「THE NEXT MORNING…」
The massive study in Javier Castle was a war room, but the enemy was entropy itself. The air hummed with a different kind of chaos than the battlefield: the frenetic, paper-strewn energy of building something from ashes.
Lia and Marcus were over the map. Lia pointed to her pin. "I want to check this area, so why the hell did you pin yours near mine?" she asked her brother.
"I want to check that too," Marcus said.
"Why?"
"I just have something to confirm that I failed in the past. Does that answer your questions?" Marcus said, giving Lia an attitude.
"Dude, what's your problem? It's so early in the morning for you to start being a bitch," Lia said, slapping the back of her hand to his shoulder—not too strong, but enough to make a sound.
"Don't mind that old timer, he was always a bitch no matter what timeline he's in," Kaelen said, who had just entered the room, reading a letter in one hand and holding a tea in the other. "This tea sucks. Why the hell is no one making coffee? What do I do with this stupid, grassy, bland tea that costs too much for its quality?" He sat on the couch, crossing his legs atop the center table.
"Barbaric." Marcus, " What's with that letter? It has the seal of Lord Marshal," he asked.
"Virgin, this is a letter from that son of a bitch saying he accepts my recruitment request after waving the numbers of golds we have for our military in his face. He says he'll be sending us a hundred rookie knights who are all orphans, so no one will cry if they end up getting eaten here. Sweet, right?" Kaelen said.
"Lord Marshal? That guy with a scar on his face who feels so superior at every banquet?" Lia asked. "And Ray is a virgin? In every timeline? Why?"
Kaelen just grinned, and Lia laughed. "My sex life is not something for you to pair with your tea," Marcus said, walking toward the seating area where Kaelen was and sitting on the other couch. "Enough with that stupid topic. How much did you offer the rookies?"
"Well, they just literally passed the knight exam, so they'll be training for two months, tops. I'm giving them 95 gold now, and 120 after their training," Kaelen said.
"That's a lot," Marcus observed.
"Hey, knights in the capital get paid just near this price range, and all they do is go to the pub and feel superior. Those kids will come here and die, and no one will cry for them. The least we could do to comfort their souls is through money, baby." Kaelen made a money sign.
"That is a pretty wrecked explanation, but doable," Rhys said, entering the room. "Well, I've been meaning to brag about this, but yesterday was just too hectic with supplies coming in, and early this morning I had to explain to the laborers that they don't have to be afraid of the gigantic wolves, because they are the ones who are going to protect them if their rope breaks while working on the wall… I have a dope personal skill. It's called God's Hand. I can make anything perfectly from the blueprints I can find in the System Shop. Dope, right?"
"Yeah, not really, nerd. Mine is called 'Bulwark'—it's an impenetrable defense, two meters vertical. Eat it!" Kaelen boasted.
Marcus then scoffed, making the two brothers look at him. "What are you laughing at? What did you get?" Rhys asked.
Marcus fixed his glasses and crossed his arms. "'Precognition,' for five seconds."
At his declaration, his three siblings' mouths fell open in awe. "AND I GOT SOMETHING STUPID AS BULWARK?!" Kaelen yelled.
[ADMIN B: DON'T BE STUPID. EACH OF YOU GETS SKILLS ACCORDING TO YOUR ROLE.]
"Still, the almond gets the coolest one," Rhys said, pouting.
[ADMIN B: SHUT UP. WE DON'T MAKE THE RULES. MY ADVICE: KEEP LEVELING IT UP. THE HIGHER IT IS, THE BETTER… NO, THE 'DOPER' YOUR SKILLS WILL GET.]
"So, what did you get, Lia?" Rhys asked, ignoring B.
[ADMIN B: THESE IDIOTS ONLY LISTEN IF THEY WANT TO.]
"Oh, mine is a Purifying Skill," Lia said.
[ADMIN A: THAT'S HOW I FEEL WITH LIA, TOO. UNGRATEFUL BRATS.]
"What are you, trying to be a Saintess?" Kaelen said, laughing and nudging Marcus's knee with his foot.
"I'll kill you," Marcus said.
"What is this meathead talking about? You want me to kill you?" Lia said, already pissed. "I already have in mind what I'll be doing with it. Well… at least I'll try."
"What is it? For me, I'll be purchasing that BvS10 blueprint. Because I know we will keep coming back inside that hell," he said, pointing in the direction of the Void Forest. "I'll be purchasing it later, so you better come with me, Lia."
Lia just nodded.
"Well, it seems like we've already started the repair of the walls. The rookies will be coming in three days. The ration food we gave to the central town is going well, while all we do is eat hard bread you can't even chew. We don't have enough funds to continue the next list of our projects. So why the hell hasn't the fucking townhouse been sold yet, and not a word from Geselle, man?" Kaelen grumbled.
"I'll handle the townhouse issue with Jill. I tried my best to relive my painful past last night, and I remembered that I used to bitch at Jill to buy me cupcake-looking gowns under the Duke's name," Lia said.
A sharp tap-tap-tap came from the large, frost-rimed window. A messenger falcon, its plumage dusted with snow, peered in, a tiny cylinder attached to its leg. It was perched on the custom docking flag Rhys had installed—a miniature Javier crest wrought in black iron.
"Oho. Mail call." Rhys strode over, opened the window, and took the cylinder, giving the bird a scrap of dried meat from his pocket. He unrolled the tiny parchment, his eyes scanning the elegant, flamboyant script. His smile widened from mere satisfaction to outright delight.
"Well, well, speaking of the devil. Count Geselle sends his regards." Rhys read aloud, his voice taking on a theatrical lilt. "'To the new, enlightened management of the Javier Estate. It is a profound relief to finally correspond with individuals who recognize that true beauty and potential often lie in… unorthodox packages.'" He looked up, his eyes sparkling. "'I would be delighted to personally inspect your… acquisitions. However, as a loyal son of the Densen Kingdom, I must, alas, observe the tedious formalities. I shall petition your Imperial court for travel rights to the North through official channels. Expect my envoy in approximately one week's time, assuming the bureaucrats move with their customary, glacier-like grace.'" Rhys grinned. "He's salivating. He used three different synonyms for 'monster parts.' We're about to be very, very rich."
"Good," Marcus said. "That wealth buys more than walls. It buys loyalty, information, and silence. Rhys, you'll handle Geselle's man. Be the eccentric, cash-strapped noble who stumbled upon a 'curiosity.' Don't show all our cards."
"Please. I'll have him thinking he's taking advantage of a bunch of naive country lords. It'll be fun."
[ADMIN B: DECEITFUL. I APPROVE.]
Thanks, weirdo.
The scene was a symphony of controlled chaos: Lia planning expansions, Kaelen forging a desperate army, Rhys luring a shady fortune, and Marcus orchestrating it all with cold precision. It wasn't a celebration. It was the first day in their third life that felt less like a frantic fight for survival and more like the grim, deliberate opening moves of a war they intended to win.
「GUEST WING」
In the room that Jill and Deitre shared, with its two beds, Deitre sat by the window watching the soldiers help the laborers lift materials up to the battlements.
"They look pleased," Deitre said.
Jill sat at the table, casually sipping his tea as he wrote what he was going to report to the Duke upon their return. "Well, it's a smart move. They've been handling one of their meals a day in the central town, hired their own people for the repairs, and even have those bizarre, gigantic wolves that talk. We are allowed to observe, but we're prohibited from going outside. They even shut down our own guard knights in the barracks."
"We didn't even get to ask them properly what those are. They just shut us out after breakfast yesterday. They didn't even bother to hide their distaste." Deitre paused, a flash of memory from Lia and Kaelen's conversation on the battlements surfacing. "Hey… Jill."
"What is it, my lord?" Jill asked, not bothering to look up.
"Has anything ever happened between my brother and the Javier brothers?"
At Deitre's question, Jill halted his scribbling and looked up at him. "In my knowledge, there is none. They barely spoke to the Wykenights if it wasn't about the West's fortress matters. In the marriage talks, they did not say much, and at the wedding, they only paid their respects and isolated themselves."
Deitre remained silent.
"Why do you ask, my lord?"
"Nothing. It's just… looking at the Javiers right now, they don't bother to put up a façade. It started with their impulsive resignation without regard for how it would affect the West. We just shrugged it off, thinking they were just worried about Lady Eliana. But after Lord Rhys's letter, Lord Marcus's words toward Brother… and Lord Kaelen's walkout at breakfast yesterday, I can't help but feel they really do have… I can't explain it. A hatred. Whether it's for Brother, the West, or both."
Jill also thought deeply. "We will never know. None of them are willing to speak with us. And the Northerners seem hostile to outsiders, too. They give you a warm smile but refuse to engage. Strange… they were abandoned by the siblings for years. The Javiers have only been back for a little over two weeks, and they are already winning the people back."
"That's it," Deitre said, standing up. "I'm going to take a walk around the battlements. I was told I'm allowed that much, as long as I don't pry about the weird big wolves." He grinned, his usual playful demeanor returning.
"Alright. I will contact His Grace as well. I'll tell him we are returning tomorrow," Jill said.
Deitre just nodded, grabbed his coat, and walked out of the room.
The moment Deitre left, Jill's usual composure broke. He slumped back in his chair and massaged his forehead.
"A hatred, huh? A silent feud…" he murmured.
He looked at the orb on the table, thinking of his duke—a man known as cold, distant, aloof, and silent, yet deeply respected. At fifteen, Alistair had beheaded a rogue elite platoon captain. At nineteen, he had earned his father's trust and recognition, inheriting the title of Duke. When the Emperor tried to chain the West to the North under the guise of marriage, Alistair hadn't bothered to oppose it. He'd simply said yes, as a duty to the descendants of the Sun.
So why, in the Sun's name, did Lord Marcus's words carry such venom? Jill wondered.
"Looks like I need a walk, too," he said, standing and leaving the room.
…❈…
Just after he left the guest wing, a knock came at the door.
When it opened, Eliana stood there.
"Rhys said they're quarantined here," Lia muttered.
[ADMIN A: YOU CAN'T TIME-OUT THE ADULTS, LIA.]
"Tsk, but I have to talk to him about the townhouse," Lia said. "And why the hell did they let the fire in the furnace die out? Are they trying to kill themselves by freezing to death?" she continued, grabbing a cigar from the pack in her pants pocket and lighting it.
[ADMIN A: GET OUT OF HERE IF YOU'RE GOING TO SPREAD LUNG CANCER.]
Why do you keep nagging? Tsk, fine, I'm really going to leave.
As she was about to leave, the orb on the table shimmered, making her turn back toward it.
A low, resonant hum began to pulse from the crystal sphere—the sound of a connection being forged across a thousand miles. The light within it sharpened, coalescing into a familiar, stern silhouette. The air in the empty guest room seemed to grow several degrees colder.
It was a call. Coming from the West.
She paused and watched it shimmer.
[ADMIN A: WHY DON'T YOU ANSWER IT? IT MUST BE AN EMERGENCY OR IMPORTANT.]
You think so? But I don't really like talking to strangers…
[ADMIN A: REALLY? BUT YOU CAN MAKE OUT WITH THEM IN THE CORNER OF THE CLUB?]
WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, YOU CREEPY STALKER SHIT?!
[ADMIN A: IF YOU DON'T WANT ME TO KEEP BLABBERING, JUST. DO. IT.]
"Alright, alright… Geez, you sound like a high school boyfriend," she muttered, reaching for the orb.
She reached out her hand toward the orb… it stopped blinking, and for a moment, a slow, flickering hologram appeared.
Lia, with no idea who—or what—would appear, didn't care at all. It was just like answering a telephone call because no one else was there.
When the signal stabilized, the figure that resolved on the other side was Duke Alistair Wykenight, in his command tent. He recognized her immediately—the blonde hair, the blue eyes. But the words died in his throat.
The Eliana he remembered was radiant, sparkling, swathed in silks and carefully arranged curls. The woman staring back at him through the shimmering connection wore a simple, messily tucked black t-shirt over tactical pants he didn't recognize. Her hair was in a haphazard bun, and a thin trail of smoke curled from the cigarette held casually between her fingers.
Is the connection faulty? he thought, a rare moment of pure cognitive dissonance freezing him.
"Hey," her voice crackled through, flat and uninterested. "I don't know who you are because your line keeps shaking, but Jill and Deitre aren't here right now. You better call later, and I'll make sure to tell them they missed a call." She took a drag, her expression one of mild inconvenience.
The air in the Western command tent was suddenly ten degrees colder. The subtle sounds of the camp outside—the clank of armor, the murmur of soldiers—fell away into a void.
'Jill and Dietre'? The words echoed in Alistair's mind, the use of his men's name was so casual that the title and honorifics are gone.
Alistair stared, his features carved from ice. The grainy, shimmering image in the orb was unmistakably his wife. But everything else was wrong. The pose, the clothing, the smoke, the utterly dismissive, bored tone.
For a second, the sheer, impossible disconnect short-circuited his legendary composure. He couldn't form words.
"Who I am?" The words finally came out, low and lethally quiet, each syllable sharp as a shard of glass. It wasn't a question. It was an indictment.
On the other end, Lia blinked, the orb's light flickering across her face. The voice was vaguely familiar, but distorted by the magical interference. A noble, probably. Some Wykenight vassal. Great. More bother.
"Yeah, your line's shaky. Look, I don't have the authority list for your house memorized. Just state your name and business for the message, or call back later. We're busy here." She took another drag, her free hand already gesturing as if to cut the connection.
A muscle in Alistair's jaw twitched violently. Busy. She was busy. In the frozen ruin of the North, dressed like a common sellsword, smoking contraband, and she was busy.
"Lady Eliana, listen—" He began, but she cut him off.
"Look at me," he commanded, the force of his will sharpening the connection for a fleeting second. His image solidified slightly—enough to show the sharp angles of his face, the silver hair swept back from his forehead, and the golden eyes boring into the magical medium with an intensity that could melt lead. "Will you explain to me what's going on there? Now."
Lia's eyes narrowed, not with recognition, but with profound irritation. "Explain? To you? 'Now'?"
What is this blurry man spouting? "Hey, I don't see the need to tell you what's going on here. And, du-ude, don't get chummy with me."
Alistair's brow furrowed at her tone and her hand gestures, like she literally didn't recognize him. 'Du-ude'? 'Don't get chummy with me'?
"Lady Eliana—" His voice was a growl, a promise of thunder, the deep tone straining against the poor connection.
The orb flickered violently again, the image distorting his visage into spectral lines.
"—can't hear you, it's breaking up," Lia's voice crackled, tinny and distant. She was already turning away, talking to someone—or something—else in the room. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming, keep yourself together…" She looked back at the orb, her expression one of final, supreme annoyance. "Call's dropping. I'll make sure to tell the kids you called. Bye."
She reached out with a hand that was delicate, unlike her ragged appearance, and tapped the top of the orb with a casual finger.
The connection severed with a soundless pop.
[ADMIN A: …WELL. THAT HAPPENED.]
What? Some self-important West-weirdo with a voice like gravel. They're all like that. All bark, no bite. Now, where the hell did Jill go? I need that townhouse sold.
In the command tent a thousand miles away, the silence was absolute and glacial.
Alistair Wykenight did not move. He stared at the now-dark orb, his beautiful golden eyes seeming to catch the lamplight like frost on steel. His hands, resting on the map table, were clenched into white-knuckled fists.
'Kids'?
The carefully constructed world of duty, politics, and controlled distance he had built around his marriage lay in shards at his feet. He had been prepared for tears, for defiant silence, for political maneuvering.
To be rendered a stranger. A nuisance. An irrelevant, staticky voice to be brushed aside by a woman who looked more like a bandit commander than a duchess, her fair Javier complexion marred by grime and indifference.
The cold, rational part of his mind, the Duke, noted the tactical implications: her location, her attire, her demeanor all confirmed the brothers' reports of active, physical engagement. It catalogued the insult, the insubordination, the breakdown of protocol.
But the man behind the title—the part he kept locked behind walls of duty and tanned, weathered skin—felt something white-hot and dangerous unfurl in his chest. It wasn't just anger at the disrespect. It was something far more volatile: a furious, bewildered sense of erasure. She hadn't just forgotten his face. She had dismissed his very existence.
"Eliana…" he said. His voice held no coldness, no authority—it was just a man calling his wife's name.
He relaxed back into his chair, his eyes falling to the ring on his finger… while its pair was buried somewhere in a drawer in Eliana's room.
–On the Hallway–
"Who was that?" Rhys asked.
"Who?" Lia repeated. The smoke of her cigar hung like fog in the frozen air by the wide windows of the corridor.
"The one you were talking to on the orb," Rhys said.
They turned a corner leading to the battlements.
"Oh. When I was looking for Jill, no one was there. They got a call on the orb, but the visual was too blurry to see the other line," Lia said, taking a sip and blowing smoke into the air. "It was probably just some Westerner wanting their envoys back."
Rhys remained silent, observing her facial expression.
Even if it was blurry… Isn't silver hair enough of a sign that it was Alistair?
[ADMIN B: LIA'S MEMORY IS MOSTLY BLURRY FROM HER CAPITAL LIFE. ALL THAT'S REALLY INTACT FOR HER IS HER TIME HERE IN THE NORTH. WELL, THAT'S WHAT 'A' HAS BEEN TELLING ME.]
Good. Nothing good will come from that man coming back into her life.
[ADMIN B: AND… MAYBE IT'S BECAUSE OF THE DIETRE KID. HE WAS THE POLAR OPPOSITE OF HIS BROTHER. RED HAIR, AMETHYST EYES. AND YOU SAID THAT LINE AGAIN.]
I'm just stating facts. If it weren't for him… maybe, maybe we wouldn't have been too late. Maybe we could have saved her.
[ADMIN B: …]
After a short walk, they finally reached the outdoor section of the battlements. The snow seemed heavier.
The western battlement offered a panoramic, if grim, view. A hundred yards to the east, Tomas and Gareth directed a swarm of laborers repairing the wall, their shouts and the rhythmic clang of hammers a strange melody of reconstruction. But directly below them, dropping away into a dizzying chasm, was the raw edge of the Void-Rot Forest. The treetops, twisted and blackened, looked like the spines of some drowned beast. And moving among them, silent as ghosts, were the silver wolves—patrolling, marking, and utterly ignoring the two-hundred-foot drop.
Rhys leaned on the icy stone, his gaze fixed on the scene below. "Look at them. They don't even think of it as dangerous. It's just… the ground."
Lia took a final, long drag from her cigar and flicked the butt over the edge. It spun, a tiny ember swallowed by the grey mist below. "It's their home. We're the ones living on the cliff."
"That's your third one today," Rhys said, not looking at her. "You're going through a pack a day. Your lungs are going to be charcoal before the Void Rot gets you."
"My lungs, my business. You sound like Helen."
"Helen isn't wrong. We need you sharp, not hacking up a lung in the middle of a firefight."
"I'll hack up whatever I want, Hans," she shot back, reaching for the pack in her pocket.
A polite throat-clearing sounded behind them.
They turned. Leaning against the archway leading back inside, arms crossed and a faint, curious smile on his lips, was Deitre Wykenight. His red hair was a violent splash of color against the stone, his amethyst eyes watching them with an intelligence that felt uncomfortably sharp.
"Lord Rhys. Your Grace," he said, dipping his head. "I hope I'm not intruding. The view is… educational."
Rhys's easygoing expression didn't change, but his eyes cooled. "Lord Deitre. What brings you out of your beautifully appointed, freezing prison? I thought the guest wing had all the comforts of home. Minimal heat, maximum ambiance."
Deitre's smile didn't waver. "The ambiance was beginning to feel a bit… solitary. And I was told I could walk the battlements, provided I didn't ask impertinent questions about the local wildlife." He gestured vaguely downward. "A promise I am keeping, despite the overwhelming temptation."
Lia lit another cigar, the flare of the match highlighting the faint circles under her eyes. "Smart. They're not pets. They're allies. Less talking, more observing. You'll live longer."
"A philosophy I am beginning to appreciate," Deitre said, his gaze lingering on her for a moment too long—taking in the tactical gear, the casual smoke, the stark difference from the girl he'd seen in the capital. He turned his attention back to Rhys. "The repairs seem to be progressing with remarkable speed. Your people are… motivated."
"Nothing motivates like not wanting to be eaten," Rhys said flatly. "And gold. Gold helps. Speaking of, where's your shadow? Jill making another annoying list to inquire about?"
"He was making his report earlier when I left, about our… observations." Deitre's tone was light, but the words were deliberate. He was testing the water.
A comfortable, tense silence fell, punctuated only by the wind and the distant construction. Deitre's gaze kept drifting back over the battlement, tracking the silver shapes moving through the skeletal trees below.
Lia took a slow drag, watching the smoke get torn apart by the wind. She followed his line of sight, then glanced at Rhys, who was making a subtle 'go on' gesture with his fingers.
"My brothers are such snobs right now, aren't they?" Lia said suddenly, her voice conversational, almost bored.
Rhys let out an offended squawk. "Hey! I'm right here!"
Lia ignored him, nodding toward the forest. "See that one a little bigger than the others? The one that looks like he owns the place?" She pointed to a massive silver form that moved with a leader's authority. "His name's Havec. I rescued that huge ass pup outside the wall a couple of weeks back. Bleeding out, half-dead."
Deitre's attention snapped to her, his polite mask slipping into genuine curiosity.
"And when it started speaking," Lia continued, a tired, genuine laugh escaping her, "it felt like we were tripping balls, and I swear there's not a single decent drug in this whole frozen shithole."
Deitre blinked. The casual profanity, the absurdity of the statement—it was so utterly different from the noble speech he was used to. "It… spoke? From the beginning?"
"First words were basically 'who the fuck are you and why did you save me?'" Rhys chimed in, grinning. "Charming guy. Really grateful."
Lia's smile faded into something more serious. "We didn't know talking wolves existed either. Thought they were just… monsters. Myths. But they're the reason we went into that hellhole you saw from the wall." She gestured with her cigar toward the endless, dark tree line. "They were dying. The last of their pack, cornered. So we went. Fought some giant metal bugs. Almost died. Brought back what was left."
Deitre's eyes widened slightly. The casual mention of the "hellhole" and "giant metal bugs" sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the wind. "You invaded the Void-Rot Forest… for wolves."
"For people," Lia corrected, her tone losing its casual edge. "They're not monsters. They're refugees. From whatever that forest used to be before it turned into… that." She took a final puff and stubbed out the cigar on the stone. "If you're wondering how they can talk, we don't have a clue either. They say they're direct subjects of the Great Sun. Devotees. We're just taking their word for it until we find a fucking history book that isn't burned or rotted."
Rhys nodded. "The plan is to formally welcome them as citizens of the North once things calm down. Introduce them to the townsfolk. Let the pups and the elders—they're still healing in the Dark Corner—meet everyone."
Deitre absorbed this, his mind whirling. Talking wolves, ancient devotees of the Sun, given sanctuary. It was insane. It was revolutionary. It was the kind of story that got you declared a heretic or a visionary, depending on who was listening. "The capital… the Temple of the Sun… they would have strong opinions."
"Good thing we don't answer to them anymore," Lia said flatly. "We answer to the North."
Rhys stretched, his joints popping. "Anyway, you should be thinking about heading back to the West soon, Lord Deitre. There's nothing for you here but catching a cold from this bullshit weather and watching us argue about supply budgets."
As he spoke, his fingers swiped through the air in front of him in a series of intricate, seemingly random gestures. A faint, shimmering blue holographic window, invisible to Deitre, flickered at his command.
"Whoa," Rhys murmured to himself, his eyes scanning something only he could see. "Swarovski EL 8.5x42 inspired design… for 275,000 EXP? That's a fucking steal!" Without hesitation, he made a tapping motion in the air.
There was a soft hum of coalescing energy. Blue holographic cubes materialized in Rhys's waiting hands, stacking and locking together with crystalline chimes. In seconds, they formed into a pair of binoculars of sleek, impossible design—matte black with subtle, glowing blue accents along the focus wheel.
Lia glanced at Deitre, who was staring, utterly slack-jawed, at the object that had just appeared from nowhere. She offered a small, apologetic smile. "He does that a lot. Don't mind him."
Rhys raised the binoculars to his eyes, testing them on the depths of the Void Forest. He let out a low whistle of appreciation. "Crisp. So crisp. I can see a fucking icicle forming on a branch three miles away. This is dope."
Deitre found his voice, though it came out a bit strangled. "Lord Rhys… are you… a 'Decoy'?" He used the term for untrained mages cautiously. "The weapons from the battle… the gear… is this Javier magic?"
Rhys lowered the binoculars and shared a quick, silent look with Lia. A flicker of unspoken communication passed between them in their Party Link.
'Here we go.' Rhys.
'Keep it vague. Mysterious.' Eliana.
Rhys turned back to Deitre, his expression turning conspiratorially serious. He leaned in slightly. "Decoy? Please. Those amateurs couldn't make a decent light show." He lowered his voice. "It's… the lost heretic magic of House Javier. The real stuff. The kind they don't teach in the Tower because they don't understand it. The four of us… we managed to inherit it." He shrugged, as if discussing an inconvenient family heirloom.
Deitre's mind flashed back to his father's words in the study—'nobody knows the meaning of the Javiers' crest.' The mysterious sun and moon and chains. It fit. It was a perfect, unverifiable, and utterly noble explanation for their incomprehensible technology. He found himself nodding, the lie slotting neatly into the mystery.
"I see," he said, awe tempering his skepticism. "It looks… advanced. Like magitech, but…"
"But better," Rhys finished, his grin returning. "Magitech gives you grainy, black-and-white images that give you a headache. This?" He thrust the binoculars toward Deitre. "This is art. Try it. Be jealous. It's okay."
Hesitantly, Deitre took the proffered device. It was lighter than it looked, warm where Rhys had held it. He raised it to his eyes, adjusting the focus as Rhys directed.
The world snapped into hyper-clarity. He could see the individual needles of frost on distant branches, the texture of the stone on the far side of the fortress, the weary but determined set of a laborer's face a hundred yards away. It was like a veil had been ripped from his eyes.
"By the Sun…" he breathed, the noble exclamation slipping out in his shock.
"Told you," Rhys said, smug. He plucked the binoculars back from Deitre's unresisting hands. "Family secret. Don't go blabbing about it."
The interaction—the shared secret (even a false one), the incredible technology, Lia's blunt honesty about the wolves—had done something. The wall of icy, formal hostility that had surrounded the Javiers' since his arrival seemed to have thinned, just a little. He was no longer just a nuisance envoy. He was a witness to their strange, terrifying, fascinating new reality.
Deitre looked from Rhys's proud face to Lia's tired, observant one. A slow, real smile touched his lips, different from his usual polished smirk. It was the smile of someone who had decided the most interesting place in the world was right here, on this freezing, monster-adjacent wall.
"I believe," he said quietly, "my report to my brother may take longer to write than anticipated. There appears to be much more to… observe."
Lia met his gaze, and for the first time, her eyes held a glint of something that wasn't irritation or exhaustion. It was an assessment. And perhaps, the very beginnings of a wary acceptance.
"Just don't get in the way," she said, but the edge was gone from her voice. She turned and walked back inside, leaving Rhys and Deitre in the cold.
"Ah right, you received a call earlier." She added before completely turning away.
Rhys winked at Deitre, tucking his miraculous binoculars into a coat pocket. "Welcome to the North, kid. Try not to freeze your ass off."
He followed Lia, leaving Deitre Wykenight alone on the battlement, the wind pulling at his red hair, his mind buzzing with impossible wolves, heretic magic, and the dawning conviction that going back to the West would feel, forever after, like going back to a dream. The waking world was here, in the cold and the chaos.
—To Be Continued…—