Part I : Faelan & Ingrid
Faelan woke to a world of muted chaos. The deep, peaceful slumber he had found in the arms of his lovers was fractured by the rustle of silk, the hurried footsteps of servants, and the low, urgent murmur of a couple getting ready. He raised his head from the blankets, his vision clearing to see Alistair and Helena in a flurry of motion, a whirlwind of fine clothes and anxious energy.
"You two certainly know how to embody the word 'noble'," Faelan commented, his voice still rough with sleep.
Helena, sitting before a grand vanity mirror while a handmaiden fixed her blonde hair into an intricate knot, turned her head. "I'm sorry, Fae," she said, her voice a mix of genuine apology and exasperation. "I wish we could entertain you properly."
Alistair peeked his head through the door of his adjoining office, already dressed, a sheaf of documents in one hand and a worried look on his face. "He's awake?" he asked, his tone brightening. "You should have woken me. I wanted to hear what happened at the Guild."
Faelan stretched, unconcerned. "Those worries can wait. I believe the crisis in your hand takes priority."
Alistair scowled at the papers. "These damnable inbreds," he muttered, stepping into the room. "The tournament is three months away, and every lordling from Godsbrook to Coldswort with a coin to spend on their own vanity has descended upon us."
"They're all shopping for a champion to sponsor, my love," Helena added, her tone weary as she stood to fix Alistair's collar. "Paying their respects to us is just part of the pageantry."
Faelan watched them, a smile of understanding on his face. Helena was breathtaking in a crimson gown adorned with black lace flowers and gold jewelry, the dress embracing the lush curves he had held just hours before. Alistair, though slender, wore a matching formal tunic with a poet's grace that few men could muster. They were a perfect, stunning pair, trapped in the gilded cage of their duties.
"Well," Faelan said, swinging his legs out of bed. "Don't you worry about me." He walked over to the couple, planting a kiss on each of their cheeks. "I have work to do myself."
"Elias," Alistair remembered.
"Elias," Faelan confirmed.
As Faelan dressed, Alistair called from his office. "Fae, come back after dusk! We should be free of them by then. Oh, and bring Lyra and Brimor for dinner, if you can!"
"I'll try!" Faelan called back affectionately. He started for the balcony, and this time, Helena just laughed to herself, a soft, knowing sound.
Faelan chose to walk the grounds this time, taking the long road to the main gate. The sheer scale of the estate was staggering—gardens that stretched to the horizon, massive storehouses, and stables that could house a small army. In the distance, a line of brightly painted coaches was already forming before a grand stone hall where Alistair and Helena would spend their day enduring the pleasantries of their peers.
He was some distance from the gate when he collided with someone at a crossroads on the gravel path.
"My apologies," Faelan said, stepping back before he'd even looked at the man.
The man, a portly noble draped in garish velvets, looked Faelan up and down, his face twisting in disgust at Faelan's simple, practical attire. "Watch where you're going, you filthy animal," he grunted. "Why do they even allow your kind to roam the estate?"
A guard, sensing trouble, came jogging from the gate. "Sir, my apologies, he is a guest of Lord Greyoak."
Faelan shot the guard a look of sharp disapproval. The guard flinched, understanding immediately he'd said the wrong thing.
The nobleman, now even more incensed that such a commoner was a guest, sneered at Faelan. "The next time your filth touches my robes will be your last."
Faelan let a slow, mocking smirk spread across his face. He leaned in conspiratorially. "Ooooh, scary," he whispered, and then simply turned and walked away.
"What is his name?" the enraged noble demanded of the guard.
"I… I do not know, my lord."
"Then what kind of guard are you? Useless. The filth the Greyoaks employ is appalling."
Faelan didn't give the encounter a second thought. The pompous fools of the world were not his concern. He reached the gate and marched into the city, his next goal clear: find Ingrid, and give a face to their ghost.
Having left the quiet opulence of Greyoak Manor behind, Faelan stepped back into the chaos of the Guild. The roar of the hall, which had felt so overwhelming the day before, now seemed like the familiar hum of a workshop. He was an adventurer again, and he had a job to do. His eyes immediately scanned the crowded room and found Lyra at the receptionist's counter, leaning over a large ledger, her brow furrowed in frustration. Lilia, the rabbit-eared Beastfolk, had a nervous but professional smile plastered on her face.
"The coffers are light again, Lilia," Lyra said, her voice a low, dangerous grumble. "Are the other parties not pulling their weight, or did we start buying our ale in gold-plated barrels this month?"
"Thorgar's brawl at the start of the month, Ma'am," Lilia replied, her voice steady despite her twitching ears. "Two tables, three chairs, and that very expensive cask of Dwarven stout. The repairs and replacements took a significant portion of the discretionary fund."
"I thought the purse of the mighty Dawnbreakers was bottomless," Faelan said, approaching with a sarcastic grin.
Lyra looked up, her frustration momentarily forgotten. A genuine smile touched her lips before she turned back to the room, her voice rising to be heard across the hall. "It would be, if these other parties paid their fucking share!" she bellowed, making sure the adventurers at the nearby tables could hear. The hall's chatter dipped for a split second before resuming, the occupants pointedly ignoring her. "Ungrateful, incompetent arseholes," she muttered under her breath.
Faelan, curious, followed her as she moved to a nearby table, the ledger still in hand. "I thought the Greyoaks and the other nobles were supposed to finance the Guilds."
Lyra let out a short, bitter laugh, not even looking up from the numbers. "That was a decade ago, Fae. Before the nobles got tired of paying for adventurers' bar fights and property damage." She finally met his eyes, her own filled with a weary resignation. "A royal decree was passed. The strongest party in a Guild takes over its management. We get free lodging, food, and the run of the place, but in return, we're the law. We handle all the finances—repairs, staff salaries, everything. I put Lilia in charge of the books."
Her eyes narrowed as she scanned a particular line item. She raised her voice again. "Lilia! Why are we spending coin on marble statues for the front gate?"
Lilia's pleasant voice floated back from the kitchen entrance. "They add to the aesthetic of the Guild, Ma'am! It encourages more high-paying clients!"
Faelan watched the exchange with amusement. "What's the problem then? Just levy a fifteen percent tithe on all bounties. That would solve it."
Lyra finally looked up at him, and her expression was surprisingly soft. "Remember when we were D-rank, Fae? When we were with the Gilded Vagabonds, and fifteen percent was the difference between a hot meal and chewing on salted leather for a week? Between a healing potion and a prayer?"
Faelan's smile faded. "Right," he said, his voice quiet.
"So I put a base five percent tax in place," Lyra continued, gesturing at the ledger with disgust, "plus whatever the parties feel like contributing voluntarily. More often than not, the only party that feels like contributing is the one that runs the place."
Just then, Lilia arrived with two steaming plates. "Roast chicken, Ma'am, Adventurer Faelan."
Lyra looked from the perfectly cooked meal to Lilia's tired but smiling face, and the frustration in her own expression melted away into sincere apology. "I'm sorry, Lilia," she said, her voice quiet and genuine. "Now that I've seen the numbers… you're doing a fabulous job with what you have."
Lilia's smile became real, a brilliant thing that could make a man start a war. "No worries, Ma'am," she said, before taking her leave.
The two old friends sat in silence for a moment, the aroma of roasted chicken, vegetables, and steamed potatoes filling the air. A perfect meal for warriors.
Faelan and Lyra fell upon their meals with the quiet urgency of seasoned warriors. For a few moments, the only sounds were the scraping of forks and the distant, familiar hum of the Guild hall. Lyra, her mouth somewhat full, broke the silence.
"So, how are our favorite nobles holding up?"
Faelan, slicing a piece of chicken, managed a faint smile. "Buried. The city is crawling with their peers. Formalities, pleasantries… the whole tedious circus."
Lyra shuddered theatrically, shaking her head. "Gods, thank you for letting me escape that life." A brief, comfortable quiet settled between them before she broke it again, her voice now hesitant, the leader giving way to the worried friend. "Fae… what are we going to do about them? Ingrid. Arthur. This hunt… it's not a place for children."
Faelan took a sip of water, considering his words. "Ingrid has a plan. She wants to find a sponsor in the tournament, get into the University of Lumina. As for Arthur… I think that's a conversation for his sister. He needs to know he has a choice, that you're not just going to leave him behind for this."
Lyra thought for a second, nodding. "You're right. I shouldn't decide for him." She frowned, her focus shifting back to the other child. "But Ingrid… the University only takes the absolute elite. Even with a sponsor, what guarantee does she have?"
Faelan put a piece of potato in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed, his gaze intense. "I didn't tell you everything last night," he said, his voice low. "During her escape from Frostpine's End, she took down two Beastfolk warriors. Alone. One of them was an Aura-user. She's an Initiate, Lyra."
He leaned forward. "She beat him with paralysis arrows she'd made herself. She's adaptable, resourceful, and for her age, her Mana reserves are terrifying. I have full faith she'll catch some snobby bastard's eye." He added, with a world-weary cynicism, "Besides, she's a beautiful girl Someone will definitely notice."
Lyra's fork clattered against her plate. Her eyes narrowed with disapproval. "And you haven't thought what 'noticing' really means, have you?" she said, her voice sharp.
"A true sponsorship, no strings attached? That's a lottery ticket, Faelan, a prize for the one-in-a-thousand prodigy the nobles can parade around to enhance their own image. For the rest? It's a leash. Years of indentured service, a lifetime of debt. She'll just be trading one cage for another."
She sighed, a flicker of a new thought in her eyes. "No… if we're going to do this, we do it right. We'll have to bring the Greyoaks in on this."
Faelan considered this, then nodded, a plan forming. "Then let's have this conversation in the right room, with the right people. Alistair and Helena invited you, me, and Brimor for dinner tonight. We should take Ingrid with us."
Lyra, having finished her meal, gave a decisive nod. "You're right. That's the move."
"So, what's your plan for the day?" Faelan asked.
"I was thinking of taking Arthur sightseeing," Lyra replied, a surprising softness in her voice. "Show him the city. Talk. Maybe remind him what it's like to just be a boy for an afternoon."
As she stood, taking both her and Faelan's empty plates, a visibly distraught Lilia rushed over from the counter. "Ma'am, please, that's my job!"
"I'm heading to the kitchen anyway," Lyra said over her shoulder, ignoring the flustered receptionist.
"I suppose I'll show Ingrid around as well, after we see Elias," Faelan called out to her retreating back. "See you at the manor tonight, then! And inform Brimor for me!"
With a final nod, Faelan stood from his seat. He walked towards the stairs, his steps now full of purpose, and climbed them, his thoughts on the quiet, furious girl in the room at the top.
Faelan knocked gently on Ingrid's door. A moment passed before a quiet, hollow voice answered from within. "It's open."
He pushed the door inward to find her sitting on a stool by the window, her back to him. The morning sun streamed in, falling on her pale cheeks and igniting her silver-white hair, making it glow like a halo of frost. She was staring intently at the bustling street below, a silent, unmoving figure in the light. He saw not a girl, but a shard of winter, beautiful and dangerously sharp. Gods have mercy on the men who fall for that storm, he thought to himself.
"Ready to go?" he asked from the doorway.
Ingrid turned her head, her eyes as placid and cold as a frozen lake. "Yes." Her voice was a monotone, lacking any of the warmth or life of a girl her age.
They walked in silence to Elias's shop, which, despite the morning bustle, had a 'Closed' sign hanging in the window. Ignoring it, Faelan pushed the door open, a small bell jangling discordantly.
"Can't you read? It's closed!" a raspy, irritated voice shouted from the dark back room.
Faelan's voice boomed in the dusty space, laced with an authority he hadn't used since leaving the army. "Lord Alistair Greyoak sent us. We're looking for a man named Elias."
A short, middle-aged man with ink-stained fingers and a sour expression emerged from the shadows. "I'm Elias. What do you want?"
Faelan produced the note from Alistair. The Greyoak seal did its work. Elias's irritation was replaced by a grudging respect for the coin it represented. "A sketch," he grumbled. "Sit." He pointed to a small, rickety table.
He brought three cups of sludge-like coffee, taking his seat and pulling out a charcoal stick and a fresh sheet of parchment. Before he began, he looked Ingrid up and down with a merchant's appraising eye.
"Before we start," he said in his grating voice, "a question, if I may. Is the girl your slave?"
Faelan's hand instinctively went to the pommel of his sword, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Ingrid's face remained a mask, but a dangerous coldness flared in her eyes.
Elias saw the shift and raised his hands placatingly. "Forgive me, no disrespect intended. Just a simple man trying to put food on his table. Beauties like her fetch a high price, especially with the nobles in town for the tournament. It was just a business inquiry."
Faelan's anger subsided, but Ingrid was left feeling a profound, chilling nausea at the sheer banality of the evil in the world.
"So," Elias said, all business now. "Who will be describing the subject?"
Faelan just nodded toward Ingrid.
Elias turned his irritatingly keen eyes on her, charcoal poised. "Gender?"
"Female," Ingrid replied, her voice flat. Her mind was already sinking back into the fire and snow of that night.
"Build. Thin? Heavy? Muscular?"
The image of the warrior's chiseled abdomen, of the powerful, fibrous muscles in her arms, flashed in her memory against a backdrop of fire.
"Muscular," Ingrid stated.
"Face. Fleshy or bony?"
"Fleshy. High cheekbones."
"Skin tone? Hair?"
"Tanned. Like she's lived her whole life in the sun. Her hair was dark, almost black, pulled back in tight, intricate braids woven with what looked like… small bones."
The questions continued, a cold, clinical dissection of her nightmare.
Eyes: "Amber. And sharp. Like a cat's."
Distinguishing Marks: "A small, jagged scar just above her left eyebrow. And tattoos… dark, swirling patterns down her right arm."
Weapon: "A long spear, with a cruel, leaf-shaped blade."
Species: "Beastfolk. Feline."
With every detail Ingrid provided, the face on the parchment grew more real, more lifelike. The predatory smile. The intelligent, cruel eyes. The nightmare was no longer just a memory; it was emerging from the pits of her subconscious and taking form in front of her.
"And her expression?" Elias asked, readying his charcoal for the final, defining strokes. "What was her expression when you saw her?"
Ingrid's vision filled with the memory of that terrible, beautiful face smiling as her village burned, as her siblings were stolen. She remembered the whispered words that had frozen her blood.
"Amused," she whispered, her voice cracking. "She looked… amused."
As Elias's charcoal scratched across the page, capturing that final, horrifying detail, the last of Ingrid's control shattered. A single, silent tear tracked a path through the grime on her cheek. Then another. The dam of suppressed agony broke.
For the first time since the massacre, Ingrid cried.
It was not the quiet weeping of a sad child, but a full-bodied, volcanic eruption of grief. Great, wracking sobs shook her small frame, tears pouring down her face in an uncontrollable torrent. She tried to wipe them away, but they came too fast, a flood of all the pain, fear, and loss she had held inside.
Elias looked on, utterly baffled, oblivious to the history he had just unearthed. Faelan sat still, his heart aching, feeling both helpless and relieved. He wanted to comfort her, but he knew this was a storm that had to break, a poison that had to be let out.
After a long while, the sobs subsided into shuddering breaths. Elias, clearing his throat awkwardly, handed over a few copies of the now-finished sketch.
They took their leave, emerging back into the bright, indifferent sunlight of Bergsby Street. Faelan held the picture of their enemy, the paper a stark, terrible reality in his hand. And beside him stood Ingrid, shamefaced and remorseful after her breakdown, her face raw, her eyes swollen, the full, crushing weight of her grief now exposed to the world.
Faelan and Ingrid stood on the bustling thoroughfare of Bergsby Street, the freshly drawn nightmare of their enemy clutched in Faelan's hand. Ingrid was a ship becalmed in a storm of her own making, her face pale and remorseful after her breakdown. Faelan was at a loss. He had planned to show her the city—the grand plazas and theaters of the Entertainment Square—but the thought of walking her past the slave market, a casual monument to the very evil that had stolen her siblings, turned his stomach.
He looked southwest, towards the glint of water in the distance. Lake Stillwater. A different path.
"Want to get some lunch?" he inquired gently, expecting only the usual silence. When none came, he sighed. "I'll take that as a yes."
They walked. For the first time since she'd arrived, Ingrid was not in a daze. The catharsis of her tears had, like a flood, washed the ash from her senses. She noticed the intricate stonework on a canal bridge, the different languages of the merchants in the River-Way, the scent of roasted nuts from a street vendor. She saw the grand, imposing buildings of the city she had only ever dreamed of from Sybill's books, and in the center of a distant square, a giant fountain with a statue of a forgotten hero.
The city's vibrant, chaotic life began to impose itself on her, pulling her out of the past. Her soul, for weeks oriented towards the ruins of Frostpines' End, was slowly, tentatively, returning to her own body. She was not the cheerful girl she used to be, but for the first time in a long while, she was Ingrid again.
The lakefront was lined with restaurants, their outdoor seating offering a picturesque view of the shimmering water. Faelan stopped before one with a faded, familiar sign.
"They're still here," he murmured, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "They make the best grilled mackerel in the city." He turned to Ingrid, more out of habit than expectation. "You like fish?"
He was already turning to find a table when a dim voice, quiet as a falling snowflake, reached him.
"Yes."
Faelan stopped, surprised. He looked at Ingrid, who was watching him with her usual solemn expression, but the single word was a profound affirmation. It was a sign that the girl was still in there, beneath the ice. The thought pleased him more than he could say.
"Two giant mackerels, please," he told the waitress. She asked if they wanted anything else. He looked at Ingrid.
"Fried potatoes," she said, her voice still low.
The waitress nodded and left. For a moment, Faelan felt a wave of hope.
They ate in a comfortable silence, the warmth of the winter sun a pleasant balm. After a while, Faelan broke the quiet. "So, the tournament. Three months. What's your plan?"
Ingrid, for the first time since the fire, seemed ready for a conversation. "I… overheard adventurers at the Guild. They spoke of the Blightwood Forest, a few miles west of the city. I was thinking of training there."
Faelan raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Ever fought a Mana Beast before?"
"No," she admitted.
"Dealing with Mana Beasts isn't like hunting rabbits, Ingrid," he said, his tone shifting to that of a seasoned instructor. "You need to know their powers, their weaknesses, their patterns. It takes years to learn. That's why adventurers start in a party."
"If you're serious about this," he continued, his voice softening, "then let's do it right. Perhaps my mother can finally forgive me from the heavens if I see her legacy fulfilled."
He leaned forward. "I'll ask Lyra to get you a proper trainer for the next month and a half. Someone to drill you in control and discipline. For the month and a half after that, you and I will go into the Forest together. I need to knock the rust off my own skills. Dealing with soldiers isn't the same as dealing with a five-hundred-pound Cinder Claw Bear. We both need the training."
Ingrid was pleased. Her face maintained its solemn mask, but for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, her gaze met Faelan's directly, and a flicker of light, of life, returned to her eyes.
"Thank you," she said.
The two simple words struck Faelan with an unexpected force. A warmth spread through his chest, a fierce, protective instinct he hadn't known he possessed. This was no longer just a duty to his mother's memory; this girl was becoming his to protect.
They took their leave, walking along the lakefront, taking in the serene beauty of the water. As they started the long walk to the Greyoak manor, Faelan noticed that Ingrid followed him without hesitation, her trust a quiet, unspoken thing.
The sun was setting as they finally reached the grand gates of the manor. Standing there, as if waiting for them, were Lyra and Brimor. And beside them, silent and watchful, stood a young boy with new, dark hair. Arthur.
Part II: Lyra & Arthur
Lyra watched from the upper landing as Faelan and Ingrid left the Guild, two grim figures on a grim errand. She wiped her still-damp hands on her trousers and knew it was time to face her own duty. As she headed towards Arthur's room, a sleepy Edwin stumbled past her, still half-asleep.
"Where to?" Lyra inquired, her voice laced with amusement.
"Pip," the twin mumbled.
"Don't bother," she said gently. "Pip came to us last night. My brother's here."
Edwin stopped, processed this for a moment, then turned around and started walking back the way he came.
"And now where to?" Lyra asked, a grin playing on her lips.
"Sleep," Edwin replied with a massive yawn, disappearing back into his room.
A few doors down, Thorgar burst out of his own room, a look of frantic urgency on his face, already buckling his sword belt.
"And what's got you in such a rush?" Lyra asked.
"The shapeshifter, boss!" he declared, his voice full of renewed purpose. "I've got to catch it before it causes more chaos! I won't fail you this time, I swear it!"
Lyra's expression softened. She was pleased by his diligence, even if his methods were clumsy.
She found Arthur's room. Maeve, had given him the roughest of their spare quarters. The bed was hard, the wood of the furniture smelled of damp and age, and a single, drafty window looked out onto a grimy alley. Arthur was awake, lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling.
Lyra knocked softly. He got up and opened the door, his new black hair still messy from sleep. He had to tilt his head up to meet her eyes, a small, fragile figure standing in the shadow of her frame.
"Hungry?" she asked, her voice softer than usual, an awkward attempt at sisterly care. Arthur simply nodded.
Downstairs, the Guild hall was slowly coming to life, parties of adventurers gathering over maps and breakfast before heading out. Lyra had Lilia bring a hearty meal for Arthur and they took a seat at a table. She remained silent as he ate, respecting the formal dining habits of the royal court she had long since abandoned. It was a small, quiet gesture, an attempt to give him a sliver of the world he had lost.
While Arthur focused on his food, Lyra's vigilant gaze drifted to the next table, where a party of five was embroiled in a tense, hushed argument.
"I'm telling you, the Southern Expanse is our only shot," a Halfling insisted, his voice a frustrated whisper. "The Eastern woods are picked clean, and our purse is getting thin. Did you see the price on Cinder Claw talons this morning? Thirty coppers, if you're lucky! A week ago, they were fetching eighty! We can't live off Glimmer-Moss Squirrels and Bristleback Boarlings forever. Their prices are dropping by the day!"
The stoic Dwarf who was clearly the leader, a man named Korbin, shook his head. "The Southern Expanse is too dangerous, Emethriel. And that's final."
"So we're to starve?" the Halfling shot back. "Sleep in the cold because you're afraid of a few old stories?"
"Emethriel, Dragon's Creek is in the south," one of the human members reasoned gently. "We're D-rank. I don't fancy being roasted alive."
"No one has seen a dragon there in five years!" Emethriel argued, his voice rising.
"Korbin, it's your call," another human said, looking to the dwarf.
Korbin took a slow breath, his voice a low growl of finality. "We don't change our course. A dragon isn't the only threat. The topography is a nightmare, and it's teeming with Howling Shadowmanes and Crystalline Silk Spiders. That's before you get to the rumors."
"I've heard whispers of the Chimera Monarch and vampires, too," the second human added nervously.
That was the last straw for the Halfling. He shot up from his seat, his face red with anger. "You'll believe any tall tale to avoid taking a real risk!" he seethed. "This is why we'll be stuck at D-rank forever!" He turned and stormed out of the Guild.
As the door slammed behind him, the human who had spoken last muttered to Korbin, "Let him go. It's easy to be brave when you're not the one in the thick of the fight."
Korbin made no reply, just stared into his ale, the weight of a leader's hard, thankless decision settled on his broad shoulders.
Lyra watched the D-rank party's argument with a ghost of a smile. It reminded her of the old days with The Gilded Vagabonds, the endless debates where she would push for a greater challenge and Faelan would argue for the path that got them all home alive. Her new crew was different. They were a well-oiled machine, their trust in her so absolute that such arguments were rare.
Arthur had finished his meal. It was time.
"I don't imagine you saw much of the world, cooped up in the palace," Lyra began, her attempt to break the ice sounding clumsy even to her own ears.
A dim, one-word reply came from the boy. "No."
"Want to go… see some of it?" she offered, hoping for a sign of life. Arthur gave a small, hesitant nod, his expression still that of a scared, cornered animal.
As they left the Guild, Lyra's sharp eyes caught the way Arthur moved, the innate, refined grace of his posture. "A suggestion, Arthur," she said, her voice low and practical. "When you eat, when you walk, you do it like a prince. In front of others, try not to. It's a target on your back."
Arthur's gaze darted to the common folk bustling past them, then back to his own hands. He seemed to notice the difference for the first time. "I'll… try my best," he replied, his voice still a soft, sound that tugged at something deep inside Lyra. He was just a child. A child who deserved to be a child. She thought of what might spark a fire in a boy raised on duty and discipline, a boy whose uncle was Tybalt. Stories of heroes. The destination became clear in her mind.
The walk from the Half-Wit's District to the Entertainment Square was a journey from squalor to splendor. The canals ran cleaner, the buildings grew grander, and the people were better dressed. Arthur's eyes, which had been fixed on the ground, slowly began to lift. He took in the majesty of the city, the wonderful fountains, the wide, paved roads.
The Heroe's Museum was a colossal structure of white marble and stone. They climbed the seventy steps to the entrance and were immediately greeted by the sight of an ancient, leather-bound tome displayed behind enchanted glass. It was the original Mana Beast compendium, written seven hundred years ago by an Elven scholar named Ariel.
The museum was divided into three sections. In Section A, they walked past taxidermy replicas of mid-level beasts. Lyra watched as Arthur's initial hesitation gave way to a quiet wonder. He stopped at each plaque, reading about the Griffin Errant, whose feathers could grant a burst of speed, and the Rockhide Basilisk, whose eyes could be distilled into potent Stoneflesh Potions.
In Section B, the High-level beasts were fewer but more terrifying. The Adamantine Titan, a golem whose living metal was the stuff of legend. The Chimera Monarch, a chaotic fusion of warring elements. With each exhibit, Lyra saw the fear in her brother's eyes being replaced by a focused, analytical curiosit
Section B opened into a single, cavernous hall that housed a creature of such impossible scale it dwarfed everything they had seen. A plaque at its base read: Volcanic Dragon Tyrant, Malythor, the Crimson Fury. It was a fire-breathing dragon of mythic proportions, slain a thousand years ago. When Lyra stood beside its massive, obsidian eye, her head barely reached the bottom of the socket. Before it stood a life-sized statue of its slayer: a warrior named Silas, his hands resting on the pommel of a greatsword planted in the ground, the very essence of victory cast in bronze.
But it was the dragon that held Arthur. He stood before it, frozen, his eyes locked onto the great beast. Lyra watched him, trying to read his expression. It wasn't fear. It wasn't simple awe. It was something else, something she couldn't decipher. It was a calm, steady gaze, a look of profound, unnerving challenge, as if he were daring the stone and bone replica to come alive and face him. For the first time, she saw not the scared boy, but a flicker of the royal fire of their bloodline.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Lyra said softly, coming to stand beside him.
Arthur didn't take his eyes off the dragon. When he spoke, his voice was heavy, his tone unreflective of his age, imbued with a commanding gravity she had never heard from him.
"I don't know if I wish to be a king," he began, the words slow and deliberate. "I don't know what I truly wish for. Uncle Tybalt bought me this life with his sacrifice, and I don't know what to do with it. The only thing I am sure of," his gaze finally left the dragon, and his new, brown eyes locked onto hers, "is that I am weak. I was of no use to him. I couldn't save Aethon."
He took a step closer, breaking the invisible barrier of awe and unfamiliarity that had separated them. For the first time, he was truly looking at her, not as a legend, but as his sister.
"I cannot keep living like this," he said, his voice gaining a strength that sent a shiver down Lyra's spine. "Swallowed by pain, feeling sorry for myself. I need strength." He held her gaze. "Will you teach me how to fight, Lyra?"
It was the first time he had said her name. In that moment, the indecisive, alienated boy she had seen at the Guild was gone. In his place stood a prince, not of land, but of purpose. The feeling it gave her was the same thrill she got when facing a truly worthy beast. She finally felt it—the blood of true kings flowed in his veins.
"You have my word," Lyra responded, her voice not that of a sister, but of a hero making a solemn vow.
Any other sights would have paled in comparison to that moment. After a quiet lunch, they visited a few merchant shops. Lyra watched as Arthur, now with a new, sharp focus, earnestly memorized the prices of artefacts, potions, and the sale value of Mana Beast parts.
They made their way towards the Greyoak Manor as the sun began to dip, arriving just before dusk. Brimor was already there, standing by the gate like a stone sentinel. A few minutes later, Faelan and Ingrid arrived, their own long, difficult day finally at its end. The party, for the first time, was all in one place.
Part III : What Arthur saw
Standing before the colossal replica of Malythor, Arthur felt the world shrink and his own body become impossibly small. It was more than a monster of bone and taxidermy; it was a monument to the kind of overwhelming, indifferent power that had shattered his life. The dragon was Fate itself, a beast of history and circumstance, and he was just a boy cowering in its shadow.
He looked into its dead, obsidian eye, but the reflection was not his own. In that polished, black surface, he saw it all again: the palace burning against the night sky ; the new, savage banner of the three howling wolves flapping in the rain ; the vast, sorrowful ocean of the refugee camp ; and the final, horrifying image of his uncle, a wounded lion being dragged down by a pack of wolves . It was all there, the entire ruin of his world, contained in the unblinking eye of a dead god.
The question of the throne, of his birthright, felt like a distant, hollow echo. He still didn't know if he wanted to be a king. But in that moment, staring into the face of his own despair, he knew with absolute certainty what he didn't want. He didn't want this feeling—this crushing, suffocating weakness. This feeling of being a pawn whose fate was decided by others. This uselessness that had forced him to watch as his uncle sacrificed himself and his only friend, Aethon, ran himself to death for his sake.
His gaze drifted from the dragon's eye to the bronze statue of the man who had slain it, Silas. He wondered, for the first time, what that hero must have felt as he faced the real beast. Did his hands tremble, as Arthur's had for days? Did his stomach churn with the same cold fear? He must have. But he had faced it anyway. He must have found the courage.
A new, hard clarity settled in Arthur's soul. The throne, the crown, the titles—they were all secondary. They were just things. The true inheritance, the only thing that mattered in a world with monsters like this, was the strength to face them.
He realized he did not yet have a destination, but for the first time, he had a path. He needed courage. He needed power. Not for a kingdom, but for himself.