Years have passed, the passage of time was silent, yet profound.
In the shadow of the world's unrest, Nyvaris grew like a brilliant star over the lands, blanketing the entirety of the Jura Forest under its vast, radiant domain. What had once been an unclaimed wild became a living, breathing kingdom—one that thrummed with magic, hope, and hidden tensions.
The barrier that Varvatos had conjured, an ancient spell of judgment woven with the very fabric of the world's balance, had become both a symbol and a test.
Those with pure hearts, those who sought refuge out of true desire for peace and belonging, could pass through the shimmering gates without resistance. But for others—the greedy, the ambitious, the deceitful—the barrier remained as solid as diamond, their faces reflecting back at them from the glowing wall, unworthy.
Each rejection sent ripples across the world, growing Nyvaris' myth even further.
The streets of Nyvaris were unlike any other city.
Wide, tree-lined avenues stretched under a canopy of enchanted flora, homes were built seamlessly into the living forest, glowing slightly under the ambient magic that suffused the entire kingdom. The spell Varvatos had cast at Nyvaris' founding—an intricate, self-sustaining magic—continued to absorb the surplus magical energy of the world and redistribute it among all citizens.
As a result, the people of Nyvaris grew stronger with each passing day.
Children born within Nyvaris could already manipulate minor spells before they could walk.
Farmers wielded magic to till their fields; artisans imbued their creations with gentle enchantments. The city pulsed with life and advancement in every corner, from gleaming markets to towering academies of magic and martial arts.
In the heart of the capital, atop a hill covered in ancient silver trees, stood Varvatos' Castle—a grand but serene palace, its spires whispering to the skies.
Inside the throne room, under the grand dome of celestial light, Varvatos sat—no longer just a ruler, but almost a deity in the people's eyes. His expression was as composed as always, yet there was a warmth in his silver eyes whenever he gazed over the lands he had nurtured.
Today, he was not alone.
"You're staring again," a soft, amused voice teased.
Velzard, the White Ice Dragon herself, lounged against one of the large crystal pillars. Though she wore a casual, flowing dress that glimmered like frost, there was nothing casual about the sharpness of her gaze.
Across from her, standing near a balcony with a view of the horizon, was Elmesia—the Empress of Sarion, elegant in her royal attire, her golden hair flowing freely in the gentle breeze.
Elmesia laughed lightly, her cheeks coloring slightly.
"And what if I am? It's not every day one gets to admire a man like Varvatos. He's... special."
Velzard's lips twitched.
"You're getting bold, Elmesia."
The Empress turned, her eyes narrowing playfully.
"And you're getting jealous."
A chill passed between them, subtle but real. For a moment, it felt as if the very temperature of the room shifted, a testament to Velzard's suppressed emotions.
Neither had yet confessed their growing affection for Varvatos—neither to him nor truly to themselves—but it hung in the air like an unsung melody.
Meanwhile, beyond Nyvaris' sacred grounds, the leaders of the Cardinal World grew restless.
Time and again, kings, queens, lords, and envoys approached the barrier with offerings, gifts, and promises of alliance or trade. They would bow before the shimmering gates, waiting for judgment.
Many were rejected.
Cries of frustration echoed through the lands. Envoys returned home with tales of the impassable barrier, and slowly, fear mingled with reverence in the minds of the other nations.
Only King Gazel Dwargo of Dwargon had maintained an unshakable bond with Nyvaris. A seasoned warrior with a heart as unbreakable as diamond, Gazel was respected not just because of treaties but because his heart had already been tested and accepted by the barrier long ago.
In Varvatos' grand gardens—an expanse of silver and blue flora under an endless sky—Varvatos met with Gazel once again.
Sitting under a massive World Tree, they drank tea brewed from celestial herbs, a gift from the forest itself.
"I see Nyvaris has grown even more than last time," Gazel rumbled, his deep voice resonating through the garden.
Varvatos nodded, his expression thoughtful.
"The people here... they believe in something greater. And that belief feeds the land itself. It's... beautiful."
Gazel smirked.
"And you, Varvatos? What do you believe in?"
A rare chuckle escaped Varvatos.
"I believe in them. That's enough."
Gazel leaned back.
"And what about those two women eyeing you like hungry wolves?"
Varvatos blinked.
"...What?"
Gazel pointed with his cup, subtly, to a distant balcony where Velzard and Elmesia were both pretending not to watch them.
"Don't play dumb. Even an old dwarf like me can see it. They're both in love with you. Maybe it's time you open those eyes of yours."
Varvatos fell silent, looking up at the sky.
"...Love, huh."
There was something soft in his gaze.
A memory? A regret?
Or perhaps... hope?
Later that evening, Elmesia and Velzard found themselves together in the garden—an accidental meeting, yet neither walked away.
They spoke without hostility, but the tension was unmistakable.
"You love him too, don't you?" Elmesia finally said, her voice quiet under the starry sky.
Velzard closed her eyes.
"...I do."
There was no point in lying between them anymore.
"And yet... neither of us can confess," Elmesia whispered.
Velzard chuckled bitterly.
"We're afraid. Afraid to ruin what we already have."
The wind danced between them, cool and understanding.
For a moment, both women stood not as rivals, but as kindred souls—two mighty beings, both yearning for a man whose heart was too vast and gentle to see his own importance.
Despite the shifting emotions, Nyvaris remained a sanctuary, untouched by the petty wars and conflicts of the outside world. Even when wars flared between kingdoms and Demon Lords battled for supremacy, Varvatos kept Nyvaris neutral—a sacred ground that did not stain its soil with blood.
The people flourished.
Children played without fear. Scholars debated ancient philosophies. Knights trained not for conquest, but for mastery of themselves. The army grew stronger not by pillage, but by unity and magic, bound by the very life of the forest.
Every sunset in Nyvaris was a symphony of light and power—a testament to what a world could be, if led by strength tempered with wisdom.
And Varvatos, at the center of it all, remained unaware that soon...
he would have to choose between two hearts burning brighter than any star.