Yesterday, Leonia Bellius had died.Again.And this time, it was while she slept.
It was something that simply… kept happening. Always.
She tried to stop the blade from cutting through her throat, but it was already too late to prevent the gash that tore through her flesh and pinned her to the ground. The scream didn't come in time; her hands weren't fast enough to stop the paladin who was stealing her life with that empty stare, devoid of any compassion.
The worst part? She didn't even know who he was, much less where she was. All she knew was that the heavy, silent night sky clashed violently with the chaos and terror consuming the people of that city. It wasn't a large place, but her experience beyond the gates was so scarce that she couldn't even deduce her location.
Bodies lay scattered near hers. Some were reduced to unrecognizable pieces of what had once been human; others were twisted into such grotesque positions that they made her stomach churn. Houses burned in treacherous flames, consumed by the voracious embrace of fire spreading without mercy.
She felt life slipping away. Her eyes begged for help, her trembling hands desperately clutched the paladin's bloodstained cloak. But he merely yanked her back with disdain, as if she were nothing more than an inconvenience.
Now, on that cold morning, the memory burned so vividly in her neck. Her voice seemed to have vanished as she anxiously rubbed the skin there—unmarked by any scar—as if she could still feel the spear lodged in it.
From what little she knew of paladins, they were not as noble as their golden cloaks made them seem. After that death, she came to hate them a little more—just as much as mercenaries.
Trying to explain this phenomenon was what earned her the label of cursed; it wouldn't take long before madness followed.
And "dying so many times," sooner or later, became just another event that could happen to the weak.
It might sound exaggerated. But there were no longer any reasons to care.
Because there was no charm or cure that could make it stop.
So if she was going to keep dying, then it would be with glory.
That's right—that was the correct way to think. And today was July 12th, Monday, and this time, I will not die.
That was what she repeated to herself. A mantra disguised as a wish, meant to calm her anxieties before the Graduation Ceremony.
As she waited for her name to be called, she kept her fists clenched, suffocating the anxiety gnawing at her from the inside.
Because everything was going according to plan.Nothing could go wrong.A plan that would become reality in just a few moments.
Once again, she looked at the palm of her hand—this time covered by a thick, black hunting glove—turning it over, closing it into a tight fist.
Nothing yet.
She clenched her jaw.
She clenched her jaw again.
Still full of the uncertainties that had been eating away at her since the Awakening.
She just needed to wait.
Perhaps becoming a Herald was a way of saying she could be more than a curse—that she could survive anything and be the strongest.
The simple thought was enough to calm her a little and bring forth a caricature of the young woman with her chin lifted in pure pride.
Yes. All this bad luck would disappear once she became a Herald.
— Armando Simone, candidate 340, offer your blade and swear your Creed, — announced the new Annunciator of the Monteiro, wrapped in a heavy navy-blue cloak and a mask of Yophielle's Runes that completely covered his face.
Despite the pomp, Leonia knew the selfish bastard beneath the cloak better than anyone.
The Annunciators, devotees of the minor goddess Yophielle—daughter of Charia—were the guardians of rituals in Monteiro lands. They lived among monasteries and churches, immersed in books, prayers, and vows of silence.
And after Silas Samarone assumed such a position, among them his name came to be forgotten by the others, just as his face was never meant to be revealed.
She still despised him. That repulsion was almost a hobby.
Swearing loyalty to Yophielle did not make him better. It did not erase what he had done.
He would regret every damn misfortune he had caused her.No—better yet, all of them would.
Ignoring all the young woman's revulsion and returning to the context of events…
Simone, wearing the simple silver armor of an apprentice, walked at full height toward a structure resembling a stone stage with five steps on its side.
He seemed a little nervous as he climbed the stairs—whether from anxiety or fear, it was hard to tell. It would have been strange if he weren't, after all. Before him stood the most important representatives of the Monteiro Order: both leaders of the Heralds and the Cavaliers, the Annunciators, and, no less important or glorious, Archduke Carmelius Monteiro.
The Graduation Ceremony, known as the Ascension, was the final step to becoming a member of the Order of the Monteiro Cavaliers—better known as the Heralds.
Unlike the other known orders in Camalia—the land of the Audreans—the Monteiro Cavaliers and Heralds were not the king's pets. The Heralds swore loyalty only to the Monteiro Archduke and his lineage, such as Princess Ariadne.
See, becoming a Paladin or a knight of the other houses, even of the royal family, might seem difficult: first comes the entrance exam, then about three years of training before heading into your first campaign—ready or not—and then you assume some post. The end.
But believe me, that doesn't even come close to what all these survivors did to be here.
In Montreal, the trials of the Cavaliers were hard, but nothing impossible. The problem began when ambition grew greater and you wished to become a Silver Herald.
Even if you applied to be a Herald, to prove aptitude, courage, and audacity, candidates endured years upon years of training. Some began at sixteen, others at twenty, and very few at under ten years old.
In that process, you could very well die trying to enter, die during training, and still never reach your longed-for goal.
It was surviving the unthinkable.
Just as she had done her entire life with her curse.
Leo raised her eyes toward the stage. Simone knelt, bowing before the representatives, removing the sword from his waist and offering it to the Annunciator.
Beside him rested the Fire Dome: a circular vessel with a base made from a twisted trunk, held by living branches. At its center, a bluish flame burned within a structure of white oak.
The flame seemed… pretentious. As if it judged the candidates before consuming them.
The Annunciator raised the blade Simone had offered—his old sword—and recited prayers to the war goddess Yophielle, calling upon the strength of the guardian Ignis, before handing it back to the candidate. Without hesitation, Simone used it to cut his forearm and plunged it entirely into the blue flame.
Exactly that. Of his own free will, the candidate cut his arm and thrust it into the fire along with his old sword, which melted amid the flames.
Pain was expected. Screams. The smell of burning flesh. But that was not exactly how it worked.
The Fire Dome was a living relic, offered by Ignis—the guardian creature of the lands of Montreal—not a false mystical object used to satisfy the ego of novices or the sadistic desire of the elders.
According to veteran accounts, the relic marked the "Final Accord"—if that was truly your greatest desire—a soul contract binding your soul and your loyalty to the Monteiro Archduke.
However, if the vows were not sincere, the candidate would burn entirely until reduced to ash.If their heart changed and betrayal marked them, their body would crumble.
Which, in two centuries thus far, had never happened.
— I, Armando Simone, now a Silver Herald before my peers, under the gaze of Yophielle and the blessing of Ignis, swear my life and honor to defend the Monteiro Archduchy and its children until my last breath. If my words are corrupted and my heart is lost, may my name be forgotten and my soul destroyed.
Standing over the kneeling youth, Alphonse Melione—the current leader of the Silver Heralds—stepped forward and fastened a royal-blue cloak to Simone's armor, bearing the silver insignia of Montreal: a creature resembling a white wolf with four black eyes, a pair of enormous eagle wings spread wide, its head turned to the left, and its massive tail ending in a blade curling around its head like a circular shield. Within that circle, three sharp blades pointed inward.
Below, in Caruylian—the ancient language of Camalia—it read:"For Montreal. For blood. For glory."
According to history, Ignis was the guardian creature of those lands who, in a state of vulnerability, was saved by Devian Monteiro. In return, she offered him her domain as a home so he could protect not only her, but all those in need.
Next, a silver mask was given to him, also known as Silenzia. It bore monstrous features, with sharp teeth, horns, and even a gleaming paint in the eyes. They began to be used as an attempt to confuse and provoke the Zalmas with their likeness, since their vision was severely impaired.
While some brought ruin to Eldria amid incandescent glory, the Heralds brought salvation and the end—capable of being as cold and cruel as any creature in this world.
Silas closed the parchment with the first twenty-five candidates and opened another containing the final twenty names—and among them… hers.
Her Ascension. Her destiny.
And this time, she would not merely submit to the call.
She would prove it. Prove to everyone, once and for all, that they were wrong.
Being a Silver Herald was the pinnacle of pride for a citizen of Montreal.
It was not a title inherited, nor one that could be requested—it was something torn from the world through effort, blood, and will.
She took a deep breath, her gaze fixed forward, steeping herself in the silence within.
— I think this time they'll serve Potrik meat… with red wine and that pepper sauce, — Tamaya whispered beside her, her voice dry, as if trying to break the weight of the moment, only making it heavier.
Her eyes were still swollen from crying.
Both of them knew: the night had been far too long, and the day… was the day everything would change. As delicious as Potrik meat was, it couldn't fill their eyes or distract them from the present tension.
— As soon as this is over, I'm grabbing a slice of that chocolate-and-strawberry cake from the kitchen. We'll celebrate by breaking the first rule as Heralds, — she added, lightly nudging Leo's forearm, her gaze still fixed ahead, not daring to waver.
Leo closed her eyes, shaking her head, stifling the half-smile that nearly escaped.
Talking there was a foolish risk, but they were hidden in the third row.
Leo narrowed her eyes, trying to pretend she wasn't part of the conversation, or it would fall on both of them—it was far too risky to act that way. Instead of speaking, she slid her left hand back and took her friend's, not intertwining their fingers, but offering comfort, as if to say:
"It's okay. When all this is over, we'll eat all the meat and drink all the wine until we pass out."
Tamaya squeezed back with the same restrained strength.And fell silent.
Leo replied with a discreet smile and refocused.
Ryuu was already crossing to the other side of the formation, his Herald cloak and mask gleaming like a living symbol of what everyone there wanted—or feared. Unlike the others, he offered his auradora, a longsword shimmering in bright, crystal-like hues.
The next candidate was Tamaya, who offered her simple pair of daggers. Seeing her friend try to smile amid so much sorrow from the previous day, Leo swore to herself that she would take her to some patisserie in Montreal and let her eat whatever she wanted.
When Tamaya's arm emerged unscathed from the Fire Dome, Leo looked again at Alphonse Melione—the current leader of the Silver Heralds of the Monteiro Archduchy. His dark skin was two shades darker than hers; his shaved head was covered by a white hood; blades were strapped to his garments. His mouth was hidden behind a metal mask shaped like the fanged maw of a ravenous wolf.
Seeing him before her heightened her anxiety. He had been one of her greatest inspirations: a boy who arrived at the archduchy at twelve and assumed the post at sixteen—and now, at nearly thirty-five, no one had been good enough to challenge him.
That, however, would soon change.
As soon as the new Herald stepped away, it was her turn. She was one of the last to be called. That year, there had been a total of eighty-two candidates: twenty-five had died, thirty-seven survived. Even so, the arrival numbering remained unchanged, even for those who hadn't survived—a way of honoring those who had come close to their goal.
In Leo's formation, the only candidates not called were 391, 392, and 393, who had perished during training.
No one survives on willpower alone.
Living and dying were intertwined words here—and the least one could do was balance between them… and survive them.
Perhaps it wasn't their time, but it was their choice.
That was why passing through the Ascension and being alive for graduation was an achievement worthy of pride.
Among all the stories intersecting there, the most unlikely to be present… was Leo's.
— Leonia Bellius, candidate 399.
The firm voice pulled her back. At the announcement, Leo straightened her posture and lifted her head with pride, arms set behind her back and her expression as serious as she could manage—despite the excitement boiling within.
That was the moment she had waited fourteen years for—just like her companions Rugh, Tamaya, and Armando Simone, who had already received their new ranks as Silver Heralds.
If cosmic phenomena truly existed to determine fate, then surely that chapter of her story was written as the most—
— Rejected.