Elios felt the decision forming long before he spoke it, and he hated that. Trust was a blade he never drew without purpose, yet here he was, pressing the hilt toward a woman who had just subdued him in his sleep. Reason dragged him forward while instinct dug its heels in. There were too many shadows in her story, too many moments where her eyes said more than her mouth ever did.
But he also saw the shape of the road ahead — narrow, treacherous, and empty of allies.
Without her knowledge, they would walk blind.
Without her cooperation, they would walk alone.
So he chose the lesser danger, not because she deserved trust, but because the truth did.
Noct waited with an expression he couldn't read — patient, but not gentle. She wasn’t pleading. Not threatening. That look made refusing her feel less like a choice and more like running from the truth he claimed to chase.
Tarth shifted behind them, groaning miserably in his bindings, but Elios didn’t look his way.
He finally exhaled, slow and deliberate, resolve hardening in his chest.
“You’re holding the pieces I can’t afford to ignore,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Damn it. You knew I didn’t have a choice”
“Not quite,” Noct folded her arms across her chest. A flicker — barely noticeable — crossed her face. Relief? Gratitude? Calculation? It vanished too quickly to name. “Another man could just walk away. This’s just who you are.”
“Untie Tarth,” he said. “For now, I will trust you. We go to the Tower, and we find the truth.”
Behind Noct, Tarth jerked in surprise, staring as if he had misheard.
“Hold on, Captain. Have you lost your mind?” he blurted. “This is already far beyond what we were meant to handle. Politics is a shit hole. I have seen you crazy before, but never like this.”
“Be calm, Tarth.” Elios’s voice stayed steady, though a dark weight pressed on his thoughts. “I seek the truth, nothing more. Lord Viltar must hear it. He is the one man who can still halt a war before it begins. He can also end whatever foul thing created that abomination.”
Elios drew a breath, feeling the risk sharpen around him like a blade’s edge.
“But he needs us to do that.”
Tarth made an offended choking sound. “For the love of the gods, Captain—”
Noct let out a quiet breath as she met Elios’s eyes.
“Good that you trust me, and trust your own reason,” she said while drawing a knife. With a swift motion, she cut through Tarth’s bindings. “I was already preparing to threaten you a little if I had to.”
Elios kept his gaze on Noct, anchoring the moment with a clarity he refused to let slip.
“If you betray me again,” he said quietly, “Neither of us will survive.”
Noct gave a single nod — not defiant, not submissive, just acknowledging a truth laid bare between them.
Tarth yelped, still rubbing his wrists. “All of you are mad. I am not going anywhere.”
Elios looked at him with weary understanding. Tarth’s instincts were always about survival rather than ideals, and Elios could not fault him for it. He softened his tone.
“We are just going to investigate in the dark, not raise blades against anyone. And if we succeed, the reward will be immense. I will also have the grounds to recommend you to Lord Viltar, so you can serve under him as I do.”
The offer struck Tarth hard. He shook his head, then bowed it, then shook it again, caught between fear and ambition. Elios decided to strike the iron again when it was still red hot.
“Think about it, Tarth. We’re not just saving lives. We are saving our kingdom. Our names may be written down in history, and echo hundreds of years even after our death.”
That seemed to seal the deal. At last, Tarth let out a long breath.
“Fine. I will go. But we stop when we must. It took half my life just to stay alive.”
Elios gave a firm nod.
“First, write a letter. Only the outline of our plan, and in cypher as always. When we reach the message post, send it to Azen. He will prepare us a way out if things turn sour.”
He turned to Noct, asking once more. “Ready? Want to add anything in before we go?”
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Noct considered for a moment before shaking her head. “I told you enough. For this affair, that is all that matters. As for personal things, I doubt they concern you.”
Elios nodded in agreement. “Fair enough.”
They were not friends—no point in spilling one’s guts out for each other.
And at this point, he could piece together the vague shape of the truth by himself. If someone of high rank in Frothen had betrayed their empire and smuggled such relics to an enemy kingdom, Frothen would have sent hunters after them without rest. Noct, whatever her true name might be, was almost certainly one of those people.
When all this was done, she would most likely turn her dagger against him once more. But it would be his future’s concern. Now, the truth was all that mattered.
“Then we should move immediately,” Noct said.
“Without breakfast?” Tarth protested.
Elios concluded with a dismissive gesture.
“She’s right. No time to waste. We can eat on horseback.”
Behind him, Tarth muttered something about being outvoted and began fussing with the saddle straps. The horses neighed with restless vigor, hooves striking the earth as they fell into formation. Elios cast a glance toward the ruined mill behind them. The smoke still clung to its broken roof like a half-finished lie.
Too much had happened in such a short time.
Elios mounted the last of them, taking a final sweep of the camp to be certain nothing had been left behind. The morning wind carried the scent of dust and distance, and the path ahead narrowed in his eyes.
He hated it.
But he strode into it anyway.
“How’re your hands?” Noct asked, looking at his bandages.
“Surprisingly better,” Elios answered, trying to flex his finger. The pain was still there, but not as piercing as it had been yesterday. “If a fight breaks out, I can use them.”
“I’ve done my part,” Noct said. "What do you have in mind now?”
“We have to meet Lord Viltar first,” Elios said. "He is our only chance of getting a shot at the Veyra's corruption.”
Noct didn’t bother hiding her skepticism.
“That man again? Can we trust him?”
“I trust him more than you,” Elios cut in. “And if you’re a Veyran, you will understand where that trust comes from.”
“Well, I’m no Veyran, obviously,” Noct shrugged. “So indulge me and give me a lecture. This is not something I can take lightly.”
“He’s like a saint,” Tarth tried to find words to explain. “Just, humble, honest, hardworking,...you name it. Lady, I know you Frothena like to label yourself as honorable, but this man would put you all to shame.”
Noct snorted, almost like laughter.
“You talk as if you know my people. We Frothena don’t climb up the ranks of nobles by being born in high places. We fight for it. We earn it with sweat and blood. Compared to our warlords, your so-called lords are just a bunch of sweet talkers who have it easy because your folks are too weak and scared to give them a challenge.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Noct,” Elios spoke as he guided his horse toward the trail. “Lord Viltar was not born to any noble line. His first job was carrying mugs in a tavern. No one can list every job he worked or every rung he climbed, but he rose to Master of Records, then High Magistrate, and finally Chancellor, all before he even reached forty-five— in a land where bloodlines decide a man’s worth.”
“Forty-five?” Noct seemed taken aback. “To achieve that in such a short time must’ve required a miracle.”
“Not a miracle—that word cheapens a lot of his hard work and brilliance,” Eliso shook his head, unable to hide the respect in his voice. “He is the most proactive person I’ve ever known. The fruits of his innovation can be seen everywhere in this kingdom. Education, taxes, workforces, roadwork,…you name it. Even our Seeker Corp was one of them.”
Noct nodded. “Impressive indeed. Why is such a man not more well-known outside of Veyra? I’ve heard of his name, but not the story.”
“The Veyran nobles have tried to bury his reputation and belittle his accomplishments for years,” Elios snickered. “It’s understandable. His existence alone challenged the order they built. Though if you’re an important figure and you don’t know him, that speaks more about you instead. He gets the support of Veyra’s working classes and intellectual ones alike.”
“You seem to know him well,” Noct glanced at Elios, and let the question hang. “Alright. I will trust your judgment on his character.”
He nodded.
“He’s incorruptible, you can trust that. Spend enough time near him, and you’ll see what he is made of. Anyone else would have fled, yielded, or at least bargained for safety. Not him. The more they pressed him to the ground, the stronger he stood.”
Tarth sighed. “Unfortunately, they managed to pull him away in the end.”
“Oh, I think I get it now,” Noct chuckled, her hand clapping on her forehead in a fancy gesture. “Let me guess. Those nobles decided to shove him to serve as Veyra’s representative to the Tower. Correct?”
Elios's jaw tightened. “By doing so, they stripped most of the power he held within the kingdom.”
“Cowards,” Tarth cursed, the reins creaking under his grip. “They could not break him, so they kind of exiled him instead.”
Noct’s smirk suddenly froze on her face, and her eyes somehow seemed to be drowned in memory. That lasted only a heartbeat, but it didn’t escape Elios’s notice.
“Something bothering you?” He asked.
Noct shook her head dismissively.
“Nothing. Just… That man reminds me of someone. You wouldn’t know.”
“Your father?” Elios made a guess.
“How—?” Noct asked, her eyes widened.
Elios looked her in the eyes.
“Just then, when you were lost in thoughts, your lips were mumbling that in Frothena tongue. I recognized the word.”
Noct was still looking at him with a doubtful face.
Elios asked. “You’re surprised that I can read lips, or that I understand your tongue?”
Tarth chortled. “Hah. Lord Viltar reminds her of her father? Who the hell does she think she is?”
Elios did not laugh. From the moment they met, Noct had mentioned her father only twice, each time with a spareness that left no room for vanity. Yet Elios had never doubted the man was extraordinary. A daughter like her did not come from ordinary stock.
For a fleeting heartbeat, a wild thought flickered across his mind, even. What if her father were Lord Viltar himself, and she had come all this way to seek him out?
The idea vanished as quickly as it formed. Too many contradictions stood in its way, but the notion lingered long enough to unsettle him before reason swept it aside.
Just who the hell is she? The question rose again