It was a sunny Sunday.
The skies were impossibly clear, sunlight spilling golden across the spires of Arzest—but the brightness outside clashed bitterly with the weight in Elysia's chest. The world seemed to laugh while she quietly brooded.
With no administrative work scheduled—thanks to the bureaucratic holiday—Elysia had invited Baron Fitzroy to join her for a quiet tea after breakfast. He responded courteously, as always, promising to join her in about an hour after collecting the monthly merchant reports.
Once breakfast was done, Elysia returned to her room with Clara in tow. She pulled her diary, Duke Wyatt's personal notes, and her own research notebook from the shelf, spreading them across her study table with something like restless energy.
No revelation struck her—no sudden eureka moment or master plan. But a quiet idea stirred at the edges of her mind.
"Clara," Elysia asked, eyes fixed on the parchment, "did every member of Lucian's mercenary company leave with him on his mission?"
The question clearly caught Clara off guard. She hesitated, brows knitting slightly.
"No, Your Grace. The Second and Third Squadrons left earlier this week with His Grace for the monster culling. As for Lord Lucian's mercenaries, only a portion departed with him. The rest remain stationed here alongside the First Squadron to guard the palace grounds."
Elysia nodded faintly to herself. So, some of them stayed… Yet something else felt off—not about the answer, but about Clara.
She looked up, eyes narrowing gently. "Clara… I can tell. You still seem hesitant around me."
The maid stiffened ever so slightly.
"There's a pause, a tension in your voice when you address me," Elysia continued. "I know I lost those three years, but… why does it feel like everyone's walking on glass near me? You. Baron Fitzroy. Even Alric. It's suffocating."
Clara's gaze dropped, shame flickering in her eyes.
"I… I didn't mean for it to show," she said quietly. "It's just… I don't know how to act around you anymore, Your Grace. You're still you, but not you, and I feared that calling you 'Lady' might come across as… disrespectful. Diminishing of your rank."
Elysia's expression softened. The frustration that had been simmering in her chest began to ease.
"Clara," she said gently, "if you truly spent time with me before… then you know I'm not one for titles. Not when it comes to those I trust."
Clara looked up, surprised.
"I want you, Baron Fitzroy… even Alric," she added after a breath, "to act as you did before. Not out of duty, but because I need to see it. Because this cold formality is a daily reminder that I've lost something I once held dear. And I don't want to be treated like glass."
A long silence followed. Then Clara gave a quiet sniff, a single tear sliding down her cheek. She smiled—not the practiced one she wore like armor, but a real one, trembling and warm.
"…Understood, My Lady," she said at last. "Everything will be alright. I promise."
Elysia reached over and took her hand, squeezing it gently.
She brushed the tear from Clara's cheek, her smile more radiant than she realized. Even the Heartless Goddess can cry, she thought with a spark of amusement. The thought made her heart ache… and heal, just a little.
"Well," she said after a moment, "now that we've dealt with that—shall we move to the next item on my list?"
Clara straightened, more composed now. "Of course."
"I'd like to visit the mercenaries stationed in the castle. The ones who stayed behind."
Clara's eyes widened briefly, then softened in understanding. So that was the reason for the earlier question…
"I'll have a maid inform them. They'll be ready to receive us."
"Good," Elysia said, already gathering her notes. "Let's not waste the sunlight, shall we?"
----------
A knight led Elysia and Clara through a lush alameda, winding into the heart of the Arzest gardens. The sun-dappled path stretched between towering trees—ancient sentinels standing watch over centuries, their branches whispering with time.
"Though it's called the 'Garden,' this region is actually a protected forest within the palace grounds," Clara explained. "It holds varied terrain, rare flora, and even magical beasts, My Lady."
Elysia could only nod, awestruck. "Uh… yes, this is… magnanimous," she murmured, still caught in the overwhelming serenity of it all. It didn't feel manmade—more like something the world had gently grown around. Centuries must have gone into creating this sanctuary… or perhaps even longer.
A grand gazebo came into view, veiled in ivy and nestled beneath an open glade. Seated within was Baron Edmund Fitzroy, awaiting them with the composed stillness of a man who never arrives late. Two maids stood nearby, wicker baskets in hand.
He greeted them with his usual quiet dignity.
Elysia offered a soft smile. "You may be seated, Brother Edmund."
Edmund's composure faltered—just a flicker. Not shock, but a subtle disbelief, like a long-dimmed warmth reigniting.
"...Brother Edmund?" he repeated, voice low.
Elysia lifted her teacup, fingers curling around the porcelain. "I may not remember, but I don't think we should abandon our past habits. That's how I used to call you, isn't it?"
At her side, Clara's stoic face eased—just slightly. A quiet softening.
Realization dawned on Edmund. He relaxed, expression warming. "You must understand," he said, "I've always addressed you as 'My Lady,' just as I call His Grace 'Lord.' He insists on calling me elder brother—not from duty, but out of admiration."
Elysia nodded. Of course Alric would. She'd seen that reverence in his eyes when he spoke of Edmund. He was more than a retainer—he was family.
With the quiet affirmation settled between them, the three fell into a peaceful rhythm, sipping tea beneath swaying branches and birdsong.
But the peace didn't last long.
Breaking the silence like a blade hidden in silk, Edmund spoke.
"Miss Clara, I wish to inquire something of you, if I may."
Clara offered a gentle nod, a faint shimmer in her eyes betraying curiosity, though her expression remained gracefully composed.
"If a compass were to find its north not in iron, but in light… and that light never once realized it guided… would the compass be a fool for following?"
Elysia froze mid-sip.
Her eyes flicked toward him. What in the world…?
Edmund sat very still. His face was unreadable, but the faintest pink touched his ears—an ember of vulnerability showing through polished stone.
Clara, serene as a moonlit pond, replied without pause: "That would depend. Is the compass defective, or does it simply require recalibration?"
Elysia choked.
She turned away, coughing violently into her sleeve. Whether it was the tea or the effort to smother her laughter, she couldn't say.
Edmund was silent for a moment longer, then—against all apparent logic—he spoke again.
"In alchemy, there are compounds that remain inert. Resistant to flame, immune to time. They endure unchanged, untouched."
Clara glanced at him from over her teacup, politely attentive.
"But some," he continued, voice softer now, "shift under the presence of a catalyst—an unseen force. They don't erupt, or break. They simply… become something new."
He set his cup down carefully. "It's maddening. To realize you've changed, and know precisely when… and who caused it."
Clara blinked, thoughtful. "Then you should isolate that compound, my lord. If it's that unstable, it could contaminate the rest of your work."
Elysia lost it.
She let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a strangled wheeze, setting her cup down before she dropped it. "Not again—he actually did it again—!"
The Heartless Goddess truly knows no mercy, Elysia thought, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.
Edmund's shoulders stiffened. He didn't move, didn't react—save for the sigh that slipped through his lips. It was quiet, but heavy. His confession—disguised and delicate—had sailed straight past Clara's polished walls.
Elysia exhaled slowly, mirroring his sigh. These two lovebirds don't need a push—they need divine intervention.
Her thoughts, unbidden, wandered to Alric. The memory of their earlier conversation curled warmth beneath her skin. She quickly lifted her teacup to hide the smile forming at the corner of her mouth.
Then movement caught her eye—along the edges of the clearing.
Small animals had emerged. Foxes, deer, birds, even a few spirit-touched creatures with faint magical glows—gathering silently near the gazebo. They didn't come close, but close enough to be seen. Close enough to remind them they were not alone.
The air shifted.
Softer. Still.
It felt as though the world had paused to breathe with them.
Elysia let it wash over her—warm, gentle, fragile. She closed her eyes a moment.
Let every day that follows feel like this, she prayed. Let it be quiet. Let it be kind.
But deep down, she knew better.
Alric was out there, culling monsters. Bleeding for peace.
And this moment—this rare, perfect calm—was only ever borrowed. A heartbeat stolen from the storm.
----------
The morning sunlight fell in lazy strips through the half-drawn blinds of the Office of Mercenary Affairs. Dust floated like golden ash in the air, undisturbed—except for the rhythmic puffs of a single cigar.
Finnegan Rivenbar reclined in his creaking wooden chair, boots propped over a stack of untouched ledgers. His eyes, half-lidded from the smoke, watched nothing in particular. It was a rare Sunday—unburdened, unbothered. No knocks. No dispatches. No emergencies. A perfect day for idleness.
And he was determined to milk it for all it was worth.
He took another puff, letting the smoke coil up and vanish into the ceiling beams like thoughts he had no intention of chasing.
The door creaked open behind him.
He did not stir.
Footsteps—soft, deliberate.
Still, he didn't move.
Until—
Snap.
A sharp crack burst next to his ear. His entire body jolted with a twitch. The cigar nearly fell from his lips.
He blinked, turned, and narrowed his eyes at the two women who had intruded upon his morning peace. It took him a moment—perhaps longer than it should have—to place the figure in the lead.
"Wait a moment…" he muttered, tilting his head. "You're the little lady who requested us to hunt monster eggs, years back. Six years, was it? What was your name again—Riza?"
Elysia raised a brow, folding her arms. "So you do remember."
"Of course!" Finnegan's face lit up with pleasant surprise. "Look how much you've changed! All grown-up and…" His gaze flicked to Clara. "I'd say intimidating now."
Clara, however, was not amused.
"It is Grand Duchess Arzest, if we're being correct," she said, her tone like frost over steel. "Though I understand how honorifics blur when one spends mornings pretending to be part of the furniture."
Finnegan gave a sheepish grin, removed his cigar, and gestured lazily toward the seats. "Do take a seat, Ladies. Let me get myself… composed."
And without another word, he disappeared into the back room.
Close to a minute later, a man entirely different from the first returned.
Gone was the slouch, the rumpled shirt, and the smoke-sweet grin. His hair was slicked back neatly, revealing sharp heterochromatic eyes—one blue, one brown. His stance was straight, military. His gaze, disarming.
This was the other Finnegan—the one she knew nothing about.
"Forgive the delay," he said in a voice smooth and chillingly formal. "How may I be of service, Your Grace?"
Clara straightened slightly but looked to Elysia for the cue. The Duchess gave a courteous nod and began.
"Sir Finn," she said. "I need to know if there's any way to reach Lord Lucian. Directly."
Finnegan's expression tightened ever so slightly. "Unfortunately, he's been beyond long-range messaging range for the past two weeks. Interference from the Mystic Veil disrupts our channels."
Elysia hesitated, then leaned forward. "What about falcons?"
He nodded. "Three days round-trip. It can be done… if the message is urgent."
"It is." Her voice was low but certain.
Clara glanced sideways at her, still unsure of what this was about.
"Did Lord Lucian leave any instructions? Any note? Anything unusual?" Elysia asked.
Finnegan didn't answer right away. Instead, he flipped open a side drawer, withdrew a thin file, and from it, a folded note. "One came through his falcon the night before contact was lost. No explanation. Just this."
He cleared his throat and read aloud:
"Follow the stream that shuns all maps,
Where whispers guard the elven traps.
At river's end, past branch and bough,
I wait where none dare cross — but now."
The words hung in the air like frost. Elysia's brow furrowed. Clara looked as though someone had spoken in riddled moonspeak.
"Why would he send something like this?" Clara asked, puzzled.
"Because he wanted only a few to find him," Elysia replied, taking the note. "Thank you, Sir Finn."
"My pleasure, Your Grace." Finnegan bowed his head slightly, but there was a hint of mischief in his smile.
Elysia tucked the note carefully into her sleeve and rose. "Clara?"
Startled, Clara blinked. "Ah—of course. Apologies, My Lady. I was thinking."
They exited with grace, the air behind them still humming with unanswered questions.
Once alone, Finnegan relaxed his shoulders, took off his gloves, and placed them neatly beside the now-closed file.
Then he dropped his face to the desk, groaning.
Within seconds, the aloof Finn returned—whistling his favorite tavern tune, lit another cigar back between his lips, as if the day had never changed. The clock struck noon.
He shut the office door behind him, humming to himself on his way to the nearest diner, where no riddles, nobles, or schemes could follow.
For now.
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