Knock, knock, knock, knock.
The sudden sound echoes softly, cutting through the quiet comfort of the room.
"Good evening, Father... Patriarch. It's been a while."
A familiar, melodic voice greets the two men who are currently lazing on their comfortable recliners. The Patriarch quickly adjusts himself, sitting up straight as his gaze snaps directly toward the open doorway.
There, standing gracefully in the threshold, is a stunning elven woman.
Her hair is as black as pure ink, tied up into a neat, high ponytail. Her eyes are a striking anomaly, mirroring the very same depth as Allister's. She wears a silky, twilight-blue gown adorned with intricate, shimmering black embroidery that catches the starlight brilliantly with every movement.
Walking toward them, the Patriarch gasped, letting out a boisterous laugh. "HAHAHA! Here is the woman from the stories! Alive and well, reclaiming her freedom and exacting her righteous revenge." Waving her over excitedly, the Patriarch gave her a grand, theatrical introduction.
"How are you, dear?!" he asked pleasantly, his face beaming with pride as he watched Sylvania strut over gracefully.
"It's been very hectic, Patriarch," she replied with a soft sigh. "I had mountains of work to catch up on, especially after being locked away in that prison for so long."
Leaning in, Christoph whispered to her carefully, pointing a finger toward Allister, who was lazily puffing on his cigar. "I heard you adopted that bastard as your father?"
Sylvania flashed a sharp, fox-like grin in reply. "That's right, sir, hehe~"
She wandered over to Allister's recliner, casually setting herself down on the wide armrest. "Well, it sort of just happened, sir. Did he tell you the full story? Of what truly occurred before and after those events?" Sylvania asked playfully, reaching down to pick up Allister's glass of whiskey before taking a smooth sip.
"Dear girl, you don't need to pick up all of his bad habits now, do you?" the Patriarch grumbled good-naturedly in reply.
"Hmmm… I guess he did leave out quite a bit of the story then, didn't he? Especially since little Aurelian was right there listening, too," the Patriarch continued, nodding thoughtfully.
"Yes, Patriarch. Would you like to hear the rest of it?" Sylvania asked, her playful demeanor vanishing as she stared deeply into the swirling amber liquid in the whiskey glass, her expression turning somber.
"I'll gladly listen if you want to tell it, Sylvania," the Patriarch told her softly, looking up at her with genuine compassion. Without a word, Allister's hand rose lazily out of his lap, gently wrapping his fingers around Sylvania's hand, offering a silent, comforting warmth.
She looked down at Allister's hand resting on hers, she felt safe next to these two, the monarch of frost and steel, and the eternal warrior.
"Well, those events started right after the wedding, patriarch. Gaelin Winris, the man who would have been my husband, sold me out to the Archdukes faction." "He traded his honor, for a petty position and money, Fucking trash." Allister snarled, taking another puff of the cigar.
Allister put out the finished cigar and pulled another one from his pocket. Sylvania moved her hand backwards, snapped her fingers making a flame, and lighting his cigar for him.
"He handed me over, saying that I was a strategic hostage, knowing that, the Archduke did as he liked. Torture, interrogation, and all sorts of other things, trying to make me to make things for his coup d'état. When I didn't, he resorted to…maiming me so that I wouldn't be able to work again."
Allister held his hand over his temples, rubbing them, calming himself down. Sylvania leaned backwards, falling into Allister's lap, and rubbed his temples for him. Looking at him lovingly, she continued, "but Dad here, found me right before anything else happened."
"He even gave me a gift, see?" Sylvania held her hand over her burgundy eye, looking a bit rueful. Allister patted her on the head soothing her, and said, "I only did what any sane father would do, child."
The patriarch added, "No wonder your eye color changed, Sylvania. I was wondering about that, you look truly like father and daughter now. Hahahaha—then what happened afterwards? Why did you blow up the forest?" the patriarch continued. "I simply claimed my loot, patriarch." Sylvania replied.
"After killing the Archduke, I erased his traces, permanently." A chilling smile crept onto her face. "Don't forget to tell him about your seer friend, Sylvie." Allister added, "After all the wet work, we met the high elves seer family, which happed to have one of Fathers crests, they gave it back, asking for a few wishes in return."
"What were they?" the Patriarch asked.
"Healing their sick family, helping them learn to properly control their magic… trivial stuff, really," Allister answered lazily, waving it off.
"But it's not trivial to them, Dad," Sylvania interjected, nudging him gently. "Learning to properly use their magic allows them to look into things much more clearly."
"Touché, kiddo," Allister groaned, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. He took another puff of his cigar before adding, "Don't forget how the Empress chewed us out afterward, too, heh."
"Yeah… which is exactly why I've been stuck doing so much paperwork since I got back. Haaaah," Sylvania sighed heavily, resting her head back against his shoulder.
"Well, at least it's all over now," the Patriarch added warmly, stretching his legs out and lazing deeper into the plush leather sofa.
Allister glanced toward the towering rows of bookshelves. "Oh, your friend is waiting for you, Sylvie. Why don't you go say hi?" he said, pointing lazily over toward Rosalyn.
"Huh?" Sylvania's eyes lit up with excitement as she spotted Rosalyn, who was sitting nearby, focused intently on a heavy ancient book she was holding.
"Rosalyn, dear, Sylvania's here!" the Patriarch called out, his deep voice echoing across the vaulted library halls. But Rosalyn was so entirely captivated by the pages that she didn't even look up.
"Well now, it seems Rosalyn is deeply focused on her books, Christoph," Allister chuckled, amused by the princess's intense concentration. He then looked around the room, noticing a missing member of their party. "Where's Alexandr, Sylvie?"
"Uh… I think he's in the greenhouse," Sylvania replied, gesturing toward the back of the library. "He walked that way if I recall."
"Alright then," Allister murmured, before turning his attention back to his old friend. "Christoph, how many more days until we get to Celestia-Belessier?"
"Hmm, about eight days. Why do you ask?"
"I've got a massive hankering for Maria's beef tongue stew."
"Hahahaha! She really does make the best beef tongue stew, doesn't she?" the Patriarch boomed, sharing a nostalgic smile with the wanderer. "" "Well now, I wonder how good it'll be once she sees Rosalyn again."
Sylvania bounced up slightly from Allister's lap, her eyes sparkling with childish anticipation. "Since Rosalyn's so focused on her books, can we go make some s'mores, Dad?"
"What's that?" the Patriarch asked, tilting his head.
"It's a fluffy white dessert you roast and eat with chocolate and soft crackers, Patriarch," Sylvania explained with a bright smile.
The Patriarch raised an eyebrow, thoroughly intrigued. "Alright, shall we go make some then?" Allister asked playfully, tapping his cigar ash into the tray.
The three of them stood up and wandered back out, returning to the main campsite. As they stepped into the clearing, they noticed a massive crowd gathered around. The modern soldiers and the historical knights were currently in the middle of a massive sparring session.
The Patriarch stopped to watch, but as his eyes tracked the movements of the warriors, his expression hardened. His eyes narrowed, a look of profound annoyance washing over his face as he watched the modern soldiers repeatedly getting beaten and driven back by the historical knights.
"ATTEN—TION!" one of the modern knights suddenly roared, catching a glimpse of the terrifying look on the Patriarch's face.
Instantly, the clashing of swords ceased. Every single soldier and knight froze, snapping to a rigid attention as a heavy silence fell over the valley.
"Allister," the Patriarch spoke, his deep voice dripping with disapproval, "why are the knights of the future getting beaten so effortlessly like that?"
Allister crossed his arms, evaluating the field. "Looks like it's a flaw in their baseline training. Their combat style looks to have changed significantly around the time the Emperor tried to starve out Belessier, forcing them to adopt a much more defensive, survival role."
"Hmmm… this won't do," the Patriarch muttered, his fist clenching.
"But Patriarch, if you look at them closely," Sylvania added, stepping up beside him, "the way they spar shows they have potential. If they were to train together continuously, they could learn from one another and fix each other's shortfalls, right?"
A slow, menacing smile crept onto the Patriarch's face. At the sight of that grin, a violent shiver ran down the spines of every single knight within earshot.
"GABRIEL!" he boomed, his voice echoing across the camp.
The Storm Knights' Captain stepped forward, saluting with precision. "Sir!"
"From this exact moment until we arrive in Celestia-Belessier, I want our knights and the modern knights sparring daily," the Patriarch ordered sternly. "Force them to learn from each other, tear down their flaws, and make up for any shortfalls."
"YES, SIR!" the knights shouted back in perfect, deafening unison.
"You may continue," the Patriarch said, waving them off.
The tense atmosphere broke, and the intense sound of sparring resumed with twice the fervor.
Sitting down by their own crackling campfire, Allister reached into his coat and pulled out a tray completely loaded with fresh marshmallows, roasting sticks, soft crackers, and blocks of rich chocolate. He handed the supplies over to Sylvania, letting her happily take charge of preparing the treat.
"What is that dark brown substance?" the Patriarch asked, leaning forward and eyeing the blocks with intense curiosity.
"It's called chocolate. It's a specialty treat the elves typically hoard for the winter," Allister explained with a mischievous smirk.
Sylvania handed the Patriarch a long stick with a fluffy marshmallow pierced on the tip. "The trick is to gently brown the outside of the marshmallow over the embers, giving it a soft, smoky flavor," Sylvania explained, demonstrating the technique with her own stick. "I also like to rest the chocolate on top of the crackers near the edge of the fire pit, letting the heat warm them up so they soften nicely."
"Then, once you're done browning the outside of the marshmallow, you sandwich them all together between the crackers and enjoy—"
Chomp.
Before Sylvania could finish her sentence, Allister smoothly leaned over, swiped the freshly made s'more right out of her hand, and took a massive bite.
"It tastes wonderful," Allister added casually, chewing on the stolen treat while chuckling in triumph at her outraged expression.
"Ugh, Dad!" Sylvania huffed, though a smile quickly returned to her face. She looked back at the Patriarch and softened. "Honestly, it tastes the best when you're eating it in the company of the people you enjoy."
With a soft laugh, Sylvania began assembling more—crafting a perfect, gooey s'more for the Patriarch and another one for herself. Sitting together under the star-lit sky, they smiled and enjoyed the sweet treats, letting the cool night breeze carry their worries away.
The next morning, the camp was dismantled with military precision, the sprawling convoy packing up for the next leg of their long journey.
By the time evening rolled around again, they had made significant progress along the winding roads toward Celestia-Belessier. The caravan had settled into a temporary night camp, but inside the specialized, enchanted library carriage, the atmosphere remained as still and timeless as ever.
Allister moseyed his way out of the cool night air of the new campsite and back into the familiar warmth of the library. The fireplace was flickering low, so he tossed a few more logs onto the grate, watching the embers crackle back to life.
With a content sigh, he sank into his familiar recliner. He pulled a small whittling knife from his jacket pocket and picked up a smooth piece of cedar he had saved from the woodpile, his hands moving with practiced ease as he began to shave away the rough edges.
Nearby, Aurelian was completely absorbed in his own world, happily tinkering away with the various contraptions and toys he had scattered across the floor. Through the glass doors, the faint, steady sound of Alexandr munching away on the tasty plants in the greenhouse filled the quiet room, completing the peaceful sanctuary.
Anastasia and Rosalyn stood together in the deep, shadowy recesses of the library, their lanterns casting a warm, amber glow over the rows of towering oak shelves. They had a stack of heavy, leather-bound record books spread open across a dust-filmed reading table.
Rosalyn's fingers traced the faded ink of an old military chronicle from the First Era, her brow furrowing as she compared it to a royal lineage ledger.
"Look at the territorial maps after the War of the First Vanguard," Rosalyn murmured, tilting her lantern closer to the yellowed parchment. "Every time our Empire was in a peaceful golden age, the neighboring Empire would launch a massive, unprovoked assault. But according to these ledgers, they never took land. They never looted our treasuries. They just fought until our royal vanguard was pushed to its absolute physical limits—and then they retreated."
Anastasia leaned over Rosalyn's shoulder, crossing her arms as she scanned the dry columns of numbers. "That doesn't make any tactical sense. Why wage a century-long campaign just to give up at the finish line? It looks like a massive historical contradiction. Honestly, it was probably just a series of border skirmishes that the old scribes over-dramatized to make our ancestors look like eternal protectors."
"Maybe," Rosalyn said slowly, turning the brittle page to a hand-drawn illustration of a fallen knight, the text beneath it detailing the knight as monstrous foe. "But look at the scribe's physical description of this enemy, the text explicitly calls his gaze 'abyssal shadows,' but the footnote from a high priest notes a highly unusual pigment—a distinct overlap of twilight and burgundy. It's a very specific description for a mad, mindless monster."
Anastasia let out a soft, amused huff, gently closing the heavy ledger and sending a tiny cloud of dust into the lantern light. "Rosalyn, it's a forty-thousand-year-old book. Ink fades, pigments bleed, and history is full of these weird little footnotes. Scribes love to embellish, and old wars are always messy."
Rosalyn stared at the closed cover for a long moment, a faint, lingering sense of curiosity tugging at her mind. But without any further context, it just seemed like a strange quirk of ancient politics—a dead end.
"Yeah. You're probably right," Rosalyn sighed, sliding the ledger back onto the dusty shelf. "It's just a bizarre piece of history. We have more important things to worry about than picking apart the flawed military strategies of the First Era."
"Exactly. Come on, let's go get some tea," Anastasia said, offering a bright, relaxed smile as she patted Rosalyn's shoulder. "I've had enough of dusty shelves for one night."
Playing it off as nothing more than a historical contradiction, the two sisters casually strolled out of the archives, entirely unbothered, leaving the silent discrepancies buried in the dark behind them.
They stepped into the library's cozy lounge, where the warm, inviting scent of burning cedar instantly enveloped them. Allister was sitting exactly where they had left him, slouched lazily in his worn leather chair. The small whittling knife in his hand made a soft, rhythmic scrape, scrape against a block of fresh wood. He didn't look like a conqueror, a phantom, or a monstrous knight. He just looked like a tired, ordinary dad who spent too much time working in the yard.
"Find what you were looking for, children?" Allister asked warmly, a familiar, goofy crinkle appearing around his eyes as he looked up from his work.
"Just a bunch of old war logs and weird history," Anastasia laughed, walking past his chair to stretch her arms over her head. "The old nations really didn't know how to run a proper campaign. The logistics make absolutely no sense."
"Is that so?" Allister murmured, a very faint, unreadable smile touching the corner of his lips. He didn't offer an explanation, nor did his posture change. He just picked up his small wooden bird, blowing a few stray cedar shavings off the wings with a quiet, weary sigh. "Well... history's a funny thing, kiddos. Sometimes the world fights for reasons that don't make it into the textbooks. Go wash up kids, you need to rest for the last leg of the journey home."
As the rest of the household slowly turned in for the night, the patriarch made his way over and slumped heavily into the recliner next to Allister's. He rubbed his eyes, watching the rhythmic motion of the blade.
"Why do you always whittle birds?" Christoph asked, his voice thick with exhaustion.
Allister didn't look up from his work, a soft grin tugging at his lips. "Because they're amazing creatures. They can fly, poop, and nest wherever they want to."
Christoph let out a dry, tired chuckle. "Then why don't you whittle yourself?"
"Nah," Allister shrugged casually, shaving off a thin ribbon of cedar. "I can do all those things too. But birds look cooler." He paused, glancing toward the darkened hallway. "Have the children gone to sleep?"
"Yeah. Just left for their rooms, I think."
As the two men slipped back into the easy comfort of their random conversations, Christoph's hands began to throb with a deep, radiant ache. He frowned, raising his palms and slowly massaging the tense muscles, trying to soothe the unnatural warmth gathering beneath his skin.
Allister caught the movement. His playful demeanor softened, a look of genuine concern flashing across his face. "Are your hands bothering you again?"
"Yeah," Christoph murmured, pressing his thumb into his palm with a weary sigh. "It just happens from time to time."
Before Allister could press further, the library door creaked open. Sylvania padded into the room, rubbing her sleepy eyes, and walked straight over to plop herself right into Allister's lap.
She leaned back against him, looking down at the half-formed shape in his hands. "Are you making birds again, Dad?"
"Always," Allister answered, his grin returning full force as he wrapped an arm around her to keep her steady. He tapped her nose playfully with his thumb before returning to the wood. "Cuz they're cool."