Fog rolled in low across the forest floor. Dew clung to leaves like silver dust. Even the birds sang cautiously, as if sensing the weight of footsteps marching far beyond the horizon.
Inside the safehouse the Architect had provided, Yava stood at the doorway, white robes brushing faint light, Galaxy Eyes dimly glowing.
He slipped a jade token into Dael’s palm.
“If I am not back in three hours,” Yava murmured, “burn this.”
Dael pocketed it immediately.
“I will absolutely not burn this.”
Yava didn’t bother correcting him.
He stepped forward. Space shimmered like ripples on still water. A faint white fur drifted into the air—no bigger than a thumb—before the portal snapped shut.
Kael stared.
“…He’s gone?”
Dael waved a hand dismissively.
“He’s borrowing something expensive. He’ll be back once he haggles it out of someone.”
Eryn blinked.
“Borrowing what?”
Dael shrugged.
“Hopefully not what I think. If it is… then Serath is going to sneeze himself unconscious.”
Borgas tilted his head.
“Sneeze?”
Dael grinned.
“You’ll see.”
The Architect’s Burden
They found Lyssandra atop the living battlement—a towering arc of interwoven trees that served as Albion’s natural wall.
The Architect stood tall and sharp in the morning light.
Crimson ponytail flowing.
Emerald eyes narrowed with calculation.
Her armor hugging the form of a warrior who had long refused to lean on beauty alone.
“Report,” she said.
Dael stepped forward politely.
“Yava’s… shopping.”
Lyssandra shut her eyes.
“Of course he is.”
Then her voice softened—barely.
“Did he say how long?”
“Three hours.”
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She exhaled, shoulders releasing tension she refused to show in front of soldiers.
The trio noticed the fatigue in her posture.
The faint slump.
The way she pressed her thumb into her palm as though grounding herself.
Eryn, ever perceptive, asked quietly:
“Are you… alright, Lady Architect?”
Lyssandra stared at the horizon.
“This city,” she whispered, “was built by my mother. A haven for those rejected by kingdoms. A home for those who had none.”
Her fingers brushed the living wood beneath her.
“It is my duty to protect what she left behind. And a divine’s duty is… not short-lived.”
“How long?” Kael asked.
Lyssandra smiled faintly.
“We age slowly. Very slowly. If you walk this path long enough… you will live long enough to inherit every burden your seniors leave behind.”
Borgas scratched his cheek.
“That sounds… tiring.”
“It is,” she admitted.
Then she squared her shoulders, returning to her role.
“Come. Albion must prepare.”
Albion Soldiers — The First Shifts of War
Albion’s capital moved with organized urgency.
Druids carried bundles of herbs.
Hunters sharpened bone-tipped arrows.
Beastfolk tightened leather armor.
Elves prepared whispering runes that clung to vine walls.
Rumors muttered across the troops:
“Is it true the Divine Merchant is here?”
“He brought the Divine Chef too!”
“I heard he shattered Girou’s iron skin with one palm!”
“Does that mean… we actually have a chance?”
One soldier, older, scarred, whispered:
“If Dael cooks for us, we win.
If he fights with us, we live.
If the Merchant commands… we conquer.”
The trio overheard and froze.
“People are putting too much faith in us…” Eryn mumbled.
Kael puffed his chest.
“Good. Let’s earn it.”
Borgas nodded solemnly.
“We will work hard.”
Preparations & Assignments
Lyssandra rolled out a living map—roots and branches shifting to depict Albion’s defensive zones.
- Kael — Mobile Ambush
“You will move with the forest scouts,” Lyssandra ordered.
“Use the mist fields. Disrupt their advance. Strike, run, strike again.”
Kael smirked.
“This is my specialty.”
Dael slapped the back of his head.
“No showing off. If you get surrounded, I’m not cooking funeral bread.”
Kael grumbled.
- Eryn — Strategist
“You will oversee traps and signaling,” Lyssandra said.
Eryn brightened instantly.
“You mean I get to design the battlefield?”
“Yes. Within reason. And without explosives.”
Eryn quietly hid a pouch behind his back.
Dael sighed.
“He absolutely has explosives.”
- Borgas — Anchor Warrior
Lyssandra turned to the hulking, gentle Borgas.
“You will hold the central chokepoint.”
Borgas nodded.
Yava was gone, but Borgas remembered his teacher’s words:
“Strength isn’t how hard you hit.
Strength is how long you can hold the line.”
He placed a hand on his chest.
“I’ll protect everyone.”
- Dael — Last Line of Defense
“Dael, you will guard the evacuation zone.”
Dael cracked his knuckles.
“With pleasure. I’ve been itching to punch someone since we arrived.”
Kael whispered,
“You punched someone yesterday.”
“That was breakfast violence. This is war violence.”
Morale Shifts
As preparations continued, whispers spread:
“Divines are on our side…”
“Maybe this time, we won’t fall.”
“Maybe this time… Albion stands.”
But beneath it all, dread lingered:
Serath the Storm General was marching.
Closing Beat — The Missing Merchant
Lyssandra stood alone at the balcony as midday shadow stretched across the forest.
She muttered,
“Yava… where are you?”
A soft tremor of space rippled in the distance—unseen by most.
Something ancient stirred in response.
A beast-shape.
White.
Silent.
Majestic.
Almost… menacing in its rumble.
Dael paused mid-sentence, eyebrow twitching.
“…Oh gods. He did borrow it.”
End of Chapter 11