Silvestia lay motionless on a straw-cushioned bed inside a wide, canvas-draped tent—an extension Daisuke had erected beside the Twinkle Orphanage. The manalamp glowed softly, casting a gentle shadow over the girl's still face.
A few paces away stood Daisuke, Sister Aeliana, and Brek. The three of them said nothing at first, their eyes fixed on the unfortunate fae whose breathing came slow and shallow. Outside the tent, a group of curious children peeked in through the opening flap.
"Did Master come by to pay us a visit?" Ryo whispered.
"I hope he brought more of that candy!" Lio chimed in excitedly, already drooling at the thought.
"Aww," Ribbit muttered, visibly disappointed. "I was hoping he'd still be Sophia."
Alia and Mina both flinched in unison at the sentiment.
A loud fart ruptured the moment, and all heads turned sharply.
"I-I'm sorry," Ribbit squeaked awkwardly, red-faced. "Your judgmental gazes made me nervous."
Garrett shot Theo a sideways glance, then turned back to Ribbit with a serious expression. "Just wondering… would locking someone in a room with Ribbit count as a war crime? Y'know, since it basically turns into a gas chamber?"
Theo sighed and gave a noncommittal shrug.
Sister Aeliana's delicate eyebrows knitted as she watched the sleeping fae. "Poor girl… You said she was taken by slavers?"
"She was," Daisuke replied, his voice low. "They roughed her up pretty bad. Zephyr seemed fixated on her for some reason, so I couldn't leave her behind."
Brek shot him a sidelong glance. "Is it just me, or do you always end up dropping someone off whenever you visit?"
Daisuke scratched the back of his neck and offered a sheepish smile. "Heh… guess I'm building a bit of a reputation."
The nun leaned slightly toward the Wolfkin, peeking up at him from one eye with a teasing smile. "I think what he meant to say is that you have a good heart. And we'll do all we can to care for her. You can count on us."
Brek bared his teeth, folding his arms as he looked away. "Tch. Whatever."
Daisuke's smile faded. "I just need you to look after her until I figure something out."
His eyes drifted beyond the tent, past the trees and rooftops of the lower district, toward the lofty towers of the palace in the distance. His expression sharpened. "But for now… I need to head back. I've got a feeling Lumielle's situation is about to get worse."
***
Under the vigilant glow of the moon, Stynx crept across the desolate inner ward. His eyes drifted upward, drawn to the towering silhouette of the Crownspire. There it stood, cut against the starless sky like a blade stabbed into the heavens. Within its highest chamber, Princess Lumielle remained confined.
He bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood.
Lord Vaerythos had ordered him to kill her with his own two hands. The stakes didn't need to be spoken aloud—its weight lingered, heavy and absolute.
If he wished to atone for his recent failure, to rise above disgrace and reclaim his path to the throne, then this was the price. He had to do this, even if it meant killing the only person who had ever truly seen him.
His finger wandered to the faint scar beneath his right eye, and for a brief, flickering moment, he saw it again—an angry mob, a hail of rocks and shouts, and a girl stepping between him and the fire.
"Stynx, you bastard!"
The sudden curse rang out behind him like the crack of a whip, tearing through the silence. Stynx turned, unsurprised.
Hynes stood at the edge of the courtyard, his silver cloak fluttering lightly in the breeze. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, though rage alone looked ready to carry him the rest of the way.
Stynx cocked a brow. "Captain Hynes. Out patrolling the ward, or are you here to lecture me about diligence again?"
"You can drop the theatrics, I heard everything," Hynes spat venomously. "Vaerythos. His order. You. Slithering out here like some mangy stray to do his bidding."
Stynx narrowed his eyes. "This has nothing to do with you. Walk away."
"The hell it doesn't," Hynes growled, stepping forward. "I swore my life to protect her. She's my responsibility. I don't care what they told you. If you lay a hand on her, I will end you."
"How noble," Stynx said, folding his arms. "Tell me, do you practice those lines in front of the mirror before bed?"
Hynes didn't flinch. "She saved me when I was nothing. Raised me from the gutter. And I won't let her be a victim of your pathetic ambitions."
"Last chance. I suggest you turn around," Stynx warned again. "You don't want to do this."
"I have to do this," Hynes shot back. "Just like you think you have to kill her. You want to prove yourself? Fine. Prove it to the bastards pulling your strings. But don't you dare drag her down with you."
Stynx's jaw twitched.
Hynes took another step. "It's already pathetic enough that you waste air doing nothing all day. A hollow, purposeless puppet waiting for someone to tell him who to stab. But now you're letting those traitorous scum use you to hurt her and everything she's worked for?"
His voice dropped, low and dangerous. "I hate people like you."
For a moment, they stood frozen in the tension—moonlight spilling over the grassy plain, breath misting in the cold air. Then Stynx drew his sword, the sound echoing like a declaration of death.
"Talking won't get us anywhere."
Hynes didn't flinch. His own blade hissed from its sheath, polished to a mirror sheen. "Finally, something we agree on."
The man stepped forward, his armor catching the silver sheen of the moon. His grip was solid, eyes unblinking.
Stynx sneered. What a joke.
This was the captain of the princess's guard? A man who looked more suited to a ballroom or perfume salon than a battlefield? His hair was perfectly cut and permed, face carefully groomed, not a single imperfection in sight.
His armor was so polished it looked almost ceremonial, and his lashes were thick enough to make any noblewoman jealous. How he'd earned the position of captain was anyone's guess.
Stynx scoffed under his breath. "Look at you… powdered cheeks, manicured hands. It's a wonder you can lift that sword."
Hynes said nothing.
"You look more like a court lady than a soldier," Stynx went on, lips curling into a smirk. "Like you spend more time preening in front of mirrors and mingling with gossiping women than sweating through drills in the yard."
He shook his head tauntingly, slowly lowering his stance. "Maybe I don't even need this sword. I'll just turn you to ash."
He lifted his free hand. Orange light flared between his fingers.
Hynes didn't blink. "Try it."
Stynx's hand ignited with a snap of his fingers, a swirl of crimson flame coiling upward like a serpent hungry for flesh. "This won't take long," he muttered coldly before hurling the fireball straight at the man who stood between him and the throne.
But the captain was already in motion.
Hynes moved in a flash—dodging the blaze with a pivot of his armored frame. One blink and he was already upon Stynx like a vengeful Lipanthyer. A gauntleted fist crashed into the bastard's face, the metal plating embedding itself into vulnerable flesh.
Time seemed to stall.
CRACK!
Stynx's nose folded beneath the weight of the strike, his head whipping sideways as he was launched off his feet. He crashed into the ground several meters away like discarded refuse, the air completely knocked from his lungs.
Before he could even think past the shock and disbelief, Hynes was there again. Suddenly, a flash of steel boots, and then—
BOOM!
The sole of Hynes's sabatons smashed into his gut, the impact cratering the earth beneath them. Spit and blood burst from Stynx's mouth as he folded in half.
"You think I earned this armor playing dress-up?" Hynes snarled. "It took years of blood, sweat, and the Knight Commander's blessing to become captain of the princess's guard. The reason I can afford to look clean is because I earned it."
His foot mercilessly lashed out again. Stynx's body arched violently before slamming back into the ground and rolling several meters away before coming to an explosive stop.
He coughed, blood dribbling down his lip as he writhed. H-How… can he be this fast… in that armor?
Hynes wasn't about to give him a moment of reprieve to mull it over. He had already closed the distance, sword in hand, slashing in a flurry of strikes so fast they blurred under the moonlight.
"Heavy—" Stynx grunted, barely deflecting the first blow with his own sword.
Steel met steel as he desperately parried, but the sheer force behind each strike left his arms trembling. Sparks flew. Deep gashes began to open on his arms, chest, and sides, one after another.
Each wound fueled his fury. With a desperate cry, he swung his sword in a wide arc—but missed.
Hynes ducked under the swing and seized the royal bastard's hand, the one still gripping the weapon. Then, slowly, deliberately—he squeezed.
"Gghraaaaagh!" Stynx howled in agony, his knees buckling as pain shot up his arm like wildfire.
Hynes slapped him across the face—once, twice, a backhand, then another slap—never letting go of his wrist. Blood sprayed. Stynx's head lolled, dazed and battered.
Then Hynes seized him by the collar and drove his skull into the dirt with a sickening crash. Dust rose. Stynx lay stunned, groaning, until Hynes yanked him upright by a fistful of his hair and dragged him to his knees.
Through swollen lips, the bastard prince spat onto the emblem on Hynes's breastplate. "Go ahead, kill me. But if you don't finish it now… I'll kill you. I swear it, even if it takes my last breath."
Hynes's eyes narrowed. "You're a traitor," he said coldly. "And those guilty of high treason don't deserve the luxury of a trial."
He raised his sword high overhead, both hands wrapped around the hilt. The blade gleamed, its target: the hollow at the base of the neck, a brutal execution.
But just as the blade began its descent—
BOOOOOOOOOMMM!
A deafening explosion tore through the night.
The upper floors of the Crownspire Tower lit up in a blaze of fire, molten rock, and shattered glass. Flames spilled from the windows. A plume of black smoke surged into the sky.
Hynes froze.
Stynx's bloodied eyes widened.
They both stared at the sight, mouths agape.