❖─━[ Chapter One ]━─❖
On the seventh day of Shartan, when the sun's golden light kissed the horizon, a lone rider burst forth from the grand gates of the Kingdom of Wysteria. He was no mere wandering knight—he was Martin the Wise, lord of the Rogue Army and sovereign of the realm itself. A man about whom legends whispered in the corridors of castles, just as soldiers murmured in their camps of his unmatched valor.
From behind him rang a voice, deep and laden with respect:
— Your Majesty, slow down! We still have seven days until the council meeting. What urges you to such haste?
But Martin did not slow. Straightening upon the back of his steed, Tricia, he turned with a wry smile.
— Then let the kingdom rest in your hands for now, Viserys! This is your chance to be king—if only for a few fleeting days! Ha ha ha ha…
Viserys smiled in return and waved him off.
— Return safely, my lord.
Though Martin had seen the passing of eight decades, his spirit burned like fire, and his body stood as steadfast as stone. He was a man who had lived for war as much as for peace, ruling Wysteria with a hand of wisdom and a sword of steel. Weakness had never dared to touch him; he was the quiet force behind the long years of stability his kingdom had enjoyed.
Yet this journey was no royal excursion. His destination was the most vital gathering in all the Middle Lands—the Round Table Assembly, where kings and warlords, forged in the crucible of the Great Wars, convened once every five years. In theory, they met for peace. In truth, within the hallowed yet shadowed hall, tongues were honed as sharply as the swords their owners once wielded, and bargains were struck in blood far more often than in ink.
The council had not sprung from nothing—it was born from the ashes of the Millennium War, when fire consumed kingdoms and thrones once thought unshakable crumbled to dust. It was meant to be a sanctuary for dialogue, yet in practice it was but another battlefield, where the strong fought not with steel, but with words—words often deadlier than any blade.
Martin's pace was swift as an arrow toward the oaken glades. Tricia, the legendary steed who had carried him through the Millennium War, moved like a phantom along the roads—so fast that passersby scarcely glimpsed them. The wind tore at Martin's cloak, as though urging him toward an inescapable fate.
In but moments, he reached the place. There, beneath the ancient shadows of the oak trees, stood Rosaria—calm, unmoved, as though time itself dared not touch her. She was no mere queen, but the Lady of Wysteria and sovereign of the Middle Lands, born of elven blood, her silver hair gleaming like starlight, her deep eyes holding the beauty and sorrow of ages.
When he saw her, time itself faltered. Wars, councils, and intrigues faded from his mind. In a voice heavy with longing, he whispered:
— My dearest… how I have missed you.
Rosaria smiled, as though she had been waiting for those very words.
— So, you have decided to go?
Martin dismounted from Tricia and stepped toward her.
— I must. It is my duty. I cannot fail to attend. Sylvin would feel betrayed were I absent.
She studied him for a moment, worry in her gaze.
— I do not want you to go.
He brushed the thought aside with a wave of his hand.
— I have no choice. I am the one who leads the assembly.
Her fingers caught his, as if to anchor him in place.
— If you must go… then perhaps I should accompany you.
He hesitated, then smiled with quiet sorrow.
— And Idian? And the kingdom?
— Viserys is here. You trust him above all others. He will do his duty.
Martin looked at her for a long moment, as though his heart might break. In a voice low and pained, he murmured:
— Ros… oh, my dearest… never have I regretted anything as much as being mortal. How I wish I could live long enough to spend all my years with you and Idian.
Night crept in, the wind stirring the oak branches, adding a romance born not of peace, but of war—of two lovers bound by battle, and parted by time.
Rosaria understood, though he did not speak it aloud. His unfinished words, his deep gaze, even the hesitation in his voice all whispered the same truth:
The kingdom needs you. You must stay.
And for reasons he himself could not name, he felt that she must remain—as if fate itself was weaving threads he had yet to see.
Rosaria did not argue. She did not try to dissuade him. Yet suddenly, she clasped his hand, her radiant eyes locking on his, with a love that could bind even Martin the Wise like a youth seeing love for the very first time.
Martin smiled, hiding the tremor in his heart.
— Ros, I must go now. I will return in ten days. Tricia… he may be old, but he has not lost his fire. I shall be here before Idian's birthday. Tell him to study the Book of the Asteroid—he needs to hone his magic and strengthen his form.
Rosaria nodded, telling him without words not to worry, not to burden his thoughts with anything but the road ahead—that she would wait for him, as she always had.
Without another word, Martin released her hand and mounted Tricia, who lifted his head with pride, as though he knew the journey ahead would be etched into history.
He began at a slow pace, then his speed grew—until he became nothing more than an untraceable shadow.
Rosaria did not move. She stood there, her gaze silently following him until he vanished from sight. Yet her heart whispered that this journey would not be like the ones before…