"Is the Empire intentionally delaying this treaty?" a Zerounix advisor hissed. His sun-bronzed features tightened; sharp brown eyes scanned the Solairé delegation with open suspicion.
The atmosphere in the hall shifted. Solairé representatives' expressions hardened.
"We are not stalling," the elderly advisor replied. "But a matter of this scale requires thorough reconsideration."
A sharp-eyed man nodded. "A treaty of this magnitude will reshape the Empire's future. We cannot afford to be hasty."
"Then specify which clauses you dispute!" the Zerounix advisor bit out. "We are here to negotiate, not listen to excuses!"
Tension rippled through the chamber. Accusations were met with justifications, but explanations only deepened the distrust.
Tristan watched the mounting arguments in silence. Raised voices faded, replaced by the frantic toll of a clock in his mind. Four days…
Four days since I sent the mercenaries to look for Lucien, yet no word.
He raked a hand through his hair, breath hissing between his teeth. His skull felt ready to split.
They managed to stretch the negotiation as long as they could, but Zerounix's patience was fraying. With only one day remaining before the kidnappers' deadline, could they find Lucien in time?
His body stiffened. A vivid flash—hot blood pooling beneath him—seared his mind. His pulse roared in his ears; trembling fingers clawed at his hair while the image of Lucien's lifeless body, heavy in his arms, burned behind his eyelids. A cold paralysis crept down his spine, numbing his limbs.
Ah… I killed him—
A thunderous crack snapped him back. Tristan jerked his head toward the dais. King Guthrie, the pale elf with cyan hair, slammed the gavel against the sounding block, silencing the hall.
Tristan exhaled shakily and wiped the cold sweat from his brow.
"Delegates," Guthrie's cool voice rolled across the chamber. His jade eyes swept both factions. "If either of you seeks peace, then speak with reason—not accusation."
His disappointment was plain in the set of his mouth. After a moment, he struck the gavel once more. "This session is adjourned. We will reconvene after luncheon. Return with clear minds—and with the conduct befitting diplomats."
As Guthrie and the elven magistrates stood to leave, the hall filled with the grating sound of chairs dragging back. The Zerounix advisors followed suit, sweeping past with narrowed, accusatory eyes fixed on the Solairéans.
The heavy doors closed behind them with a dull thud; silence settled over the chamber like a suffocating veil.
Tristan glanced to his side. Cyrus rubbed the bridge of his nose, weariness carved into every line of his face. After everything, his father's frustration was understandable. He was desperately searching for his son while trying to secure the treaty that could end decades of conflict—an opportunity that would not come twice.
But now—
Tristan looked down at his quivering hands. Why is the past repeating itself?
His fingers curled into fists, nails pricking his palm. Am I truly powerless to change anything?
The heavy doors of the hall groaned open again, drawing every gaze. A knight entered, bowing deeply before handing a sealed letter to Cyrus.
"Rebirth Mercenary delivered this."
Tristan's head snapped toward the parchment; heart hammered against his ribs. Did they find him?
Cyrus broke the wax seal with a snap. The rustle of parchment was deafening in the chamber. His crimson eyes darted across the page. Tristan's pulse spiked, mind whirred with possibilities.
After what felt like eternity, Cyrus eventually lowered the letter and flicked his finger. A transparent dome flared around his advisors.
"The prince and Lady Roschella have escaped," Cyrus announced. "The Rebirth Mercenaries in Zerounix are sheltering them."
A rumble of relieved voices surged through the group. Tristan exhaled sharply, relief crashing into him so hard he sagged back in his seat. For the first time in days, the iron band around his chest loosened.
Lucien is safe.
And he couldn't thank his brother enough for addressing the letter to Cyrus. Had it been sent to him, his ties to the mercenary network would have been exposed.
"Could it be Zerounix was behind the kidnapping all along?" the elderly advisor muttered.
Cyrus shook his head. "No. Lucien stated that the culprit is Akmé."
"Akmé?!" the sharp-eyed man barked. "That wretched cult?!"
"Why are those fanatics always stirring chaos?! What do they even stand to gain?"
"Once we return to Lumière, we must devise a plan to eradicate them—"
Tristan tapped his finger against the armrest, watching the room erupt into whispers. Akmé wouldn't go to such lengths unless they were after the Orbis Dei.
Their recent activity spiking across the Zerounix outskirt forest suggested an Orb was hidden there. But why abduct Lucien? What was his brother's connection to this? Could they be aiming for the Orbs in Lumière as well?
He was aware the event had changed. However, the Elders were guarding the Orbs; a confrontation by Akmé now would be tantamount to suicide.
A faint breath escaped him. Whether his guesses were correct or not, he needed to dispatch mercenaries to tighten surveillance around Zerounix forest and Sol Castle. If they were moving for the Orb, he had to intercept them—and might as well steal it if the chance arose.
"Tristan," Cyrus' voice cut through his thoughts, "what do you think of Zerounix's clauses?"
Tristan skimmed the document swiftly before lifting his gaze. "The clauses are sound. A peace treaty will open new trade routes that benefit both nations. It also allows joint operations against piracy, strengthening both borders."
Cyrus nodded and turned to the advisors. "And the rest of you?"
The advisors quickly chimed in, their earlier tension dissolving as they discussed the economic and strategic advantages. After a brief exchange of opinions, Cyrus made his decision.
"Then it's settled. We will establish the peace treaty with Zerounix."
A wave of approval swept through the room, advisors bartering relieved glances.
"And about my son," Cyrus began again. "I will personally bring Lucien home."
Silence slammed into the chamber. Expressions darkened immediately.
"Your Majesty, absolutely not!" an advisor blurted. "It's far too dangerous!"
"Even with the treaty, we cannot trust Zerounix right away!" another insisted. "Please reconsider!"
"Father," Tristan called, meeting Cyrus's gaze. "I agree with the advisors. It's too risky. Let the Rebirth Mercenaries escort Lucien and Lady Roschella. Their reputation is solid—they will ensure their safety."
Cyrus shook his head. "My decision is final."
Before Tristan could argue, Cyrus extended the letter toward him. "You will understand when you read it."
Tristan took it, scanning the inked lines. His brow furrowed—then froze. The final paragraph, the part left unspoken, made his jaw lock. The parchment crumpled slightly in his grip.
"…I understand." Tristan folded the letter carefully. "I'll take care of it."
Cyrus inclined his head. "Thank you."
"But Your Majesty—!"
The room erupted into alarmed shouts.
***
Hooves thundered on the cobblestone as Lucien—sharing a saddle with Roschella—and the mercenary rode through the bustling streets. After four days and three nights of near-sleepless riding, they arrived at the port.
The air thickened with brine and the sharp scent of fresh-caught fish. Gulls cried overhead, their calls cutting through the rumble of carts and the murmur of the waking harbor as they reached the pier.
Lucien swung off the horse and helped Roschella down. As her feet touched the planks, their eyes met—and he saw the fear raw behind hers.
"I have to go," he said quietly.
Yet, she only stared at him, conflicted, fingers twisting her skirt, lips quivering.
He understood this separation was agonizing for her, especially after what she endured, but taking her with him would be far more dangerous.
Lucien turned to the mercenary leader and the physician. "I'm entrusting Lady Roschella to you."
The woman bowed. "Rest assured, Your Highness. We will look after her."
"Thank you."
Just as he whirled around, a hand seized his sleeve. Roschella. Her grip trembled, eyes shining with unspoken fear.
"Lady Roschella—"
She cut him off with a sharp exhale. Drawing a handkerchief from her pocket, she tied it around his wrist before releasing him.
Her lips moved. [Come back safely.]
Lucien glanced at the embroidered fabric, then back at her, and offered a firm nod. "I will. Thank you."
He strode up the gangplank. The crew surged around him, their shouts and hurried footsteps rising into a storm of motion as the ship made ready to depart.
Stepping onto the deck, he looked back toward the port. Roschella still stood where he left her, hands clutching the folds of her skirt.
A quiet sigh slipped from him.
He hated rushing into danger. But after stopping the war from unfolding, he couldn't let Akmé drag events back toward their original course.