Seraphina found us not long after the illusions vanished, along with Love, if I had to guess. Her boots clicked against the stone as she strode over, brushing some grime from her white coat like she hadn't just been wrangling monsters. She glanced around, eyes scanning for threats, before settling on us with a frown that softened as she reached out to support both me and Sora in one effortless motion.
"You two look like you've been through a washing machine," she muttered, voice dry as ever. "Let's get you out of here."
Before I could ask what a washing machine was, I heard them. Magi-guns cocking, boots slamming into the stone, the hiss of hydraulics. The guards had arrived.
They poured into the plaza from the ruined archways, clad in silver-plated armor glowing faintly with spellrunes, their weapons already trained on the lingering monsters slinking in the shadows. Some of them were accompanied by automatons. Giant ones. Hulking masses of armor and glowing cores that made the ones I'd seen before, the almost-human-sized versions, look like toys. One of them turned its head with a metallic whirr, scanned the plaza, and opened fire. A burst of red-hot light reduced a crawling beast to sludge and sparks.
I gulped.
The guards spread out, securing the area and shouting orders. Some moved to assist the shaken civilians hiding behind rubble, guiding them to safety with practiced ease. Seraphina was already talking to a captain, gesturing with her free hand while Sora leaned into her side, still a little dazed.
Then Sora's head perked up. Her eyes lit up, her face blooming with relief like spring after frost. I turned my head, and there they were.
Arden. Lysandra. And someone else, a young woman I didn't recognize, walking toward us alongside two guards.
"There you guys are!" Lysandra called out, her arms crossed in annoyance. "Would've taken forever if it weren't for these glorified tin cans." She jabbed a thumb toward the escorting guards, who didn't even blink.
Sora didn't wait. She took a half-step forward, a flicker of uncharacteristic hesitation freezing her in place. Her eyes, wide with leftover adrenaline and a dazed uncertainty, scanned Arden's face as if searching for proof he was real.
He closed the distance. A single, gentle hand came to rest on her head, his thumb brushing her hairline in a familiar, calming motion. It was the real deal. No illusion carried that specific, quiet steadiness.
The tension drained from Sora's shoulders all at once. A shuddering breath escaped her as she leaned heavily into his touch, the fight's fierce energy deserting her now that safety had a face and a name. Her legs trembled, barely holding her.
Arden turned toward me then, stepping over the bits of shattered stone and monster husks. His eyes met mine, and though his expression was unreadable as ever, he raised a hand. A faint glow sparked between his fingers, and a warm wave washed over me as the healing magic seeped into my skin, easing the ache in my arms and legs.
"You used magic," he said simply, almost like a passing comment. "I could feel the mana you left behind."
I blinked at him. "I– what?"
Sora shifted on his back, her head lifting just enough to peek over his shoulder. "She did," she said, her voice a little hoarse but clear. A small, genuine smile touched her lips. "I saw it. When the illusion tried to stab her, she made a shield. A real one. Made of light." There was no theatrical excitement, just a quiet, earnest pride in the statement, as if she were stating a simple, wonderful fact.
Oh.
I remembered the shield, the way it had sparked to life in front of me, the crackling weight of it pressing against my hands, but I hadn't known if it had actually counted. If it had really been magic. But hearing it confirmed like that, like it mattered, that I mattered, something fluttered in my chest. For the first time, I felt seen.
Before I could say anything, Arden turned slightly and waved the young woman over.
"This is Elisabeth," he said. "She's a priestess of the Light religion…"
"The Luminous Path," she corrected with a small, polite smile. "But yes, we do follow the goddess of Light. Um, hello. It's an honor."
She gave a small bow, her hands clasped in front of her.
"I think she might be able to help you learn," Arden continued, nodding at me. "Specifically light magic. Shielding, mostly, but also sensing, if she's trained in that. You've got potential."
My jaw nearly hit the cobblestones. "Wait, what?"
"I… I can?" Elisabeth looked just as baffled, glancing between him and me like she'd missed a step in a conversation neither of us had been part of.
But Arden had already turned his attention back, his head tilting toward Sora, who had begun quietly recounting the events in the plaza. Her voice was soft, threaded with lingering adrenaline, her fingers tracing vague shapes in the air as she described the illusions, the spells, the moment the Twin Dragon took form. He listened, his silence a form of absolute focus, and when he reached back to gently pat her head again, she leaned into the touch, her words slowing as exhaustion finally began to truly claim her.
That left Arden, Sora, Lysandra, and me, mostly just tagging along.
A squad of imperial guards in silver-plated armor fell into step around us, their magi-rifles held at ease but their eyes constantly scanning the shattered rooftops and alley mouths. They were our escort back to the palace, a silent, efficient shield against any lingering threats.
As we moved through the ravaged streets, Arden suddenly paused. He had stopped near a cluster of cultist corpses that lay in a strangely neat circle, untouched by the crushing force that had mangled the beasts around them.
Their pale robes were only stained by the single, precise wounds that had killed them. He stared down at them, his head tilting slightly as if listening to a story only the dead could tell.
"Are you done? We don't have all night!" Lysandra called from ahead, her voice sharp with impatience.
Arden blinked, the moment broken. He turned away from the cryptic scene and continued without a word, falling back into step. Sora, leaning against him for support, was a warm, quiet weight on his back.
With the guards clearing the way, we did a final sweep of the city, helping drive out the last of the cultists and checking in on the wounded. Arden glided from person to person, healing like he was swiping lint off a jacket, leaving me wondering if I'd accidentally hired a magician or a very skilled cleaner. At one point, we came across a woman pinned under a collapsed wall, blood streaking her temple.
Before I could even panic, Arden stepped forward and murmured something under his breath. A spell circle flared beneath his feet, golden and complex, and the rubble lifted.
It rose like an invisible hand had peeled it away, piece by piece, without so much as bruising the woman beneath. She looked up at him like he was some kind of angel. I didn't blame her.
The days that followed were… strange. The city felt like it was trying to breathe again, and everywhere I looked, something was being repaired or rebuilt. The automatons were the stars of the effort, hauling stones and reshaping walls like it was nothing. I'd never seen anything like it. In any other city, this kind of damage would've taken months. Here, it looked like it'd be days.
It felt almost alien. Almost unnatural. But it was also incredible.
Arden helped out where he could, usually with Sora trailing behind him, moving slowly and carefully as if her bones were made of glass, and Lysandra complaining nearby, though she did occasionally pitch in when no one was looking. I spent most of my time with Elisabeth, trying to figure out this whole "light magic" thing.
She wasn't exactly a master sorcerer. Not even close. But she tried. Honestly, I don't think she even knew why Arden had volunteered her for the job. She could've said no. But he had saved her life, and I think that kind of thing sticks. She owed him, and I think she knew he knew that.
Still, there was a question that kept bothering me, a splinter under the skin of my thoughts: if Arden was so damn good at magic, why wasn't he teaching me? Maybe he knew something I didn't. Or maybe he just had a thing for throwing people in the deep end and seeing if they swam.
The next few days were a blur of repairs, noise, and the heavy quiet that sits in your bones after a fight. Automatons lumbered through the streets like they owned the place, stacking rubble, lifting entire walls as if they were made of paper. Show-offs.
The mood among us was a low, constant pressure. Every glance Sora stole down an empty corridor felt too long. Every time Lysandra's fingers tapped a silent rhythm on the table, it was too sharp. We were all still flinching at shadows only we could see, haunted by the things Love had pulled from our heads.
One evening, Arden got whisked away for some emperor meeting. Strategy, logistics, war stuff. I didn't ask. That left the rest of us in the palace dining hall, a space too vast and too silent. We sat like strangers at a funeral, painfully aware of how little we knew each other and how much we'd seen inside each other's minds.
Sora kept sneaking glances at the empty seat beside me, her expression pinched. Lysandra just jabded at her food with a focus that looked more like violence than appetite.
After an eternity of cutlery clinks and shared, hollow silence, Lysandra finally sighed. It was a weary sound, stripped of its usual edge.
"Alright, Sora. Enough."
Sora perked up, startled. "Huh?"
Lysandra still wasn't looking up. "You and Arden. What's going on there?"
The question hung in the air, simple and brutal. Sora's cheeks flushed a deep pink. Her fork jittered in her hand. "He's just… he's someone very important to me. That's all."
"That's not an answer," Lysandra muttered, but her voice was low, almost prodding rather than accusing. She finally looked up, her crimson eyes holding Sora's gaze. "You've been quiet. More than usual. It's not just the fight."
Sora looked like a rabbit caught in a lantern's glare. She swallowed, her gaze dropping to her plate. I could almost see the ghost of Love's illusion hanging between them: Arden's hollow smile, his voice telling her she didn't need him.
I jumped in, my own voice feeling too loud in the quiet. "So, how long have you two known each other anyway? You were already with him when I met you in that forest."
Sora seemed grateful for the safer question. She fidgeted, twisting a napkin in her lap. "About two years now. Maybe a little more."
"Two years?" Lysandra raised an eyebrow. Her tone wasn't mocking though. "And he still makes you blush like a village maiden with a crush? Even after…" She let the sentence trail off, but we all heard the rest. Even after he left you in an illusion to die.
"That's just how I am," Sora blurted, her voice trembling. She took a shaky breath, her shoulders hunched. "He's always been kind. Patient. When I didn't know how to act around people, he never made me feel out of place. He just… accepted me." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The thing she showed me… it was just my own fear. It wasn't him."
The confession settled over the table like dust. It was the first time any of us had named what Love had done. We were all quiet then. Not an awkward silence, but a heavy, shared one. We were each back in that plaza for a moment, listening to our own personal ghosts whisper.
Lysandra looked at Sora for a long moment, her sharp features unreadable. Then she exhaled, a soft, conceding sound. "Hmph. Stupid." She didn't say what was stupid: Sora's feelings, the illusion, or the whole situation. Maybe all of it.
She turned her head toward me, her gaze less piercing than it had been a week ago. "What about you? You don't exactly look like someone who's known him long."
I blinked, caught off guard. "Uh. No. Not really. Hasn't even been a month."
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched Lysandra's lips. She shook her head. "Huh. No wonder you still look so lost. You are lost." She said it like it was a simple fact, not an insult.
We all fell quiet again, but the air had shifted. The palace still felt like a gilded cage, but the bars felt a little farther apart. Sora poked at her food, a fragile, real smile touching her lips. Lysandra's scowl had softened into something contemplative. I stared out the window, not to escape, but to let the strange, new calm settle over the jagged memories.
Maybe we weren't a team. We were three survivors washed up on the same strange shore, covered in different kinds of wreckage. But for the first time, sitting in that echoing hall, it didn't feel like we were just sharing a table. We were sharing the aftermath. And in a place like this, with memories like ours, that meant more than any oath.
It felt like we were starting to fit. Just a little.
And that was enough for now.
Or, it would have been enough, if we hadn't been interrupted by the clearing of a throat so precise it sounded like a period at the end of our sentence.
We all jumped. Even Lysandra flinched.
Standing at the head of the table where no one had been a second before was a man in a dark waistcoat and perfectly ironed coattails. He looked like he'd stepped out of a formal portrait: greying hair slicked back, monocle gleaming, hands folded with a calm that felt more dangerous than any weapon. I hadn't heard a door. I hadn't heard anything.
"I must apologize for the intrusion," he said, voice smooth and aged like a well-brewed tea. "But I fear it is far too early for any of you to indulge in sentimentality."
We stared, frozen.
Sora slowly lowered her fork as if moving through water.
He gave a small, impeccable bow. "I am Albrecht. Steward of the imperial household. His Majesty requests your presence at first light tomorrow. He suspects you will all be up late brooding, so I was sent to… gently discourage that."
"Additionally," he continued, producing a scroll from somewhere unseen, "your sleeping arrangements have been updated. At Lord Arden's request, of course. It was observed that sharing cramped quarters with two other girls has not been… conducive to rest."
He adjusted his white gloves, a gesture so deliberate it seemed to clean the very atmosphere.
"Miss Sora will remain in Lord Arden's care. Miss Lysandra, you will be granted a private suite on the third floor. And you," he said, his gaze landing on me like a weight, "will have your own room."
Lysandra folded her arms, her brief softness gone, replaced by cool defiance. "With all due respect," she began, a phrase that never led to any respect, "who died and made you in charge of our sleep?"
Albrecht adjusted his monocle, the crystal caught in the light. "Technically, the last three people who attempted to ignore my schedule," he said, his tone so light I couldn't tell if it was a joke.
Sora made a tiny, choked sound. I held my breath.
He gave a final, slight nod. Then he stepped back into the shadow of a tall candelabra, and by the time the light flickered, he was gone. No door, no footsteps. Just the faint, lingering smell of polished wood and absolute authority.
We sat in stunned silence. The fragile understanding we'd woven over the meal hadn't broken, but it had been neatly, decisively shelved by the palace's real master.
Then Lysandra muttered, "I hate him."
Sora whispered, almost in awe, "He was kind of amazing."
I just stared at my now-cold food and quietly added "imperial stewards" to my growing list of things that were profoundly weird.
Another servant, this one wearing a deep blue sash and an expression of serene detachment, appeared and motioned for Sora to follow. Sora hesitated. Her eyes met mine, then Lysandra's.
She gave a small, quick nod. It wasn't a goodbye. It was a promise: This isn't over. Then she was gone.
A different servant gestured to Lysandra, who stood with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire evening. She paused at the doorway, not looking back. "Try not to get lost on the way to your fancy new cage," she tossed over her shoulder. It sounded almost like a wish for good luck.
Then it was my turn. My guide said nothing. He simply turned and walked. I followed like a ghost, my footsteps swallowed by carpets thick enough to bury secrets in. Candlelight flickered, making the portraits of dead nobles seem to watch my every step, waiting for me to prove I didn't belong.
As we turned into a quieter, narrower corridor, faint voices drifted from an alcove where two guards were posted. Their words were low, sharp with urgency.
"Do you really think they've caught her? Alive, even?" one murmured, disbelief rough in his throat.
"Turns out she slipped away right after the fight," the other replied, voice grim. "Used some relic to vanish in the smoke. But she didn't get far. Patrols found her barely conscious in a side street a few blocks out. There was no fight left in her by then, so capture was easy."
"Orders came straight from the top," he continued, leaning back against the wall. "She's to be kept breathing for questioning. The Emperor wants answers. That 'Love'… she's not just another fanatic. She's something else. Something dangerous."
The words should have been a bucket of ice water. They should have sent me right back to the plaza, to the sound of Sora's dragon and the feel of my own pathetic shield shattering. But I felt nothing. Just a numb, hollow distance. The news was about a monster in a cage, and I was too tired to be afraid of monsters anymore.
When the servant finally stopped and opened a door, gesturing me inside, I stepped past him without another thought.
But when I stepped inside, I forgot to care.
The room was too much. The bed looked big enough to fit my entire village. A fire already crackled in the hearth. Beside the window sat a delicate desk with an ink set and a stack of thick, clean parchment. A chandelier, not a simple magi-lamp, hung from the ceiling like a frozen spiderweb of crystal.
I stood in the doorway, half expecting someone to rush in and tell me there had been a mistake. That this wasn't mine, that I wasn't supposed to be here, that they had confused me with some noble girl who knew which fork to use and didn't talk to herself when she was stressed.
But no one came.
I walked to the balcony and opened the door. The cool night air hit me like a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The city lay below, beautiful and broken in the dark. Silent. Still.
I leaned on the railing and rested my cheek against my arms. The memory of that golden shield, that single moment of power, was a ghost in my palms. It was real. I did that.
Slowly, I lifted my hand over the balcony rail, palm facing the distant, dark rooftops. I tried to find that feeling again, that desperate push inside my chest. I focused until my head ached, my breath held tight, willing the light to come.
Nothing. Not a spark. Not a shimmer.
The only sensation was a faint, hollow ache where the magic had been, like a channel had been opened and then slammed shut. The power had flowed out in a one-way rush, like blood from a wound, and now there was nothing left to give. Had it all been a fluke? A desperate trick of a mind about to break?
I let my hand drop. The frustration sat like a cold stone in my gut. I had a long, long way to go before I could even protect myself, let alone anyone else. The silent, lavish room behind me seemed to agree.
It was too much space. Too much quiet. Too much room in my chest where fear had been living for so long. Now it didn't know what to fill itself with.
But I could breathe.
And for now, that was enough.
----
Seraphina stood at the window of her assigned quarters, not seeing the organized chaos of the repairs below. The ghost of the illusion's words lingered: "You've done enough. Come home."
Radames hadn't spoken to her like that in years. Not since she'd ceased being a curiosity and become a tool. A sharp, efficient, useful tool.
The thought, unbidden and treacherous, slipped in: What if he is using you? What if this trust is just a leash that looks like a ribbon?
Her jaw tightened. She brought her hand up and delivered a sharp, stinging slap to her own cheek. The sound was loud in the silent room.
"Fool," she muttered to herself, the pain a clean, focusing anchor. The man had pulled her from the gutter of a forgotten province and given her a blade, a purpose, and a name that meant something. Doubting him was the height of ingratitude. It was a weakness she could not afford, not with a war brewing and an emperor's eyes upon her. She was his instrument. That was her purpose. She would not fail it.