The lords of the Table argued fiercely in the grand council chamber of High Veil. Light from floating mana orbs cast long shadows across the ornate marble floor as voices rose and fell. At the center of the dispute was Lord Foghorn Luceronis, his face flushed crimson beneath his neatly trimmed beard as he pounded his fist on the polished table.

  "The Empire clearly cannot use our resources effectively!" he declared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling adorned with frescoes depicting The War in Heaven. "Three battalions of Magitek weapons, five hundred standardized Mana Ore pieces—and that is for one month. ONE! MONTH!" He swept his gaze across the chamber, his silk robes rustling as he gestured dramatically. "And still they nearly lost the northern garrison! The Empire's days are numbered, my lords. We should strengthen Somnium's defenses instead. Think of our people—our precious citizens whose taxes fund these... generous donations." His voice softened with practiced concern that didn't quite reach his calculating eyes. "How can we justify such expense when our own people might need those resources? The prosperity of Somnium must come first, as I'm sure we all agree." Several lords nodded in agreement, but Lord Ardorius Fabius rose to his feet, his golden hair catching the blue glow of the chamber's mana lights. The Commander of the Order of the Swords stood tall, his lone eye fixed on Luceronis with intensity that made even the outspoken lord pause. An ornate eye patch covered where his left eye had once been, a badge of honor from a battle decades ago when he had saved the king's life.

  "This incursion was larger and more dangerous than anything we've seen in years," Fabius countered, his deep voice commanding attention. "We have reports of red daemons leading the charge—not just the common black ones. By O Mother's heart, if we abandon the Empire now, we invite destruction to our very doorstep." He adjusted the golden insignia on his coat, his eye narrowing at Luceronis. "And while Lord Foghorn speaks so movingly of our citizens' prosperity, I wonder if he's considered how prosperous they'll be with daemons at their gates? Or perhaps some lords are more concerned with the prosperity of their personal coffers than with the security of the realm." Several gasps echoed through the chamber, and Luceronis's face darkened further. The tension in the chamber thickened as other lords began to rise, voices overlapping in heated debate. Accusations flew across the table like arrows, and the mana lights overhead flickered with the rising emotions in the room.

  King Somnus Sylvaris sat silently upon the White Throne, his weathered face betraying nothing as he observed the discord among his lords. The throne, carved from the gleaming hull of an ancient airship from The War in Heaven, seemed to amplify his presence despite his stillness. Both his eyes glowed with the faint blue light of his Complete Magik Circuit, the mark of his pure Somnus bloodline. Finally, as the argument threatened to devolve further, he raised one hand—a simple gesture that immediately froze the chamber in silence. Lords who had been standing sat back down as if puppets whose strings had been cut; those who had been shouting found their voices suddenly trapped in their throats.

  The air in the chamber grew heavy with unseen power. Sylvaris rose from his throne, and to the astonishment of even the most seasoned lords, his feet lifted several inches from the marble floor. The blue glow of his eyes intensified, casting eerie shadows across his face as he descended the steps with supernatural grace, hovering just above the ground. Patterns of light traced themselves across his exposed skin—the intricate web of his Complete Magik Circuit briefly visible through his flesh. No Mana Ore powered this display; this was True Magik, drawn from the king's own life force.

  Sylvaris glided toward the Table, passing between Lord Foghorn and Lord Ardorius. Both men remained perfectly still, not even their eyes daring to follow the king's movement. The only sound in the chamber was the soft rustle of the king's robes and the almost imperceptible hum of power that surrounded him. He completed a slow circuit of the Table, studying each lord's face as if memorizing their expressions for later contemplation, before returning to the center of the chamber. Only then did he allow his feet to touch the floor, the glow of his Circuit fading to its usual subtle luminescence.

  "My lords," he spoke finally, his voice soft yet carrying effortlessly to every corner of the room, "such passion speaks well of your concern for our kingdom." He turned, facing the tall, composed figure standing at the right of the now-empty throne. "Prince Lenundis, you have been quiet. What say you on this matter?"

  All eyes turned to the Crown Prince of Somnium, whose left eye mirrored his father's with its ethereal blue glow, his right eye—hazel and ordinary—visible beneath his carefully arranged light blue hair that seemed to capture the essence of the mana lights above.

  Lenundis stepped forward, his movements graceful and measured. Unlike his father's impressive display of power, the prince carried himself with quiet authority. When he spoke, his voice was clear and unwavering.

  "Father, my lords," he began, inclining his head respectfully to each. "The Empire has stood as our shield against the Hel Portal for generations. Their warriors fight and die daily so that we might enjoy peace and prosperity."

  He turned slightly toward Lord Foghorn, whose face remained carefully neutral. "Lord Foghorn's concerns are not without merit. As Master of Coins, his stewardship of our treasury has brought unprecedented prosperity to Somnium. The flourishing markets of Low Noctis and the full royal coffers stand as testament to his skill." The tension in Lord Foghorn's shoulders eased slightly at the acknowledgment, and several other lords nodded in agreement.

  "It is precisely because of this prosperity—which Lord Foghorn has helped create—that we find ourselves in a position of strength to aid our allies," Lenundis continued smoothly. "The incursion we speak of was not a mere border skirmish. Our scouts report it was a tier-three breach, with a single red daemon leading the horde—the first of its kind seen in a hundred years."

  A murmur broke through the silence as lords exchanged alarmed glances. The appearance of even a single red daemon was cause for grave concern—these powerful entities were thought to have vanished from the Rift. For one to appear now, after a century of absence, signaled a disturbing shift in the daemon incursions.

  "I propose we not only continue our support but increase it," Lenundis stated firmly. "Five more battalions of Magitek weapons, and one thousand standardized Mana Ore pieces." He held up a hand as several lords began to protest. "I understand the cost, but consider the alternative. If Fort Dauntless falls, if the Empire's line breaks—how many more resources would we spend defending our own borders? How many Somnium lives would be lost?"

  The prince's left eye seemed to glow more intensely as he spoke, his conviction clear. "We do not merely aid the Empire out of charity—we do so out of foresight. Their struggle is our struggle. Their survival ensures ours."

  Lord Foghorn Luceronis's face darkened. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emerged—the king's spell still held him in check. Beside him, Lord Ardorius Fabius's lone eye gleamed with approval. When the king finally released his hold with a subtle gesture, Fabius was the first to respond.

  "The prince speaks wisdom beyond his years," he declared, rising to his feet and bringing his hands together in the shape of the Embrace—fingers extended upward, then curving down to form a circle before meeting at the center and rising to his chest. "O Father who fights to protect, O Mother who nurtures our courage, guide our actions in this time of need."

  Several lords followed his example, performing the Embrace and murmuring prayers of agreement. Even those who had sided with Lord Foghorn found themselves nodding reluctantly—the prince's logic was sound. Somnium's safety depended on the Empire's survival.

  "You show wisdom, my son," King Sylvaris said, pride evident in his voice as he returned to his throne—this time walking rather than floating. "Not only in your decision but in understanding that sometimes, to protect what we value most, we must look beyond our borders." He gestured to the royal scribe. "Let it be recorded that the Crown has approved additional support for our allies in the Crimson Plain Empire."

  Lord Foghorn Luceronis rose from his seat, his earlier displeasure masterfully concealed behind a courtier's practiced smile. He performed the Embrace with elegant precision, his expensive rings catching the light of the mana orbs overhead.

  "Your Majesty, Your Highness," he said, voice smooth as silk, "while I had concerns about our treasury, I bow to your wisdom in this matter." He inclined his head, the gesture just deep enough to show respect without subservience. "Somnium is blessed by O Father and O Mother to have such foresighted rulers in these uncertain times. As Master of Coins, I shall ensure the required resources are allocated without delay." Only those who knew him well might notice the slight tightness around his eyes that betrayed his true feelings, but in court politics, appearances were what mattered most.

  King Sylvaris nodded, acknowledging Lord Foghorn's words with a slight inclination of his head. His gaze swept across the assembled lords, the blue glow of his eyes reflecting off the polished marble floor.

  "The Table has served its purpose for today," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of finality. "Let the scribes record our decision, and let messengers be dispatched to Fort Dauntless with news of our continued support." With a gesture, he dispersed the magic that had held the lords in check. "We shall reconvene at the next scheduled meeting. For now, you are dismissed."

  The lords rose and bowed in unison, performing the Embrace once more before filing out of the grand chamber. Guards in silver and white livery opened the ornate doors, their Magitek armor humming faintly in the quiet room. As the last of the nobles departed, King Sylvaris remained seated on the White Throne, his expression unreadable.

  "Lenundis," he said softly when they were finally alone, save for the two Royal Guards standing at the far corners of the room. "Stay a moment. There are matters we must discuss."

  ---

  The western balcony of High Veil offered an unmatched view of Noctisveil. Father and son stood side by side at the ornate railing, gazing out at the sprawling city below. From this height, Low Noctis appeared as a tapestry of blue-tinged lights and elegant spires, with the massive dome of the Prime Church of Embrace at its center. Gliders and small airships moved like luminous fish between the palace and the city, their mana-powered engines leaving faint trails of azure light in the evening air.

  King Sylvaris rested his hands on the railing, the intricate patterns of his Magik Circuit briefly visible beneath his skin when he flexed his fingers. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked, his voice softer than it had been in the council chamber. "When I was your age, the western district had only just begun construction. Now look at it—academies, markets, gardens. Three generations of peace have allowed our people to flourish."

  "Thanks to the shields that protect us," Lenundis replied, his mismatched eyes reflecting the city lights. "The Empire, the Federation... and the sacrifices of the Somnus line."

  The king nodded slowly. "Yes. Always there is a cost." He gestured toward the northern horizon where the Kingdom's border with the Empire lay, far beyond sight. "Our forebears understood this. Everything we enjoy—everything our people enjoy—exists because those who came before us were willing to pay that price."

  "And now it falls to us," Lenundis said, not as a question but as acknowledgment.

  "To me for now," Sylvaris corrected gently. "And to you, when the time comes. The crown of Somnium is both blessing and burden, my son. It grants power beyond measure, but demands sacrifice in equal portion." He turned to face Lenundis directly. "There is much about ruling that cannot be taught in council chambers or through royal tutors. Some knowledge can only be passed from king to heir when the time is right."

  Lenundis studied his father's face. "You speak of Somnus secrets? The ones shared only with the reigning monarch?"

  "I do." Sylvaris's eyes glowed slightly brighter as he rested a hand on his son's shoulder. "Our bloodline carries responsibilities that would break lesser men. When you take the throne, you will understand fully what it means to bear the name Somnus."

  Lenundis nodded, then turned his gaze back toward the city below. After a moment of contemplative silence, he spoke, his voice softer than before. "I sometimes wonder what Aestalon would have done in the council today."

  At the mention of his firstborn son, Sylvaris's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. "Your brother was... less diplomatic than you."

  A smile touched Lenundis's lips. "He would have shouted Lord Foghorn down the moment he suggested cutting aid to the Empire. Called him a miser and a coward, probably."

  "Indeed." The king's chuckle held both fondness and regret. "Aestalon never had patience for court politics. His approach was more... direct."

  "Like a hammer to an anvil," Lenundis agreed. His hazel eye seemed to dim while his blue one glowed brighter in the twilight. "Sometimes I wonder if that wouldn't be more effective. The lords respect you because you demonstrate your power. Like today, when you..." He made a floating gesture with his hand.

  "You handled the situation well," Sylvaris assured him. "Better than your brother would have. Court politics is a delicate dance, but you're right—there are moments when one must remind the dancers who leads." He squeezed his son's shoulder. "You're finding your own way, Lenundis. Your approach is neither mine nor your brother's, and that is as it should be."

  They fell into silence again, both gazing northward as if they might spot a familiar figure approaching from the horizon.

  "Six years," Lenundis said finally. "Six years since he disappeared. Do you think he's still alive?"

  The king's jaw tightened. "A Somnus is not easy to kill. Wherever Aestalon is, I believe he lives."

  "I miss him," Lenundis admitted, the words barely audible. "For all his recklessness, his laughter filled these halls. Nothing has been the same since he left."

  "No," Sylvaris agreed, his voice heavy with an emotion he rarely displayed. "Nothing has." He straightened, his royal posture returning. "But we carry on, as we must. For Somnium. For our people."

  "For Somnium," Lenundis echoed, performing a subtle version of the Embrace.

  Neither spoke the thought that lingered between them: that perhaps, somehow, Aestalon would return to them. The Somnus men were not given to voicing hopeful wishes—only certainties and duties.

  ---

  "Get down!"

  Heeka threw himself sideways, slamming into Nora and sending them both rolling behind a half-crumbled stone wall just as a magik grenade sailed overhead. The explosion rocked the ground, showering them with dirt and fragments of ancient masonry. Beside them, Lukas—a massive white wolf who should have appeared fearsome—had somehow squeezed his considerable bulk into a depression in the earth that seemed impossibly small for his size. Only his tail remained visible, quivering pathetically.

  "Some fearsome beast you are," Heeka muttered, wiping blood from a cut above his right eye while his left—carefully hidden beneath a sweep of dyed-red hair—pulsed with suppressed blue light. "You're supposed to be a wolf, not a djit'ma rabbit."

  The wolf whimpered in response, curling his tail closer to his trembling body.

  Nora Oldson checked her magik pistol, spinning the chamber where glowing mana cores were loaded. "Seven left," she reported grimly. Her small frame belied her ferocity, and despite the dirt smudging her tanned skin, her green eyes blazed with determination. "I told you this job stank worse than Gus after bean night."

  "It was supposed to be a simple delivery!" Heeka protested, glancing around the corner of their makeshift shelter. At least twelve bandits had surrounded the ruins where they'd been ambushed—ruins that were decidedly not on their planned route to Greenfield. "The contract said nothing about the Night Lotus Caravan having rivals in this region."

  Another volley of magik grenades arced toward their position. Heeka yanked his worn magik sword from its scabbard, the device sputtering and sparking before reluctantly generating a blue-tinged blade of energy. With a practiced motion that belied his earlier complaints about the weapon, he slashed through the air. The blade intercepted the nearest grenade, cutting it in half and causing it to detonate harmlessly several yards away.

  "Two more coming!" Nora shouted, rolling to her knees and firing her pistol twice. Blue bolts of elemental energy streaked toward the incoming grenades, detonating them midair. "Five shots left," she updated, ducking back down.

  Lukas, seeming to realize he was missing the action, cautiously poked his head out of his hiding spot. A stray rock from the explosion bounced off his nose. With a high-pitched yelp entirely unbefitting a wolf of his size, he dove back into his hole, this time somehow managing to tuck his tail in as well.

  "Father's beard, Lukas!" Heeka exclaimed, unable to suppress a laugh despite their dire situation. "You're embarrassing the entire species!"

  Nora snorted. "At least he's consistent." She peeked over the wall, quickly assessing their situation. "We need to move. They're flanking us on the left."

  Heeka nodded, reaching for the pouch at his belt where he kept his personal supply of mana ore. "Cover me. I've got an idea."

  "Your ideas are why we're pinned down in the first place," Nora grumbled, but she readied her pistol all the same.

  Heeka pulled out two thumb-sized pieces of mana ore, their faint blue glow intensifying as he held them in his palm. His fingers moved quickly, tracing patterns in the air above them—simplified magik circles that shimmered briefly before dissolving into the stones. Anyone watching closely might have wondered how a supposed orphan without formal academy training managed such precision, but Nora was too busy providing cover fire to notice.

  "Whenever you're ready, oh great magik master," she called, firing another shot that forced a bandit to duck behind a fallen column. "Four left!"

  "Almost..." Heeka muttered, concentrating as the mana ore in his hands began to pulse with increasing frequency. "There! Catch!" He tossed one of the glowing stones to Nora, who snatched it from the air without looking. "On my count—three, two—"

  A grenade landed just feet from their position.

  "Djit'ma!" Heeka swore, diving forward with unexpected grace. He slashed the device with his sword, but the timing was off—the grenade detonated, the blast catching him and sending him sprawling across the rubble-strewn ground. His sword skittered away, its blade flickering and then extinguishing.

  "Heeka!" Nora shouted, then cursed as two bandits used the distraction to advance toward their position. She fired twice in rapid succession, her shots finding their marks with uncanny precision. Both attackers went down, but her pistol's chamber now showed just two mana cores remaining. "We're in trouble here!"

  Lukas, witnessing his master's fall, finally emerged from his hiding place. The cowardly wolf stood frozen for a moment, looking between the advancing bandits and his downed friend. Something shifted in his demeanor—a flash of what might have been courage, immediately followed by what was definitely panic. The wolf charged forward, then veered sharply left, then right, then dashed in a complete circle, howling all the while. His erratic movements confused the bandits, who wasted precious seconds tracking the seemingly deranged animal.

  Heeka groaned, pushing himself to his knees. Blood trickled from his nose, and his dyed hair had shifted, revealing a glimpse of the blue glow beneath before he hastily adjusted it. "The mana ore," he rasped. "Nora, do you still have it?"

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  She nodded, holding up the pulsing stone. "Whatever plan you had better work fast!"

  "Remember that time in the Whispering Caves?" Heeka grinned despite the pain. "Same principle, just... bigger."

  Nora's eyes widened. "By O Mother's heart, you're going to get us killed." But she was already moving, climbing to the top of their crumbling wall, her nimble form silhouetted against the sky as she carefully aimed the modified mana ore.

  The bandits, finally realizing the greater threat, redirected their attention from the circling wolf to the woman on the wall. Weapons raised, they prepared to fire.

  "Now, Nora!" Heeka shouted, hurling his own mana ore high into the air above the center of the ruins.

  Nora's throw was perfect—her stone arced through the air on a collision course with Heeka's. The moment the two made contact, a blinding flash of blue light erupted, followed by a concussive wave that sent everyone—bandits, seekers, and one very confused wolf—tumbling across the ground.

  When the light faded and the dust began to settle, an eerie silence had fallen over the ruins. Heeka was the first to recover, coughing as he pushed himself up on one elbow. Around them, the bandits lay unconscious, their weapons scattered.

  "It worked," he whispered, sounding almost surprised. Then, louder, "Nora! Are you alright?"

  A groan came from behind a pile of rubble. Nora emerged, covered in dust but otherwise unharmed. "Next time," she said, brushing debris from her fitted leather bodice and the short, tight riding breeches that left little to the imagination and revealed portions of her tanned curves, "let's try a plan that doesn't involve blowing ourselves up too." She adjusted her asymmetrical stockings—one reaching her thigh, the other just above her knee—and stomped her feet to settle her scuffed boots back into place.

  "Where's the fun in that?" Heeka replied with a lopsided grin, then looked around. "Lukas? Where'd you go, you useless fur ball?"

  A pitiful whine answered him. They turned to see the white wolf's tail protruding from beneath the remains of a fallen archway, wiggling feebly. The rest of his massive body was nowhere to be seen.

  "How does he keep doing that?" Nora wondered, shaking her head as they approached.

  Working together, they cleared enough rubble to reveal the wolf's predicament. Somehow, Lukas had managed to wedge himself into a narrow crevice beneath the archway, his large frame contorted in ways that defied anatomical logic. His eyes, when they finally uncovered his head, were wide with indignation, as if the entire situation were their fault rather than the result of his own cowardice.

  "Come on, you dramatic beast," Heeka said, tugging at the wolf's scruff. With considerable effort and much whining from Lukas, they extracted him from his hiding place. The moment he was free, the wolf shook himself vigorously, sending dirt flying in all directions, then promptly sat down and began grooming his white fur as if nothing unusual had happened.

  Heeka and Nora exchanged a glance before bursting into laughter.

  "Some fierce guardian you've got there," Nora teased, retrieving her pistol from where it had fallen. "I've seen alley cats in Brackenholt with more courage."

  "Hey, he confused them with his... strategic maneuvering," Heeka defended, retrieving his battered sword from the rubble. He examined the weapon with a frown, tapping its power core. The blade sputtered to life briefly before dying again. "Djit'ma, not again. The red-panda's going to charge me a fortune to fix this."

  "Better the sword than your skull," Nora pointed out, gesturing to the unconscious bandits. "We should tie them up before they wake. And figure out why the Night Lotus would set us up like this."

  Heeka nodded, his momentary levity fading as he surveyed the aftermath of their desperate battle. "This was supposed to be a simple delivery job. Gold rank, straightforward route." He ran a hand through his hair, careful to ensure his right eye remained covered. "Someone wanted us here specifically."

  "Questions for later," Nora said practically. "First, let's make sure these guys can't cause more trouble when they wake up."

  As they set about securing the bandits with rope from their packs, Lukas—having apparently decided his fur was once again presentable—trotted over to Heeka and bumped his massive head against his master's hip in what might have been an apology.

  Heeka scratched behind the wolf's ears. "You're lucky you're handsome," he muttered. "Because you're certainly not brave."

  Lukas responded by flopping onto his back, paws in the air, tongue lolling in apparent agreement.

  ---

  The merchant caravan rolled steadily along the dusty road, its precious cargo of spices and fabrics secured once more after the unexpected detour. After questioning the lone conscious bandit—who claimed they'd been hired anonymously through an intermediary at the Brackenholt tavern—Heeka and Nora had rejoined their employer, a stern Night Lotus representative who seemed suspiciously unsurprised by their tale of ambush.

  The remainder of their journey proved mercifully uneventful. As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the endless sea of golden wheat, Heeka found himself walking alongside Nora at the rear of the caravan. Lukas had abandoned any pretense of guard duty and was bounding through the field, occasionally visible as a white blur against the amber grain, chasing field mice with more enthusiasm than success.

  "Not a bad life, is it?" Nora mused, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of crimson and gold. "When we're not getting blown up, I mean."

  Heeka smiled, his hand unconsciously touching the pouch where he kept his remaining mana ore. "Better than some alternatives."

  "I know what would make it even better," Nora said, her voice dropping to what she clearly believed was a seductive tone. She leaned closer, bumping her shoulder against his. "You and me could... you know... polish the sword tonight. I've been practicing my... um... sheathing techniques." She stuck her tongue into her cheek, creating a bulge that she moved in and out in what she apparently thought was a suggestive manner.

  Heeka nearly tripped over his own feet. "By O Mother's heart, Nora! That's not—you don't—" He shook his head, fighting both embarrassment and amusement. "Your father would skin me alive."

  "Only if he found out," she replied with exaggerated innocence, completely unaware of how her attempt at innuendo had missed its mark. "I could be very... quiet." She lowered her voice to a whisper that was, paradoxically, louder than her normal speaking voice. "Like a cat stalking its prey before the... you know... sword goes into the... target practice."

  Heeka's face burned hot enough to forge magitek. "Nora, please—"

  "Or," she continued, warming to her theme, "we could try what the fancy lords call 'inspecting the royal jewels.' I've never seen royal jewels before." She paused, looking genuinely thoughtful. "Do they sparkle when you touch them? Because I've got very gentle hands for valuable equipment."

  "That's not—jewels don't—" Heeka spluttered, looking desperately for any excuse to change the subject. "We should focus on completing the job."

  "Oh, I'd like to complete your job," Nora replied with what she clearly thought was heavy meaning, nudging him with her elbow. "I could polish your hilt until it shines brighter than mana ore. Would you like that? A thorough... polishing?" She made an obscure gesture with her hands that bore no resemblance to any actual intimate activity.

  Heeka was saved from responding when a commotion erupted from the wheat field. Lukas had emerged covered not just in grain, but in what appeared to be green slime. The wolf bounded toward them with delighted enthusiasm, clearly proud of whatever disgusting substance he had found to roll in.

  "No—Lukas, stay back!" Heeka shouted, but it was too late.

  The massive wolf shook himself vigorously, sending foul-smelling droplets in all directions. Nora shrieked as the slime spattered across her leather bodice, all thoughts of "sword polishing" forgotten as she leapt away from the contaminated canine.

  "Djit'ma! What IS that?" she cried, frantically wiping at the green stains. "It smells like... like..."

  "Like we won't be doing any 'sheathing' tonight," Heeka muttered under his breath, simultaneously mortified and relieved. Louder, he called, "Lukas! Bad wolf! Very bad wolf!"

  The wolf simply panted happily, clearly pleased with himself for sharing his aromatic discovery.

  The wolf simply panted happily, clearly pleased with himself for sharing his aromatic discovery.

  "At least we know what he was chasing in the field," Heeka said, trying not to gag at the smell. "And it wasn't mice."

  Nora, still frantically wiping at her clothing, glared at the wolf. "Your timing is terrible," she informed Lukas, who responded by attempting to lick her hand affectionately. She jerked back with a yelp of disgust.

  In the distance, Lukas had finally caught something—not a mouse, but apparently his own tail. The massive wolf spun in frantic circles, seeming both triumphant and confused by his achievement.

  "Your wolf," Nora said flatly, her previous amorous intentions forgotten, "is the least dignified creature I've ever seen."

  "He has his moments," Heeka replied, watching as Lukas, dizzy from his spinning, flopped onto his side in the wheat. "Very rare moments."

  Ahead of them, the silhouette of Greenfield was emerging against the darkening sky, the dome of the local Church of Embrace catching the last rays of sunlight like a beacon guiding them home.

  ---

  The Prime Church of Embrace stood at the very heart of Low Noctis, its magnificent dome rising toward the floating palace of High Veil like a supplicant's hands reaching for divine grace. Unlike the modest churches found in towns like Greenfield, the Prime Church was a testament to both faith and power—a breathtaking fusion of art, magik, and architectural mastery.

  Massive pillars of white marble veined with blue rose to support arches that seemed to defy the very laws of nature, their seemingly impossible spans held together by intricate magik circles etched into their keystones. These circles glowed with soft azure light as they channeled energy from the mana ore embedded within the stone, creating a perpetual luminescence that bathed the cathedral in ethereal radiance even on the darkest nights.

  The dome itself was a marvel of engineering and mysticism. From the outside, it gleamed with thousands of pieces of lapis lazuli and clear crystal arranged to depict The Father and The Mother embracing the world between them. When sunlight struck the dome, or when the floating palace's mana lights shone down upon it at night, the entire structure seemed to pulse with living energy, as if the deities themselves breathed within its walls.

  Inside, the church opened into a vast circular chamber where the faithful gathered for ceremonies. The interior of the dome was even more spectacular than its exterior—a mosaic of mana-infused glass depicting scenes from The War in Heaven, strategically incomplete in ways only the initiated would recognize. The missing portions of the story were as significant as what was shown, a deliberate reminder that some truths remained the exclusive province of those who served at the highest levels of the Church and the Crown.

  At the center of this architectural wonder, beneath the very apex of the dome where a shaft of light perpetually fell regardless of the time of day, stood Pontiff Elias. Small and unassuming in his simple robes, he seemed almost incongruous against the grandeur of his surroundings—a humble vessel carrying an immense spiritual weight.

  Before him knelt a woman on one knee, her head bowed in reverence. Even in this posture of supplication, Aetherion Selenica emanated an aura of grace and barely contained power. Her long white hair, bound in an intricate braid for the ceremony, cascaded over one shoulder. The light from above caught the blue earrings she wore—secretly repositories of backup mana ore—making them sparkle like captured stars.

  The Sword Saint's armor, body-tight yet practical, bore the insignia of her station, and at her hip hung a sheathed blade that seemed to shimmer even in stillness, as if eager to be drawn. Her cape, emblazoned with the sigil of the Church, pooled around her like liquid silver on the polished floor.

  "May The Father who fights to protect grant you strength," Pontiff Elias intoned, his weathered hands tracing the pattern of the Embrace above her head. "May The Mother who nurtures bestow upon you wisdom. Through their divine grace, may you stand as their instrument in this world of strife."

  It was a blessing Selenica had received hundreds of times before—a ceremony that was said to bring the protection of The Father and The Mother to those who received it. As the youngest Sword Saint ever recognized by the Church, she was not required to undergo this daily ritual. Many of her rank considered it a formality, something to be observed on holy days and special occasions.

  Yet Selenica knelt before the Pontiff every day without fail, her light blue eyes closed in genuine devotion as she received the blessing. In a world of political machinations and half-truths, her faith remained pure and unwavering—a quality as rare among the powerful as her extraordinary skill with a blade.

  "Rise, child," Pontiff Elias said as the blessing concluded, his voice warm with genuine affection. Though only in his sixth decade, the weight of his responsibilities had aged him beyond his years, etching lines of concern around his eyes and mouth. Yet when he smiled at Selenica, as he did now, years seemed to fall away from his countenance.

  Selenica rose gracefully to her feet, performing the Embrace with fluid precision—hands raised upward, then curved down to form a circle before meeting at the center and lifting to her chest. "Thank you, Your Holiness. The blessing brings me comfort, especially in these uncertain times."

  "Your devotion honors the Church," Elias replied, his clean-shaved head catching the light from above. "Though I suspect it is not my blessing that makes you such a formidable Sword Saint."

  A small smile touched Selenica's lips. "The Father grants strength, The Mother grants wisdom, but practice grants skill." She adjusted the large blue earrings that framed her face. "I would not neglect any of the three."

  "Wise beyond your years," Elias nodded approvingly. "The Church is fortunate to have such a faithful servant. Many in your position might forget that power comes with responsibility."

  "The responsibility weighs heavily at times," Selenica admitted, her eyes momentarily clouding with an emotion that seemed at odds with her youth. "The Illusory Orb, the title of Sword Saint... sometimes I wonder if I am worthy of such gifts."

  "It is precisely that doubt which proves your worthiness," Elias said gently. "Pride has no place in true service, whether to Crown or Church."

  Selenica bowed her head slightly. "Your words give me strength, Your Holiness. I should go—Prince Lenundis has requested my presence at the training grounds."

  "Of course. Do not let me keep you from your duties." The Pontiff made a small gesture of dismissal that was also a blessing. "May The Father and The Mother watch over you, Sword Saint."

  With another perfect Embrace, Selenica turned and walked toward the massive doors of the central chamber, her cape flowing behind her like quicksilver. The guards stationed at the entrance stood a little straighter as she passed, a mixture of respect and awe evident in their postures.

  When she had gone, Pontiff Elias stood alone in the shaft of light, his simple robes a stark contrast to the opulence surrounding him. He sighed deeply, the sound echoing in the vast space as he turned toward a small, unassuming door partially hidden behind one of the great pillars—the entrance to his private chambers.

  The corridor beyond was narrow and dimly lit, a reminder of simpler times before the Church had grown to its current grandeur. Elias preferred it this way; the modesty of the passage matched his own origins. As he walked, his thoughts drifted to his childhood—an orphan taken in by the Church after his mother had abandoned him on its steps. He had known hunger then, and cold, and the bitter sting of being unwanted.

  Now, as Head-Master of the Prime Church, he controlled vast resources and commanded the respect of kings. Yet the boy who had once huddled in the shadows of the Church's great halls had never fully disappeared. That boy's vow to change things for the better, to reform the institution from within, still burned in his heart—tempered by years of compromise but never extinguished.

  He paused before the wooden door to his chambers, his hand resting on the worn handle. The dark secrets of the Church—the truth about the Batteries, the incomplete history of The War in Heaven—weighed on him like a physical burden. "I am changing things," he whispered to himself, a mantra repeated countless times over the decades. "Slowly, but surely."

  As he pushed open the door, he performed the Embrace almost unconsciously. "Grant me strength, O Father, grant me wisdom, O Mother," he murmured. "For the path between what is and what should be grows narrower each day."

  His private chamber was as modest as the man himself—a simple bed, a wooden desk covered with scrolls and texts, and a small altar where a pair of candles burned perpetually, one white for The Father, one red for The Mother. The only luxury was a large window that offered a view of both High Veil floating above and the sprawl of Low Noctis below, a constant reminder of his position between the divine and the mundane.

  A soft knock at the door interrupted his contemplation.

  "Enter," he called, straightening his shoulders as if physically preparing to bear the weight of his office once more.

  The door opened to reveal a tall, athletic woman with tightly braided blue hair and an alert gaze that missed nothing. Spumirius Amariel wore the distinctive armor of a Battle Maiden beneath a Church hood, the material fitted to her powerful frame. Despite her impressive build and commanding presence, there was something in her eyes—a softness, perhaps, or a questioning spirit—that set her apart from others of her rank.

  "Your Holiness," she said, performing the Embrace with military precision. "I apologize for disturbing your solitude."

  "Amariel," Elias smiled, the expression genuine unlike many he wore in public. "You know you are never a disturbance. Come, sit." He gestured to the simple chairs by the window.

  She complied, though her posture remained formal. "The preparations for my journey to Mezza Island are complete. Yonathan has prepared the necessary supplies, and we can depart at first light tomorrow."

  Elias nodded, his expression growing somber. "And you understand the true nature of this mission? Beyond the official explanation of relieving Foghorn Metilda?"

  "I believe so, Your Holiness." Amariel's voice lowered. "You suspect Metilda has been... mistreating her Battery."

  "Not just suspect," Elias said heavily, turning to gaze out the window. "I know. Yoshua sent a desperate prayer to the Church two weeks ago. The details..." He shook his head. "I would spare you them if I could."

  "You need not protect me from ugly truths, Father," Amariel said softly, using the more personal title she had called him since childhood, when he had rescued her from the streets of Low Noctis and brought her into the Church's care. "I have seen enough to know what some Battle Maidens do to their Batteries."

  Elias's shoulders slumped slightly. "And yet we perpetuate the system. Batteries and Battle Maidens, locked in a relationship that too often becomes one of abuse and exploitation." He turned to face her, his eyes troubled. "When I was young and full of righteous fire, I swore I would change it all. Remake the Church into something truly worthy of The Father and The Mother." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Now I find myself making small adjustments, tiny reforms that barely scratch the surface of the problem."

  "You have done more than most would dare," Amariel reminded him. "The Brotherhood of Battle has better conditions now, more protections—"

  "Protections that fail the moment they are out of sight," Elias cut in. "Like poor Yoshua." He sighed deeply. "Sometimes I wonder if the price of change is too high. If maintaining the structure, imperfect as it is, prevents something worse from taking its place."

  "What worse thing could there be than what Metilda is doing?" Amariel asked, a rare edge in her voice.

  Elias met her gaze directly. "Chaos. War. The collapse of the delicate balance that keeps the truth about The War in Heaven contained. Some secrets..." he hesitated, "some secrets must remain buried, for the good of all Erath."

  Amariel's expression softened with concern. "You carry too much alone, Father."

  "As must all who lead," he replied, straightening again. "But enough of my philosophical wanderings. You and Yonathan have a difficult task ahead. Foghorn Metilda may be the daughter of Lord Foghorn Luceronis, but her noble birth does not excuse her actions." His face darkened. "I should have acted sooner when the first reports reached me."

  "We will find Yoshua and help him," Amariel promised.

  "Yes, but there is more." Elias lowered his voice further, though they were alone in the chamber. "The relic sealed beneath the church on Mezza Island is... volatile. It must be monitored at all times. That is the true reason we always station a Battle Maiden there, not merely to tend to the faithful." A shadow passed over his face. "Never approach the seal without proper precautions."

  Amariel nodded, her expression grave. "I understand, Father."

  "I pray you never have to face what lies beneath," Elias said softly. "Now go, prepare for your journey. Yonathan will need your guidance."

  After another perfect Embrace, Amariel departed, leaving Elias alone once more with his thoughts and the weight of his responsibilities. He moved to the window, gazing up at High Veil where tiny points of blue light—mana-powered lamps—glittered like stars against the darkening sky.

  "So much power," he whispered to himself, pressing a palm against the cool glass. "In the Crown, in the Church, in the magik that flows through the veins of the gifted."

  He looked down at his own hands—weathered, age-spotted, and utterly ordinary. No matter how he might concentrate, no faint blue lines would ever appear beneath his skin, no circuit of power connecting him to the forces that shaped their world. He was a null, born without even the faintest trace of a Magik Circuit. In a world where power was measured by one's ability to channel and manipulate mana, he had entered the game with empty hands.

  "Perhaps that is why you chose me," he said, addressing the candles on his altar. "A man who cannot rely on magik must rely on faith alone."

  He moved to his desk, picking up a scroll detailing reports from churches throughout Somnium. So many problems, so many abuses of power, all perpetuated by a system he now helped maintain. The irony was not lost on him—that he, who had once sworn to tear down the corrupt structures from within, now found himself making the smallest of adjustments to a machine that ground on relentlessly.

  "It would be easy to surrender," he admitted aloud. "To accept that change comes too slowly, if at all. To convince myself that maintaining tradition is enough."

  He placed the scroll down and straightened his shoulders, feeling a familiar resolve harden within him despite his weariness. "But that would be faithless. The Father did not grant me strength of arm or magik, but strength of will. The Mother did not grant me the wisdom of spells, but the wisdom to persist."

  Elias performed the Embrace again, this time with a fervor that belied his age and fatigue. "This is the test laid before me—to change what can be changed, to endure what cannot, and to recognize the difference between the two." His voice grew stronger with each word. "I will not fail You in this task, though it takes my final breath."

  With renewed purpose, he returned to his desk. Amariel's mission to Mezza Island was but one small part of a larger design—a careful, patient dismantling of the Church's worst excesses. He could not wield magik against his opponents, could not call down fire from the heavens or bend minds to his will. But he had persistence, and faith, and the long view that comes from understanding that true change requires generations, not moments.

  "One step at a time," he murmured as he began writing instructions for another mission, another small adjustment to the great machine. "One small victory at a time."

  ---

  As night fully descended upon Somnium, the kingdom's many faces turned toward slumber and secrets. In High Veil, the White Throne stood empty, its occupant now conferring with advisors about the troubling reports from the Empire's northern front. In the sprawling neighborhoods of Low Noctis, merchants counted the day's earnings while the Night Lotus Caravan's agents traded in information more valuable than gold. Beyond the capital, in towns like Greenfield, weary travelers found rest in modest inns, unaware of the currents of power flowing around them.

  Yet beneath this veneer of ordinary life, ancient forces stirred. In the mountains far to the north, a single fragment of Luna Minora—the smaller half of Erath's broken moon—broke free and plummeted toward the world below. Those who witnessed its fiery descent across the night sky clutched at their Embrace amulets and whispered prayers, for falling moon-shards had long been omens of upheaval.

  The fragment struck the earth miles from any settlement, its impact felt only by the creatures of the wild and a solitary figure who had been watching the skies with unusual interest. This observer, wrapped in a cloak that concealed all but a pair of mismatched eyes—one hazel, one faintly glowing blue—approached the impact site with purpose rather than fear.

  And far beyond Somnium's borders, across the endless crimson fields of the Empire, the Hel Portal pulsed with an intensity not seen in a century. Within its swirling depths, shapes moved with increasing agitation, as if responding to some silent call. The Rift Watchers at Fort Dauntless doubled their patrols, their uneasy glances betraying what their reports did not: something was changing.

  The pieces were moving into place, the players taking their positions. Six years of relative peace had lulled many into complacency, but the currents of destiny waited for no one—not for kings in their floating palaces, not for priests in their grand churches, not for seekers pursuing their humble quests. The red daemon's appearance was but the first note in a symphony of chaos that would soon engulf them all.

  In Somnium, the mana lights flickered briefly throughout the kingdom, as if responding to an unseen hand. Few noticed, and fewer still understood what it might portend. But for those with eyes to see and hearts to feel, the message was clear:

  The War in Heaven had never truly ended. It had merely been waiting to begin again.

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