The prince's office chamber looked more like a museum exhibit than a place where decisions were made. Red had expected something grim. Something tactical or maybe a bit spartan—but what he found was gilded excess.
The walls were paneled in some deep, reddish wood—rich and polished to a mirror sheen. He didn't know what tree it came from. Probably something magical. Or extinct. Or both. Carvings curled through the corners in elaborate patterns that might've meant something to the locals but looked vaguely like fantasy cathedral knockoffs to him.
Crystal-lit sconces glowed with a perfect, unnatural warmth—not electric, not fire.
A velvet lounge sat untouched near the window.
The desk was massive, too ornate to be practical, trimmed in something that gleamed like gold but felt wrong to his Earth-trained eye. Its surface was spotless—untouched save for a feather quill and a dry inkpot, like someone set the stage but forgot the script.
Bookshelves lined one wall, but the books were arranged more like display pieces than anything meant to be read. Leather-bound tomes sorted by color—not subject—mostly poetry, royal declarations, or puffed-up histories.
A full-length mirror towered in the corner, framed with curling metalwork and etched symbols he couldn't place.
The rug beneath him was absurdly soft—embroidered with the royal crest and so clean it looked like no one had dared step on it.
It was a prince's chamber, alright.
Just not a working one.
Red stood near the desk, one hand resting on its edge. Glade was pacing beside him, arms crossed, eyes burning.
"Is it true?" Glade asked. "What you said in the council... about Her Light?"
Red met his eyes. "It wasn't a bluff."
And it wasn't. Not really. He had no proof. Just a voice in his head and a fragment of instinct that told him the statue it mentioned—whatever it was—mattered.
And that the astral witch, Lumiaris, was the key.
He could still feel the heat of the council chamber in his bones.
They had scoffed. Called him a blasphemer. A prince with no memory daring to speak on behalf of a Goddess.
But when Ardent stood and announced her execution at dawn, something inside him snapped. He couldn't let her die.
If anyone could explain what had happened to him, why he woke up in Alzein's body, why the voice still lingered—it would be her.
So he gambled. Like he always did before.
"The Light Goddess spoke to me," Red had said, voice calm, eyes fixed on the nobles. "During the battle at Sylph's Valley."
The murmurs began instantly. Ardent stilled. Glade stiffened beside him.
Red continued, trying his best to be steady despite his own doubts. "She told me I would die alongside my father. That a starcaller would bring me back. That I must protect her."
"Blasphemy!" someone shouted.
Red didn't blink. "She is part of a greater design. One meant to safeguard this world against what comes."
"You expect us to believe Her Light would speak to you?" Lord Kleitz sneered. "A prince who disobeyed his king and is reanimated by a star-worshipping witch?"
Red took a breath. It was now or never.
If she died, so did his best shot at answers—and maybe at staying alive himself.
"She gave me a vision," he said. "A statue. Hidden. Sacred. If the Maou King finds it first, this kingdom falls."
Silence. Sharp. Uneasy.
Ardent's face had gone pale.
From the far end of the table, an old voice cut through the quiet.
"That statue," said Lord Baram, rising for the first time all session.
He looked like a sage carved from oak—long white beard tucked into layers of dark green robes, deep-set eyes clouded with age but burning with clarity. His fingers were adorned not with jewels but with silver rings etched in forgotten runes.
"Is a legend. A secret passed down to protect Her Light's final gift to mankind. I'm certain we can all agree that the prince has never studied lore. It is said to be Her last anchor in this world. If the Maou King corrupts it…"
Murmurs spread like wildfire.
Ardent recovered, but the blow landed. "He is a resurrected. A soulless shade. We cannot trust him."
"You've been at his awakening," Glade snapped. "Placed the detection shard. He bears no mark of the Maou. I swear it upon my name."
Ardent bit his lip in frustration.
Red had leaned forward, letting their doubts ferment. Then he offered the trap.
"Let her live," he said, gesturing toward the topic they'd been so quick to bury. "Let the starcaller live, and I will not invoke my royal name to argue with the decision earlier. Let Ardent lead as steward. I will begin my quest for the statue and bring word only when I succeed."
The room went still.
Ardent's fury faded into consideration. "A quest… to find the Statue of Light?"
"Yes," Red said. "It is the least I can do for this… kingdom."
The steward-to-be smiled, falsely humble. "Then let it be so. We both fulfill the path Her Light has woven for us to tread."
Still, the other lords insisted Red remain within the castle for now—not to upset allies by suggesting a sudden regime shift. Not while tensions still festered beyond the walls. Not while Ardent's grip on the council ran hot with sanctimony and suspicion.
"Fine," he said, silencing the murmuring crowd. "I will remain in the castle. Study. Prepare."
That made the room pause.
It was Lord Kleitz who recovered first. "You speak of research and preparation," he said, voice laced with skepticism and sarcasm both. "Are we sure you are still the same prince, the Prince Alzein we know?"
"Of course I am," Red replied, folding his hands behind his back. "Just thinking of how I can use my second chance in life to protect Schlager."
He let that hang in the air, daring any of them to challenge it.
Lord Aurum's lip curled—either in contempt or amusement—but he said nothing. The old Lord Baram chuckled dryly into his beard, muttering something about miracles. Only Ardent remained impassive, fingers steepled, eyes narrowed in silent calculation.
Red looked at each of them in turn.
"I'll play your game," he said, tone low. "For now. But make no mistake. I may be confined—but I'm not idle."
That earned a few tight looks. Maybe even a flicker of unease.
Good. Let them guess what came next.
When the council session dissolved, the doors opened with slow finality, spilling the lords out like vultures after a feast.
Most walked without looking back.
A few glanced at him, measured and guarded.
Ardent swept out last, silent and fuming.
Only one stayed behind.
Baram.
Red remained where he was, back straight, hands clasped behind him. He didn't move as the old man approached. The sound of the cane was steady—three steps, then the tap. The rhythm of someone who had spent decades calculating every move before it left the ground.
"She saved you," Baram said at last.
Red turned his head, just enough to meet the man's eyes. Waiting.
"Her name is Lumiaris," the lord continued. "She came to my estate two winters ago. A slave. Barely speaking. Covered in bruises, scars, magic residue so thick it bled through her skin. I took her in. Gave her a place. Not because I trusted her. Not because I believed she was harmless. But because I was tired of watching good minds burn just because the wrong kind of power lives in them."
Red watched him carefully. The confession wasn't a tactic—it was memory. Heavy, unfinished.
"I never claimed to love astral witches," Baram said. "But I didn't want her burned."
He looked up toward the stained-glass light seeping through the window. Gold and violet streaks cut across the marble floor, catching on the edge of his cane.
"I don't know if what you said is true," he said after a moment. "Maybe the Goddess did speak. Maybe she didn't. But I saw her face, and I saw yours. And I've learned to recognize when someone is trying to protect something—even if they won't say why."
He turned back to Red.
"I've followed Her Light all my life. Watched regimes rise and fall under its banner. Watched blood stain the altar more than once. And still I pray. Still I hope the world might heal in my lifetime."
Red studied him in silence.
Baram wanted to believe in something.
That made him useful.
The girl—Lumiaris—was a variable Red didn't understand yet. But she had power, and she had saved him.
That alone made her more valuable than half the council.
"I'll believe you," Baram said. "Because I want to see the world restored before I leave it."
Then he bowed. Not deeply. But sincerely.
"I grieve for your father," he added. "I'm sure the kingdom feels the same."
And with that, he turned and walked away.
Now, in the quiet of the chamber, the memory of the council dissolved.
Red leaned on the study table.
"I… need my memories back," he said.
Glade looked up. "Any ideas how we can do that, your Highness?"
"I'm not sure," Red replied. "But I want to try something. Bring me books. Maps. Anything that might help jog my mind."
Glade gave a short nod, already moving.
Red watched him go, then turned back to the map on the desk—and the knife still embedded in it.
A figure stepped into the chamber.
She was young, with cropped blue hair that shimmered like sea-glass under the sunlight, and eyes the color of tropical waters—bright and cool.
Her robe, which resembled Glade's confidant uniform, was patterned in rippling shades of blue and silver, flowing like moving water.
She smiled brightly.
"Prince Al! I'm so happy to see you!"
Red blinked. Relief, wariness, and confusion tangled at once.
He didn't know her—but she clearly knew him.
Another piece, he thought.
Another piece on the board.