Outside, the air had changed. It was not the usual northern cold, nor the ash that always swirled in eddies; it was a living silence, a breath that moved along the fortress walls as if the stone itself were breathing with knowledge.
The torches ignited on their own, blue flames licking the walls and casting shadows that moved with a will of their own. The guards instinctively looked away, like animals recognizing a predator that should not exist.
Arhelia opened the door to her family room.
Her mother was seated, a fragile and solemn figure, on an exquisitely carved chair, her expression that of someone who knows the beauty of sadness. Her father, Grissfor, stood to her right, arms crossed, his gaze so hard it seemed capable of cutting through stone.
"Daughter…" her mother said, her voice a thread trembling between surprise and melancholy. "What the hell have you done?"
"I did what I had to," Arhelia replied calmly, as if commenting on the weather.
Grissfor frowned, crossing the room in steps that echoed on the wood.
"First, why did you leave your room? This is already the fifth time I've punished you!"
"Second… that Law Object should not have been touched. It's tainted by your grandfather, a forbidden object… and you, damned girl, are now condemned."
"Ha…" Arhelia laughed, raising an eyebrow barely. "Condemned, you say…"
Her mother rose with slow, measured movements, approaching. Her eyes reflected a mixture of fear and pride.
"But also," she said softly, "…there is pride. At your age, most would not have survived. You are… the second. The second to achieve something most only attempt at nineteen. And you did it so young, my daughter."
Grissfor took a deep breath.
"Third," he said, lowering his tone, more grave. "Daughter…"
They both lunged at her. They embraced her tightly, fear and relief mingled. Tears slid down their faces, silent, sincere.
"Luckily, you survived, my girl," Grissfor said, his voice broken by contained emotion.
"By the nine gods…" her mother whispered, "…I did not lose her."
The embrace lasted a time that seemed eternal, a bridge between fear and hope. Finally, they separated, but the conversation was not over: the Law Object floated before Arhelia, indifferent to human emotion, imposing in its silent authority.
"That Object…" Grissfor said, eyes fixed on the sphere. "It's the hardest of all. It has… something strange. Something we cannot even comprehend."
"No one has managed to tame it," he continued. "The only ones who did were your grandfather… and you."
Arhelia tilted her head, looking at him with lethal calm.
"I'm no longer mortal. I'm Semi-1, right?"
"Yes," Grissfor said. "That means you can participate in inheritance competitions… and grow."
"And if I fail…" Arhelia asked, letting out a dry laugh, "will they kill me?"
Her mother shivered, and Grissfor pressed his lips together.
"If you survive your mistakes, yes… you will learn. If not… others will pay for your decisions."
"Is that all you will tell me?" Arhelia murmured. "To teach me death with words?"
Grissfor sighed, resigned.
"No. I'll tell you more: this Object has something we do not understand. My advice: do not use the Law of Light. Your grandfather always did, but…"
"And if I have no other choice?" Arhelia interrupted.
"Then use it," her father replied in a low, worried voice. "But only if there's no other way."
Silence fell, heavy, like a sleeping animal that suddenly opens its eyes.
Then something else slipped into the room. A presence without form, without sound, without permission. Arhelia felt it immediately, a weight on her back, a gaze piercing flesh. Her parents noticed nothing. They could not.
"Daughter," Grissfor said, tired. "What you've brought here… could destroy us."
"It won't be my fault," Arhelia replied calmly. "You are the ones who never see the obvious."
The dialogue continued, long and tense. Contained shouts, fears bubbling beneath the surface, and Arhelia responding with sharp, measured phrases, her bicolored eyes never leaving the sphere.
Finally, after a time that seemed like a century, her parents decided to let her return to her room. They left murmuring, the tension still clinging to their voices:
"It's your father's inheritance," her mother said. "The old man's blood."
"Yes," Grissfor replied. "And we'll have to bear it."
That night, lying in her bed, Arhelia opened her eyes without having slept. The sphere rotated slowly, illuminating the walls like a heart divided between light and shadow.
The invisible presence was still there. Waiting. Evaluating.
Arhelia rose, approaching the sphere. She circled it slowly, observing how light and shadow mingled, collided, and then fused in a silent, perfect rhythm. She touched the surface with her fingertips; it was not solid, but resisted like a dense fluid, warm and cold at the same time.
"So it's you," she murmured, speaking more to herself than to the object. "What they call perfect… and yet, you are just a mirror."
The sphere responded with a faint pulse, barely perceptible. Arhelia smiled, curious.
"Let's see… what can you teach me."
She extended a hand, letting the light filter through her fingers. The shadow swirled around her arm, sending a chill down her spine. But she did not flinch.
"I will not be your tool," she said to the air. "Nor anyone's."
"But you can look, if it makes you happy. That's all."
There was no response. Only a slight change in the air pressure, a silent acknowledgment, like an elder bowing to a wild animal.
Arhelia closed her eyes. She felt the sphere pulsing around her, absorbing and returning energy. Light and shadow leaned toward her, almost respectfully.
"Good," she finally said. "Then we will walk together… but my way."
And so began the night when a future Monarch was born. The world did not yet know it.
Morning arrived without mercy.
The Stygian fortress was a black block exhaling icy vapor.
The guards, seeing her walk, lowered their gazes as if avoiding an animal newly crowned with fresh fangs.
Arhelia was brought before the Luminar Council.
She wore Eastern clothes: white and blue fabric, fitted at the chest, falling straight.
Her hair tied in a high ponytail, taut, as if afraid some daring idea might escape her head.
The council hall was a domesticated cavern: rock pillars, lanterns suspended by rusted chains, an echo that bit everyone's voice.
One of the elders spoke first.
"Arhelia Stygia. For the death of Eina, you are summoned to answer."
The girl barely inclined her head. Not out of respect. But because she was bored.
Another elder struck the table.
"You are now a Semi Level 1. Your punishment cannot be the same as a mortal's."
"Then do not speak of punishments," she replied. "Speak of decisions."
A murmur spread like smoke.
The eldest raised his hand, tired.
"Your case will be resolved with a Law Duel. There is no other path."
Arhelia smiled, barely showing her teeth.
White.
"Who is my opponent?"
The stone doors opened. And the air changed.
A young man entered. No older than sixteen. Eyes sharp as an eagle's, scanning for carrion. Enough muscle to show training, not pride. Black hair, short, with tips sharpened as if by wind. He wore Eastern garb: dark leather reinforced with light matte metal plates. Each piece marked with Soul Path symbols.
"My name is Redimir," the young man said without bowing. "I represent Eina and her family."
Arhelia studied his long hammer, its tip like an iron fang. She also noticed the shadow walking behind him: a black cat, made of pure Law, its eyes like two smoldering embers.
"Soul Path," one of the councilors said. "Sanity manipulation. His Law being can fire like an arrow and detonate on impact."
"Cute trick," Arhelia whispered.
Redimir frowned.
"I did not come to impress a killer."
She let out a dry laugh, like bone striking stone.
The elder pronounced the sentence:
"SAME DAY — SAME PLACE WHERE IT ALL BEGAN."
The duel field was an open circle between cliffs. Where snow and ash fell together, confused in the same sad dance.
Arhelia arrived in different attire: a Western combat tunic, black layers, stiff shoulders, light boots. She seemed smaller in the clothes, but also more dangerous.
The All-or-Nothing sphere orbited beside her, slow, patient.
Redimir was already waiting. His hammer buried in the ground. The black cat sitting on the snow, its shadow too long for such a small body.
The councilors stepped back. The wind blew. The clouds tore slightly. And it began.