In this quiet evening of Terraldia's sprawling places, society rested precariously on the illusion of order. In a chamber suspended like a gilded cage above the teeming city, the Council convened—a conclave of power carved into the heart of the castle's tallest spire. The room was a paradox: vast windows framed the kingdom's rolling emerald forests and iron-clad villages, yet the air within hung thick with incense, a cloying veil over the rot of moral decay. Marble floors, polished to a liquid sheen, reflected the grotesque theater above—lords draped in velvets and silks that whispered of exploitation, their opulence fed by the labor of unseen thousands. Chandeliers dripped crystalline light, casting jagged shadows that clawed at the walls, as though the room itself recoiled from its occupants.
At the table's periphery, like living trophies, stood their slaves: women shackled in collars of cold iron, their nakedness a deliberate humiliation. Among them towered an elven woman, her stature unbent despite the manacles scoring her wrists. Her eyes, twin pools of ancient amber, held a quiet defiance—an echo of forests razed to build this very spire. She stood behind High Councilor Pellcain, his bony fingers occasionally trailing her thigh as if to remind himself of his dominion. Her presence was a perverse ornament, a symbol of conquest over realms both wild and sacred.
"The King still tarries?" boomed Lord Marquorin, his jowls trembling like overripe fruit. Jewels crusted his fingers, each gem a tiny tombstone for the miners who'd died extracting them. "More Outworlders crawl from the northern mists—filthy, babbling specters in garish rags. Students?" He spat, the word dripping with venom. "They look like deranged mummers! What cosmic jest imbues such zilchers with souls fit for cursion-weapons?"
Baron Olmure, a wraith in brocade, smirked. His cane—topped with a gold pommel shaped like a screaming face—prodded the thigh of a shackled girl at his feet. "Souls? These creatures are animals," he drawled. "They screech of 'rights' and 'machines,' as if their prattling could unmake the divine order. Even beasts know their place." His gaze flicked to the elven slave, her stillness a silent rebuke. "Their madness is a gift. It justifies the trials… and the culling."
Pellcain's voice slithered into the pause, oily with false contemplation. "Yet their weapons are potent. How do fractured souls forge such power? The clerics preach of the Goddess's will, but I wonder—do these Outworlders mirror our own… fragility?" The room stiffened; the unspoken truth curdled the air. We, too, are brittle.
Sir Corvash, his face a battlefield of scars, broke the tension. "One crippled wretch summoned a blade that could split stone. A cripple!" His fist slammed the table, rattling goblets. "It mocks the Vantager Code! These tools were meant for nobles, not broken things who dare lecture us on 'equality'."
Marquorin snorted. "Equality? The trials will purge that heresy. Those who survive serve; those who falter… become lessons." His hand groped blindly for a slave's hip, her flinch fueling his grin. "Their women are worse—shrill crows in trousers, demanding 'autonomy.' As if the natural order could be unwoven by their mewling!"
Count Brispar leaned forward, his breath reeking of spiced wine. "One Outworlder raved about 'democracy'—letting peasants and whores dictate laws!" The men barked laughter, a chorus of fear masquerading as scorn.
The elven slave's eyes met Brispar's. She did not speak, yet her gaze carried the weight of epochs—of rivers that outlive empires, of seeds that crack stone. Pellcain noticed, his smile tightening. He yanked her chain, a silent warning. You are nothing. A pet.
But in the shadows, the chandelier's light caught her irises, kindling a fleck of gold. The Council's laughter curdled into silence as the chamber doors groaned open. A figure emerged—her presence a blade of moonlight in the room's sulfurous gloom. High Priestess Solmira stood framed in the threshold, her white robes pooling like fresh snow on the blood-dark marble. The golden sigils embroidered across her chest pulsed faintly, as though alive with borrowed divinity. Her silver hair, lit by the hall's torches, haloed her weathered face, its creases not soft with age but sharpened by decades of navigating the razor's edge between piety and power.
Lord Marquorin half-rose, his jowls flushing crimson. "By what insolence do you breach this council?" he thundered. "These chambers are sanctified to men of standing—not crones who peddle incense and platitudes!"
Solmira's gaze swept the room, lingering on the elven slave. Her eyes—the color of storm-bruised twilight—narrowed imperceptibly before she spoke. "The King requires my counsel," she said, her voice a dry rasp that nonetheless carried the weight of scripture. "Or do you presume to question his divine mandate?"
A taut silence followed. Baron Olmure's knuckles whitened around his cane. Pellcain's lips twitched into a sneer, but he flicked a hand toward the guards. "Remove the slaves," he snapped. "Their stench offends the Priestess's… delicate sensibilities."
The elven woman did not stir as the guards unchained her. When her manacles clattered to the floor, she turned slowly, her lithe body a study in controlled fury. Her eyes locked with Solmira's—a glare sharp enough to flay flesh—yet her lips curled into a smile, subtle and serpentine. You see me, that smile said. And I see you.
Solmira's expression remained placid, but her fingers tightened around her staff—a serpent coiled around a sunburst.
As the slaves filed out, the elven woman paused at the threshold. Her voice, low and resonant as a forest hymn, cut through the room. "Beware the rot beneath your gilded thrones, holy one." The guards yanked her into the hall, but her laughter lingered, a ghostly tremor in the air.
The Councilors shifted, their bravado fraying. Sir Corvash broke the silence. "What does the King want with a priestess? The Goddess's whims are for temples, not strategy."
Solmira settled into a chair that had been dragged grudgingly to the table. "The Goddess's whims," she said, "may be the reason your 'Outworlders' exist." Her gaze drifted to the empty King's seat. "And He wishes to know how I'll be of help."
And they all stared in silence for a moment. The High Priestess, sitting silently at the far end of the room, shifted uncomfortably.
"By the Goddess, what of those with strange hues to their skin?" Marquorin broke the silence, his voice dripping with suspicion. "I've seen one—skin dark as midnight, hair coiled like vines. And another, pale as snow, with eyes of eerie material. What manner of abominations are they? They might be poorly bred beastians haha."
"They are purely a mystery," began Pellcain, his ringed fingers drumming a slow, mocking rhythm on the polished table, "but it's no wonder how the King still gave them a chance. They arrive unbidden—chaotic, unrefined... grotesque mockeries of discipline. Not even having any knowledge of our world. I am sure even renowned Trouncers of our forces will be disgusted."
Sir Corvash, his face glistening with sweat, chimed in, his voice like the hum of flies. "And the defective ones? Those who may not ever summon their weapons or who are broken in the head? Useless burdens, they'll drain our coffers and resources. I'd rather pay Nimblers in the dark than to rely on them."
Brispar chuckled darkly. "Nothing like us. The blood of Terraldia is pure, our strength disciplined and controlled. The trials will reveal the truth. If they falter... well, I'll not mourn their absence."
At the table's end, the High Priestess sat in silence, her expression a mask of placid serenity. Clad in robes of white and gold, her presence was ethereal, her golden circlet gleaming faintly in the chamber's dim light. For long moments, she let their vitriol fill the air, her fingers steepled before her. Only when their mutterings reached a crescendo did she move, her head tilting slightly as if addressing children.
Her voice, soft yet cutting, sliced through the room. "And yet, my lords, these 'jesters' you mock will be our warriors of the future. Torn from their world, stripped of home and identity, they stand where others would crumble, they cannot be deemed as mere fools, right now their strengths should be tested, but what does that say of their strength... and your own?"
The chamber fell deathly silent, her words rippling like a cold wind through their self-assurance. Lord Marquorin stiffened, his lip twitching as he sought a retort, but before he could speak, the heavy oak doors groaned open.
"King Sorrel, your majesty." the high priestess spoke.
All turned as King Sorrel Calvian entered. Instinctively, the nobles rose, bowing briefly. His presence alone commanded obedience. Broad-shouldered and tall, his sapphire cloak flowed behind him, edged in golden embroidery that shimmered with every step. His crown, a masterpiece of jeweled craftsmanship, glinted as his piercing blue eyes swept the room, taking in every face like an appraiser evaluating flawed goods.
"Be seated," he commanded, his voice firm but even. They obeyed without hesitation, the prior venom in their words now subdued.
"I, Lord Marquorin of House Grainfrost, responsible for agriculture think it's preposterous,", scoffed. "We will soon pour resources into preparing these outworlders that most of them won't survive in the gaols, and how the preparations are bought to them as future warriors of the guilds when we can use it for the veterans as always. It's a drain on the kingdom, Your Majesty." He leaned forward, his voice sharp. "Wouldn't it be more prudent to allocate our newly gained resources toward securing our harvests this season? Crops don't grow on the backs of failures."
"You've always thought in terms of your fields, Marquorin, I Olmure and the House Goldspire of merchantile affairs must not be forgotten for this," retorted. "These outworlders, successful or not, bring curiosity—and coin in ways we can twist them to be. Merchants can see profits from Terraldians that will pay for their power especially of their capabilities, or even watching them for sports? The people are entertained. The kingdom is enriched. The economy will soon prosper when these outworlders are used for good—for hard work if you know what I mean."
"Profits won't defend us if ever the demons strike again," Sir Corvash said, his voice gruff. "We should be fortifying our borders, not indulging in these... theatrics. These outworlders are soldiers in name only, barely disciplined and hardly trustworthy. I, Grand General Corvash of House Ironmarch, say they must only undergo short knigthood trainings in our barracks instead of the Thaumaturge Academy as they survive from the gaols, it's unfair for them to be enrolled there for free."
"Speaking of the academy, where is Headmaster Saffron of House Thaum?" Brispar cut in. "As usual, the Thaumaturge Academy sends no representative to our discussions. Perhaps education and magic isn't as critical as they'd like us to believe."
"That is enough," King Sorrel interjected, his deep voice silencing their bickering. The lords straightened in their seats, though Marquorin could not resist one final jab.
"With respect, Your Majesty," he said, inclining his head slightly, "might I remind you that not all of us are as enamored by the High Priestess's silver tongue? Her remarks earlier were—"
"An insult?" The King's gaze bore into Marquorin, pinning him in place. "I've heard what she spoke. Insult that is perhaps a truth you found unpalatable?"
Lord Marquorin flushed but said nothing.
King Sorrel gestured to the serene figure seated at the end of the table. "You speak of High Priestess Solmira as though she were an outsider to this council. Let me remind you all: she is here because she has earned her place."
Solmira, inhaled and exhaled deeply, inclined her head humbly. Her golden circlet caught the chamber's flickering light, giving her an ethereal aura.
"She is wise beyond her years," the King continued. "When Terraldia was on the brink of collapse during the Plague, it was in their temple's divinations that guided us to the cure and her Aiders' forces for recovery. And now, as we stand at a crossroads with the outworlders, she is the most knowledgeable among us."
"Knowledgeable, perhaps," Corvash muttered under his breath, though the King heard him clearly.
"Do you question her expertise, General?" Sorrel asked, his tone sharper now. "She has studied their arrival. Her divinations speak of possibilities we cannot afford to ignore. She means well for our Kingdom, for all of us. And, yes, she is the only woman at this table—a testament not to her gender but to her unmatched wisdom."
The room was silent. Solmira finally spoke, her voice measured and calm. "My lords, I understand your frustrations. My words earlier may have struck a nerve, but they were not meant to demean. They were meant to remind us of the strength it takes to endure the unknown. These outworlders may be flawed and full of mystery, but their potential lies in the very chaos we fear. They are, after all, believed the summoned forces of the Goddess of Light herself."
Olmure shifted uncomfortably, but before he could respond, Marquorin leaned forward. "And if they fail? What then? What use is potential unfulfilled?"
Solmira's gaze was steady. "Then we will have tested them. And in testing, we will learn what we need to protect this kingdom."
Sorrel nodded. "Indeed. The trials will tell us much. And speaking of trials—where is Saffron? His absence grows tiresome."
"The Thaumaturge Academy is as inscrutable as ever," Brispar muttered. "Always shrouded in their own secrets."
"Secrets or not," the King said, his voice carrying the weight of finality, "we will proceed. The academy will answer to me in due time. For now, let us focus on what we can control."
Control, a word that was familiar. Mauve's word, a determined outworlder whom he had met and intrigued him the most.
It was then that the stillness in the air deepened. A low, almost imperceptible hum seemed to ripple through the room. It was subtle, like the first whisper of a coming storm.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors burst open with a resounding thud, shattering the tense quiet of the chamber. The dim candlelight flickered wildly, casting erratic shadows over the grand council hall as the scent of burnt ozone and something faintly floral followed the intruder inside.
She strode in without hesitation, a figure of controlled chaos wrapped in the scent of ink, metal, and alchemical residue. Her long, auburn hair, barely contained in a loose braid, bore streaks of soot and golden dust, as if she had walked straight from the heart of an explosion. Wild strands framed her face, highlighting sharp, hazel-green eyes that shimmered with the restless energy of a storm barely held at bay. A smirk tugged at her lips—amused, unbothered, and utterly unfazed by the murmurs of disapproval rippling through the room.
Her crimson cloak billowed behind her like the last embers of a fire refusing to die, embroidered at the edges with symbols of her craft—alchemy, science, creation. Beneath it, her fitted vest and ruffled blouse bore the telltale stains of ink and powder, as though she had been too engrossed in an experiment to bother changing before stepping into the halls of power. A pair of well-worn leather gloves were tucked into her belt, alongside vials of unknown substances, their contents glowing faintly even in the dim light.
The men, save for the King, had already risen, tension crackling in the air. But she merely raised a hand, palm up, in an almost dismissive gesture.
"No need for that," she said smoothly, her voice carrying a sharp, melodic lilt, laced with both amusement and command. "Apologies for my tardiness. Be seated."
The words were polite, yet edged with an authority that left little room for argument. The air seemed to still in her wake, not with fear, but with the undeniable weight of someone who did not ask for a place at the table—she simply took it.
She moved with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to bending the rules, slipping into the empty chair as if she had been meant to sit there all along. There was no hesitation, no acknowledgment of the disdain lingering in the room. If anything, she thrived in it, leaning back with a smirk that suggested she was already ten steps ahead of whatever argument they had prepared against her.
She had arrived—late, intentionally so. A quiet defiance woven into every deliberate step, every knowing glance. The council may loathe her presence, but they could not dismiss her. Not her mind, nor her hands that crafted the impossible. Not the fire in her blood that refused to be tamed.
Lord Marquorin finally spoke, his voice weighed down by both age and irritation. "King Sorren I understand she is your daughter but she has no place here—"
A sharp laugh, cold and edged, cut him off before he could finish. "No place?" she repeated, amusement dancing on the edge of mockery. "I would remind you who I am before you choose your next words too carelessly."
A murmur rippled through the room, some shifting in their seats, others exchanging glances.
"I am not just a princess or anyone," she continued, pacing forward with the measured grace of a lioness circling prey. "For I have more right than most to stand in this room, to sit among you, and to speak—whether you wish to hear it or not." She let the weight of her words settle before adding, "Unless, of course, the authority of the academy and its headmaster means nothing to you anymore?"
The silence that followed was its own answer.
"I am the representative of Headmaster Saffron for the Thaumaturge Academy. Let us proceed." she continued with a subtle smile.
"Where is your brother?" King Sorren asked. The question was almost a challenge, yet laced with genuine curiosity.
Her expression faltered, just for a breath—a flicker of something unreadable before it was buried beneath layers of steel. "Gone father," she admitted, the single word heavy in the dim air. "For now. I have no idea where he's been."
Lord Marquorin scoffed. "How convenient."
"I did not come here to discuss him," she snapped, eyes darkening. "We have more pressing matters."
At that, the weight in the room seemed to shift. The air thickened, expectation settling over the council like an approaching storm.
"You've heard the latest reports of the first awakened outworlder," she pressed on. "And I assume you've already started to sharpen your axes against him—of what a nightmare it was painted."
It was truly a nightmare. A young man sat on the cold marble floor, head resting on his knees, his dark hair spilling over his shoulders like ink bleeding into the silence. The dim glow of the library's lanterns cast flickering shadows across his pale skin, the faint luminescence of his teal eyes barely visible beneath the curtain of his hair. His breath was slow, measured—eerily undisturbed.
Around him, the room was a canvas of butchery. Blood pooled in thick, glistening rivers between scattered pages, staining the once-pristine tomes with violent red. Severed limbs lay twisted in unnatural angles, fingers still twitching as if reluctant to accept death. The iron scent of gore clashed with the musty fragrance of aged parchment, an obscene marriage of knowledge and carnage.
The guards had not died cleanly. Their bodies bore jagged, deliberate wounds—blades had not merely killed them; they had torn them apart. Some were left bisected, their torsos yawning open like broken books, secrets spilling in shades of crimson.
Yet, there was no sound. No lingering echoes of struggle, no final cries for mercy. Only the soft rustle of turning pages, caught in a phantom breeze. The library remained undisturbed, its endless shelves standing witness to the quiet slaughter.
And at the center of it all, the young man sat still, his presence an enigma—somewhere between a ghost and a god.
In the council, Baron Olmure among them exhaled, folding his hands before him. "Ah yes, the murderer. An outworlder was found amidst the remains of seven guards. Seven, all slain instantly. No witness saw the act—only the aftermath. And you would have us hesitate?"
Pellcain smirked and chuckled with his voice, sharper and less patient, followed. "If one alone is capable of such destruction, then there can be no doubt. We should execute him at once, before more of his kind awaken to the same potential."
"And waste an opportunity?" she countered, her voice like iron wrapped in silk. "He is the first. The first! The first one to awaken his abilities as an Outworlder and I strive to find out how. You speak of power as if it is only ever a curse. Have you never considered what it might be worth? "
Another scoff of Marquorin. "Worth? You mean to say you sympathize with him?"
She leaned forward, pressing her hands against the long wooden table, gaze unwavering. "I mean to say that your fear blinds you. Yes that tragedy is awful and no guards and their families deserve that fate. But have you considered—just for a moment—that the outworlders are not monsters, but people too? That they are just as lost as we are in this emergence? That this one—this boy—wielded his weapon not as an executioner, but in defense?"
Sir Corvash narrowed his eyes. "You assume much."
"I assume nothing," she corrected. "I can think of what he did, what he thought. I know that he awoke in a world he did not understand, surrounded by strangers who sought to bind him before he could so much as breathe—before he even knew what he was capable of. And when fear overtook him, his instincts responded. Not with malice. Not with calculated violence. But with desperation."
A beat of silence. Then Sir Corvash replied, "And yet seven lie dead, their families affected forever, they're dead regardless of intention."
She exhaled, steady but unyielding. "What of the few outworlders who died from accidents that your guards caused? It's worse for them that even their families will not ever know that they're dead. That is why we teach them. You fear their strength, but strength is not the enemy. Ignorance is. You cannot condemn a blade for being sharp—only for how it is used. And I tell you now, these outworlders will find purpose, whether under our guidance or against it. The question is—will they become our enemies that will rebel because we made them so?"
"Preposterous," Count Brispar muttered. "You speak as if they are all the same. They are not. Their power varies, as do their natures."
A slow, knowing smile curved her lips. "Which is precisely why we have Paths. Instead of grouping them into the gaols, we must immediately bring them to the Thaumaturge to learn."
The murmur among the council grew louder.
"And what of some of them that are too weak for the academy?"
"Their cursions are still useful," she said without hesitation. "We just need them to learn. To adapt. To find where they belong—not as forced warriors for our kingdom, but as individuals who choose their own course. If we educate them, guide them, we do not have to fear them. We can shape them into allies, into assets, rather than leave them to become something far worse."
"And what of the one who slaughtered our men?"
She met his gaze without flinching. "We do not throw away the greatest mysteries or even that guy who might be the greatest among them. We study them. We understand them. We prepare for what they might become."
"You would risk the safety of the kingdom for the sake of understanding?"
She straightened, her voice calm but firm. "I would risk more than that to ensure we do not make enemies of those who could be our greatest strength."
The council chamber settled into a heavy, brooding silence.
Outside, the torches burned against the coming dark.
A long, heavy pause settled over the chamber, thick with the weight of unspoken fears. The candlelight flickered across tense faces, shadows dancing over the polished table. The silence stretched—long enough for doubt to fester, long enough for resistance to harden.
Then, King Sorren leaned forward.
"Pomella, do you understand what you're doing?"
His words struck the air like a blade against stone.
Pomella didn't flinch. "Yes," she said, her voice cutting through the hush. "Everything I am saying is for our kingdom. We've all been enduring to train blessed ones—those who had magical attunement and where only nobles among us in small numbers can live through are the only people we're relying for. If the fortresses of elves near us were not pacifists, we've all been dead before. Isn't now the perfect time for change to happen and see these outworlders as weapons?"
The King's jaw tightened. He did not answer.
Pomella leaned forward, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers, watching the room with a gleam of mischief in her hazel-green eyes. The tension was palpable, thick as the scent of iron and parchment in the aftermath of that massacre. The noble lords and councilors—all powerful in their own right—had been rendered silent by the weight of her words.
And she loved it.
"And for the man who slaughtered, tell me," she began, her voice deceptively light, "how does one deal with an outworlder who has awakened into something monstrous? Do we slay him like a rabid dog? Study him like an exotic creature? Exploit him like a spectacle for your merchants, Olmure?"
Lord Olmure scowled but said nothing.
"Or perhaps we should knight him in haste, as Sir Corvash so kindly suggested?" She turned her gaze to the grizzled general. "After all, what better way to instill loyalty than to throw a confused, god-touched outsider into our ranks and expect him to play nice?"
The words dripped with mockery, and Corvash bristled. "Do not twist my argument, girl."
"Twist it?" Pomella laughed, a sound both sharp and melodic, like a blade sliding free of its sheath. "I'm merely holding up a mirror, General. If you don't like the reflection, perhaps reconsider the face you wear."
Murmurs rippled across the chamber, discomforted whispers that swelled into raised voices. Arguments flared once more—Marquorin, ever the pragmatist, raged about wasted resources, while Olmure lamented missed profit. Corvash growled about discipline, and Brispar sneered at the notion of trusting magic. Even the High Priestess, usually serene, had tightened her hands into a white-knuckled grip on the table's edge.
Pomella leaned back, utterly delighted.
Her father, King Sorrel, watched with his usual impassive expression, but she knew him too well. The slight twitch in his jaw betrayed his recognition of her game.
This was what she did best.
Feed them contradictions. Stoke their insecurities. Twist their concerns into weapons against one another. Let them unravel in a whirlwind of their own making while she remained untouched, the eye of the storm.
And oh, how quickly the storm took hold.
Lord Marquorin slammed his fist onto the table. "We do not have the luxury of indulging in idealistic nonsense Princess! The kingdom—"
"The kingdom is already in shambles!" Brispar snapped back. "We speak of outworlders, but what of the shadows creeping in our own streets? You all ignore the disappearances, the whispers of dark magic—"
"Dark magic is exactly why we should be cautious with this outworlder!" Corvash roared. "Do you not see? They are a calamity waiting to happen! The Goddess's gift or not—"
"—Tools," Olmure interrupted, eyes gleaming. "One that could be controlled if handled properly."
"Controlled?" The High Priestess's voice cut through the rising voices, soft but sharp as glass. "And if he cannot be tamed?"
The room was spiraling into chaos now, voices overlapping, bodies rising from their seats, hands gesturing wildly in frustration and fury. Some accused, some defended, others spat theories like venom.
And Pomella?
She sat back in her chair, crossed her legs, and grinned.
Oh, this was delicious.
Like watching dominos tumble, each one toppling into another, unable to stop their descent.
She let the moment breathe. Let the madness fester just a little longer.
And then—
She laughed.
Not a polite chuckle. Not a quiet, dignified hum of amusement.
No.
She laughed.
A bright, unrestrained burst of mirth that shattered through the room like a blade through glass. It was the laugh of a woman who had set the world spinning and now stood back to watch it tilt. A laugh that held no regard for decorum, no care for the fragile authority these nobles pretended to wield.
The chaos stilled.
Heads snapped toward her, expressions frozen mid-argument. Marquorin's lips parted in stunned confusion. Solmira clutched her pendant tighter, as if the sound alone had summoned something profane into the chamber. Lord Marquorin's hand, still gripping his other hand, trembled just slightly.
She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, exhaling as if she had just heard the most delightful joke.
"Oh, you poor things," she murmured, shaking her head. "You think you have control. You think your decisions matter. Go on, ramble until I'm done with that outworlder boy."
Silence.
Perfect.
She let it stretch, let the weight of her words sink deep, let them see the truth they had refused to acknowledge.
King Sorrel finally stood, slamming the pommel of his sword against the ground. The sound rang like a thunderclap, a command that demanded instant silence.
The lords and officials froze, breathing heavily, eyes flickering between each other in realization.
They had been played.
By her.
Pomella only tilted her head, feigning innocence.
Her father exhaled slowly, fixing her with an unreadable look. "Have you made your point, daughter?"
She stretched, rising lazily to her feet. "Oh, I think I've made several, Father. But whether anyone here understands them..." She gestured vaguely at the shaken nobles, the remnants of their disorder still clinging to the air like static. "...is another matter entirely."
With a final smirk, she turned on her heel, she strode toward the door. She didn't need to stay any longer. The seed of madness had been planted. It would fester and grow in their minds long after she had left.
As she reached the threshold, she hesitated, then glanced back over her shoulder.
"Do let me know what you decide," she mused, voice dripping with amusement. "Not that it matters. The outworlders will change everything whether we like it or not. And you idiots cannot stop me."
And with that, she left.
She didn't run. She didn't need to.
She simply walked away, leaving behind nothing but the echoes of her laughter—
And the madness she had so effortlessly unleashed.
She had shown them.
And that was far more fun.
The corridor outside the council chamber hung heavy with the scent of beeswax and unease. Torchlight licked the stone walls as Pomella—crown princess, heretic, and thorn in the Council's side—paused beneath a stained-glass window depicting the Goddess's mercy. The mercy, it seemed, did not extend to the shouts of the King raging behind oak doors, his fury muffled but unmistakable.
High Priestess Solmira emerged like a wraith from the shadows, her white robes glowing faintly in the dimness. "A reckless performance, Your Radiance," she said, her voice a blade sheathed in silk. "To taunt the Council so openly… one might think you desire their knives at your throat."
Pomella turned, her smirk sharp enough to draw blood. "Knives are duller than their wits, Solmira. Besides—" She plucked a withered rose from a wall sconce, twirling it between her fingers. "—scheming in shadows grows tedious. Why not let them squirm in the light? Fear makes fools confess truths… and fools are so very honest."
Solmira's gaze hardened. "And when their fear turns to action? The Academy shields you, but even a princess cannot outrun a regent's wrath."
"The Academy?" Pomella laughed, a sound like shattering crystal. "Oh, dear Solmira. Do you think I need walls to be untouchable?" She leaned closer, her breath a whisper. "Knowledge is a sharper sword than any cursed weapon. Let them fear my birthright. Let them plot. They'll only drown in their own paranoia as I unleash my plentiful ideas."
The priestess's eyes flicked to the chained slaves being herded down the adjacent hall. The elven woman met her stare, unflinching, before vanishing around the corner. "And what of them?" Solmira asked coldly. "Your little display condemned those slaves to worse than chains. The Council will punish your… compassion."
Pomella's smile didn't waver. "Oh them, I could care less but see that they're fed. Full bellies breed restless minds. And restless minds…" She let the rose fall, crushing it beneath her boot. "…make such delicious chaos."
Solmira's lips thinned. "You play a dangerous game, child."
"Games imply rules, your Holiness. I prefer… experiments." The princess glanced toward the King's muffled roars, her tone light, almost sing-song. "Tell me—when the Outworlders shatter your precious 'divine order,' will you weep? Or will you finally see?"
For a heartbeat, the priestess's composure cracked. "What would you have me see?"
"That a peasant's wit may outshine a lord's pedigree. That a slave's soul might hold more fire than a hundred hollow prayers." Pomella's gaze turned distant, as if peering through time itself. "Don't you think this kingdom is full of wilting roses? Solmira?"
She strode away, her guards falling into step like shadows. At the corridor's end, she paused, tossing a final smirk over her shoulder. "Do fret less, High Priestess. I'll be your most devoted ally… right until I'm not."
Solmira stood rigid long after the princess's laughter faded. Only then did she notice the crumpled rose at her feet—its petals now blood-red, though they'd been bone-white moments before.
"But Princess, those who blooms the largest are the ones who falls the quickest. Your game is just a piece to the divine, but I'll not trample your flowers my dear child, not yet."
As Pomella stepped into the dimly lit corridors of the palace, her thoughts turned to the outworlder—the one who had slaughtered seven men without a single witness and a logical explanation. The one who now held the key to everything and is now in mysterious circumstances.
It was now in the wooden room that was cold, its air stale with the scent of damp wood and iron. Flickering candlelight cast elongated shadows across the rough-hewn walls, giving the illusion of movement where there was none. A singular door stood behind the figure looming near its frame, the only visible exit from this suffocating chamber. The rest was barren—no windows, no furniture, nothing but silence thick enough to strangle.
And there, at the room's center, a young man sat bound.
His wrists were tied behind his back, the rough rope biting into his skin with each shift of his weight. His posture remained composed, back straight despite the uncomfortable position. Strands of dark brown hair, unruly from whatever struggle had led him here, framed a pale face that bore no sign of exertion. His expression was unreadable, cold teal eyes half-lidded as if this entire predicament was nothing more than a passing inconvenience. His lean frame, though bound, exuded a quiet strength, the kind that did not rely on brute force but on something far more insidious—control. He did not struggle. He did not speak. He only observed.
And then the other young man stepped forward.
The glow of the candlelight caught on the golden circlet atop his head, tracing over tousled blonde hair that fell just above sharp cerulean eyes. Sun-kissed skin stretched over a powerful frame, broad shoulders squared as if he carried the weight of the world upon them. His tunic, deep crimson with golden embroidery, fit snugly over a physique sculpted by years of battle. A scar bisected his left brow, lending a roguish edge to a face otherwise princely in its refinement. He stood with the effortless arrogance of someone born to be obeyed, yet there was something in the sharpness of his gaze—an edge of uncertainty buried beneath the practiced confidence.
For a moment, there was only silence between them.
Then, the prince spoke.
"You're surprisingly calm for someone in your position."
The man in the chair merely blinked, his expression unchanging.
"Not going to beg for your life? Plead for mercy?" A slow smirk curved the prince's lips, but there was no humor in it—only the practiced cruelty of someone who enjoyed watching others squirm.
The bound man tilted his head slightly, as if considering the words. Then, finally, he spoke, voice low and deliberate.
"Do I look like someone who begs?"
A chuckle, short and sharp. "No. That would make this far less interesting."
The prince took another step closer, circling him like a predator sizing up its prey. His fingers tapped idly against the hilt of the sword at his hip, a silent taunt.
"Seven men. No witnesses. No explanation." He crouched slightly, bringing his gaze level with the captive's. "You do understand how ridiculous that sounds, don't you?"
The man in the chair did not react. His silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words.
The prince's smirk twitched, as if irked by the lack of response. "You're making this difficult. See, I prefer when people talk. It tells me how much they know—how much they think they know." He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "And I get the feeling you know a lot."
Still, nothing.
A muscle in the prince's jaw ticked. He exhaled, slow and measured, before rising back to his full height.
"Fine. Have it your way. But let me tell you something—" he stepped closer, standing over the bound man, the golden embroidery of his tunic catching in the candlelight, "—silence is a language I understand just as well as words. And in the end, you will speak."
A pause. Then, the captive's lips curved—not into a smirk, not into a sneer, but into something unreadable.
"You do realize," he said, voice a quiet blade, "That I'm just as surprised as you are of everything."
The prince stilled.
And for the first time, something flickered in his eyes—something neither amusement nor irritation.
It was intrigue.
The silence stretched between them before the man broke it.
"There is no surprise in a slaughter," he remarked, his tone casual, but there was something beneath it—an edge, a test.
The boy did not respond.
The man took a slow step forward, boot heels clicking against the wooden floor. "But how does the slaughter happened in a short time? Magic." He tilted his head slightly, watching for a reaction. "And yet the clerics reported that there were no traces of magic in their bodies. It all happened from a very sharp blade to which you questionably don't have. How did that happened?"
The boy remained unmoved, teal eyes meeting his without wavering. "They tried to kill me," he said at last, his voice low, precise. "Without considering that they can be killed too. Yet now I am here as I only tried to survive."
A smirk played at the nobleman's lips, brief but amused. "Tried? So you were aware of how it happened?" He clasped his hands behind his back, beginning to pace. "You're here because you were found standing over the bodies of seven guards who wanted nothing but to bring you with the others of your kind. Yet they're now dead, and their families mourning them forever. It happened quick. No witnesses. No signs of a struggle." He turned back to him, his gaze scrutinizing. "And yet, you had not a single drop of blood on you."
The boy's face betrayed nothing.
The man exhaled through his nose, almost a chuckle. "Strange, don't you think?" He stepped closer, leaning slightly down. "That's what makes this interesting." His voice dropped just slightly. "That's what makes you dangerous."
A long pause stretched between them. Then the nobleman straightened, his expression shifting back to something more composed—effortlessly controlled.
"I do not care what world you came from that killing like that is swift," he continued. "But this world has consequences for threats like you. And threats are disposed of quickly." He clasped his hands behind his back again, studying him. "Which means you have two options: You tell me how it happened, or you'll be executed by dawn."
No change in expression. No flicker of fear.
The nobleman's lips pressed together slightly in amusement. "You're either very brave or very stupid. You're lucky I'm the one who's with you right now and not my crazy sister."
The boy blinked slowly, tilting his head just a fraction. "Or perhaps you're neither as in control as you think," he murmured.
For a moment, silence. Then the nobleman let out an exhale—something between a scoff and a chuckle. "You really don't make things easy, do you?"
He turned away briefly, as if contemplating something, then glanced back, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "I'd prefer not to waste my time with formalities, but let's humor tradition."
He placed a hand over his chest in a practiced motion, bowing his head just slightly—a gesture that was both etiquette and a display of controlled confidence.
"My name," he said, voice carrying weight, "is Eryth Calvian. Crown Prince of this kingdom. I have every power to end you here right now."
His piercing gaze locked onto the boy's, expectant.
The boy remained silent for a breath longer before responding. His lips parted, voice as calm as still water.
"And I am Aegean Teal, the one who killed seven of your men."
As the last syllable left his tongue, his eyes glowed—a searing, unnatural light, cold and unyielding. The dim chamber was swallowed in its eerie radiance, shadows recoiling as if in fear.
Eryth instinctively stiffened, a pulse of adrenaline coursing through him. For the first time, he felt it—the weight of presence, the quiet, unshaken confidence behind those words. This was not a boast. It was not a plea.
It was a warning.
Bound and outnumbered, Aegean had slaughtered seven men without effort. And now, even restrained in ropes, with no weapon in sight, he was making one thing abundantly clear—if he could do that to them, what was stopping him from doing the same to a single man standing before him?
...
And then there was silence.
The air between them tightened, the weight of unspoken malice pressing down like a coiled serpent waiting to strike.
Eryth's left eye twitched—a flicker of irritation slipping through his otherwise unreadable composure. Then, in one fluid motion, he drove his fist into Aegean's face. The impact landed solid, precise, and deliberate, enough to break lesser men.
A sickening crack split through the dim chamber.
Yet Aegean didn't move.
His head jerked from the force, but his body remained eerily still, as if the ropes binding him were the only thing holding back something far more terrifying. A slow trickle of blood ran from his split lip, a crimson line against his pale skin.
And then, he smiled.
Not a grimace of pain. Not a scowl of defiance. A smile—thin, sharp, knowing.
Eryth let out a low chuckle, stepping closer until their faces were mere inches apart, the heat of his breath mingling with the cold presence radiating from Aegean.
"Oh?" Eryth mused, amusement threading his voice.
Aegean's eyes, still alight with that eerie glow, peered up at him, unblinking. Then, in a voice as quiet as a whisper yet thick with certainty, he spoke.
"You punch like a prince."
The air turned frigid.
Eryth's amusement flickered, something dark curling at the edges of his smirk. The tension between them crackled, raw and electric, as if the very walls of the chamber held their breath, uncertain of which force would unravel first.
"That blood is the proof that I really am the prince."
Aegean exhaled slowly, his bloodied lips parting just enough to let out a sound—a barely audible chuckle. Not of submission. Not of mockery.
But of anticipation. As both of their eyes are now seemingly cutting deep through one another.
The chamber fell into a frozen tableau—two crowns of blood defiance locked in stony stillness. Every heartbeat thundered in the silence, pressing on their temples like a drumroll before an execution.
And then—the door groaned open.
A templar guard appeared in the threshold, steel gleaming beneath a surcoat of white and crimson. The red cross on his chest was a herald of far tidings. Each measured step he took echoed like a verdict.
"By order of both the Temple and the Academy," his voice rang out, low and inexorable, "the prisoner is to be delivered to the gaols at once."
Those words crashed against the silence like a death knell. Aegean's bound form shifted only slightly—his expression unreadable, but his eyes burning with unspoken promise. Eryth's hand hovered at his sword, knuckles whitening, yet he did not intervene. Both understood: the gaols awaited, and something far older than steel was stirring in the shadows.
A rang was heard against stone as it clanged shut behind the templar gurd. The corridor fell into oppressive silence—until a new sound shattered it: heavy footfalls pounding toward them.
A castle guard burst through the doorway, his polished silver breastplate spattered with dust. He dropped to one knee, gauntleted hands bracing on the stone floor as he gasped for breath. His helm lay discarded at his side, revealing a face streaked with sweat and horror.
"My prince!" he wheezed, voice hoarse. "The gaols… they've been breached. Monsters—abominations—… they are loose!"
Eryth's heart thundered in his chest. He shot a glance down the corridor, half-expecting those same horrors to tumble through the door. Flames from the torches guttered as if sensing his alarm.
"Infiltrated?" Eryth repeated, voice flat with disbelief. "Monsters… there? Impossible."
The guard swallowed hard, fear flickering in his eyes. "It is true, sire. Our men were slaughtered and we can't get in."
Aegean, still shackled, lifted his head, teal eyes reflecting the torchlight. Even bound, his presence seemed to pulse with opportunity.
Eryth pressed a hand to his brow, struggling to gather command. "Secure the prisoner and bring him there," he ordered the templar. "And muster every available man. I want those gates opened and the monsters contained, the outworlders cannot die. Now!"
The castle and the templar guard snapped to attention, rushing off to rally the nearest sentries. Eryth turned back to the door, steeling himself against the unknown. With a final look at the captive—whose unreadable expression hinted at secrets yet untold—the prince strode into the darkness beyond the threshold, steel drawn and resolve hard as the castle's walls.
For the first time ever, Aegean smirked.