The wide balcony of the bastion overlooked the golden towers of the imperial capital. It was morning, but the sun hung low and pale—like it, too, hesitated to rise after what had happened in Dawnfire.
Prince Alric Vex stood alone, his royal cloak trailing behind him, his silver hair tousled by the high winds. A small hawk circled above before landing on the stone ledge, bearing a sealed scroll with the wax crest of House Evermoon.
He broke it open with a sigh.
"The boy Adrien has broken the mask and revealed a far deeper game. You, my prince, stood with him in the tournament. You shone like a blade among dull steel. It would be wise for you to join the right side before the world decides for you. —Evermoon."
He scoffed.
"Cowardly politics wrapped in flattery. Typical."
Behind him, a woman entered the chamber—Lady Sera Lys, his shadow-bound protector. Dressed in gray and blue robes, her eyes were sharp, calculating.
"You've drawn attention, Alric," she said. "Your father had you marked for the Sunspire Warfront. But now? After your performance in the tournament… and Adrien's rampage…"
Alric turned, arms crossed. "Let me guess. I'm a risk."
"To them? Yes."
"And to you?"
She smiled. "A necessary gamble."
He looked away, jaw tightening. "Adrien. He's not from the noble lines. No crest. No titles. Yet he fought like he'd danced with gods. And now… the system moves around him."
Sera stepped closer. "He is a stone dropped in a still lake. The ripples reach even here. If you stand beside him, you'll be swept into that tide. Perhaps lifted. Or drowned."
There was silence between them.
Then Alric said quietly, "He lost his friend. I saw the boy fight. He wasn't fighting for power. He was just trying to survive."
Lady Sera nodded once.
"Then perhaps it's time you leave the marble and fire of this palace behind, and meet him again—not as a prince, but as a brother in war."
Alric gave her a sidelong look.
"…Do we still have that old Sandstrider hidden under the city?"
Her eyes twinkled. "I was hoping you'd ask."
One of the Duke's spies knelt before him in the flickering candlelight.
"My Lord, the seventh prince is moving. He has not returned to the palace since morning."
Evermoon raised a brow. "Leaving the capital?"
"Seems so. Quietly. Two horses. One companion."
The Duke chuckled.
"Ahh, he bites the hook. Let them run. Let them all run. The world is wide—but all rivers eventually bend to the empire. And I… will be there when they return."
He rose from his seat and turned to a war map dotted with imperial emblems, hidden enclaves, and reports from across the continent.
"In the game of power," he said softly, "kings sit. Princes move. But pawns… pawns often become queens."
Smoke billowed behind them like a dying god's breath. The air stank of ash, blood, and molten stone. Somewhere in the distance, the shattered bell tower of the Ironbrand Guild collapsed in a cascade of red sparks, swallowed by flame and falling debris.
Adrien stumbled but didn't stop.
His cloak was half-torn, soaked in blood — not his own. Over his shoulder, he carried what remained of Damien, wrapped tight in scorched leather and silence.
Fenrik ran beside him, one arm hanging limp, bleeding. His other hand clutched his war axe tightly, eyes flicking back every few seconds.
"They're still on us," Fenrik growled. "I count three riders."
Adrien didn't look back. "Let them ride."
"You're injured."
"I'm angry."
Nyxaris ran in a wide circle around them, its shadowy wolf-like form flickering in and out of solidity. Its crimson eyes burned through the darkness, scanning the desert horizon for signs of danger—or worse, pursuit.
"They won't stop," Fenrik said again. "You killed the captain."
Adrien's jaw clenched.
"No. Damien did."
They broke through the last ruined wall of the lower city and slipped into the dying brush beyond. The Asheveil Desert stretched ahead like a cruel, open wound—silent, empty, uncaring.
The stars above flickered, dim through the black smoke trailing into the night sky.
They'd found shelter in a collapsed crevice, shielded by a formation of weathered rock and dead shrubs. Fenrik had collapsed against the wall, now bandaging his arm. Nyxaris lay curled beside Damien's shrouded body, unmoving for once.
Adrien sat at the mouth of the cave, the glow of a flickering flame casting shadows over his face.
He stared at the fire for a long time. Then finally spoke.
"I thought I'd be used to death."
Fenrik didn't reply.
Adrien let out a hollow chuckle. "Guess I was wrong. He kept talking about building a forge with his winnings. Somewhere in the mountain valleys. Said he'd teach me to forge blades that bite gods."
Fenrik grunted. "Then let's survive and build it."
"…He's gone."
"I didn't say it'd be easy."
The silence stretched again.
Nyxaris slowly stood, padded over to Adrien, and pressed its horned head against his arm. Adrien raised a hand and placed it on its fur—cold, mistlike, but there. Grounding.
Suddenly, his system chimed.
[System Notice: Emergency Mission Failure – Target not reached.]
[System Override Detected.]
[Main Path recalibrated… processing new trajectory.]
Adrien's eyes narrowed.
"Of course. Can't even mourn without the damn thing whispering in my head."
Fenrik lifted an eyebrow. "What did it say?"
"That fate's not done throwing dice."