Chapter 42 - E/A: The Wedding! (Pt.2)

The princess froze, Tomason's words hanging over her like a looming thundercloud. She thought of her father—the King of Al-Bark—and his stern face, his cold, commanding voice. Her legs trembled slightly.

If he found out she'd insulted the little sister of a Royal Guard… of Lance, of all people… on his wedding day...

Her lips quivered.

Then, suddenly, she turned away with a dramatic sniffle and stumbled toward one of her maids. "He... hit me!" she whimpered, tears beginning to fall—but it was clear, painfully clear, that the tears were forced, her voice cracked only for performance.

The maid she clung to—a girl only a few years older—shot Tomason a sharp glare. Not out of anger, but more like silent apology. Her eyes seemed to say, I'm sorry for the trouble she's caused you.

Tomason simply sighed.

"Let's go," he murmured to Elena.

She gave the princess one last glance—unsure whether to feel relieved or uneasy—then followed Tomason as they stepped out of the room. One of the guards outside closed the golden door behind them with a quiet thud, sealing away the drama.

They walked slowly through the long corridor, the faint sounds of servants and nobles echoing in the distance. Tomason rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling.

"I told her she'd be meeting you today," he said at last, tone low and strained. "I thought… even with how she is, she'd understand. You're the younger sister of the Lance of Justice. A Royal Guard. The man getting married today, to another Royal Guard. You're also being raised by the mayor of a city under our kingdom. That should have been enough…"

His hands clenched at his sides briefly before relaxing again. "I didn't think she'd act that way."

He shook his head, a clear shadow of frustration on his face. "I'm sorry, Elena."

Tomason walked beside Elena, hands loosely folded behind his back, his expression somewhere between irritation and tired resignation.

"She didn't use to be this bad," he muttered aloud, mostly to himself, but loud enough for Elena to hear. "But she's been growing up around all the wrong people. The Ladies at court pamper her with empty flattery, like she's some untouchable jewel, and the maids... well, they're too scared to correct her behavior. Or worse, they encourage it to stay on her good side."

He let out a sharp sigh, shaking his head. "I've spoken to her father, even the Queen, a dozen times now. But they're always too busy with affairs of the realm. It's a heavy throne, ruling Al-Bark. I understand that—but still… the girl needs guidance."

Elena stayed quiet for a moment, her small brows furrowed, then looked up at him. "Then… why doesn't she go with the Queen? You said earlier the Queen helps the poor and visits the orphanages, right? She sounds like a nice person."

Tomason smiled faintly, touched that Elena remembered. "She is. One of the kindest women I've ever met. And she's tried, believe me. She's asked the princess to accompany her many times when visiting orphanages or smallfolk, even to ceremonies honoring soldiers… but the girl refuses. Says it's beneath her."

Elena looked up in surprise. "She says that… to her own mother?"

Tomason nodded grimly. "The Queen doesn't want to force her. Not yet. She keeps hoping the girl will grow out of this… phase. But it's been years now, and if anything, she's getting worse."

Elena lowered her head. "That's really sad."

"Aye," Tomason agreed. "It is."

She walked in silence for a bit, then looked back up. "What about the princes? Are they like her too?"

Tomason gave a small chuckle, a mix of amusement and worry. "The youngest prince? He's just five. But he sticks by his sister more than anyone else. Not as rude as her, no—but he watches everything she does, and copies it sometimes. Not a good sign."

Elena frowned deeply, clearly concerned. "So he'll grow up the same way?"

Tomason shrugged slightly. "That depends. If things stay the same, maybe. But he's still young enough that someone could help him change… give him a better example."

"What about the oldest one?" Elena asked curiously. "Is he like them?"

Tomason's face brightened a little at the mention. "Ah, now him. He's different."

She tilted her head. "Really?"

"Oh yes," Tomason said proudly. "The heir's seventeen now. Grew up wanting to be a knight, not a prince. He trained with us Royal Guards instead of being pampered in court. Spent more time in the training yards than in balls or banquets. Real dedication. He's already a Rank 2."

"Rank 2?" Elena gasped. "That's really high, right?"

"For his age?" Tomason chuckled. "It's incredible. He's a prodigy. Strong in body, but more importantly… he's strong in morals too. He's got this deep love for justice. Wants to be a king people trust, not fear."

Elena smiled at that. "That sounds really nice."

"He is nice," Tomason said, then smirked. "A bit of a stubborn idiot sometimes, but… nice."

Elena giggled, hiding her mouth with her hand.

"I trained him myself for a time," Tomason added. "Taught him what I could. The rest he figured out through blood, bruises, and a lot of hard work."

She looked up at him in admiration. "He must really look up to you."

Tomason smiled but didn't say anything for a few seconds, then glanced down at her. "Maybe. But even if he doesn't, I'm proud of the man he's becoming. If anyone deserves that throne, it's him."

Their steps echoed softly in the corridor now, the noise of the city far behind them as the towering walls of the palace surrounded them.

After a bit of silence, their footsteps echoing softly through the castle corridor, Elena looked up at Tomason and asked, "Where are we going now?"

He glanced down and gave a relaxed shrug. "Nowhere really. Unless you'd like to meet the young prince? We could go look for him."

She blinked, clearly considering it for a moment, then gave her head a small shake. "No… not right now."

Tomason chuckled lightly and nodded. "Didn't think so."

They walked a few more steps before he added, "Well then, it's just about lunchtime. If you'd like, you could join the other ladies in their designated hall."

Elena looked up at him, puzzled. "If I'd like? Does that mean I can eat lunch somewhere else?"

At that, Tomason threw his head back and laughed, ruffling her hair gently. "Inspector Princess really is sharp."

She giggled in response, her cheeks a little pink.

He grinned. "Yes, you can eat wherever you like, within reason. Royal privileges, remember? Besides, today you're under my protection."

Her eyes lit up. "Then… will you eat lunch with me?"

He gave a small nod. "Of course. I told you, today I'm yours to command, little lady."

Elena laughed brightly and declared, "Then it's decided! We'll eat lunch together in some empty spot."

She marched a few steps ahead, proud and decisive—until she came to a sudden stop, turned around with a sheepish look, and asked, "Um… but where do we get lunch from?"

Tomason raised an eyebrow before chuckling again. "Good question. Come on then, follow me. We'll stop by the royal kitchens and see what treasures the cooks have for us today."

Elena beamed and quickly fell into step beside him, their pace light and cheerful as they made their way deeper into the heart of the castle.

...

The scent alone made Elena's eyes sparkle. She sat cross-legged on a low stone bench in a small inner plaza nestled between two castle wings, the breeze carrying the aroma of grilled meat and herbs through the air. Around them were blooming bushes and climbing ivy along the walls, a few quiet fountains burbling softly. It was peaceful, a calm pocket of the castle, empty save for the two of them.

On her plate was a beautifully carved slice of tender meat, its surface slightly crisped and glazed with a golden, herb-infused sauce. Tomason had picked a quiet place for them to enjoy lunch, and Elena was already beaming.

She took a bite.

Her eyes went wide. "This is the best thing I've ever tasted in my life."

Tomason laughed heartily, slicing into his own portion. "That would be because today's chef was no ordinary one. He's from the Gourmet Hunters Guild."

Elena gasped, nearly dropping her fork. "Isn't that the guild that hunts monsters and… cooks them?"

Tomason raised a brow, clearly impressed. "You know about them?"

She nodded proudly. "Of course! Uncle Rannold used to live in Market. He told me that's where their main place is! He said they cook monsters that even normal people are scared to go near."

"Exactly," Tomason grinned. "This here," he motioned to the meat, "is Golden Deer. A forest-dwelling monster with shimmering gold antlers and legs fast enough to outrun horses. They're smart too—know how to hide and avoid traps. Very hard to catch, even harder to bring back alive."

Elena looked down at the meat in awe. "So this is… a monster?"

"A delicious one," he added with a wink, taking another bite.

She smiled, still a bit stunned, and glanced around at the peaceful courtyard again. "I didn't think monsters could taste this good."

"Oh, most of them don't," Tomason chuckled. "Some are downright awful. But that's what the Gourmet Hunters are for. They find the rare ones, the ones worth the trouble."

Elena took another bite, slower this time, savoring it as if she were trying to remember it forever.

"Uncle Rannold said their guild was one of the most famous in the world," she added between bites.

Tomason nodded. "It is. There's another, but I prefer the Gourmet Hunters Guild better, I mean their food?" He grinned. "Simply Unmatched."

The warm afternoon sun filtered down through the climbing ivy, dappling their bench in golden light as the two continued eating. The plaza remained still and quiet, the peace only broken by the occasional soft laugh or clink of cutlery.

Tomason leaned back a little, chewing slowly, then glanced over at Elena with a smirk. "Wanna hear some castle secrets?"

She turned to him instantly, eyes wide. "Yes!"

He leaned in, whispering like this was the most important thing in the world. "Alright. But you can't tell anyone."

She nodded seriously. "I won't!"

He grinned. "There's a secret passage in the wall behind the big tapestry in the northern hall—the one with the big black rose painted on it. If you push the left vine of the rose stitched in the corner, the wall opens up."

Her jaw dropped. "No way!"

Tomason nodded. "It leads to the kitchens. That's how the Crown Prince used to sneak cookies late at night. But now the staff leave a plate for him every evening so he doesn't set off the guards."

Elena burst out laughing. "That's so smart! Wait—is that where you take your cookies from too?"

He gave a scandalized look. "Me? No. I'm a Royal Guard. I take them in broad daylight."

She laughed again, shaking her head. He grinned and went on, "You wanna know something about your brother, Lance?"

She perked up. "What?"

"Well, back when he was new to the castle and trying to impress everyone, he tried to duel Sword of Justice at dawn, right here in the garden." He motioned vaguely over his shoulder. "It was all dramatic. Sword didn't even show up. He slept in. Lance stood there for an hour before someone told him."

Elena giggled. "Poor Lance!"

"Oh, don't worry, he got him back." Tomason chuckled. "He covered Sword's practice sword with honey before morning drills. The bees didn't stop chasing him for an hour."

Elena was laughing so hard now she had to put her fork down.

"Want to know something about Sofia?"

She nodded eagerly.

"She once scolded the heir for five whole minutes thinking he was a lost servant boy. Since he was trying to sneak out of the castle."

Elena gasped. "Did he say anything?"

"Nope. He stood there holding a tray the whole time. Said it was the scariest five minutes of his life."

Elena clutched her stomach as she laughed. "She sounds so scary!"

"She can be," Tomason admitted. "But she's really just got that noble lady thing down too well. She even scolded me once. I had my boots on in the wrong part of the garden."

"You got in trouble too?" Elena asked, wide-eyed.

"Oh, yes," he nodded with great seriousness. "She made me scrub the tiles myself."

Elena laughed so hard she nearly snorted. "I like her!"

Tomason smiled. "You'll get along well then."

They continued their lunch, the golden deer disappearing bite by bite as they traded stories and giggles beneath the soft sun. For a little while, everything was light and warm and safe.

Tomason leaned back slightly, chewing thoughtfully on a final bite of the golden deer before glancing toward Elena with a grin. "Say, wanna hear a bit about the Green Fox of Al-Bark?"

Elena's head popped up instantly, eyes lighting with curiosity. "Yes! Yes!!"

He smiled. "One of the more famous figures from this kingdom. Got his fame during the Monster War, like most of us did. From Al-Bark's side, he was the biggest name—fast, clever, impossible to corner. They say he took down three monster generals in one battle, all by himself."

"Wow..." Elena whispered.

"But Decartium, now they really shined in that war," Tomason went on, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "New heroes sprouted all over—there was the King's Power, the Fierce Lion—"

"Wait, that's Asvin's father, right?" Elena interrupted.

Tomason nodded. "Exactly. Fierce Lion of Cavias. Then there was the Green Sage and the Yellow Sun. A lot of impressive people."

She tilted her head. "Were they… good people?"

He laughed softly, shoulders shaking. "I didn't fight much with them—barely even met most. But I did fight alongside the Fierce Lion. Respected him deeply. He was a monster on the battlefield, but also... a man with principles. I've also heard a lot of good about the Cavias Family in general."

He paused. "Now, the Poblicos? The family of the Yellow Sun?" His face twisted. "Nope. Not good. I've heard too many bad things."

Elena blinked. "Really? Like what?"

Tomason waved a hand as if brushing away smoke. "Corruption, cruelty, arrogance. Some nobles are rotten, and from what I saw and heard… they're worse than most. In fact, one of the reasons I left Decartium and joined Al-Bark was because of them."

Her eyes widened. "That bad?"

He leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was telling her a ghost story. "They were so bad, Young Lady… that the Shadow Assassin had to come knocking on their doors. Killed one of their own."

Elena gasped, "No way!"

Tomason nodded slowly. "That's what it took for the rest of the nobility to start whispering about change."

She leaned back, stunned. "That's… that's crazy."

He chuckled and flicked a crumb off his coat. "It's the world we live in. Not all nobles are good, not all bad either. Same with Fighters, same with Arts Users."

Elena looked down thoughtfully, her fork forgotten in her hand. "The world is big, huh…"

Tomason smiled gently. "Bigger than any of us. But you're learning fast, Inspector Princess. That's a good thing."

Tomason took a slow sip from his water flask before continuing, "Now, as for the Green Sage—he's an interesting one."

Elena perked up again. "Is he one of the good ones too?"

Tomason nodded. "From what I've seen and heard, yeah. He's a commoner, and his hair's green—comes from Al-Bark, technically, but seems like he's lived in Decartium his entire life. The common folk love him. Probably because he represents them, y'know? Doesn't speak like a noble, doesn't act like one either. He's one of the few big names people feel close to."

Elena smiled softly at that. "That sounds nice."

"Yeah," Tomason agreed. "It really is. Gives people hope, I think."

"And the King's Power?" she asked curiously.

At that, his brow furrowed a little. "Now he's… strange. You'll hear a lot of praise about him. Brave, unstoppable in battle, loyal. But then you remember something important…"

He leaned in slightly and lowered his voice. "He's called the King's Power. That name's not just for show. He is the king's strength. And that king…" Tomason shook his head, "...works very closely with the Poblico Family."

Elena's eyes narrowed. "The same family you just said were really bad?"

He nodded. "Exactly. So as strong and praised as the King's Power is… you have to wonder. Can someone who sides with the wrong people really be trusted?"

She frowned in thought. "I guess… power means nothing if it's used by bad people."

Tomason gave her an approving smile. "Smart girl."

She grinned, then tilted her head curiously. "What about the Green Fox then?"

"Right," Tomason said, leaning back again. "The Green Fox is a quiet one. Doesn't talk much, keeps to himself. But from what I know, he's sharp—sharp as a blade. Nice too, in his own way. If he sees something wrong, he'll act, but you might never even realize he was there."

Elena blinked. "So… why fox then?"

Tomason laughed, the sound echoing gently around the quiet plaza. "Ah, good question. He's sneaky, but not in the slimy kind of way. He plans, he hides, he misleads, and when you think he's not even in the picture—bam! He's already won."

She laughed, eyes bright. "That's so cool!"

He nodded, still smiling. "He earned the name. But if you want a fox who's direct—one that's proud and doesn't even try to hide their tricks—you'd have to look to the Poblico Family."

She tilted her head again. "Why them?"

He raised a finger, amused. "Because a fox is literally their family sigil."

Elena's mouth dropped open a little. "Seriously?!"

He nodded with a dry chuckle. "Yup. Gold fox, black background. Says a lot, doesn't it?"

She giggled. "It really does."

...

Time passed gently, the afternoon sun warming the small plaza as Elena and Tomason drifted between topics, laughter, and quiet moments. The golden plates had long been cleared, and the stone bench they sat on was cool.

Then footsteps approached.

Elena blinked and turned, her breath catching in her throat. "Lance!" she gasped.

There he was—Lance of Justice.

Tall and well-built in his ceremonial suit, green hair tied neatly behind him. His eyes scanned the plaza quickly before softening the moment he spotted her. He let out a quiet, relieved breath.

"There you are," he said, smiling as he stepped closer. "Took me a while to find you."

Tomason chuckled. "Well, the young lady suggested we find a quiet place to have lunch. I couldn't say no to that, so we've been tucked away here for a bit."

Lance glanced at his little sister then back at his fellow Royal Guard and gave a grateful nod. "Thanks, truly, for watching over her."

Tomason waved a hand dismissively, but his grin was genuine. "It was no trouble at all. I quite enjoyed myself. But I'll leave you two to it—some sibling time is in order."

With that, he rose, giving Elena a small nod and disappearing down one of the stone walkways, leaving the siblings alone in the peaceful silence.

Lance took the seat Tomason had vacated beside Elena.

"So," he said, nudging her with his shoulder, "what'd you get for lunch?"

She beamed. "Golden deer!"

His brows lifted. "Oooh. Fancy."

"It was the best thing I've ever tasted," she said with a little spin of her hands. "Ever!"

He laughed. "Lucky. I got the red lobstor."

Her eyes widened. "Red lobstor? Really?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Not my first time eating it, but… I swear, the Gourmet Hunter Chef they brought in today? Whatever he did—it made it taste insane. Like it wasn't even the same dish I knew."

Elena giggled. "Maybe he used some kind of super spice!"

"Maybe," Lance said, playing along with a grin. "Or maybe he just whispered to it in monster language."

She laughed harder at that.

Lance leaned back slightly on the bench, his gauntlets resting in his lap as he looked at his little sister. "So," he said, "tell me—did you know Tomason can't stand pickles?"

Elena blinked, confused. "What? Really?"

He nodded solemnly. "Hates them. Apparently once mistook a jar of spicy pickled snaproots for sweetberries during a patrol."

She burst out laughing. "What happened?"

"He ran half a mile through the woods with his helmet off, tongue hanging out, yelling for water."

Elena clapped her hands together as she laughed. "I have to remember that. I'm going to draw him a jar of pickles and leave it in his armor!"

Lance grinned. "You're evil."

"You taught me," she replied with a teasing smirk.

He nudged her shoulder gently. "You're becoming dangerous."

They sat like that for a while, trading light jabs and stories. Elena asked what it was like to wear the full plate of a Royal Guard, and Lance explained how heavy it was and how many times he almost tripped in training until Sofia taught him how to glide in it. Then she asked if he ever got scared before a battle.

"All the time," he admitted. "But you do it anyway. That's what matters."

She nodded thoughtfully, eyes lingering on a butterfly that fluttered past them.

Then after a pause, her voice turned more curious. "Where's Big Sis Sofia?"

Lance glanced toward the castle and smiled faintly. "With the ladies of the court."

"All of them?" Elena blinked.

"Oh yeah," he said with a sigh. "They're all trying to win her over."

"Why?"

"Well… she is a Royal Guard," he said. "And not just any guard—Sofia's a Rank 5 Arts User. That's really high. Most nobles dream of just having a Rank 3 as an ally. So everyone's trying to make nice before the wedding."

Elena looked thoughtful and then nodded slowly. "That makes sense."

She glanced at him again. "What about you?"

"Me?" He leaned back, letting the sun hit his face. "I've been running around most of the day, entertaining guests, talking to lords, making sure the nobles don't start any duels before the wedding even begins."

She laughed. "That sounds exhausting."

He chuckled. "It is. But I got some free time and I thought—'Where's my sister?' So, here I am."

Elena beamed. "Thank you."

He looked down at her with a warm smile. "You're welcome. I wouldn't miss seeing you for anything."

...

Time passed gently in the warmth of the sun as Elena and Lance chatted, laughter rising and fading again between comfortable silences. Eventually, the quiet sound of footsteps approached, and Shield of Justice—Tomason—returned, giving a polite nod to the siblings before settling beside them on the bench.

"Still here, I see," he said with a small smile.

Lance chuckled. "You make it sound like a crime."

"Not at all," Tomason replied. "Just rare to find a spot in the palace that actually brings peace."

The three of them sat and spoke for a while longer. The conversation wandered from food to festivals, then to funny memories from years past. But soon, Lance stood with a soft sigh, brushing his suit free of leaves. The sunlight had begun to dip lower across the castle walls, painting everything in hues of gold and orange.

"I should get going," Lance said, adjusting his gauntlet. "Sunset's close, and I still have to get ready."

Tomason nodded. "You'll be fine. Fist of Justice and Bow of Justice are handling the king and queen's guard today, so I've got room to keep an eye on this one." He gently nudged Elena's shoulder.

Lance smiled gratefully. "Thanks, truly." He looked at his sister and leaned down a little. "I'll see you later, alright?"

She nodded with a grin. "Wish you the best with all the boring noble stuff."

He laughed. "I'll need it."

"Have an easy time," she said sweetly.

Lance gave her a wink before turning and heading back toward the castle.

Once he was out of sight, Tomason stretched slightly and glanced down at her. "So then, what now? You've got a few hours until Asvin's duel."

She perked up at the reminder. "When is it again?"

"Just before dinner," he said. "While you two were talking, I asked around. Seems like they'll host it as the sun dips, a little show for the nobles before the feast."

She nodded quickly. "Can we walk around the castle till then?"

Tomason smiled. "Of course. I know a few corners even the guards forget."

Elena giggled. "Let's go then!"

And with that, the two set off through the grand halls of the palace, her tiny footsteps echoing beside his armored stride.

...

Asvin stood in the chamber just behind the grand arena, the muffled roar of the crowd leaking faintly through the thick wooden door. The room was small, simple but purposeful — a long bench lined one wall, while mounted racks held polished weapons and ancient suits of ceremonial armor, each one gleaming under the flickering light of lamps.

He ran a hand through his blonde hair, adjusting the collar of his red imperial suit with its neat black buttons, exhaling deeply as he turned to the two figures standing beside him.

Tanzo, ever radiant in his crisp blue imperial suit, leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed and a grin already stretching across his face. His spiky blue hair caught the light as he said, "Breathe slow. You'll do fine. You've trained for this, right? You're not going to trip on your own feet or anything, right?"

Asvin gave him a look. "Very funny."

Tanzo laughed. "No really, you're going to be great." He paused. "Unless you lose."

"Tanzo," Asvin growled.

The blue-haired young man continued, his voice rising with theatrical flair. "I mean, if you do lose... well, you won't just be embarrassing yourself in front of the whole kingdom—no no no—you'll also be bringing shame to the Cavias name, the noble line of Decartium. Oh, and of course your dear father, the Fierce Lion himself. Imagine him watching—"

"I swear I'll kill you," Asvin muttered, lunging at him with mock fury.

Tanzo yelped and darted away, laughing, narrowly avoiding Asvin's grasp.

But before things could go further, Foliana stepped in.

Silent and graceful, her long white hair flowing behind her silver dress, she calmly placed a single hand between the two boys. Her grey eyes met Asvin's with quiet insistence. A small, slow shake of her head was all it took.

Asvin sighed, stepping back. "Alright. Alright."

Foliana gave a curt nod, then turned and began walking out of the room.

Tanzo straightened up and followed after her, still grinning. "Well then, we'll be in the front row. Don't die."

Asvin rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. Once they were gone and the door closed behind them, he was left alone with the sound of his own breath... and the rising heartbeat of someone about to prove himself.

He stood in the chamber, alone now. The room was quiet, save for the faint echo of cheers beyond the thick door. He tightened the strap holding the red spear across his back, its color a proud symbol of House Cavias. In his right hand, he held the red-bladed sword he had personally requested—its weight familiar, but heavier now somehow under the pressure pressing on his shoulders.

He swung the blade once, then twice. Smooth. Clean. But his hands were just a touch too stiff. He could feel it—his body wasn't fully at ease. His mind was loud, too loud. He had only recently reached Rank 3. That alone should be cause for pride, but today, it felt like a thin shield before a storm.

He was about to fight a soldier from Al-Bark's Royal Troops. Trained, seasoned, used to the flow of battle. Rank 3 just like him—but molded by duty and years of elite instruction. This wasn't just a test of strength—it was a performance. The nobles would be watching. The guests. The king. And her family.

He let out a breath and thought of her—the mentor who had taught him so much, who had stood beside him on countless training days, who had believed in him even when others did not. If he failed here... if he lost badly... it wouldn't just be his pride that was broken. It could be his chance with her. He could already hear the whispers. "He's not strong enough. Not worthy."

He grit his teeth, shut his eyes, and remembered his father—the Fierce Lion of Decartium. The man who once cleaved through battalions with a single charge. Then, he remembered the other man—cold and quiet—their family's most elusive shadow. The Black Lion. His personal trainer, the man who taught him how to move without waste, how to fight with purpose, how to breathe even when the heart raced.

He exhaled again, deeper this time. His pulse slowed.

Then, a voice called from beyond the door, muffled by stone and wood, but unmistakable.

"Asvin of House Cavias, heir of the Red Lion—step forward."

The young man opened his eyes. He stepped toward the door, posture tall. The rules were simple: real weapons, no strikes to vitals. A fight of control, technique, and presence. Injuries were possible—even likely—but death was not. Not unless one was reckless.

He had no special killing technique. Nothing flashy. But he had trained. He had bled. And if he was to fall, he would fall standing.

He reached for the door as it began to open. The light poured in.

And he stepped into the arena. His breath caught for a moment.

Thousands of eyes.

The circular stone ring at the center of the grand hall was wide—wider than he expected. Around it, on layered stone steps that climbed into the walls themselves, sat an audience that filled every space. Nobles robed in silver, warriors cloaked in steel, Ladies dressed in jeweled silks, emissaries from kingdoms near and far. The pressure was real.

And then, above them all, on an elevated royal balcony carved from marble and inlaid with banners of green and gold—the King.

The Warlord King of Al-Bark, seated upon a blackwood throne, his stern gaze sharp beneath the crown of emerald leaves and iron branches. At his side were his wife, the Queen in silver and green, and beside her sat the Heir, focused, and draped in the colors of the Royal Guard. Beside him sat a young princess and prince.

On the far right of the dais, a young woman in modest but noble attire—his mentor. Her eyes caught his for just a second.

He stood taller.

All around, gigantic orbs of floating light drifted in the air, their glow illuminating the arena with a soft, steady brightness. Performed by Light Arts, they bathed the field in clarity despite the deep night beyond the walls. Shadows danced just outside the light's reach.

Then came the Announcer—an elderly Arts User with a long white beard, his voice booming unnaturally loud, amplified by a powerful Air Art.

"People of Al-Bark!"

"Guests from across the continent!"

"Before you stands a match of pride and strength, between two Rank 3 Fighters!"

A pause. Silence thickened. Everyone leaned forward.

"On one side—heir to the prestigious Cavias Family of Decartium. The Red Lion's cub—Asvin Cavias!"

A mixed reaction. Some cheers, many whispers. A few glares from local nobles. But all watched him now.

"And on the other—representing Al-Bark's elite Royal Troops. Trained under the Sword of Justice himself. A man of discipline and steel—Ser Vaern Odrin!"

From the opposite gate strode a tall, broad-shouldered man in silver and black. His face bore the calm of experience, and his eyes never left Asvin as he entered. A long scar crossed his cheek. His halberd was already in hand.

"The fight will be judged by the Sword of Justice!" the announcer added, and the attention shifted momentarily to the cold-eyed Royal Guard, standing with arms crossed by the inner edge of the arena.

"Both warriors will fight with real weapons. The only rule—no strike shall aim to kill. Injure if you must, but leave the heart and throat untouched."

Then the announcer turned upward—

"Overseen by His Majesty the King of Al-Bark and his noble family, we begin a duel of honor!"

The lights flared brighter.

The gates closed.

And Asvin's heart began to pound—not with fear. But with purpose.

Vaern held his halberd and looked toward the Sword of Justice, who sat silently near the royal platform, arms folded and eyes sharp. The soldier gave a short, crisp nod—acknowledging the presence of the high-ranking Royal Guard, maybe even dedicating the fight to him—before stepping forward with firm, heavy steps that echoed across the arena.

Asvin gripped his red sword tightly, eyes fixed on the man approaching. His heart beat steadily, not out of fear, but from the coiling tension of battle readiness. His thoughts spun—spinning not from panic, but from calculation. His mind had been drilled for this, trained for moments like these. But theory and reality were never one and the same.

He had to gauge Vaern's style first—feel out his rhythm, his flow, the way he moved and struck. His strength, his sharpness, his footwork. All of it mattered.

So Asvin didn't move.

He waited.

The first move was always the hardest. The one that exposed your style, your pace, your intent. How do you start a fight? With a charge? A taunt? A feint? What if you lunge and he's baiting you? What if you test and he overwhelms you?

Vaern didn't look like the type to hesitate.

And it fit, didn't it? Al-Barkians knew no fear—or so they always bragged. Back in the Court of Saviors, the ones from Al-Bark always held their heads high, voices louder than needed, pride sharper than their blades. They claimed they'd rush into battle while others were still drawing plans, scream their name even as they bled.

And now, Asvin stood before one of them.

Vaern didn't hesitate.

He surged forward, halberd shifting into both hands, the long steel weapon gleaming under the soft light of the orbs above. There was no roar, no shout, no ceremony. Just action. Feet pounding the stone, weapon lowered, charging straight for Asvin.

The blonde fighter inhaled and braced himself, body lowering slightly as he prepared to meet the Al-Barkian steel.

Asvin knew it was impossible to survive battle after battle on blind courage alone. No kingdom, not even one as prideful and battle-hardened as Al-Bark, could win wars without tactics and skill. After all, Al-Bark had defeated the Monster Kingdom in the great war, a victory that couldn't have come from brute force alone.

And yet, here Vaern was—charging in a straight line, no feints, no hesitations. It threw Asvin off. Was there a hidden trick in this recklessness? Was he overthinking it?

He didn't have the luxury to find out.

The halberd came down fast—clean, heavy, and merciless—aimed right for his chest.

Asvin's instincts kicked in. He brought his red sword up at an angle and caught the halberd's shaft with a loud clang, steel sparking as he deflected the blow away from his body. The impact stung his arms, the raw strength behind it making his muscles scream. He didn't try to counter.

Instead, he leapt back.

Boots scraping against the arena floor, he landed several paces away, eyes narrowed now, his heart hammering in his chest. That one exchange had been enough. Enough to confirm what he feared.

Vaern was physically stronger. Far stronger. A clash of pure strength would only end one way.

Asvin took a breath, calming himself.

He couldn't win through power. That much was certain.

So he would win through precision. Through patience. Through technique.

He raised his sword again, shifting his stance.

He would have to outthink the Al-Barkian—turn every move into a lesson, every feint into a test, every inch into a trap.

He wasn't the Fierce Lion, not yet.

But he was his son.

Asvin took a deep breath, steadying his nerves as he saw Vaern rushing in again, halberd held high like a bolt of steel lightning ready to strike.

He didn't move.

Not right away.

Instead, he held his ground, letting the soldier come within arm's reach, trusting his instinct. And just before the halberd could come down, Asvin slipped to the side, boots sliding over the stone as the weapon crashed into the ground with enough force to shatter it—stone cracked and splintered beneath the blow.

He spun, red sword slashing out toward Vaern's exposed side.

But the soldier reacted instantly. He let go of the halberd mid-swing, ducked under the blade, then twisted and caught the weapon again before it even touched the ground. One fluid motion, clean and practiced.

A boot lashed out right after, aiming for Asvin's ribs.

But the blonde-haired young man had already jumped back, breath sharp through clenched teeth as he landed lightly a few steps away.

He tasted blood.

He'd bitten down on his tongue—frustration pulsing through his chest. This wasn't just brute strength. Vaern was fast. Too fast for someone his size.

And it wasn't just speed either.

That movement… that reaction… it was rehearsed. Trained.

He wasn't just fighting a strong soldier.

He was fighting a war-hardened warrior.

...

Elena sat on the rough stone steps of the common stands, surrounded by farmers, merchants, traveling tradesmen, and children sitting on their parents' laps. They cheered, gossiped, whispered excitedly—and it all made her feel warm. This was where she wanted to be. Not in the polished noble corner beside Uncle Rannold, and certainly not beside her brother among the Royal Guards and upper lords.

She didn't want silence. She wanted life.

Still, it was hard to enjoy it tonight. Her eyes were locked on the arena, her legs swinging nervously under the bench.

Sitting beside her, however, was a figure who didn't belong here—at least not in the eyes of the crowd. Tomason Ankston, Shield of Justice, Royal Guard of Al-Bark, sat casually beside the small green-haired girl, arms folded across his chest, armored legs spread slightly as he leaned forward with calm attention.

He drew looks, whispers, more than a few nudges.

But Elena didn't notice them. She leaned toward him, worry in her eyes.

"Do you think he's going to be alright?" she asked quietly.

Tomason watched the clash of steel and movement a few moments longer before answering.

"I'm not sure," he said, his voice low, thoughtful. "The fight just started. He's fast, and he's got heart, that's for sure..."

Then he exhaled softly.

"But the Cavias... they're known for their spears, not their swords. His father, the Fierce Lion, didn't earn that title because of a blade. He earned it with a red spear that roared like fire when it moved."

Elena's eyes widened slightly. "The Red Lion Style?"

Tomason nodded once. "Exactly. It's one of the most aggressive spear techniques in the world. If Asvin was using that, I'd be more confident."

He paused, eyes narrowing as another clash rang out in the arena.

"But right now… with just a sword against that halberd… he's got to be careful."

...

Asvin held his red sword and then lunged toward Vaern, which surprised the warrior—for the first time, the cub was the one to attack instead of guard or dodge. Vaern grinned, his eyes gleaming with anticipation, and he swung his halberd in a brutal arc toward the incoming noble.

Steel rang out as Asvin's blade clashed against the halberd. But the sheer force of the blow was overwhelming. His red sword was ripped from his grasp, still in hand but forced downward, the metal biting into the stone floor with a harsh screech.

Vaern's boot came flying toward him with no hesitation, a punishing strike meant to flatten him. But Asvin reacted in a blink—he dropped the sword entirely and flung himself backward, his boots scraping the stone as he landed a few feet away, just beyond the reach of the kick.

His weapon was gone. But that didn't matter.

That had been the goal all along.

Vaern paused for the briefest second, thrown off—not by the lost weapon, but by the look in Asvin's eyes. Steady. Intentional. Calculating.

Then, with a smooth motion, Asvin reached behind his back and drew it—the red spear, long and gleaming under the arena lights.

A blur of crimson arced through the air as he spun it once and lowered into a battle stance, one far more comfortable, far more natural.

No more holding back. No more testing.

This was what he'd trained for.

This was the weapon of the Cavias.

And now—

The real duel had begun.

...

Asvin gritted his teeth as he backed away, red spear dancing between him and the towering halberd. His arms ached, but the rhythm was shifting. The moment he dropped the sword and drew the spear, something had changed—not just in the fight, but in his stance, in the feel of his breathing. The weight of the pole in his hands was familiar. Comforting.

He had trained with the sword, sure. It was noble. Proper. But this—this was his true form.

Vaern advanced like a storm, relentless, halberd cleaving the air again and again. But now, with each strike, the young heir's spear snapped up with precision and grace, pushing the weapon aside, keeping distance, denying entry.

The crowd was split. Some nobles and impatient onlookers booed.

"Is this all the Cavias cub has to show?!"

"He's just running!"

But others leaned in with growing interest.

"No… look at the way he's stepping."

"That's not running. That's dancing."

Vaern furrowed his brow slightly mid-swing. The boy was too fluid now. With the sword, he had been clumsy in comparison—defensive, reactive. But now? There was intent behind each parry, each twist of the spear's shaft. The blows didn't just block—they diverted, redirected, stole momentum. It was beginning to irritate the soldier.

"You think this spear will save you, boy?" Vaern muttered under his breath.

Asvin didn't answer. He stepped to the left, deflecting another sweep, then again to the right, gliding across the stone floor, his red spear dancing like a ribbon in the wind. He wasn't attacking—not yet. He was waiting. Watching. His heart pounded. He knew what he needed to do, but not yet.

Let him get used to the new rhythm. Let him get frustrated.

Asvin's grip tightened, and his breathing slowed into focus.

Then… I strike.

...

Asvin continued his dance of retreat, the red spear flashing between him and Vaern's relentless halberd. The crowd's energy dipped, some murmuring with disinterest, others looking away for a glass of water or conversation. The rhythm of the battle had grown repetitive—at least, to the untrained eye.

Elena, sitting with her legs swinging slightly beside Tomason on the commonfolk benches, glanced up at the Shield of Justice, her brow furrowed.

"Why's he just blocking?" she asked, voice low but curious.

Tomason didn't take his eyes off the arena. "He's waiting," he said simply. "Feels like he's got something planned. You don't fight like that without a trick up your sleeve."

He leaned back slightly, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "Besides… he still hasn't used it."

"Used what?" Elena asked, tilting her head.

"The Red Lion's pride," Tomason said. "The most famous technique of the Red Lion Style. One that made his father a legend in the Monster War."

Elena blinked. "What's it look like?"

Tomason chuckled but shook his head. "You'll know it when you see it, I promise. It's special—like a flame exploding after a long silence."

She looked back toward the arena, eyes narrowing with curiosity, but then tilted her head again. "What about that soldier guy? What kind of fighting style is he using?"

Tomason glanced toward Vaern and shrugged. "None, really. He's not trained in any formal style—not like Asvin. Most soldiers aren't. It takes too long, costs too much. They're trained in formations, battlefield rhythm, and simple kill techniques."

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "If you want a real style, you either join something like the Court of Saviors, or you hire a trainer—assuming you can afford one."

"Oh…" Elena murmured, nodding. "So Asvin has a style. And the soldier just has strength?"

"Strength and experience, yeah. He's not weak—don't mistake that," Tomason said. "But Asvin's playing a different game."

He smiled faintly again, eyes gleaming. "And when he stops dancing and strikes… you'll see why the Red Lion Style earned its name."

Elena's eyes lit up with awe as she leaned toward Tomason slightly. "Wow…" she whispered, then glanced back up at him with a curious grin. "Do you have a style?"

Tomason let out a quiet chuckle, arms crossed, gaze still on the arena. "Of course I do," he said. "Anyone above Rank 4 probably does. It's nearly impossible to climb that high without one."

He looked down at her briefly, a teasing glint in his eye. "Sure, maybe you'll find a Rank 4—or even a Rank 5—without a style. But it's rare. Really rare. Impossibly rare."

Elena tilted her head. "Why's that?"

Tomason motioned loosely with one hand, as if brushing air. "Because power's not just about how hard you can hit. It's about how you hit. Styles refine that. They give rhythm, strategy, identity."

He leaned back again, relaxing. "Back in the old days, you might've found a few tough brutes who climbed the ladder on raw strength alone. But the world's opened up now. More knowledge, more trainers, more Courts and Orders and guilds. If you want to be anyone at the top, you need a style. Otherwise…"

He gave a half-shrug. "You'll just get crushed by someone who does."

...

Asvin's boots scraped against the stone floor, his red spear flashing up once more to knock Vaern's halberd aside. Another strike—redirected. Another—parried with a twist of the shaft and a pivot of the foot. The crowd, once rowdy and impatient, had quieted into tense murmurs. This wasn't just a duel anymore—it was a test of control, of rhythm.

Vaern's breath grew heavier. His strikes, once sharp and brutal, were now being read like open books. Each time he lunged, Asvin's red spear was already in place, waiting—not to meet force with force, but to let it slide off and fall away like water against stone.

The soldier narrowed his eyes.

He's created it… Vaern realized. The Red Lion's Circle.

He had heard of it in training—most had. A legendary style taught only to the Cavias bloodline and their closest. A zone of absolute control. Enter it, and you were prey.

And he had entered it.

No, he growled to himself, I'm no one's prey.

With a shout, Vaern pushed forward recklessly, abandoning safety for aggression. His halberd sang through the air in a downward arc—Asvin deflected, but this time, the blade grazed his shoulder. The young lord winced, staggering back a half-step.

But Vaern was in now—close. Too close for the spear to be effective.

The halberd whirled low, targeting Asvin's side. In one swift motion, Asvin reversed his grip and blocked with the haft of his spear, the metal shaft clanging against steel. The two weapons locked in a grinding stalemate, pressure rising.

Then—

CRACK!

Vaern slammed his forehead into Asvin's, a brutal, unorthodox headbutt that rocked the young noble. Asvin's vision spun, and he nearly collapsed to his knees, one hand catching the stone floor at the last second.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Elena's hands flew to her mouth.

Vaern didn't gloat. He just gritted his teeth and yanked at his halberd, preparing for the next blow.

Asvin blinked hard, breath ragged, blood from a shallow forehead cut trailing down his cheek. His grip on the spear hadn't faltered. Not yet.

He immediately kicked at Vaern, who stepped back just in time to evade it. Asvin didn't wait—he sprang up, his red spear lunging forward in a sharp, precise thrust. Vaern caught it with his halberd, the metal clashing with a harsh ring. But Asvin didn't relent.

He pressed forward, again and again, his spear darting like a serpent, striking from every angle. The crowd murmured as the tempo rose—his arms moved in a blur, red flashes snapping through the air. Vaern gritted his teeth, forced into defense, pushed to the edge of his footing.

Then—with a cry—Vaern threw his entire weight into one brutal counterstrike.

Steel met steel with a deafening clang.

Both weapons exploded from their masters' grips—flying high into the air, spinning away in opposite directions. The halberd crashed down behind Vaern, the spear skidding far behind Asvin.

The impact nearly knocked Asvin off his feet. He stumbled, breath caught in his throat, knees threatening to buckle. But just before he hit the ground—he caught himself.

He lifted his gaze.

And Vaern was already grinning, fists raised.

Vaern smiled, fists clenched, chest rising and falling with the rush of combat. "Well, young lord," he said, stepping forward, "our weapons are gone… and I'm clearly the stronger man. You should give up."

Asvin, still catching his breath, offered a weak nod. "You're right," he said, voice calm. "I am weaker than you—physically."

Then his smile curled into something sharper. "But who said anything about fighting with fists?"

He stomped his foot back hard, the sole slamming against the ground with perfect precision. There was a clang—then a whoosh. From the stone behind him, a blade launched upward, spinning in the air.

Vaern's eyes widened.

The red sword.

The one Asvin had dropped earlier.

Asvin's hand snapped up and caught it mid-air, the hilt landing in his grip like it had never left.

Now, he stood tall, red blade gleaming in the light of the arena, eyes focused forward. Behind Vaern, the halberd was too far. The red spear, lost to the side. There was no time to reach either.

The soldier's grin faltered—but didn't vanish completely.

Around them, the crowd erupted in a thunderclap of reaction—cheers, gasps, exclamations echoing across the arena walls.

They understood now.

Asvin Cavias hadn't dropped his sword in panic.

He'd placed it.

He had planned this.

The fierce lion's cub had laid his trap in plain sight—and the moment had come to strike.

Asvin grinned, red sword held low.

"So?" he called out across the ring. "Surrender now? Or do you want to test your chances… and go for that halberd?"

Vaern chuckled, flexing his fists. "I want to test the Red Lion's special technique." His tone held no sarcasm. "I'll admit defeat—if it can disarm me."

Asvin's smile faded into something more solemn. He stared at Vaern for a long second—and found no arrogance in that gaze. Only fire. The fire of a warrior seeking truth through the clash of blades.

He gave a single nod.

From above, the announcer's voice boomed, carried across the entire arena through a blast of wind: "Though the bout was decided—the duel shall continue! A clash of strength and legend! Vaern of Al-Bark's Royal Troop… versus the Red Lion's Heir—Asvin Cavias!"

He added with a roar, "Power against Precision! Might against the Red Lion Style!"

The crowd erupted, roaring in excitement, nobles and commoners alike rising to their feet.

Asvin exhaled and dropped the red sword once more—it landed with a metallic ring beside him. He turned, jogged across the ring, and picked up the red spear. As his fingers curled around the shaft, something in his posture shifted again. His rhythm. His breath.

Vaern walked with purpose to where his halberd lay and rolled his shoulders as he lifted it, spinning it once in his grip like it was weightless. He turned back toward Asvin and raised it in salute.

The two stood opposite each other once again—warriors of equal rank, but carrying entirely different worlds in their hands.

The arena fell into an expectant silence.

Vaern advanced with slow, deliberate steps. His boots pressed against the stone floor with a weight that echoed—not in sound, but in presence. And then, he stopped. Three meters from Asvin.

The young lord stood completely still. His red spear angled down, one hand forward, the other steady behind him. The spear itself wasn't glowing, nor was there a shimmer in the air. But those watching closely—those strong enough, those experienced enough—felt it.

A circle had formed.

Not one made of light or Art. Not something to be seen, but something claimed. A territory carved not by Arts, but by mastery. A phantom line around Asvin, radiating from his stance, his stillness, his breath.

The Lion's Domain.

And in that space, only one law applied: anyone who entered would fall.

Vaern's grin widened. His knuckles whitened around the halberd. This was what he'd wanted to face. The legend born on the bloodied fields of the Monster War—The Red Lion Style's Final Form. The very technique that had made the Fierce Lion a household name across the continent.

And now, the heir stood ready to wield it.

From the stands, Tomason Ankston, the Shield of Justice, leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "There it is…" he murmured.

Elena looked up at him. "What is it? I… I don't see anything."

Tomason didn't look away. "No," he said quietly. "You don't see it. You feel it."

Elena blinked and turned back to Asvin. And then—she did feel it. The way the air seemed to still around him. The pull, the weight, as though something ancient and dangerous had awakened. She wasn't sure how or why—but something about Asvin had shifted. And everyone knew it.

Vaern exhaled once. Then—

He stepped forward.

Across the invisible line.

Into the Lion's Den.

And the spear moved.

In one short breath—barely enough time for a blink—the fight was over.

Vaern's foot had barely settled past the invisible line when the air cracked.

The red spear was already at his neck.

A thin line of blood traced down from where its edge had kissed his throat—clean, shallow, deliberate. Not fatal. But enough to send a message through his nerves, enough to still the battle spirit roaring in his veins.

Vaern froze.

His mind caught up a heartbeat too late. He had charged in, halberd ready, intent on testing speed against speed, strength against resolve. The three meters had seemed like nothing. But Asvin had crossed them in an instant. He hadn't even seen the movement.

The young lord of Cavias stood firm now, red spear lowered slightly, his breath controlled, steady. Calm.

Vaern blinked once… then twice… and smiled.

His halberd fell from his hands with a heavy clang.

"I yield," he said, voice clear.

Gasps echoed across the arena.

For a full moment, the crowd was silent. Stunned. Awestruck.

Then—

"ASVIN CAVIAS IS VICTORIOUS!" the announcer's voice boomed, amplified by Art.

The silence shattered into thunderous applause. Cries of disbelief and roaring cheers tangled in the air. The heir to the Cavias legacy had not just won—he had commanded the end of the duel.

And in that moment, the Red Lion's roar echoed through his son.

...

Dinner time arrived not long after Asvin's triumph. The nobles, draped in their fine clothing and heavier titles, gathered under the ornate pavilion where silver dishes gleamed beneath soft lanternlight. Laughter rang across the tables and the scent of roasted meats and spiced rice filled the evening air.

Clusters formed quickly—some lords deep in talk over Al-Barkian border tensions, others animatedly recounting the duel they had just witnessed.

"The way he moved—like lightning."

"I heard that's the Fierce Lion's very technique."

"A show of grace and cunning. Clever lad."

Rannold sat surrounded by fellow mayors, exchanging mild political pleasantries, while Haseena mingled effortlessly among the noble ladies, her smile polite, her tone warm. She was used to this world.

But Elena was not.

She wasn't interested in the food or the noble chatter. Her eyes searched past the clusters, past the glimmering dresses and pressed uniforms, and settled on a figure not far off—Asvin, now in a fresh tunic, seated alone at a smaller table near the edge of the courtyard.

Beside her, the Shield of Justice noticed her attention and gave a small nod. "Go ahead. He's had his moment, but that doesn't mean you can't give him another."

Elena grinned.

Without hesitation, she walked toward the young man everyone had come to see—the man of the hour… or the last hour, as she saw it.

Asvin Cavias. The Red Lion's heir.

Elena hurried up to Asvin, her eyes practically glowing. "You were amazing out there!" she beamed. "That last move! I didn't even see it—one second he was standing and the next, you'd already won!"

Asvin chuckled, "Thanks. I was worried you'd think I was boring at first—just dodging and dancing around."

Elena shook her head, hands behind her back as she tilted up at him. "It was like watching a story! Like… the calm knight waiting for the dragon to charge, and then—bam—he strikes in a flash!" She mimicked a stabbing motion with a serious look, then burst into a grin.

He laughed. "That's a very generous story. I was mostly just trying not to get crushed."

"But you didn't, and you won! You were so fast, it was like you became wind or something," she said, clasping her hands. "Can you teach me that someday?"

He smiled warmly. "Maybe when you're older. I've got to survive a few more battles first."

Tomason stepped up beside Asvin, arms crossed and his usual calm demeanor softened by a small, proud smile.

"Well done, young lord," he said, voice steady. "You held your ground and used your head. That wasn't just skill—that was control."

Asvin turned to him and gave a short nod of respect. "Thank you, Tomason. Coming from you, that means a lot."

Tomason chuckled, giving him a pat on the shoulder. "You made the Shield of Justice proud today."

Just then, a shift in the air made both of them turn. Tomason, standing to the side, had already straightened slightly.

The crowd parted like a tide as the King of Al-Bark approached, silver crown gleaming under the chandelier light. Alvaron's green eyes were intense as always, and his commanding presence turned heads even in a room full of nobles. His broad shoulders and soldier's stride made him look like a general who just stepped from a battlefield rather than a king stepping into a banquet hall.

At his side walked the Queen, gentle and serene, her long flowing green hair cascading over her modest green dress. Her eyes, though the same hue as the king's, radiated kindness like a soft glow.

Flanking them were two of the Six Pillars: the Bow of Justice, masked and quiet, wearing white adventuring clothes lined with brown pouches and stitched with the black rose and black flag—the symbol of Al-Bark's elite; and the Fist of Justice, a massive man in full royal armor, burly and middle-aged, his wide grin almost comically cheerful for someone of such bulk and rank.

And trailing just a step behind them…

The Princess.

White imperial clothing flowed like a blade unsheathed, sharp and dignified. Her long red hair shimmered under the hall's warm lights, and though her expression was calm, her eyes found Asvin instantly. Her gaze lingered. Not cold—but focused, serious, familiar.

Asvin swallowed hard.

Tomason nudged him slightly with a grin. "Brace yourself, champion. You've got more than one battle left tonight."

Elena instinctively took a step back, nearly stumbling as the towering presence of the King of Al-Bark drew near. Her breath caught in her throat—that was Alvaron, the warrior-king known across Rosendar and beyond, a man whose name alone carried the weight of history and battle. He wasn't just some distant ruler; he radiated power, like the rumble of an unseen army.

And next to him, the Queen—elegant, serene, radiating kindness—but still a queen. Elena felt like a pebble before a mountain. Yes, she was under Mayor Rannold's care, and yes, her older brother and his soon-to-be wife were Royal Guards. But that didn't matter right now. All of that felt small.

Because this? This was real royalty.

Behind them walked two more Royal Guards. That part didn't surprise her too much—after all, her brother, his fiancée, and even Tomason were Royal Guards. But then her gaze landed on her—the princess. Long red hair, green eyes, and white imperial garb that screamed precision and authority. There was something about her that made Elena straighten up like a scolded student.

And in that exact moment, Elena made a silent vow: she did not want to be that woman's student. Ever.

The Shield of Justice stepped forward, standing steady beside the young ones. "Your Majesty," he said, "this is Elena, younger sister of Lance of Justice."

The King of Al-Bark—Alvaron, the war-worn ruler with eyes like sharp blades—turned his gaze to her. Elena felt the weight of it like a boulder on her shoulders. But instead of thunder, his voice rumbled with quiet power.

"So, you are Lance's sister? Your brother has served me with honor. And today, he marries a woman just as loyal. You come from strong blood, Elena. Carry it well."

Then his eyes shifted, now locking onto the blonde-haired young man standing beside her.

Asvin stood tall, not flinching, not backing down. The king gave a slow nod, faint approval hidden behind his stern features.

The queen stepped forward then, light and warm like the breeze after storm. She knelt ever so slightly to meet Elena's eye level, her long green hair trailing like vines. "You've had quite the day, haven't you?" she said gently. "Be proud of your brother… and of yourself." Her smile was soft, and for a moment, Elena felt safe again.

A few steps away, the three Justices stood together.

Bow, silent beneath his face mask, crossed his arms. "You were tasked to guard the king. Instead, you've been tailing a child all day."

Fist chuckled, arms folded across his massive chest. "It's fine for today. Let Shield play caretaker."

Bow didn't respond immediately. He turned his gaze briefly toward the king, then back to Shield. "Just hope your sword's not dull from babysitting."

Shield didn't rise to the bait, only glanced at them with a half-smile.

Meanwhile, the king faced Asvin. "Your father… the Fierce Lion," he said, voice low but firm, "was a soldier who earned the battlefield's respect. Not with words or titles… but with blood and fire. Today, I saw some of that in you."

His green eyes narrowed, studying Asvin like one would a young blade—still sharpening, but promising steel beneath. "Let's see if your roar will reach farther than his."

The King then turned his gaze to his sister—the red-haired woman standing tall in her white imperial garb. Her presence was sharp, like a sword half-drawn. Even without saying a word, she carried an air of discipline, and Elena, standing nearby, instinctively shrank a little more.

Teacher... definitely teacher, she thought. Scary teacher. Very scary teacher.

Alvaron's voice broke the moment. "He's your student at the Court of Saviors, isn't he?"

The woman gave a single sharp nod, her green eyes glinting as she studied Asvin with the calm precision of someone who could recite every flaw and strength he held. "He is," she said simply. Then added, "And today, he passed. Not perfectly, but well enough." Her tone was strict, but there was something beneath it—a quiet pride she didn't show on her face.

The King gave a rare, short chuckle. "Coming from you, that's near to being called a prodigy."

The princess shrugged. "He didn't fall. That's more than can be said for most who face trained halberd users in front of a crowd of nobles."

She turned her eyes to Asvin. "Next time, try not to get headbutted."

Asvin smiled. "Thank you," he said, tone respectful but steady. "Both of you. I'll keep working… until the next time, I don't get touched at all."

The King's green eyes held him for a long moment, unreadable again… then he nodded once. "Good. That's the kind of thinking Al-Bark favors."

The King gave Asvin a final nod. "Enjoy the rest of the wedding," he said simply, then turned and walked off with the Queen beside him. She gave Elena one last warm smile and wave before disappearing behind her husband's imposing form.

The Bow of Justice silently followed after them, his masked face unreadable, while the burly Fist gave a contented grunt and trailed along. But the princess, to everyone's quiet surprise, remained behind.

She turned to Tomason and gave him a curt nod.

"Shield."

"Princess," Tomason returned the gesture respectfully.

"I'd like a word with Asvin. Alone."

Tomason glanced at the young noble, then at Elena. "Come, little one. Let's give them a moment."

Elena blinked up at him. "O-Okay…"

She shot one last curious look at the red-haired woman and then followed the Shield away, her steps quick.

The princess now faced Asvin. She nodded once, her voice calm and clipped. "You did well today."

Asvin straightened, trying not to let the pride show too much in his expression. "Thank you."

"My brother… was quite fond of you afterward," she said, eyeing him. "That's not a common thing. He rarely likes people."

Asvin chuckled lightly, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. "Sounds familiar. He must get it from you."

She exhaled, slow and dry—an amused sigh laced with exasperation. "Hilarious," she muttered. Then added, "Still… our plan's working."

Asvin nodded firmly. "If I can return to Al-Bark and prove myself again, you think they'll accept?"

She folded her arms, then gave a small, confident nod. "They will. You're not ready yet… but the path is clear now."

He grinned. "That's fine. I've got time. I'm still young."

The princess's mouth twitched downward, and she looked away, muttering like a grumbling cat. "Well I'm not. I'm already twenty-six."

Asvin laughed. "You're perfect at twenty-six."

She shot him a look. "And you're still annoying." But her eyes softened. Just a little.

She gave Asvin a last look, sharp but amused. "I'll be going. You should try mingling with the nobles—many of them seem willing to approach, especially after that performance of yours."

Asvin smirked. "Are you giving me royal homework now, Princess?"

She narrowed her green eyes. "If you keep talking, I'll have Tanzo come keep you company."

He immediately raised his hands in surrender. "I take it back. I'm sorry. Please don't."

A soft breath of laughter escaped her, and he chuckled in return. For a moment, their shared laughter filled the quiet space like an old melody they both remembered. Then she turned.

"Until next time," she said, her voice lower, almost fond—and then she strode away, disappearing into the crowds of the wedding.

A moment later, Elena came rushing back with Tomason trailing behind.

She reached Asvin and stared after the retreating princess before slumping a little with a dramatic sigh."She's scary," she muttered. "But not as scary as him—I almost died when I saw the King!"

Asvin grinned. "Same. I couldn't breathe when he looked at me. I thought I was gonna explode."

Tomason let out a deep laugh. "It's not that bad…" He paused. "Well, not for the most part."

The three of them burst into laughter together—an easy, shared warmth in the middle of the grandeur.

...

Time passed swiftly.

Asvin mingled among the nobles, answering their congratulations with practiced grace. One after another, they came—lords, mayors, sons of merchant guilds, even high-ranking commanders—and almost all of them eventually circled back to the same question.

"Is it true what they say about your father?"

"You must take after him."

"How is the Fierce Lion these days?"

It was expected… but disappointing.

They weren't here to meet Asvin, not really.

He smiled through it all, patient and composed, but the truth lingered bitter beneath the surface: It was still his father, the legendary leader of the Cavias family, who held their respect. Not him. Not yet. Maybe not anytime soon.

Still, he endured it—one polite nod at a time.

Elsewhere, Elena sat at a smaller table with Tomason, happily devouring her dinner between bursts of laughter as he shared stories—some true, others wildly exaggerated, all told with the gusto only the Shield of Justice could pull off. Her eyes sparkled each time she giggled, her earlier nervousness about royalty long forgotten.

Then, at last, dinner ended.

The castle's grand courtyard opened like a great stone garden under the night sky, its wide flagstones shining silver under the moonlight. Lanterns hung like stars in rows overhead, casting a soft golden glow. And flowers lined the edges.

Guests filtered into place, voices falling to whispers. It was time—

The wedding ceremony was about to begin.

Elena stood beside her older brother, Lance of Justice—the man of the hour. He wore a sharp black wedding suit, the symbol of the Royal Guard still etched subtly into the silver pin on his collar. His broad frame was tense, unmoving, like a knight awaiting the signal for battle.

And Elena… was nearly crumbling beside him.

They stood at the front of the grand courtyard, all eyes locked on them—nobles in their polished finery, guards in gleaming armor, the few commoners allowed to witness this rare event, the ever-watching servants, and worst of all… the royal family. Even the King.

She could barely breathe. Her hands were clammy. Her legs were cold.

Lance didn't seem to notice the crowd. He wasn't stiff because of them. His nerves came from one single thought—that in just a few more seconds, Sofia, the Rose of Justice, would walk down that aisle and become his wife, not just his fiancée. No more "almost." No more waiting.

Still, the silence between them grew heavy, their anxiety hanging in the warm night air.

Elena peeked up at him. "Your hands are shaking, dummy."

He exhaled sharply. "Yours are ice cold, shrimp."

She smiled faintly. "I'm not used to everyone staring like this…"

Lance glanced at her, and for a moment, the nerves faded. "Forget them. You look good. I got the best little sister here."

Elena blinked, surprised—and smiled wider. "You don't look too bad yourself, big brother."

They exchanged a look. The kind of look that only siblings could share—full of warmth, pride, and shared nerves. The kind that said, I've got your back.

And for the first time since standing there… they both breathed just a little easier.

Suddenly, as the two siblings shared their quiet moment, a wave of cheering and clapping swept through the courtyard. Heads turned, conversations paused, and a wide path opened up through the crowd like parting waves.

Two figures approached.

The first was a grumpy-looking man—mid-forties, maybe fifties—with a strong jaw, a patchy beard, and a deep scowl that somehow carried warmth. He wore a sharp black wedding suit, though his posture screamed discomfort in formalwear. Clinging to his arm was the woman of the day herself—his daughter, Sofia.

As they reached the front, the man squinted hard at Lance.

"So," he grumbled in a gruff tone laced with humor, "still not running away, huh?"

Lance gave a small, amused exhale. "No, sir. Still here."

The man grunted. "Hmph. Should've guessed. Al-Barkians are tough after all." He stepped forward and clapped Lance hard on the shoulder. "Well, you've got my blessing. Again. Don't make me regret it."

"I won't," Lance replied, more serious now. "Thank you."

The man then grinned at him, then turned to Elena, and the change in his expression was instant—warm, fatherly. "And you must be the famous little sister." His voice was gentler now. "Sofia's told me a lot about you. I'm glad you could stand beside your brother today."

Elena nodded shyly. "Thank you, Uncle."

"Uncle? I like it." He gave her a warm smile in return.

Sofia let go of his arm and stepped forward with a bright smile. "Hi, Elena," she said warmly. "You look adorable."

Elena's cheeks flushed. "You—you look really pretty…"

Sofia chuckled, then turned to Lance.

Their eyes met—and both of them blushed.

And all around them, the courtyard quieted, the crowd holding their breath.

It was time.

Bride and groom stood face to face, hearts pounding, and the moon above shone with light.

The king stood nearby, a silent pillar among the gathered nobles and guards, his presence commanding even in stillness. But now, as the moment of joining approached, he stepped forward.

Elena, still standing beside her brother, glanced up—and blinked.

Gone was the fearsome warlord she had briefly met earlier, the commanding king of Al-Bark whose gaze could silence a room. In his place, just for this moment, was a man who looked… kind. Middle-aged, gentle, almost ordinary. A warmth glinted in his green eyes as he looked between Lance and Sofia, and when he smiled, it wasn't the tight-lipped smirk of a ruler—it was the quiet smile of someone proud.

He was still the king—but not a king presiding over warriors or strategy.

A man, overseeing a union.

To ensure his words reached all gathered, his voice would need to be amplified. Normally, a royal attendant or court Arts User would step in for such a task—but not today.

Today was Sofia's day.

And so, the bride stepped forward, calm and graceful despite the tremble in her fingers, and lifted one hand.

The air shimmered gently around her as she performed the Art, subtle movements and breath control woven into an art that stirred the wind around the courtyard. Then silence—before the king's next words rose clear and strong, carried by her power.

Everyone heard him.

Every heart leaned in.

The ceremony had begun.

...

The king stood tall beneath the moonlit sky, silver crown catching the soft glow of lanterns and starlight, and when he spoke, his voice rang out—not with the thunder of command, but with solemn pride, carried clearly by Sofia's gentle Air Art.

"Tonight," he began, "under this vast sky and before all gathered—nobles, guards, servants, and kin—we bear witness to more than a wedding. We witness the union of two of my most loyal shields."

He turned slightly, extending one hand to gesture toward the couple.

"Lance of Justice," he said, voice resonating across the plaza, "who has served with unwavering discipline, and Sofia, the Rose of Justice, whose strength and kindness have protected not only myself but all who call Al-Bark home."

His tone deepened, warmed.

"In these six guards—these six pillars—I place my trust, my safety, and the safety of the realm. And among them, these two have proven themselves again and again. As warriors, as protectors... and now, as partners in life."

A faint smile tugged at his lips.

"It is an honor—no, a blessing—to witness their bond become more than camaraderie. And if they can stand together through battle, I have no doubt they will stand stronger still in peace."

He now turned to Lance, his green eyes sharp yet kind.

"So I ask you, before your king, your comrades, your people... do you, Lance of Justice, wish to take the hand of Sofia, the Rose of Justice, as your lawful wife?"

Lance straightened, his expression steady despite the tension in his jaw. Then, from his chest rose a breath, and as he spoke, the same shimmering Air Art that Sofia had used on the king now lifted his voice to the crowd:

"I do," he said clearly. "With all my heart—I would like to."

The king's smile deepened as Lance's words echoed across the open plaza, and he gave the young man a firm nod—one warrior acknowledging another, not just as a subject, but as a man.

Then, his gaze swept past Sofia—not out of disrespect, but because tradition, and honor, demanded he turn first to another.

"To speak vows is one thing," the king said, voice still carried gently through the air. "But before Sofia may offer her hand in return, the one who raised her, guided her, protected her... must first give it."

He looked to the broad-shouldered man standing just behind the bride. A grizzled veteran of life's battles, his black wedding coat fit snug over a frame carved by years of labor and a lifetime of protecting his own. His face wore a permanent scowl—but not one of contempt. It was just the shape of it, as if even joy had to wrestle its way through his weathered muscles.

The king extended a respectful nod toward the man.

"Father of the bride... do you, with heart and will, give your blessing to this union? Do you accept Lance of Justice, not only as your daughter's companion—but as your family?"

The man grunted.

Then again, louder. "Hmph."

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile—more like his face trying to remember how.

"He's alright," he said in a gravelly tone that somehow echoed with affection. "Fights like a monster, holds himself like a soldier... and when he looks at my daughter, he does it like a man who knows what he's been given."

Another grunt.

"So yeah... I accept him. He's earned it."

Lance nodded his head slightly, a breath of relief passing through him. Beside him, Sofia smiled softly, green eyes glimmering with warmth.

The king gave a single nod of approval—nothing more needed to be said.

Then, finally, he turned... to her.

"And you," he said, voice still amplified by her own Art. "Sofia, Rose of Justice. Loyal defender of the realm. Esteemed member of the Royal Six. Daughter of strength... and strength itself."

He smiled—not as a warlord, not as a ruler, but as a man who understood the weight of a bond like this one.

"Do you, here before all who stand witness, give your hand—your life—to Lance of Justice, not only as comrade and guard, but as husband?"

Sofia stood quietly, still holding onto her father's arm. The soft breeze teased the edge of her modest white dress, and her golden hair shimmered under the light of a dozen suspended lanterns and the pale moon above.

She glanced up at her father, who met her eyes with a brief grunt and a proud nod.

Then she turned her head slightly toward Lance—who stood, calm yet hopeful, a flicker of nerves behind his soldier's stance.

And finally, she turned to the king with a warm, blooming smile.

"Yes," she said clearly, the Art catching her voice and spreading it across the crowd. "I am willing."

There was a breathless pause as the king nodded solemnly.

And then, her father stepped forward.

Grumbling under his breath as though protesting the emotion tugging at his features, he gently took his daughter's hand, lifted it, and placed it into Lance's waiting palm.

Lance took it firmly, reverently—like a sacred trust given, not just earned.

The two held hands, fingers locking with a quiet intimacy... then lifted their joined hands together for all to see.

The king raised one arm high.

"Then by my name, by this crown, and by the strength of this realm—before nobles and commoners, guards and kin—I declare you husband and wife!"

The crowd erupted in a wave of joy.

At that very moment, a figure to the side—a specialized Arts User—snapped his fingers. From his outstretched hand, a trail of glowing sigils surged into the sky and exploded into a brilliant flower of light.

Crimson and silver bursts followed, lighting the night in radiant celebration.

Cheers echoed through the vast open plaza. Claps, shouts, and laughter filled the air.

Elena, standing near the front, jumped slightly from the surprise of the fireworks, then clapped with both hands, a wide grin across her face, cheering with all her heart.

Sofia leaned slightly into Lance's shoulder.

And for a moment—just a moment—the world felt perfect.

...

Some time later, under the soft glow of moonlight and lanterns, Lance and Sofia sat proudly at a table beside the king and queen. Nobles filtered in and out in a steady flow, approaching the newlyweds with warm congratulations and polite smiles. Laughter filled the air and the plaza sparkled with celebration.

Meanwhile, Elena tugged lightly at her brother's sleeve.

"Can I go sit with Asvin?" she asked, glancing toward the familiar blonde-haired youth not far off.

Lance raised an eyebrow, amused. "You know him?"

She shrugged, feigning casual. "We talked earlier."

He chuckled, clearly intrigued. "Right. Well, don't cause trouble, Lady of Justice."

"I'm not the one who just got married," she shot back with a grin, already hurrying off.

And so, Elena joined Asvin at a quieter table on the side, away from the bustle of nobility. He offered a lazy wave as she hopped into the seat across from him.

"You survived the royal ceremony," he said with a smirk.

"Barely," she muttered. "Your princess teacher still scares me."

"She scares everyone," Asvin replied, leaning back in his chair. "You get used to it. Sort of."

The celebration continued around them—an Arts User juggled glowing spheres of fire that shifted into claws mid-air, a pair of jesters tumbled and flipped between guests, laughter followed them like a trail.

Asvin turned to Elena with a quieter tone. "Want to hear something chaotic?"

"Always."

"I've got three little sisters," he said. "Two adopted. The Marlston sisters—Terria and Sonia. Terria's the older one, strict and reliable. Sonia's sweet but kind of sneaky."

"And the third?" Elena asked.

"Rosin," he groaned. "My actual sister. Same age as you, actually. Huge headache."

She laughed. "How?"

"She thinks she's already the head of the family," he said. "Barks orders, makes demands, never listens. One time, she challenged a horse to a race on foot. Lost, obviously. Denied it ever happened."

Elena giggled. "She sounds fun."

"She sounds loud." He grinned. "But I guess I'd still choose her over a noble banquet."

"Same."

The two shared a laugh as the fireworks bloomed again in the sky. For a while, the pressures of titles, families, and futures melted away, leaving the two—one the heir of Decartium, the other the sister of the groom—laughing in the glow of celebration.

...

Time passed, and the wedding's golden warmth began to cool into the gentle silence of night. The stars blinked overhead and the nobles gradually thinned out as sleep called to all—even those too proud to admit they were tired.

Lance found Elena before he left, still in his wedding suit, but with the buttons undone now, the tie hanging loose.

"I'll see you in the morning," he said, ruffling her hair with a smile.

She grumbled at the gesture, but smiled back. "Sleep well, married man."

As he walked off, Rannold appeared, his presence as calm and grounded as ever. The older man adjusted the sleeves of his suit, a satisfied glint in his eyes.

"Well," he said, "looks like someone pulled strings. We're sleeping here tonight. Royal castle and all."

Elena's jaw dropped. "Wh—what!?"

Rannold gave a quiet laugh. "Aye. Seems someone thinks highly of your brother. And of you. I'm told it might be the king, but not sure it is."

Elena nearly screamed in delight, but contained herself to a hop and a long, barely-held-in squeal. Sleeping in the Royal Castle?! This day just wouldn't stop getting better.

Later, she was led to her own room—a cozy chamber with polished wooden floors, velvet curtains, and a bed so soft it looked like it might swallow her whole. But sleep never came.

She tossed. She turned. She hugged the pillow. No use.

Her mind raced—memories of the ceremony, the King's voice, Asvin's laugh, the crowd, the fireworks—it was all too much. She felt like she had touched a star and now couldn't come down.

Eventually, quietly, she slipped out of bed, pulled on her shoes, and snuck out the door, her steps silent against the marble halls.

The castle was peaceful now, the walls glowing dimly with enchanted lanterns. She wandered until she found herself in a small open courtyard, moonlight pouring in, silver and soft. A fountain whispered in the center, surrounded by trimmed hedges and stone benches.

Someone was already there.

A man, sitting alone on one of the benches, his back relaxed, hands resting on his knees. He looked middle-aged, with short green hair and eyes of the same shade. He wasn't tall, not like the others—maybe only 165, or even 160. In the moonlight, his face seemed both calm and heavy, like a man with many thoughts but no urge to speak them.

Elena paused, then stepped forward quietly.

"…Can I sit with you?"

He glanced at her, gave the smallest of nods.

She sat beside him, tucking her knees up on the stone bench. The night was quiet.

Elena swung her legs gently beneath the bench, still a little too wired from the day to fully relax, but this courtyard… this man… it was calm here.

She glanced at him, curious. "What's your name?"

The man turned his head, just slightly, green eyes meeting hers under the quiet glow of the moon.

"You're Lance's little sister, aren't you?" he asked instead, a small smile curling on his lips. "You've got the same eyes. Same eyebrows too—just less angry."

She blinked. "Wait—how do you—?"

He chuckled, low and rough, leaning back again. "Everyone who matters knows who you are today." He paused, then added with an amused murmur, "Green Fox."

Elena almost yelped, nearly jumping to her feet.

But before she could, his hand rose—calm, light, but firm—silencing her with just the gesture.

"No shouting. Please," he said, tired but gentle. "I'm off duty."

Her mouth opened, then closed. Her eyes were wide as saucers. She slowly lowered herself back down, still staring at him like he had just told her he was the moon itself.

"…You're the Green Fox," she whispered.

He didn't answer. He just gave a small shrug, as if to say: Unfortunately.

She had a thousand questions burning in her head. How strong are you? Have you ever fought a dragon? Are the royal guards scared of you? Can you really run faster than a horse?

But she saw his face—relaxed, but a little worn, a little faraway. The kind of face someone wore when they came to a place like this to be quiet.

So she didn't ask.

She just sat there beside him, legs swinging slowly off the edge of the bench, the moonlight draping them both in silver. And in the soft, peaceful silence of the royal courtyard, Elena finally began to feel tired… in the best kind of way.

The Green Fox glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

"You're tired," he said plainly, the first words either of them had spoken in a while.

Elena blinked, surprised—but she was. Her body felt like stone, her eyelids heavier by the second. She gave a small nod.

He stood with a quiet grunt and offered her a hand. She took it and stood up, mumbling, "Thanks…"

The walk back was just like the time they'd spent in the courtyard—silent. Peaceful. The sounds of the castle had quieted, only a few guards still walking the halls under torchlight. Moonlight filtered through stained windows. The grandness of it all didn't even faze her anymore; she was too tired.

When they reached the room offered to her for the night, the Green Fox opened the door for her like a noble butler. One hand on the handle, the other gesturing forward. "M'lady," he said with a small, mocking smile.

Elena rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling back.

She stepped inside, pausing for a moment just past the threshold, looking at the soft, warm bed waiting for her.

Before she could turn around to say goodnight, he spoke.

"The Savage Struggle," he said quietly, "is the form of swordsmanship that suits you best."

She turned, blinking. "Huh?"

But he was already closing the door. He didn't answer, didn't explain.

The door shut with a soft click.

Elena stood there, confused. Savage Struggle? What's that supposed to mean…? she thought. And why me?

But the questions were swallowed by her exhaustion.

She stumbled to the bed, pulled the covers over her with barely a thought, and was asleep before the confusion could grow roots.

The long, dazzling, overwhelming day had finally come to an end.

—End of Chapter.