Chapter 131
The streets of Solnara Cererindu shimmered beneath banners of gold and emerald, the kingdom already alight with anticipation for Queen Nimriel Cererindu's birthday. Lanterns hung from silver posts, filling the air with warm glows even in daylight, while the fragrance of sugared fruits and flower garlands drifted across the market district.
Melgil walked between Ysil Thorne and Lora Sithe, her pace measured but her eyes wide at the sheer liveliness around them. Stalls were dressed in bright silks, smiths displayed jewelry that caught the sun like fire, and musicians on corners played tunes that made children dance in the streets.
"This city always outdoes itself," Ysil said with a small laugh, turning her head toward a stall where glassblowers twisted molten crystal into star-shaped ornaments. "Every year, the Queen's birthday feels like a festival for all realms, not just her own people."
Lora tilted her head as she examined a rack of finely woven ribbons. "It's more than a celebration," she remarked softly. "It's a reminder of Nimriel's reign—stability, beauty, unity. Even those who grumble against the crown still flock here when the lanterns are lit." She turned to Melgil with a gentle smile. "It suits you, doesn't it? Walking among laughter instead of battles."
Melgil gave a faint smile, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "It's… different," she admitted. "The noise of a market feels strange after so long with only whispers of steel and the silence of ruins."
Ysil nudged her shoulder playfully. "Then today, forget the ruins. Help us find gowns that will turn every head at the Queen's hall."
Melgil laughed quietly, the sound soft but genuine, and let herself be pulled toward a tailor's shop glowing with enchanted fabric that shimmered like water.
But before they could step inside, the crowd shifted. Murmurs rippled through the district as a cluster of armored hunters and guild players strode into view. At their head was a figure in white and gold, a woman whose face was instantly recognized by many. Lirael Schafer, once broken and bedridden, is now fully restored.
"She came back…" Lora whispered, her brows furrowing as her gaze followed the armored figure striding into the market square.
Ysil turned sharply, confusion flickering in her eyes. "Who?"
"Lirael Schafer," Lora replied, her voice carrying both recognition and unease. "Sub-captain of the Brilliance Guild. She's a known player—one with connections among the nobles here."
Ysil blinked, clearly surprised. "Her? A player? You mean she's above a licensed hunter?"
Lora nodded firmly. "Yes. Remember, the Royal Guild's structure isn't the same as what we're used to. Hunters are only the beginning. Once a warrior-type reaches level ten, they step into a different path entirely, player, then ranker, with titles that shift based on merit and mastery."
She counted softly on her fingers as though reciting an old lesson. "Adventurers rise to Seekers, then to Knight-errants, and beyond. Mages grow from Spellcasters to Spell Masters, then to Archmages, Battle-archmages, and War Mages. Each stage is earned, never gifted."
Ysil let out a low whistle. "So she's already climbed beyond hunters entirely. No wonder she walks like the ground should bow for her."
Before Melgil could respond, Lirael's voice thundered over the marketplace, commanding silence as if the air itself bent to her will.
"Hear me, nobles of Solnara, citizens of the realms!" Her words were sharp, precise, meant to slice into every ear. "I seek your judgment! I call upon you to stand with me against the evil that has deceived us all, the being who names itself Netherborn!"
Gasps broke across the crowd like shattered glass. Onlookers froze, mothers pulled children closer, and whispers of fear and fascination spread like wildfire. Reporters from both realms were already in motion, their quills scratching furiously, sketch-crystals flashing as if they had been waiting for this very moment to unfold.
Lirael's eyes blazed as she thrust her hand toward the golden crest stitched upon her shoulder the mark of the Brilliance Guild. "The War Forged who vanished those you once trusted have fallen into its shadow! It cloaks itself in honor, but beneath lies only manipulation,
corruption, and rot! I will not rest until this false being is erased from every corner of our world!"
The words hung heavy, electrifying the marketplace.
Melgil's hand tightened around the ribbon she had been holding, the silk crumpling in her grasp. She knew this story too well. The truth was not what Lirael painted.
In the hidden lands of Lúthien, Elaria Syrune, the elven girl adopted by Siglorr and Wrenla Bouldergrove had told Melgil the real tale. Greed, not honor, had driven the Brilliance Guild. Their vice captain had led the first strike, their arrogance nearly killing Elaria herself. It was not Netherborn who betrayed them, but their own blind ambition.
Melgil's jaw tightened. And now she stands here, turning her guild's shame into a weapon against another…
"Melgil." Ysil's voice cut softly into her thoughts. Her friend's sharp eyes searched her expression. "You know of this, don't you?"
Melgil forced her lips into a thin line, but she could not hide the heaviness in her gaze. "…Yes. Too well."
"But then…" Ysil pressed, frowning, "if what she says isn't the whole truth"
"It isn't," Melgil interrupted quietly, her voice low enough only for her companions. "Lirael speaks in fragments, twisting what suits her. The truth is far more tangled than her words."
Lora studied Melgil carefully, her own voice hushed, though edged with gravity. "Then we may be standing at the edge of something larger than a queen's festival."
Around them, the market no longer felt like a place of celebration. The air had shifted—buzzing not with laughter and the jingle of merchants, but with tension sharp as drawn steel. Every cheer, every whisper now carried the weight of uncertainty. And for Melgil, each sound pressed upon her chest like the echo of a memory she could not set down.
The shopping district of Solnara Cererindur was alive with color and sound, its winding streets crowded with merchants preparing for Queen Nimriel's grand birthday festivities. Stalls glittered with silks, spices, and ornaments, and the air was filled with the rich aroma of roasted chestnuts and spiced wine. Melgil walked between Ysil Thorne and Lora Sithe, the three of them half-amused, half-exasperated as Ysil bickered over the price of a carved hairpin while Lora teased her for being far too frugal for a noble's daughter.
Their laughter faltered when a ripple spread through the crowd. Voices rose, sharp and urgent, and a woman's declaration rang out over the chatter:
"People of Solnara! Do not be deceived any longer! The one they call Netherborn is no savior, no ally of honor, but a foul manipulator an enemy cloaked in falsehoods!"
It was Lirael Schafer, once broken and beaten, now restored and standing tall, her cloak billowing as she raised a hand to the heavens. A hush fell, then murmurs, like sparks catching on dry straw.
"She's right!" someone shouted from the crowd. "That creature brought ruin upon the Brilliance Guild!"
But others muttered back with equal fervor.
"And where was the guild when the forges vanished? Who stood for us then?"
"You speak only of vengeance, not truth!"
The district became a storm of clashing voices. Merchants abandoned their stalls to listen, guards shifted uneasily, and townsfolk began to take sides. Some raised their fists in solidarity with Lirael's fiery words, while others shook their heads, suspicious of her claims, unwilling to condemn Netherborn without proof.
Melgil's hand brushed against a bolt of green velvet as she froze, her mind tugged back to what Elaria Syrune had once confided about the warforged who had disappeared, the shadow of Netherborn stretching over Lúthien's past. The memories pressed on her chest like a weight, but she said nothing, her lips a thin line.
Then, cutting through the tension, came a deep, imperious voice:
"This again. How tiresome it is to hear the name of Netherborn tossed about as if the entire realm had nothing better to do than chase after phantoms."
The crowd parted almost instinctively as Viscount Harven Vestem stepped forward, his velvet coat lined with silver, his cane striking the cobblestones with a deliberate rhythm. His presence carried the authority of generations, and his eyes swept over the gathering with disdain.
Melgil felt her jaw tighten. She knew that face, arrogance worn like armor. Harven Vestem, father of Larnic Vestem, the same boy who had once sneered at Daniel on his first day at the Royal Academy, trying to cut him down with words of birthright and lineage. Larnic had strutted proudly back then, drunk on his own status, until Melgil herself had broken him down, forcing him to swallow his arrogance in front of fifty classmates divided by blood and social standing.
Now, looking at Harven, she saw the same haughty tilt of the chin, the same presumption that his voice was worth more than all others. And yet, unlike that day in the academy, Daniel was not beside her. She stood alone, with Ysil and Lora at her side, as the viscount's cold eyes settled upon her and Lirael both.
"Will this kingdom never tire of children screaming of monsters in the dark?" Harven sneered, raising his voice so that all could hear. "There is a queen to honor, a festival to prepare—and yet here we are, listening to the ramblings of the broken and the bitter."
The crowd erupted again, some booing him, others nodding at his words. What had begun as Lirael's crusade had now become something greater: a clash not only of truth and lies but also of nobility against common folk and of memory against power. And in that moment, Melgil knew—this was no mere street quarrel. This was the seed of something far larger, and every word spoken here would take root.
Lirael spotted him first Harven Vestem, dressed in a finely cut cloak with the golden sigil of his house glimmering at the breast, moving with the unhurried confidence of a man who never had to fight for attention.
He strolled through the market district with a pair of retainers at his back, his presence drawing nods and deferential bows from merchants who knew the weight of the Vestem name. To most, this was just another afternoon of commerce, but Lirael's eyes sharpened. She knew Harven, knew his dealings with the Brilliance Guild, and she also knew he was father to Larnic Vestem, the very boy who once mocked Daniel so brazenly at the academy before Melgil had put him in his place. The memory made her smile faintly, though her tone when she stepped forward was anything but warm.
"Viscount Vestem," she called across the crowded street, her voice cutting clean through the noise of haggling vendors and clattering hooves. Heads turned instantly, for such a name was not spoken lightly in public. Harven paused mid-stride, lifting his gaze toward her with the mild annoyance of a man interrupted. The gathered reporters, always circling the guild district for a morsel of scandal or glory, leaned in at once, sensing opportunity.
"You walk so freely among these stalls," Lirael continued, striding closer until the crowd gave way, "yet your son once saw fit to sneer at a man who has already proven his strength beyond measure. Tell me, Viscount—does your house truly measure merit only in bloodlines and empty arrogance, or does the Vestem clan still believe in worth earned by deed?"
The question struck like a thrown blade, and a ripple of whispers coursed through the onlookers. Some grinned at her audacity; others frowned at her brazenness. Harven's eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise quickly replaced by the cool mask of nobility. "Lirael Aevryn," he said evenly, his voice carrying with calculated restraint. "Still given to fire and spectacle, I see. This is a market street, not a dueling ground. You would challenge the honor of a house here, before hawkers and scribes?"
But Lirael did not flinch. The way she held herself, tall and unyielding, made clear she wanted her words heard, not hidden behind courtly doors. Around them, voices rose, some shouting their agreement, emboldened by her boldness, others murmuring in disapproval, loyal to the prestige of old families. The clash of opinion turned the air electric. For the first time that day, the market was not just a place of trade it was a stage, and every eye was fixed on the collision of Aevryn fire and Vestem pride.
The shifting tide of voices in the market carried a dangerous weight. For every voice that cheered Lirael's fiery defiance, another hissed with doubt, their whispers biting sharper than knives. The Brilliance Guild's shadow still lingered, and to some her bold words were nothing more than arrogance wrapped in flame.
Among the crowd, Harven Vestem's presence did not go unnoticed. The Viscount stood apart with his polished bearing, the silver crest of his family catching glints of lantern light as dusk descended over the Solnara capital. It was no coincidence that he was there,half the nobility was abroad in the streets tonight, mingling among their subjects in honor of Queen Nimriel Cererindur's birthday. The air was supposed to be festive, filled with music and garlands, but Lirael's words had disturbed the harmony.
Her sharp eyes found him, and she cut through the throng with practiced poise. "Viscount Vestem," she greeted, her tone riding on the edge of familiarity, bolstered by the guild's past dealings with his clan. "You, of all men, understand what it means to take decisive action. Tell them, tell these people why the Brilliance Guild does not shrink from challenge, why we do not cower before the threats of the Netherborn."
A silence spread like ripples in water. All around, the market's bustle stilled, expectant eyes turning not to her but to him.
Harven's jaw tightened. He could feel the invisible snares in her words, each syllable a tug trying to weave him into her defense. He gave a small, measured bow, hands clasped behind his back in the stance of a man used to scrutiny. His voice was calm, even pleasant, but carried a practiced distance.
"My lady Lirael," he said smoothly, "the Brilliance Guild's reputation precedes it. None here would deny your… spirit. Yet the matter of the netherborn and the flattening of the Gate settlement remains raw and still under the queen's careful review. On a day such as this—Her Majesty's birthday, let us not weigh the air with heavy grievances. Tonight is meant for celebration, not for reopening wounds."
He smiled faintly, but it was the kind of smile that revealed nothing. His words were not refusal outright, but neither were they support. A murmur moved through the crowd, some nodding at his tact, others sensing his refusal to validate her.
And then, with subtle steps, he shifted sideways as if the press of the people carried him along, maneuvering just beyond her reach. Each movement was careful and deliberate; he was a man unafraid of public eyes but unwilling to let her bind his name to her embattled cause. The more she pressed, the more his silence and civility turned the weight of expectation back onto her.
The festive banners fluttered overhead, their bright colors mocking the tension below. Harven adjusted his coat, his gaze sweeping the stalls of silks and wines as though nothing had happened, and the crowd began to fracture, some muttering disapproval at his evasions, others whispering that perhaps he had shown the only wisdom in the square: not to soil the queen's day with the guild's scandal.
Ysil Thorne was the first to break the lingering silence after Harven's evasive retreat from Lirael's sudden approach. With a dismissive shake of her head, she turned her attention back to the rows of merchant stalls, bright with silks, enchanted trinkets, and the sweet aroma of candied fruit drifting in the summer air. "Forget them," she said lightly, though her tone carried an edge of irritation.
"That kind of spectacle always finds its way into the square. We came here for something else." Lora Sithe, ever the practical one, gave a quick nod of agreement and tugged Melgil toward a stall laden with polished rings and scroll cases. "She's right. There's no use lingering on scandals. Besides," her lips curved in a half-smile as she lowered her voice, "we should be thinking ahead. You do realize what comes after today, don't you?"
Melgil tilted her head, unsure, until Ysil leaned closer, her emerald eyes sharp with meaning. "Every year, when Queen Nimriel Cererindu celebrates her birthday, the Royal Academy receives formal invitations. A few students are always chosen to attend, not as simple spectators, but as honored guests. It's a tradition, one based on merit, achievement, and promise." Her words hung in the air like a quiet drumbeat, steady and certain.
At that, Lora chuckled, folding her arms as if she had already weighed the outcome. "And after clearing the Hallowtree quest? We'd be fools not to expect our names on the list. The Academy can't possibly overlook something of that scale." She glanced at Melgil then, her expression softening into reassurance. "Especially you and Daniel."
The mention of Daniel's name drew an almost imperceptible pause from Melgil, though she quickly masked it by studying a delicate necklace glinting with faint violet runes. "Because of Rothchester blood," Lora continued smoothly, "and because you carry the last flame of Gehinnom. That alone would make the Academy want you seen beside the queen, as a symbol. But the Hallowtree? That seals it."
Melgil gave a quiet breath, not quite a laugh but close, her fingertips brushing the cool metal of the jewelry she no longer truly saw. "Perhaps," she said, though there was a note of hesitation, of the weight that came with being singled out not only for deeds but for the names of their ancestors.
The three of them walked on together, letting the hum of the district wash over them, barter, laughter, and the pealing bells from the palace spires in the distance. Whatever scandals played out between guilds and clans, whatever whispers followed Lirael or Harven, none of it mattered here. The queen's birthday was approaching, and with it, the possibility of being thrust into the light of Solnara's highest court. Prepared or not, they knew the Academy would not allow their achievements or their legacies to go unnoticed.