After that first session outside, the days blurred together. It felt like a week had passed, though I couldn't keep track of the actual time, as my routine was relentless. From swinging the training sword until I collapsed, followed by a quick rest, then eat the bland, salted provisions Elijah had somehow managed to store, and then repeat.
Many questions flooded my head repeatedly, with Soul Awakening at the top. Sylveon was a knowledgeable companion, but his understanding of human magical processes, especially how one awakened their unique soul weapon, was non-existent.
The system wasn't that helpful, as it just provided descriptions, not instructions. And I couldn't risk wandering this open grassland aimlessly; Sylveon, a clear magical beast, wouldn't appreciate guiding me to the nearest human settlement, where his appearance would surely pry the wrong kind of eyes. So I had to wait for Elijah to somehow show up.
I waited for the man who was supposed to be leading a rebel faction to finally show up.
With that, the sun had just passed its zenith, and the small cottage room felt heavy and warm. I needed air. I walked to the door, pushing aside the thick, simple curtain covering the window, and reached for the latch.
As I opened the door, stepping out onto the small wooden porch, I stopped dead.
Elijah was sitting on the top step, his knees drawn up, looking out over the endless green expanse. He wasn't working on a weapon, he wasn't planning, and he wasn't sleeping. He was just sitting.
His face showed he'd been through a lot. Bruises covered his jaw and forehead, dark and swollen, and a fresh cut sat above his eyebrow. Even leaning back made him move slowly and stiffly.
He looked utterly defeated, and now a tired, bruised man staring at the horizon.
Then Sylveon trotted out the door, and as he tried to approach Elijah, he noticed the fallen expression and stepped back.
I noticed he came alone. I was expecting Seraphina, but the grim reality hit me: it could only mean one thing—the Wyrm attack must have killed her.
"She's dead, isn't she?" I asked my gaze at the grass expanse.
Elijah didn't answer, he didn't even move his body. It was as if everything he'd built toward had been stripped away in a single moment.
That alone was the confirmation I needed.
A Life is gone.
Seraphina was dead.
And the weight on his face… it wasn't new. Seraphina's death wasn't the first, but another added to a long list of lives. Lives taken, sacrifices made, all for a goal he already knew he'd never reach.
People he deceived, people he might have promised a way forward against the empire.
Pathetic at its core.
"Leon," Elijah finally said, his voice was low and humbled, so different from before. "In a far-off kingdom ruled by a merciless king, there was a princess who lived in his shadow. Everyone saw her, but no one truly knew her—except the knight who guarded her steps. He understood the weight she carried, and in the quiet hours when the palace finally slept, the two of them found a kind of love they were never meant to share."
He then paused, spared a gaze at me, and continued, "When the king learned the truth, his rage didn't fall on the princess. It fell on the knight. He arranged her marriage to a foreign prince and demanded the knight stand among the witnesses. Not to kill him, but just to break him."
"So the knight watched her walk the aisle draped in white. He didn't fall to a blade, didn't collapse to poison, but something deeper inside him cracked. His laughter lost its warmth, his smile its spark, as if the part of him that felt anything had slipped away without a sound."
"The princess saw his empty eyes and understood. The king hadn't taken the knight's life—he'd stolen the piece of him that loved her."
"After that, her laughter faded, and his smiles never rose past habit. But anyone who looked closely knew the truth:"
Elijah's gaze now fully on me, "Some deaths happen without a grave."
I listened in silence, the kind that stretches when someone isn't sure what to say.
"That's… a heavy tale," I said. "Whoever that knight was, it sounds like he lost more than anyone ever should."
I then hesitated, studying Elijah for a second longer than I meant to.
"It almost feels like you weren't just telling a story. Like you were remembering something… or someone. But maybe I'm reading too much into it."
Another pause. Softer this time.
"Still… no one comes up with pain like that out of nothing."
With a knowing smirk, I sat down beside him.
"So tell me," I said quietly, "what's your real name?"
Elijah stood up, his hand immediately tightening on the hilt of the blade strapped to his side.
I'm sure he wondered, why was that the first thing I asked, but he felt obligated to speak the truth and nothing but the truth.
"Rowan," he answered. "Rowan Vale."
Rowan Vale.
I started laughing in my head. A broken, unhinged sound that felt too close to a crack in my sanity.
Hmmhmhmhmhm…
So this is the fate card I drew.
I didn't just end up as any Haldrin.
I became the one destined to trail behind the male lead of the story.
Pathetic.
Everything about her is pathetic.
I pushed myself to my feet, fist tightening until my knuckles ached. Then I looked at Elijah—no, Rowan Vale—and asked the only question that mattered.
"Is she alive? Marcella Luminaries?"
Elijah then turned and faced me. He was initially confused as to why I wanted to know the state of the Queen, but still, I knew he sensed it: something inside me that brewed, if he didn't answer quickly, he would be killed in an instant.
"Yes," he answered.
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[A/N:] Hello Readers, I hope I cooked with this one. If I didn't, just tell me right away.
Thanks for reading.
Yes I know I failed in Elijah characterization and I'm extremely sorry