"We greet Your Majesty, the King."
A chorus of voices echoed through the grand throne hall as the gathered officials dropped to their knees, heads bowed low. The towering figure at the far end observed them with cold detachment—eyes sharp as steel, gaze like a winter storm.
"Rise," came the order—stern, unflinching, and absolute.
Atop the obsidian throne sat King Aldric Ironhart, ruler of the Kingdom of Eleanor. Draped in dark ceremonial armor etched with sigils of war, he looked less like a monarch and more like a relic of an age that refused to die.
One of his envoys stepped forward, clutching a scroll with trembling fingers. "Your Majesty… the Kingdom of Daktor has issued an official declaration of war. They demand our immediate submission—or face total annihilation."
A heavy silence fell. Then the king's fingers curled into a fist.
"So, it's unavoidable after all," Aldric growled, his voice low but seething. "Inform the generals. Ready every division. I want every capable warrior on the frontlines. If it's war they want—then we'll teach them why we've ruled this land for generations."
"Y–Yes, Your Majesty," the envoy stammered, bowing again. But then he hesitated.
Aldric's gaze sharpened. "Speak."
"Your Majesty… even if we win, accepting this war places us at a disadvantage. The borders to the east and south are fragile—if other nations move while we're weakened…" The envoy's voice trailed off, afraid to finish the sentence.
"You suggest we surrender?" the King asked coldly.
The room trembled. Power flared. Veins bulged on Aldric's forehead as his aura surged—pure royal mana leaking like a crack in a dam. The very throne groaned, ancient stone grinding under the pressure.
"I—! No, Your Majesty!" the envoy dropped to both knees, forehead pressed to the floor. "I will inform the generals at once!"
But then—he hesitated again.
Aldric's voice was now amused. "Still not done? You tremble like a rabbit. Spit it out."
The envoy gulped audibly. "There is… another matter. A disturbance in the capital. A group has begun gathering in secret. Recruiting, spreading whispers, trying to stir public sentiment."
"Sentiment for what?"
The envoy's voice dropped to a whisper. "…For Rowan Vaelthorn, Your Majesty."
And there it was. The name shattered the air like a thunderclap. King Aldric's eyes froze mid-blink. His jaw tightened.
He hadn't heard that name spoken aloud in years—not without blood following it.
"…Rowan," he muttered, barely audible. A name buried under state secrets, rewritten history, and war crimes too heavy to carry.
The hall remained still, tension thicker than steel.
The King leaned back slowly, expression unreadable. His gaze drifted—not to his advisors, not to the envoy, but to the distant stained-glass window that loomed above the throne. One of the few still intact from the old age.
Rowan's symbol had long since been removed. Erased. But now…
Now, someone was trying to revive him.
"Keep watch on this group," Aldric finally said, voice quiet, dangerous. "If they speak again… silence them."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The envoy turned to leave.
"And one more thing," the King added, eyes narrowing to slits. "The moment you hear that name spoken by anyone outside this hall… you report directly to me."
"Yes, Sire."
As the throne room emptied, King Aldric remained seated—silent, unmoving, a statue carved from wrath and memory. His hands gripped the arms of the throne, knuckles white against the cold steel.
The name still echoed in his ears. Rowan Vaelthorn.
He hadn't heard it in years. Not aloud. Not without consequence. They had buried that legacy, erased it from records, burned the banners, and bled the land clean of his influence.
And yet... here it was again. Spoken in whispers. Rising in the shadows. A storm waiting to be reborn.
Aldric's eyes drifted toward the high stained-glass windows of the hall—light bleeding through in fractured color, but none of it warm. His face remained unreadable, but inside, something coiled.
If the world dared to remember Rowan again...
Then history wouldn't just repeat itself.
It would detonate. Because when ghosts rise...
So do the sins that buried them.
And this time, Aldric feared, the kingdom might not survive the truth.
While the king prepared for the inevitable storm of war, far across the Eleanor Kingdom, smaller ripples were already shifting beneath the surface.
---
Duke Lancaster's Manor – Eastern Territory
"Master," the butler said, bowing with practiced grace. "The first young master has left the Academy—without formal notice."
Duke Lancaster, mid-sip of his wine, paused. "He left?"
A brow arched, not in fury but mild curiosity. That boy was always calculated. He wouldn't make a move unless he was certain of the outcome—especially with the succession trial drawing near.
"He left a note for you, Master." The butler extended the neatly folded paper.
The duke took it, eyes scanning the words with measured calm. Then—an unexpected smile bloomed across his face. Not cold. Not restrained. But proud.
He folded the note once more, resting it on the table. A chuckle escaped him—quiet at first, then rising to a rare, booming laugh. "He's finally moving like a Lancaster."
The butler kept his head bowed. "Shall we monitor him, sir?"
"No," the Duke said, turning toward the window. "Leave him be. He's choosing his battlefield. And a true Lancaster doesn't need hand-holding."
"Yes, Master," the butler replied, fading out of the room.
---
City of Gold – Merchant's Palace
In the heart of wealth and coin, where fortunes turned faster than seasons, another figure stood in silence.
He overlooked the bustling city from his gilded balcony, a note held delicately in his gloved hands. The ink was still fresh. The handwriting—undeniably hers.
He smiled.
'Be safe on your journey, daughter.'
His eyes scanned the skyline, but his thoughts were far from the capital. Far from gold. Far from diplomacy.
A storm was rising, and she was stepping straight into it.
---
Swish. Swish. Swish.
The sound of steel slicing air echoed through the private grounds, unrelenting and sharp.
Rhea moved like a ghost across the sand—barefoot, drenched in sweat, but eyes burning with focus. Every swing was sharper, faster, tighter than the last.
Two men stood watching from the sidelines.
Karl's arms were crossed, his gaze locked onto her like a hawk. Beside him, Vin exhaled a lazy puff of smoke, the corners of his mouth twitching.
"She's a monster," Vin muttered. "Did you feed her dragon blood or something? From zero to this in what—a month?"
"If I'd known this side of her earlier," Karl said, his voice low with pride, "I would've made her bleed day one."
Vin grunted in amusement, but his smirk faded. "You think we'll pull it off? This thing we're covering up. You know it won't stay buried forever."
Karl's silence was telling.
"I don't know," he finally said. "But we have to stall it. At least until he returns. Once that happens…"
His words trailed off, unfinished. Heavy.
Vin exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing at the horizon. "They're already whispering about the Vaelthorn name again."
Karl didn't respond. He didn't need to.
Then, almost as an afterthought, Vin added, "Heard that old witch is coming too."
Karl nodded. "I called her. Said she's free."
Vin let out a bark of laughter. "Free? That banshee's never been free. She's probably still carrying around that fangirl crush like a damn cursed relic."
Karl said nothing, but his eyes glazed slightly—thoughtful.
Sylvia...
The name echoed in his mind, sharp and soft all at once.
---
Unknown Region – Forest of the Beginning
Deep within the ancient woods—the other forest, untouched and sacred—colossal roots wove through the land like veins, pulsing faintly with primordial mana.
In the heart of this forest sat a lone hut. Ancient. Silent.
Inside, she waited.
Her eyes, glowing a brilliant green, scanned through the swirling forest magic—not at the trees, but beyond. Past mountains. Past borders.
Then she saw it—a shimmer in the air. A flicker of something that should not be.
The world had shifted.
A spark had returned.
Her expression—usually emotionless—softened into something that might have been a smile.
"I see… So you've begun to move again, Vaelthorn."
Her voice was like wind across still water—gentle, but unfathomable.
"I'll be waiting."