The morning air over Isola shimmered faintly with golden light, the sun spilling over its marble towers and rose-gold bridges. In the center of the city, where the castle of the high lady rested upon its floating foundation of crystal and white stone, a soft wind blew across the garden paths.
John Merciless stood quietly, his hands folded behind him, dressed in his usual black coat — the one still faintly marked with the energy scars from last night's massacre. His expression, calm as ever, hid the quiet storm that lingered in his gaze. Beside him, Liora's small fingers held onto his coat's hem as they ascended the gleaming staircase leading to the castle doors.
Seraphine awaited them.
Her crimson eyes, soft yet commanding, caught the light like cut rubies. Dressed in ceremonial white with faint gold trimming, she looked nothing like the warrior who once leveled entire legions to dust. Yet the weight she carried — the pressure of authority, of restrained power — was unmistakable.
"John," she greeted with a faint bow, her tone both respectful and sincere. "I appreciate you coming. I wanted… to thank you properly."
John gave a faint smile that never reached his eyes. "You've already thanked me, Lady Seraphine. Besides, I was curious about your castle."
Her lips curved faintly. "Then, allow me to give you the full tour."
They walked through the crystalline corridors. Servants and guards lowered their heads as they passed — though their fear wasn't of Seraphine this time. It was for the man walking beside her. John's presence was like walking beside a quiet abyss; people could feel something primal staring back.
Liora kept close, occasionally staring up at the glittering chandeliers that looked like frozen tears of light.
As they entered the grand hall, one of the maids — an older woman with streaks of silver in her hair — froze mid-step. Her tray of folded linens trembled in her grasp before she dropped them entirely.
Her eyes widened, trembling, as they fell upon Liora.
"…It can't be…" the maid whispered, tears suddenly welling. "My lady… that child… that child is—!"
Seraphine turned sharply. "What is it, Mera?"
The maid fell to her knees, voice breaking. "That girl… she bears the crest! The mark of Arloria! Look—look beneath her left ear—!"
Confused, Seraphine knelt beside Liora. The girl blinked innocently as Seraphine gently brushed aside her hair — and there it was: a faint golden mark, shaped like twin crescent moons joined by a single star. The symbol of the Arlorian Bloodline.
For a moment, silence reigned in the hall.
Even John's usual stoic mask cracked slightly.
Seraphine's hand trembled. Her voice softened, almost a whisper.
"That… that's impossible. The royal archives said my sister perished in the siege… over ten years ago."
Liora tilted her head. "Sister…?"
Seraphine's eyes glistened. The realization hit her like thunder — the resemblance, the faint similarity in the curve of her eyes, the tone of her hair under the sunlight. She had seen it, but never thought much of it.
John spoke quietly. "I knew it the moment I heard the maid speak of Arloria. Liora told me once her mother's name — Celene. Your mother's name, was it not?"
Seraphine nodded slowly, almost dazed. "Yes… Celene Arloria."
Liora's lips parted. "Mama's name… was Celene."
The entire room seemed to exhale at once.
Seraphine's composure broke — the cold, noble exterior giving way to raw emotion as she reached forward and embraced Liora tightly, trembling. "You're alive… gods above, you're alive…"
Liora froze for a second, then hesitantly hugged her back. "You're warm…" she murmured softly.
John watched them in silence, his expression unreadable, but something faintly human stirred behind his eyes — the ghost of a smile.
After a few minutes, Seraphine composed herself again, still holding Liora close as she looked at John. "You saved my sister. Twice now — once by chance, and now by truth. I don't know what I can give to repay you."
"You don't owe me anything," John replied simply, glancing out one of the castle windows toward the distant horizon. "She needed a place to belong. I just… didn't want her to wander alone anymore."
Seraphine studied him, her gaze softening. "You're a strange man, John Merciless. For someone so feared, your heart isn't nearly as cold as the world says."
He gave a small, amused exhale. "Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to keep."
The maid smiled through her tears, whispering prayers of gratitude to the ancestors.
Outside, the bells of Isola's main city — Val'doren — began to ring. The sound carried over the floating bridges and down the markets below. The air shimmered faintly with mana, signaling the dawn of a new day, and perhaps, the beginning of a fragile peace for the lost bloodline of Arloria.
As the sun's rays poured through the stained glass windows, painting the hall in gold and crimson, John turned to leave — his coat brushing against the marble.
But before he stepped out, Seraphine's voice followed him softly.
"John…"
He paused at the door, glancing back.
"Thank you… for bringing my sister home."
For the first time that day, John's lips curved — just slightly.
"No need for thanks," he said. "Family should never stay lost."
And with that, the man known as John Merciless vanished down the corridor, leaving behind two sisters reunited by fate, and a legend quietly stirring within the shining heart of Isola.