
Elarion turned his head slightly. "Excuse me?"
> "You hide it," she smiled. "But you have a sweet tooth. And... a sweet nature. Just numb."
> "That's not sweetness," he replied. "That's restraint. Civility."
> "Same thing, sometimes."
He said nothing.
But he didn't deny it.
---
Even as numb as he was, something passed between them—quiet, wordless.
Why should he turn cold to the whole world??....He has already seen enough.
He is numb, but not blind to not see people who cares for him.
"Strange, isn't it? How a soul scraped hollow by pain still finds silence beautiful, and bitter sweets worth tasting."
And when they walked past a mirror shop window, Leoriness caught their reflection:
A masked boy with black night like hair and eyes of ghosted light.
And a girl beside him, head held high like royalty never left her bones.
The people stared.
Not because of crowns.
But because beauty—real, strange beauty—moves people more than power ever could.
That wall that gaze of the man beside her, she will mke sure to be a women worthy walking bedmside him.
Her eyes burned with passion.
Elarion noticed but ignored the silly act she do at the most strange times.
---
On the other hand— In Caste:-
The ticking of the clock was the loudest sound in the room.
The king sat at his desk, the scratching of his quill filling the silence, but she barely noticed. Her gaze had long since drifted to the window, though she saw nothing of the view.
Seven years. Seven winters without the sound of her little girl's laughter echoing through the halls. Seven springs without the weight of her warm, small body curling into her lap.
She had been five when she was taken.
Not killed—no. Fate had been crueler than that. Her daughter was alive somewhere, perhaps hungry, perhaps hurt, perhaps calling for a mother who could never answer.
It was a wound that refused to close. And in tending to her grief, she and her husband had neglected their other child. A boy who had grown beneath their roof but far from their arms.
The softest knock brushed against the door.
She rose automatically, her skirts whispering against the floor. Opening the door revealed a small boy standing in the hall, his hands twisting together, eyes uncertain.
"My little one," she murmured, kneeling. "Why are you standing here like a guest? Come in."
He hesitated, then stepped forward, clutching her gown.
"Oh, my… what happened to you?" she asked, brushing his hair from his forehead.
"It's nothing, Mom," he whispered. "I just… missed you."
Her throat closed. "Oh, dear… me too." She gathered him into her arms, holding him as though she could press every unspoken apology into his small frame.
The king looked up from his desk, expression unreadable. But she knew him well enough to catch the flicker of warmth in his eyes. Setting down his quill, he came to them, his tall shadow stretching across the floor. Without a word, he took their son from her arms.
The boy stiffened for a heartbeat—then relaxed as his father's large hand patted his back, slow and steady. A smile, rare and precious, curved the boy's lips.
Her gaze drifted to the desk.
There, as always, lay the crystal locket. Her daughter's locket. Given to her on her fifth birthday, meant to be used when she grew older and learned to wield mana. They had never imagined she wouldn't have the chance.
If she had had something simpler, something she could have used even as a child… maybe…
Her thoughts fractured as light bloomed from the locket.
It started as a faint pulse—like a heartbeat—then grew brighter, flooding the room with soft, shimmering radiance. The king froze. She pressed a hand to her mouth, afraid to breathe.
The air changed—thicker, heavier, charged with mana.
Then, it spoke.
"She is alive. She will be there in three days."
The voice was clear, sweet, but unyielding—like a blade wrapped in silk.
Her knees weakened. Alive. The word ripped through her like lightning, shattering seven years of silence. Tears blurred her vision as she turned to her husband. He was staring at the locket, his jaw tight, eyes glistening.
The boy on his lap looked between them, confused. "What's happening?"
"It's your sister," the king said, his voice low and rough. "She's coming home."
For the first time in seven years, the king's composure cracked. He drew their son close, holding him tightly before reaching for her. She stepped into his arms, and the three of them clung to one another—trembling, laughing, crying all at once.
The halls had been cold for so long. Now, life was pouring back into them.
When they finally parted, the king's voice was steadier. "Prepare everything. She will not return to an empty welcome. And whoever has brought her back to us… will be honored as our savior."
It didn't matter who the stranger was. The only truth that mattered was this—
They were giving them their daughter back.