As the sun dipped below the horizon, the true scale of the festivities became apparent. Gifts flowed into the palace not in trickles, but in a relentless tide that threatened to overwhelm the Great Hall.
By evening, the marble floors were buried under a mountain of tribute that looked less like a birthday celebration and more like a dragon's hoard. From shimmering bolts of mana-silk to ivory cases holding ancient scrolls, the wealth of the Empire lay piled high, a glittering testament to the Valerian influence.
While the Great Hall glittered with the hollow laughter of aristocrats, Markus remained a ghost in the periphery. He spent the evening tucked away in a quiet alcove of the annex, finding more value in the hushed conversations of his team's kin than in the Emperor's wine.
However, the empty seats at their table felt like open wounds; Isolde and Sloane were conspicuously absent. The borders had become a powder keg, with security elevated to a fever pitch to stave off opportunistic strikes from the Solarian Empire. In the silence between their stories, Markus could almost feel the distant vibration of the frontier—a storm that even a royal birthday couldn't delay.
"Phase Two is complete. Now, we test the pressure points," Markus stated, his voice flat and clinical. "I'm taking Rosalind into a high-density Tier-1 dungeon. I've scouted a rift where the mana-beasts are peaking at the threshold of Tier 2—it's the exact range where her foundation will either solidify or shatter. She's spent enough time in the annex refining her mana circuits; she needs the 'frenzy' of a real encounter to force her to function under duress."
"I'm assigning the four of you as her unit for this descent," Markus said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding register.
"You are the finest support structure I can provide, but I am issuing a strict directive: do not babysit her. I want you to be shadows, not shields. Rosalind needs to feel the heat of the beasts' breath and the cold sting of a near-miss. Let her experience the frantic pulse of a real engagement—the genuine threat of the unknown. If she doesn't believe she might die, she will never learn how to truly live as a Sovereign."
Rosanne, Jessica, Mika, and Donna nodded in unison, their expressions hardening into a shared, grim understanding. They knew exactly what Markus meant. Flowers grown in a greenhouse may bloom with unparalleled beauty, but they wither the moment they are touched by a frost they've never felt.
If Rosalind was to survive the coming winter, she could no longer be a delicate blossom protected by glass and gold. She had to become a briar—sharp, resilient, and capable of thriving in the dirt and the blood of the wild.
"I will handle the negotiations with the Emperor myself," Markus said, his gaze fixed on the distant silhouette of the Imperial palace. "He will not like the risks, but he understands the necessity of a tempered blade. Once I get permission, we will commence Phase Three. The time for controlled refinement is over; it's time to see if her spirit can survive the unfiltered reality of the Void."
With a heavy sigh that held the weight of a death sentence, Markus led his entourage out of the sanctuary of the annex and into the gilded maw of the main mansion. They moved with a rhythmic, predatory grace that felt entirely alien to the ballroom's stiff etiquette.
While the nobles shimmered in silk and lace, Markus and his team remained a stark column of dark, tailored lines and quiet intensity. Every step onto the polished marble felt like a concession, a begrudging trade of tactical silence for the suffocating perfume and shallow flattery of the Imperial court.
Rosalind's face lit up, the heavy mask of "Imperial Princess" fracturing into a genuine, radiant smile the moment she spotted Markus and his team. She moved toward them with a poise that had noticeably sharpened over the past months.
"The champions of the Spires," she greeted, her voice carrying a newfound resonance as she reached the group. She didn't just offer the parents a polite nod; she greeted them with the sincere warmth of someone who understood the sacrifice it took to raise warriors of their caliber.
To the parents, she wasn't just a distant royal—she was the girl who saw their children as the legends they were becoming.
Markus gave Rosalind a curt, approving nod—a silent tether of support—before turning toward the dais where Emperor Valerian sat enthroned. He moved through the crowd not as a subject, but as a force of nature, the sea of nobles parting before his steady stride.
Ascending the marble steps, he leaned in to speak where the music couldn't carry his words. "The foundation is set, Your Majesty," Markus murmured, his silver gaze meeting the Emperor's golden one. "It is time for Phase Three. I am taking her into the Rifts. She has learned to wield the void; now she must learn to survive the unknown."
The Emperor's expression softened, the tension in his jaw finally relaxing. "The Rifts can wait until sunrise. We'll finalize the Phase Three parameters in the morning," Valerian stated, gesturing toward the vibrant chaos of the ballroom.
"For now, I am suspending your duties as a mentor. Consider this a direct order: blend in, drink the wine, and enjoy the celebration. Even a Tier 5 Master cannot sustain a constant state of stress, Markus. Take the night."
With the Emperor's blessing secured, Markus returned to the heart of the Blackwell circle. The team was in the middle of their own private ceremony, presenting Rosalind with gifts that would actually matter in the Rifts.
Rosanne handed over a specialized spatial pouch, while Mika and Donna presented a set of reinforced leather bracers etched with stabilization runes. These weren't just birthday presents; they were the essential gear for Phase Three. As she took them, the air in the annex seemed to hum—a silent acknowledgment that the "Princess" was being outfitted for the life of a Warrior.